Back in May I released a short story I was rather proud of, starring a character I enjoyed writing. Recently I completed a second short story starring this character that is longer and hopefully just as fun. I will be trying something new and releasing it in seven segments starting today. This is the third segment. This was a labor of love and I am delighted to share it with you. Please enjoy the next Dale Ulysses Monroe adventure.

Pushing The Envelope
From the Case Files of Dale Ulysses Monroe, P.I.
Published with assistance from
John J Skrip and associates

August 5th, 2017

I work and live out of a somewhat rundown apartment building at the edge of West Duluth. I am currently the only tennant, which suits me just fine. From my perch on the second floor, I can contemplate the choices that led me here as I look out over the city’s newest and most irritating restaurants and breweries. My office consists of me, my creaky wooden desk, and a ratty armchair facing the cheapest television I could find. Plus I’ve got a kitchenette, a cramped bathroom, and a musty bedroom, but I mostly spend time staring at notes and trying to figure out why that one patch of carpet in the corner smells like oatmeal.

It was late in the afternoon and I was sitting on top of my desk, staring at my chalkboard. I had the look of someone who had spent quite a bit of time and energy on the task at hand, but in fact I had just begun. Kenneth peered over at the chalkboard from his desk, made up of a folding chair I found in the dumpster and a $5 barrel I bought from a dock worker. Kenneth was apprehensive, but it’s a quality barrel. 

“I thought you don’t do more than one case at a time,” he said. I had written and underlined the words ‘Bike weirdo’ on the left side and ‘That piece of shit with the envelopes’ on the right, with a dividing line down the middle. “What’s the thing about the envelopes?” Kenneth asked.

“It’s not another case, it’s just a… side project. I’ll explain later. Just read out those names again.” I grabbed a piece of chalk.

He looked at his laptop and began to read. “Jerome Wellington, business partner. Lives outside the city. Resents Matack for his lack of communication, cooperation, and availability.” 

I wrote down Jerome. Hates Alex because he’s a sucky friend. 

He continued. “I’m pretty sure he’s a no-go. I called his secretary and she said his mom has been in the hospital for the last few months so he hasn’t been in the office.”

“Good work,” I said. I wrote a question mark next to Jerome. “It could be a cover though.” 

Kenneth nodded. “His first ex-wife, Abigail Anderson, passed away in a car crash four years ago. She was a lawyer who met him in college and not long before the crash, she’d been disbarred for sleeping with a judge. His second ex-wife, Layla Moore, lives in Colorado with her new husband and three children. She’s the principal at a High School. Not sure she has the time to blackmail anyone. And his third ex-wife, Sophia Wilson, is currently at an arctic research facility trying to stop global warming.” Kenneth leaned back in his chair. 

I wrote Ex-Wives: Dead End? I turned to him. “An impressive amount of information. How’d you find all this out?”

“This is all what Matack’s people sent me. Guess he’s just not aware of the information he has on hand.”

“So that leaves one main current suspect.” I wrote Bike Brigade! and underlined it. I walked back to the desk and sat in my chair. 

“Yeah, I’ve been looking into them. It’s mostly a bunch of old farts that like going on bike rides in large packs and hogging the sidewalks but hate anything new happening in the biking community. They meet at the coffee shop across from the public library every Monday at noon.”

I put my feet up on my desk. “How do they feel about new members?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You should be fine, but be careful. You’re going into a room with a bunch of angry men in their 60’s and 70’s, and a handful of young bro-dudes who don’t own cars and bike everywhere. You know how strong their calves would be?” He stared at me intently for a moment.

I waved him off. “Good job today. Go home. Come in early Monday morning and we’ll talk about this undercover thing.”

Kenneth grabbed his stuff and thanked me as he left. I stared at the left side of the chalkboard. “Bike Brigade,” I said out loud. “So damn stupid.” 

Who were these guys? What would I be walking into? My eyes drifted upward, towards our list of non-suspects. How had this man become so unaware of his life and let so many people go by the age of twenty-three? “Young prick.”

My eyes drifted further, to the right. I tried to fight it, tried to turn my head. But I was locked in on ‘That Piece of shit with the envelopes’. This wasn’t worth my time. I needed to drop it. It was just some knucklehead and I needed to focus on the case. I checked my watch. 12:14 PM. 

I opened up the files Kenneth sent me and pulled up the contact info for Jerome, Layla, and Sophia. This was the priority. I needed to make sure these people were definitively not suspects. I picked up my phone and began to type in Jerome’s number, but my eyes drifted back toward the chalkboard. I slammed the phone back onto the receiver and ran out the door.

Back at the Grocery Garage, Julie was once again asleep at her station. I had to give her kudos. She may be terrible at her job, but the envelopes had been replaced. Before I left the store I snuck into the “secret room” to make sure the cameras and monitors were turned on.

I took leave of the unmonitored grocery depot, with a smug spring in my step. I’d set a trap, now I only had to wait. I walked across the street to Albert’s Pizzeria & Phone Repair and sat down by the window to wait for the licker to show. Of course, the envelope man could’ve decided not to do this again after being confronted twice. This all could have been a wild goose chase. I knew that. I knew how crazy I must’ve seemed. But I found him very irritating. I ordered three slices over two hours, slowly eating while not a person matching the description of the licker came anywhere near the Garage. I was beginning to consider ordering a calzone when I spotted a mystery figure in shorts, a golden sweatshirt, and faded white sneakers. Could this be the culprit? I threw a twenty on the table and stumbled out the door. 

As I stepped out onto the street, I was accosted by a herd of middle-aged men on Wheelz. It felt like minutes passed before I saw the last of them. The geriatric gear-heads were multiplying by the second. Golden Hoodie was gone. I skulked across the chilled linoleum floors of the Garage and found, to my dismay, the envelopes sealed shut once more. Julie, still asleep, paid me no mind as I checked the security cameras but there were too many bikers in the way to see the culprit’s face. I grabbed a root beer, taped a $5 bill to Julie’s hand, and left, defeated.

On my way home I thought I saw the same pair of faded sneakers walk into Macy’s. The accompanying body was obscured from view but I snuck into the store and followed the shoes through the perfume department from a distance. The sneakers made their way toward boy’s clothing. Now, in the clear view of the fluorescent lighting, I could see my mistake. These shoes were much smaller, and attached to the feet of Bryan, the boy from the pool. There was a man next to him, presumably his father. I panicked, and turned quickly toward the door to save face. I promptly tripped and stumbled over a tie rack. Bryan’s father turned around to help me up.

“Are you okay, man?” He asked as he loomed over me. He was much, much taller. “You took quite a tumble.”

Bryan looked at me with some recognition and amusement. “Dad, that’s the lifeguard who yelled at me the other day.”

His father looked me up and down. “Ah. Small world. Why did you insist on calling him Bryan?”

I stared at him blankly and pointed at the pile of ties on the floor. “I’m buying a tie.” I stated.

“Right.” Both father and son looked confused. “Have a good night.”

I walked towards the door, embarrassed and tired. What was that, I thought to myself. What was I doing? In my dedication to rid my city of nuisances and weirdos, had I become one myself?

To Be Continued…