The Third Wheel – Two

I have written a part two to The Third Wheel. If anyone wants to pick it up and run with it, please do.

The Third Wheel – Two
Detective Derrick Sparks cradled the receiver of the telephone on the nightstand. The motel room was dark, the traffic on the highway outside sparse. He swung heavily out of bed and rummaged the pockets of his jeans in search of his cell phone. When he saw the time on the phone’s display, he groaned.
Less than three minutes later he was pulling out of the parking lot on his way to the doctor’s house. Detective Sparks was grateful that there were so few cars on the road. He could concentrate on the case.
Fifty-seven-days before, they had bust the doctor for running a little pharmacy from his home. Trusted amongst society’s elite, the guy had established a neat little operation that was netting him profits seen by only the most corrupt whiz kids on Wall Street. The doctor was apparently some kind of magician with chemicals and could tailor-make tablets to shut the demands of even the most petulant rich-bitch up.
It was the funniest thing really, how they got the lead to the doc. Some spoilt teen brat sickened by the terrible life he led stole his father’s bag of tablets with the idea of overdosing on them in a videoed suicide online. The kid was dumb as shit – the reason no schools wanted kids left behind lest they sit with classrooms filled with twenty-year-olds in second grade. It was a miracle he even knew how to turn the camera on to film himself.
There he was, sitting in his bedroom, swallowing the virgin-white pills with beer from a six-pack he also stole from his dad, when all of a sudden he got up and left the room. Several minutes later he came back with a block of writing paper and a pen. He started to scribble on the paper and forgot completely about the camera or that he was supposed to get on with the job of dying. It was not long before disappointed viewers began hating. After an hour, no-one was watching anymore. Still the kid sat on his bed, scribbling away.
Recorded evidence showed his father came into the room two days later and kicked the crap out of him for stealing the pills and beer. The kid was still on the bed scribbling when his father came through the door.
It took another four days for the effects of the tablets to wear off, but by that time the novel, worthy of a Pulitzer, was complete.
The long and the short of it was the kid’s father was a hot-shot lawyer who did not need the bad press, or disbarment. The doctor was discovered shortly thereafter. And so was his brain laboratory.

Detective Sparks knocked on the door of the uninteresting suburban house. Behind him, the world awoke. Children squawked, garage doors thunked open and closed, sprinklers hissed at lawns and the unifying sounds of televisions tuned into the same news channel carried on the air.

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