Chapter 7: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

Once upon a time, Jackson had wanted to study forensics. She’d seen one too many cop shows, and had fully bought into the copaganda. She thought they were cool and all murders were the direct result of interesting serial killers, who she was, of course, also obsessed with. 

A white kid from Alabama, that kind of thing had appealed to her. A sense of structure for a world that didn’t really seem to have one. But then she’d learned a couple of harsh lessons. For one, she’d figured out she was one of them gosh dang darned minorities, and that her parents weren’t too keen on those. 

Then she found out how cops feel about minorities. She ran (it’s a running theme), changed her name, and after several very failed starts, she had ended up on the other side of the country with a detective agency that was legally bankrupt, a building with an eviction notice taped to the front door, a failed marriage behind her, and a bottle of very cheap port in one hand. Currently, she was staring at it, willing it to grow a hand, ideally one with a gun, to shoot her through the head. 

Why was it so hot? She looked up at the night sky. It was a night for pouring rain, or maybe a snow storm. Instead, there was only the oppressive heat. She sat in the alley behind her office, and briefly considered just going home. Not that it was much better there, but she couldn’t smell or hear the street from there nearly as well. 

Of course, you’re wondering who this is, and why she’s here. Well, my moms always taught me that first impressions are important. Jackson is good at first impressions, which is to say that they always go awful and that this sets the perfect tone for what the rest of your interaction with her is going to be like. She once threw up on a first date’s shoes. The living embodiment of “someone out there has it worse than you.”

Her name, of course, is Jackson Mississippi. Yes, she chose it herself. It seemed like a good and fun idea at the time but now her ID expired several months ago and she can’t actually remember to go get it renewed, let alone considering the possibility of changing her name a second time. 

And all of that is very important for you to understand Jackson, just like the fact that she quits smoking more often than most people change their shirt, but all of it is secondary to who she really is. Or was. 

Staring at the bottle, Jackson fished an almost-empty pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, and lit one. Well, attempted to light one. Her lighter, much like my academic career, was all sparks and no flame, right up until the last second. 

She got up and walked around the building, ready to head inside, when she saw something on the other side of the street. A car stopped by the curb. Window opened. Something was dropped out, and the car sped off. 

“Yo,” Jackson mumbled to herself through the cigarette. “Is that a fucking cat?” Nobody was going to answer her, of course, but even from where she was standing she saw the tiny shape struggling to stand up. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said and crossed the street in The Little Jog people do when they don’t want to run but they also don’t want to get hit by a car. 

It was, on closer inspection, indeed a cat. It was tiny and weak and very dirty and absolutely an expense Jackson could not afford. She picked it up. It wheezed slightly, clearly trying to protest but too weak to do so. 

“Yeah,” Jackson said, “me too.” She realized she now had a cat in one hand, a bottle in the other, and a cigarette in her mouth. “Fuck.” Doing some quick mental math, she put the cat in the pocket of her coat. It was small enough to fit, and the coat — an old overcoat that had been a present from her ex — was gifted with more pocket space than the rest of her wardrobe combined, although that wasn’t saying much. 

Okay. Get the cat to a doctor. There was one not too far from where she lived, and she didn’t owe them so much money that they wouldn’t have a quick look at what was probably just a slightly malnourished cat. She was about to cross the road back to the office, when an ambulance sped past, nearly taking her head off. Flipping it off only helped a little bit. 

“Jesus Fuck, what is it with people today?” 

Finally on the other side of the street, Jackson was halted in her tracks by another car stopping behind her, bouncing up onto the curb. “Ms Mississippi?”

“I swear to… What?” she said as she spun around, and only half-regretted it when she saw how expensive the car looked. The man in the driver’s seat looked at her with… something between contempt and indifference. 

“I want to discuss business,” he said. “May I step in?”

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“We’re closed,” Jackson said, shoving her hands in her pocket and paying for it with a wristful of tiny claws. “Call my secretary.” She was going to make her way inside, grab her wallet, and then make her way to the doctor’s, but the man kept talking. The fact that he still hadn’t gotten out of the car was starting to piss her off. 

“Someone just died,” he said. “And I believe they were killed.

“Call the cops,” Jackson said without looking over her shoulder.

“There’s no proof it was a murder,” the man said. “He died peacefully, in his bed.” Jackson chewed her cheek, then finally spun around. 

“Then why do you think it was murder? And why come to me?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And because no respectable detective would take this case.” Jackson scoffed at that. 

“Alright fuckhead, do you often neg the people you’re trying to hire?”

“Is it working?”

“I’m this close to tossing this bottle of port at your open window and dealing with the assault charges as a little weekend project.”

“You’re clever, you’re not establishment, and the cases you finish have a very high satisfaction rate.”

“Liar,” she said. “You don’t know shit about fuck.”

“Your wife recommended you.”

“There it is,” Jackson said, rolling her eyes and turning around. 

“I’m willing to pay up front.” That stopped her in her tracks. Alright. Impossible murder solving time. But if the idiot was willing to take Jackson’s ex-wife’s word for it and pay up front, who was she to stop them? “Enough now to pay your bills for a few months, and enough again after you’re done. And if you don’t solve it, you keep the advance, no questions asked.”

“Why?”

“I’m a concerned citizen,” The man said.

“And a terrible liar.” She looked at the door. The eviction notices had been getting a bit more frequent. “Okay, I’ll do it, on one condition.” The man raised an eyebrow. Jackson retrieved the cat from her pocket. “Drive me to a vet.”