Willy Wonka was once the greatest engineer of chocolate and all things sweet in the world. However, on November 16, 2020 a ten year old boy died when he fell into a pool of melted chocolate. That day was suppose to be great since no one had set foot inside the factory in years. After this terrible event, Willy Wonka was ruined, his factory shut down and he got sued beyond imagine. He spent months wasting away in his abundance of alcohol. One day he decided to visit the ruins of a once powerful factory that he had called home. While walking through the factory, Willy Wonka heard what he thought was the voice of a child. The next thing he knows, there's a row of candles running down the hallway that lit up suddenly. Mr.Wonka walked through the hallway where he was dumbfounded, appalled, and petrified by what he saw. Nailed upside down on what appeared to be a cross, laid a body without its skin. He could see the heat coming off the body like as if it was just skinned. Mr.Wonka, with tears running down his face, turned to run out of the factory when THE boy stood right in front of him. He was breathing heavily and looked panicked.  All of a sudden, the boys eye popped out and out came a flow of chocolate. Then, the rest of his body proceeded to melt like a chocolate bar in a pan on a hot stove. Mr.Wonka ran faster then he ever had and managed to escape the factory.                      He never turned back.

"I won't need you to stay over to keep Mr. Whiskers company this year."

My annual free week in the penthouse of a five-star hotel vanished like fog in July. "But Aunt Ethel, Mr. Whiskers can't spend a week alone."

"Of course not," she huffed. "I've retained a detective."

"Oh but surely," I began, when the doorbell rang.

It was a fat man in his forties who offered a muscular hand. "Continental Dectective Agency. Is Miss Miller in?"

"She is, but who shall I announce?"

He gave some name. 

Aunt Ethel came to the door with Mr. Whiskers.  "This is my baby. You won't let him out of your sight starting tomorrow."

The fat man frowned. "You're the client, but usually I'd start right away."

"Oh do you think so?"

"I do," he said, "and so do you, if this job means anything."

"Excellent. You'll spend the night.  Ring the kitchen for your dinner." She left to finish packing.

The fat man smiled benignantly. "Posh digs".

"Aunt finds them satisfactory," I said stiffly.

"You'd be here all week if she hadn't called in a dectective?" he asked shrewdly.

"It's none of your concern, but yes, I'm accustomed to staying with Mr. Whiskers while Aunt Ethel goes on her cruise."

He said he was sorry.

"Not at all."

"Its not very clear to me yet," he said, "but I don't want to disrupt the household.  Please spend as much time with Mr. Whiskers as you like."

He was civil but somehow I felt the butt of a jest. I said goodbye and left.

I stayed away all week. I knew Aunt Ethel was back when she telephoned. "I'm being evicted!" she wailed.

I rushed to her hotel. The police had the block roped off. The upper floor of the hotel streamed smoke and tear gas. Paddy wagons and ambulances and fire engines crowded the curb.  The Continental Op was there. His trousers had been slashed with a knife and one arm was in a sling and he had a black eye.

"Like Hell," he told Aunt Ethel. "You said stick by your cat and I stuck by him. You didn't say keep him out of Chinatown. "

A beefy policeman asked,"This that cat?" He swore when the fat man wagged his head yes.

"I hope you're happy with the job you did," I said. 

"It got done," said the Op.

December 27th, 2016

“You don’t see that every day.” Detective Walter Sanders said as he looked down and rested his hands on his waist.

"That’s for sure.” Jun Cho said as he snapped another picture with his digital camera.

"Helluva way to come away from his victory yesterday.” Sanders stood shaking his head.

Cho’s face scrunched in confusion. “Is he a fighter? He doesn’t look like it to me and he’s way too old to be in sports.” Cho’s attention went back to his camera. -Click-. -Click-.

"Nah, that’s Dave Larios. He’s one a’ those hot shot lawyer guys from Larios, Beale, and Webb. I take it you don’t know who Cal Stark is.”

Again Cho’s face hinted at ignorance.

"Caldwell Stark. The billionaire oil tycoon from Tribeca?”

The Asian man feigned comprehension, but it was a miserable attempt.

Walter didn’t feel like embarrassing the relatively new forensics tech for not knowing so he mustered on. “He killed, or should I say allegedly killed his wife last year. That was until yesterday when he was acquitted. The man you are snapping photos of got him off, scot-free.”

There was a creak of Cho’s knees as he rounded the body of Dave Larios, squatted again and aimed his lens for another shot. “Looks like his after party got a little out of hand.”

-Click-.

Walter wanted a smoke so bad his nicotine laced fingers itched. He was about to give Cho the finer details of the trial when he was interrupted by Mike Morris, one of the other on scene detectives.

"Hey, Sanders. Just got word.” Mike said, but didn't follow up with more information.

“Alright, out with it.” Walter waved his hands for Mike to continue but his mind was still dying for that smoke break.

“Oh, uh, yeah, Sloan is on his way. He said he needed to see this for himself.”

“Shit, is he bringing him also.” Walter’s craving for tobacco vaporized.

“Not sure, he wants to make sure it’s not a copy-cat.”

“I’d bet my bottom dollar it is. You honestly think the Shoestring killer is at it again? It’s been twenty years. That’s a long fucking hiatus.”

“Dunno, maybe he was locked up for something else, and just got out.”

Mike was pulling out his notepad, not to actually scribble down some notes, but it seemed more of a ruse to look busy when Sloan arrived.

"Geezzus Christ. I hope not.” Walter huffed out, dug his hand into his pocket and wrangled his keys in anxious frustration.

“What should I do?” Mike said to the senior detective.

“Depends on how much time we got. What’s his ETA?”

“Ten. Fifteen tops.”

“Alright, well. Let’s not rush the forensics boys, but clear a path for them.” Walter turned around to see the body again, with Cho still busy flashing away. He took a moment to button his shirt to the top and tighten his tie to a stranglehold. He could feel his pulse beating against his collar now. In his mind Walter was hoping the scene below him was just a one-time thing, he didn’t want a repeat of 1996.

The pale form of Dave Larios laying on the floor of the luxurious apartment seemed almost surreal. There will be one for lying, mouth sewn up with string, another for fun, a casual fling, one for whoring, her holes now shut, and one will be innocent, the skin left untouched. He remembered reading the note for the first time all those years ago.

Dave Larios looked almost peaceful except for the silly expression on his face. However, this time it was not so silly, it was eerie to see it again. Dear God. He prayed again that it was a copy-cat.

The mouth of Dave Larios had been stitched closed by a single shoestring. The crisscross work of the stitching went beyond the natural corners of his mouth almost to his earlobes. It appeared to give Dave a crazed smile, similar to Jack Skellington from A Nightmare Before Christmas.

He hadn’t bothered to check the man’s pockets before, hoping as he had that it was all a farce. But he knew that in a few moments Sloan would be here, and he would search for it. And his senses were screaming that it would be found. Another little note. Another little hint at victim number two. He should have retired two years ago when his thirty was up, but retiring then felt more like he was moving faster into the grave. Now, it was different. He didn’t want to do this dance again.

-***-

Weren't they just the pair Sanders thought. Sloan and Sherlock. Sloan's little pet. Sherlock walked with and air of cockiness about him that bordered on complete arrogance, and Sanders hated it. It may have been true, but when Sherlock spoke even though it was not that often; it was as if he was speaking to children who barely comprehend his words.

He wanted the cigarettes again now. The craving had returned, but he stayed to watch Sherlock work. The man hovered over the body. He leaned in. Gave a sniff here and there. Twisted his neck to view the scene from alternate angles.

The tall man moved his heavy coat aside and withdrew two pairs of metallic tweezers. He used one to lift up the pocket flap and with the second pulled what Sanders had known was there but dreaded to see. Sherlock inspected the paper. Then the writing on the surface, and gave the delicate paper a sensory sniff as well.

He placed the note into a plastic evidence bag and moved on. He dropped to the floor and examined the bottom of the dead man's shoes. With the tweezers he snagged what looked like dirt from the grooves in the sole. From what seemed like nowhere Sherlock had produced a test tube, he dropped the dirt and then from another pocket revealed a small vial of liquid which was added to the tube. The color changed from clear to light blue.

A stopper was placed on the tube and was handed over to Sloan to place into another evidence bag.

Sherlock although already standing seemed to stand taller now. "I've solved the case. I shall explain. Follow along, if you can."