I am pretty good at analyzing. I can comb information, piece a story together, and come up with insight the average blue collar wouldn’t. It’s a gift, sort of, I grew up poor and there was nothing to do but read old books lying around. I would read mechanic books about ford trucks from the 50’s, I’d read instruction pamphlets, I would challenge myself to read instruction pamphlets faster then the last time I read the same instruction pamphlet - insane.

Before I start a case, I read the details, I digest the information- in my own way. Ill head down cripple creek and drink too much liqueur, ill smoke too many cigars, I’ll have a little fun. I get nice and buzzed until I enter a euphoria, an external state where I exist in the case rather then me, my own body.

Almost as if I’m jumping from my own every day dreams into an alternate dream reality - I mean, that’s all we are anyway, a series of dreams.

My secretary enters the office, she’s got a beautiful floral dress on - pink and white. I know why she’s entering before she says anything. I ash my cigar, loosen my suspenders, and shoot’er a wink.

“What do you got for me Pam”

“it’s a Murder, downtown last night”.

I put my feet up on the desk and lean back

- grab me the scotch.