A Diner Murder Part I(A Fridge & Lamp Mystery)

Detective Fridge Jackson stared at the puddle of rain next to his sedan. The blue and red glow of the diner’s neon sign reflected onto the water’s surface. A part of him wished he were still in bed. As if lying still for another hour would get him to fall asleep. A part of him was excited to see the scene that awaited him. It was a part of him that he hated. A large boot scattered the water’s image and disrupted Fridge’s stream of consciousness. Fridge glanced at the boot’s owner. It belonged to a young, uniformed officer. He fidgeted with his flashlight and avoided eye contact. “They’re waiting for you inside, sir,” he said quickly.

            “Poor guy must’ve picked the short straw,” Fridge thought.

            Fridge patted the nervous officer on the shoulder and approached the main door. Quigley’s Diner stood in the corner of a small shopping plaza. It was a quaint, mom-and-pop restaurant that didn’t get much traffic. Considering the scene inside, its prospects for future success looked dismal. Fridge wiped the rain off his jacket and face. He took a deep breath and stepped inside. Fridge’s assistant investigator, Lamp McAllister, sat in the waiting room, toying with his phone. Fridge didn’t bother to greet him. When Lamp was focused on something, Fridge knew better than to distract him. Lamp spent another minute fiddling with the device’s settings. He adjusted his glasses and looked up at Fridge. “Oh, you’re here.” Lamp said. 

            Fridge sarcastically waved at him. “Should we start?” Lamp asked.

            “Yes, let’s begin,” Fridge responded half-heartedly.

They ducked under the yellow caution tape spanning the entrance and the floor manager’s stand. They didn’t have to walk far to see the body. About a dozen officials surrounded the bar. Photographs were being taken. Calls were being made to neighboring departments and news organizations. A waiter lay across the bar’s length. Fridge could tell from his white apron and striped collar shirt. A nametag lay face down on the bar’s surface adjacent to an evidence marker labeled ‘5’. Several knife handles jutted out of his backside. They formed a perfect circle, centered around the small of his back. A pool of blood surrounded his entire body, from his slick-backed hair to his black leather shoes. Fridge crouched so his eyes lined up with the space between the body and the bar’s countertop. The knives exited through the midsection, pinning the waiter to the bar. Fridge felt like he was in a museum, trying to decipher an abstract art piece.  He scanned the body for a few more minutes. The waiter was young. He probably still had hopes and dreams. A job that would line up with his passions. A pair of sneakers he wanted to buy. A crush, he was working up the courage to confess to. But he was dead, and all those aspirations were gone now.

Fridge took a step back from the bar. Forensics was Lamp’s job. Fridge didn’t care to spend the rest of the night staring at a dead body. He saw enough of them in his nightmares. Suspects and witnesses, that’s where he excelled. Fridge glanced across the diner. Three men in suits, visibly shaken, sat in a corner booth. An officer was taking their statements. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, give me a rundown then,” Fridge asserted.

Lamp nodded and slid a pair of orange latex gloves over his hands. The pool of blood surpassed the bar’s edge and started to flood the linoleum floor. Fridge carefully stepped around it. His colleagues made way for him. Everyone in the department respected Fridge. He had the highest case closure rate in the county, but he was known to ruffle feathers to get the results he wanted. If it came down to protecting a brother in blue or catching a killer, Fridge would pick the latter in a heartbeat. He had no allies or reverence for law enforcement. His sole focus was retribution. Some officers feared Fridge. Others worked with him begrudgingly and silently detested him. Only the chief seemed to tolerate him.

            Fridge stood ten feet from the booth and studied the three men. Their suits were custom-tailored with personalized stitching and pocket squares. They probably worked in lucrative fields like investment banking or AI development. Fridge neared the officer and stood in his line of sight. The officer noticed Fridge and excused himself. “I’ll be outside, near the back, send them out one at a time,” Fridge whispered to him. 

            The officer nodded and returned to the booth. Fridge made his way to the back entrance, which was used by staff to bring in supplies and take out the trash. Fridge opened the door and stepped out into the rain. It was wet and cold, and he could smell the dumpster from where he stood. Fridge preferred that his interviewees be slightly uncomfortable.

            The first man Fridge talked to was Peter Bartholomew. He was a stock trader in his early forties. He used an excessive amount of gel, which made his hair look like a Lego piece. Peter nervously stepped back and forth when he answered Fridge’s questions. The second man was Jeremy Sackler, an executive at a pharmaceutical company. Jeremy was in his late fifties and spoke with a tinge of excitement as if he was enjoying the events unfolding before him. The third man was named Donald Cooper but asked to be called D.C. He worked for the Federal Reserve. D.C. was the quietest out of the three. He kept asking Fridge if he was finished taking his statement. Fridge repeatedly told him that he had more questions to ask.

            Some extraneous details differed, but besides that, all the men’s statements corroborated the same story. They were meeting at a diner after hours for a private business meeting. The men sat in the back corner of the restaurant. They would need to round the corner to see the bar and the kitchen. They had paid in advance for a chef and a waiter. The security camera outside only captured these five individuals entering the diner that evening. They only saw the chef once when he introduced himself. There were several courses and fancy drinks, so the men interacted with the waiter frequently. Around 2 am, Peter requested a refill. The waiter obliged and walked to the bar. Ten minutes later, the men heard a loud crash, but they were too intoxicated to think anything of it. About twenty minutes more minutes passed, and the waiter had not returned. Peter walked over to the bar to check on him and found the body. The men immediately called the police. The chef was nowhere to be found.

            Fridge asked them if they were together the whole night. The men said that they occasionally took bathroom breaks. Jeremy said he took a smoke break around midnight. Fridge asked them about the victim. They said the waiter was kind and friendly. He didn’t seem to be under duress or paranoid about his well-being. He even shared a drink with the businessmen. All the men had positive things to say about his service and planned on tipping him generously.

            Fridge reviewed his notes and stepped back inside the diner. He walked over towards Lamp. The body had been removed from the bar and was being prepared for transport. Fridge approached his partner. He rubbed his temples with his middle finger and thumb. He didn’t have much to work with. Five people are in the same building for several hours. One is dead, one is missing, and the other three are clueless as to what happened. “I think we’re looking for an octopus,” Lamp said quickly.

            “What?” Fridge replied.

            Lamp produced a picture of the waiter’s torso from a manila folder he held in his left arm.

            “There were eight knives embedded in the body. After I examined the stab wounds, I noticed something,” Lamp explained.

            “Every wound had the same size and depth. Additionally, the blood loss indicates that each wound started to bleed at around the same time. So, if I had to guess-”

            Fridge interjected. “He wasn’t stabbed consecutively. All the knives were inserted at the same time”.

            Lamp nodded. “Hence, the octopus”.

The evening was spontaneously arranged. But the murder was planned. Carefully orchestrated. This wasn’t a crime of passion. The waiter was killed meticulously and then put on display. Fridge stroked his beard. This was becoming more intriguing by the minute. Fridge suppressed his excitement. The diner had begun to clear out. Forensics and death investigators had left to run tests and perform an autopsy. There were a handful of officers standing guard. The three businessmen were still answering questions from other investigators.

Lamp piped up. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Fridge shook his head.

            “There’s a clinking noise,” Lamp replied.

            Fridge closed his eyes and focused on his hearing. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Footsteps. Conversations. The hum of the radiator. Then, he heard it. A faint clinking noise. Like someone was tapping a fork against a baking pan. Fridge slowly made his way to the kitchen. Lamp followed him. The noise was louder now, but it was still faint. Fridge checked the stoves, ovens, and microwave. It wasn’t coming from any appliance. Lamp gestured over to the walk-in freezer. Fridge placed his ear against the large metal door. Something inside the freezer was striking the door. Fridge could feel the subtle vibrations after every hit. Fridge backed up from the door and drew his firearm. He nodded to Lamp. Lamp undid the bolt on the top of the door. Then he firmly grasped the handle. Lamp exhaled quickly and forced the door open in one swift motion. Fridge pointed the barrel of his gun into the freezer.

            An older man in his late sixties was shivering on the floor in a fetal position. He was firmly grasping a spatula with his right hand. His skin was colorless and slightly translucent like a vampire’s. His white apron and hands were stained with blood, but he had no visible injuries. A thin layer of frost covered his eyebrows and patchwork beard. The man looked up at Fridge and tried to speak through chattering teeth. “I didn’t kill him,” he said weekly.