Corbin Alt surveyed the scene in the Gil Creek diner with the precision that applied to cleaning his living room. “To catch a killer, you have to get in their mind,” he always said when asked why his floors and furniture looked pristine when he hosted parties. But this place was nothing like his living room. Snapped pieces of chairs and tables littered the diner’s floor. Bullet holes and casings could be found scattered over the mix of soon to be trash or evidence.

He adjusted his glasses over and over as he inspected every inch of the area. He stopped every now and again to take pictures with his cell phone.

After he was done, he met Detective Spacer outside in the parking lot. A crowd had gathered on the other side of the yellow tape.

“Anything?” said Spacer.

“I’m not sure yet, but the casings suggest a gun much larger than what we normally see on civilians. I’ve fired one once during my training. The gun itself weighs about 20 pounds,” said Corbin.

Spacer looked out at the crowd. “This is a mess. Can the media darling do something about this?”

Corbin smirked and said, “I’ll take care of them.” He wrote an address on a sticky note he got from his pocket. “Only one place in town sells them. The bullets are hard to come by, too. I suggest you leave immediately. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He walked to the tape and held up one hand to the crowd and put a handkerchief to his mouth. The crowd settled.

“At this time, we have no answers for this travesty. Just know it’s best if you go home. The media will keep you informed of our progress.”

A lady with a black raincoat and pony tail broke through the mess of people and called out, “C.I. Corbin, is it true that military grade weaponry has been released into the streets of Luminous?”

Corbin frowned and stayed silent. “Just know we have it handled.” As the crowd began to disperse, he turned to leave as she called after him.

Later in his Mustang, he leaned back in his seat, put his glasses in the dash and rubbed his eyes with his hands.

He heard a knocking on his window. Looking up, he saw the same reporter from earlier.

Rolling down his window, he said, “I still have no comment.”

“I’m not looking for a comment. I’m looking for a chance. Hail Frigate.” She lifted a gun from under her raincoat and blew his brains out.

And that’s how they found Corbin Alt, brains blown out in his car, glasses in the dash. His contributions to the case would be used to stop the Frigate, but he would never host a dinner party again.