The Mysterious Death of Mr. Ludwig

Chapter 1

“The only people who know the answers are dead,” said my partner. “And those who are living… all they’re trying to do is hide the answers. From others, from themselves, from Earth who soaks up all the footprints ever pressed upon her. Those who live, live in a hiding of some sort. But if you look at them in just the right light, with just the right squint, they’ll let you in. You become a welcomed visitor. Now you’re both hiding the same thing. The true art is when you’re strong enough to do the right thing if the thing they’re hiding is poisonous.”

“And what’s the right thing?” I asked with my gaze locked on him as he was smoking a cigarette, reclined in his office chair with his feet on the desk. He took another puff before he answered.

“Well… the right thing to do with any poison of course, find the antidote and move the hell on.” Gene had a lot of moments like these— artistically genius strokes interrupted by abrupt reality checks. I’m not sure if he did it on purpose, to stop himself from wandering too deep into his own mind, or maybe from sharing too much of it with me. Or maybe these artistic strokes of genius were limited by his asshole-type character. I’ve worked for this asshole for almost three years, and I can say something many others probably can’t about him: he’s got a golden heart.

It was already sunset when my partner and I were about to close up the office. Gene put out his cigarette, and I put on my hat when we heard five loud and fast knocks on the door I had already locked. I looked at Gene. He lit up a new cigarette, slowly sat back down, and signaled me with a relaxed turn of an eye to open the door. I put my hat back on the coat hanger, and opened the door.

“Mr. Grobsprig?” our visitor cried.

“Present,” my partner said from his chair. “Please, call me Gene.” The visitor let herself in right past me, and made her way to the chair in front of Gene’s desk, making clucking sounds with each step of her high heels. She had on tight clothes: a black skirt down to her knees and a matching blazer over her button-up velvet colored blouse. I locked the door once again, as I always do when we’re with a client. “Fredrick, won’t you get this pretty young lady a glass of water?” said Gene, with half a smile.

“Coming right up,” I answered firmly. I placed the glass in front of the girl, and took my place in the desk beside Gene’s.

“How can I be of service, ma’am?” Gene asked. He took a long puff of his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. While letting out the smoke he folded his fingers into each other on his stomach, and leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows were furrowed as they were most of the time.

“My father’s dead,” the curly golden-haired girl exclaimed with a slight southern accent. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d been running, but the rest of her face was as pale as the snow on the ground outside. She took up a small portion of the chair she was sitting on. Her back was straight, and her hands were laying in each other on her knees with their palms facing up. “He’s dead,” she repeated as she broke down into tears.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Dear. Take your time,” Gene said in a comforting voice as he handed her the tissue box. The girl took a tissue and blew her nose.

“Th...thank you,” she said, gazing at Gene. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was under the spell of Gene’s deep brown eyes. This is the experience for almost all women he exchanges a few words with, young or old. I was never sure if his charm with women was conscious on his part— a way to get into what they're hiding. Or if it was part of his uncontrolled personality. This part was a minor one, and questionable too, but I had hope that he had unplanned and un-calculated parts to himself. He seems in control of his entire self: every word, every gesture, thought, action. But there were moments like these where I thought I’m perhaps giving him too much credit, and that maybe some of what he does is just a part of who he is. Who he is when he’s alone, with no one around. I guess I’ll never know. “It happened this morning. I found his body lying on the ground inside the horse stable. We live on a ranch, you see. Father owns horses and sells them. He…"

“Let’s take this one step at a time, Ms…?” Gene cut her off with a firm, yet comforting voice.

“I’m so sorry. Ms. Ludwig— Sophia Ludwig. I’m Sophie. You have to forgive me, I’m not quite in my right mind,” she stumbled on her words.

“Oh you’ve got nothing to apologize for, Sophie. Beautiful name, from the Greek word for wisdom. Just right for you, I’m sure,” Gene managed to put a slight smile on Sophie’s lips. “Now, what’s your father’s name?” he continued.

“Benjamin Ludwig. Oh, I can’t believe he’s gone!” she cried loudly.

“There, there,” Gene offered her another tissue. She took one more and wiped her tears from both eyes. Black make-up was now smeared on her red cheeks, and her bright amber eyes were glossier than gems. “I don’t want this to be harder on you than it has to,” Gene told her. “Give me your address, and Frederick and I will pay you a visit tomorrow morning. Take the rest of the night to catch your breath and rest up."

“O…okay Mr. Grobsprig,” she got up, threw a quick glance and nod my way as a goodbye, and made her way to the door. She unlocked the door with the key that I left in the lock, and opened the door.

“Please… call me Gene,” my partner said a bit louder than usual.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for agreeing to help me, gentlemen,” she said before she left and shut the door behind her.

“She didn’t drink the water. Let’s get out of here, Fredrick,” he said. I had long given up on asking Gene why he said the things he said. Or what the things he said had to do with each other. His explanations caused more confusion than clarification. I figured it was better for me to wait and see, rather than get flustered in trying to understand Gene. No one understood Gene. And taking on the task of doing so left me with more questions than I had started with. This is precisely why I didn’t mention to Gene that Sophie forgot to give us her address. We closed up the office, and went our separate ways.

Chapter 2

It was nine in the morning when Gene pulled up in front of my house in his black Audi. He wasn’t the flashy type of person, but his lifestyle sure was. As a handler of private murder cases, Gene made a comfortable living for himself, to say the least. He worked parallel to the police, never with them. He once told me that police investigations are comparable to a bunch of children playing in a sandbox. I didn’t quite understand the metaphor. What was clear was that Gene didn’t do police, and tried to keep his work as hidden from them as possible. As Gene’s partner, I made a comfortable living for myself as well. My job description was: I did anything Gene asked of me, and putting that into a list of descriptions would be either impossible or never-ending. The list would range from fetching him a cup of coffee to setting fire to a car… and a house… and a doctor’s office once. That would be too long of a story to tell— perhaps another time. I sat in the passenger’s seat. “Morning,” I said calmly.

“Morning dear Fredrick! Let us be on our way,” Gene replied cheerfully.

“Gene, Sophie didn’t leave her address last night,” I mentioned when I realized Gene was doing what he did way too often: assume I know what’s going on in his head.

“Oh I don’t need that. I know just who she is— she told me enough. Her father, Benjamin Ludwig: a wealthy ranch owner who makes a living off of selling highly-priced horses. Probably the kind other wealthy fathers buy for their daughters’ 12th birthdays, you know?” he let out a loud laugh.

“You know Benjamin?” I asked.

“I know all there’s to know about him. Come on now, Fredrick. Haven’t you worked enough years with me to know this for yourself by now? Her attire and grooming weren't those of a poor or average girl, were they now?"

“How do you put so much faith in a detail that could just be a misunderstanding? What if she borrowed her clothes from someone, or what if those are the only nice ones she has?"

“This is why I like to have you around. Always charming! You think a girl who just lost her father would bother borrowing clothes on that same day? Or give a damn about putting on her nicest ones to go report his unanswered death? You see, Frederick, faith is what makes details valuable. Otherwise, they’re just pieces of information floating in the large sea of meaningless, wandering data. Without ever finding the glue that sticks it all together. You must have faith, Freddy!” This was another one of the moments where Gene’s metaphors went right over my head. So I let it go. After all, I’m sure he was right. Gene was always right.

“Very well,” I said in defeat, “how do you know where their house is?”

“Well, from her flushed complexion it’s obvious that she’d been running to our office. She was trying to make it on time before we closed at eight o’clock, you see? She wasn’t too flushed, and wasn’t panting too harshly, and also didn’t drink the water you set right in front of her. It’s impractical for someone who ran for long to ignore a cup of water right in front of them— a biological instinct, really. Get the picture?"

“Far from it, Gene,” I answered, shaking my head.

“Since she wasn’t running for very long, something tells me she began running from the bus stop two streets down— the one across from the barber shop. She couldn’t have came from home since she said they live on a ranch, and there are no ranches around here close enough for a girl to run her way to the office from. And do I need to tell you how I know she still lives at home with her father? Or did you, too, notice the absence of a ring on her finger? Hands soft enough to never have worked a day in their lives. Oh, I’m kidding Frederick, I don’t doubt you to that extent. Anyways, I didn’t hear a car pull up when she came, did you? And the only bus that drops off at that stop around eight is #87, the one going from north to south of Georgia, and from south to north, all day. Its last stop is from south to north, two streets down our office. The bus little Ms. Sophie took to us last night. And did you hear that accent? Undoubtedly southern. Now we gotta’ drive down south and find Ludwig’s ranch. Shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, should it now dear Freddy?"

“I’ll put my faith in you, Gene,” I said with slight mockery to his previous spillage about faith.

“That’s the spirit!” he exclaimed, evidently unbothered. I thought of one last thing.

“If the bus she came with was the last one of the day taking that route, how did she get back home at night, after she left us? Did she not plan a return trip?"