Silhouette City (Chapter 1)

“Here ya are!” A thick stack of files thump down on the desk before me. As the loose documents that had fallen behind in the air flutter to their place on the top of the heap, I give a glance up at their source. My head still rests heavily on my hand, and as my eyes meet those of my employer, I let myself droop back into position, hunched over a slightly tidier stack of papers.

“You’re really trying to get those last two weeks outta me, aren’t you, boss,” I mutter. My attention isn’t on him, but I can feel Jimmy’s blood boil.

“Hell, I would let you walk out that door right now if this morning’s paper didn’t depend on it.” I set down my pen as he walks over and slumps into the chair across from me. This is more than just another draft to edit. While I don’t know what my boss has to say to me (probably nothing pleasant, seeing how I’m walking out in another week), I decide I ought to hear him out. Afterall, I’m still holding out for that final check.

“Listen, Newby, I know ya ‘aint happy with how things have been runnin’ here lately. The paper business’s in shreds. The only stories anyone gives a damn about anymore are the filler garbage. ‘Which cafe serves the best coffee’ or some shit.”

“Wouldn’t be that way if you let me put something else in the pages,” I interrupt. I know I’m testing his patience. We haven’t been seeing eye to eye for a long time, and he’s as ready for me to be out those doors as I am, which is why I’m surprised he doesn’t fire back.

“Oh, give me a break. You know as well as I do what sells. Sure, mysterious figures and shady business stir up stories, but you can’t put it in print anymore. The city’s tired of living with the shadows. So much as another dark headline’s enough to turn an already dispirited consumer from the stand.” I stretch back in my chair. Of course, I know he’s right. No one wants to hear more bad news. But in a city like this, what else is a reporter to write about?

“Well I hope you’re not here to try and talk me out of leaving. In fact, you just reminded me why I’m packing it in. I can’t pen another waste of paper. Not when the real scoops are dying on the drawing board.” Ever since those shadows appeared, people have been on edge. The whole city’s gone dark. Crime’s at its worst, citizens feel like strangers, and even the sun refuses to shine. It’s now when us reporters are needed most. We should be bringing stories out of the dark and enlightening the public. Instead, we hide our headlines, scared that shedding light on matters will put a glowing target on our backs. Even those brave enough have been snuffed, their stories falling on deaf ears. People around here see truth seekers on the same level as the criminals, and writing about a crime is as bad as confessing to it. I feel a sudden rush of resentment. People like Jimmy Fitzgerald, manager of the Silhouette Gazette, only help fuel the paranoia.

“You know, this place used to be a newsroom, where we printed the truth. Now all that seems to matter is if it prints money!” I’ve been bottling it up for months. I know I’ve just got myself fired, but what does it matter? I’m already leaving. He can’t judge me for it. The Jimmy I knew left long ago. As soon as sales started to drop, he threw away his passion. He dropped everything the Silhouette Gazette stood for, turning it into a tabloid for gossip and garbage over real news. I expect him to give me the boot. Instead, he shows restraint. A restrictive grin flicks across his face. He knows me too well to lose his temper. He’s probably got this whole conversation panned out. Me? I’m still stuck on why we’re having it in the first place.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But, you know, even stuck writing the wrong stories, you're still the best damn reporter this city will ever know.” I’m staggered. What’s his game? Surely he’s not just buttering me up so I’ll stay on his payroll. Despite his words, I know any old Joe off the street could fabricate the filler I’ve been forced to write. No, Jimmy’s got a different motive in mind, and it begins to unveil itself: “That’s why I’m doing this though. I’ve got a job for you.”

“Y-you’re offering me a new position?” I scoff. Finally, the snappy Jimmy I know emerges and cuts me short.

“No, I’m done dealing with you. But that typewriter of yours isn’t.” So then this isn’t a conversation to keep me at my desk. But then what could Jimmy be getting at? We’ve been butting heads for months. Back before the shadows fell over the city, those butting heads used to work together to turn out stories. Now we’ve both changed, and I’d rather retire from journalism for good than continue to work under his stifling regime. Every week, I was turning in front pagers: the beginnings of questionable dealings, Shady sightings, Possible case closers; and they were all being scrapped for a segment on some city trend.

“You want a big story? Well go get it. I’m not gonna hold ya back anymore, so I figured I might as well help ya out.” He pushes the stack that he had previously slammed on my desk closer to my face. I finally give it my attention, a heading immediately catching my eye. I begin eagerly pawing through the documents, dumping out the files and scanning their contents. Jimmy just sits back, arms folded, smuggly revelling in my reaction. It takes me a moment to soak it all in, but I eventually confront him.

“H-how did you get all this?” The words stutter out of my mouth. My eyes remain glued to the case files, half expecting them to disappear, like much does in this city. Jimmy keeps his cool, replying nonchalantly.

“Had ‘em for months. Big cases, though of course you know that. Didn’t help the police’s record much (in fact, they’d rather omit it) so we salvaged it for the press. Problem is they both ended on the front page. We got a few unsettling headliners outta ‘em, so did every paper in the city, but that’s about as much good they’ve been. The facts and theories have all been sung; it’s the rest that could have led to something big. The police knew there was more to uncover, but the evidence never came about. Sadly, these two cases went unclosed, and their grand conclusion unprinted, even though they could have been the closure this city really needs.” Jimmy’s face contorts, deep in thought, staring dreamily up at the ceiling. He’s got a flair for the dramatic, but I get the point.

These are the Gray investigation cases. One murder and one missing person case left unresolved, almost certainly connected, not only by the brothers who were the victims, but by their sure attachment to the criminal underworld. If these cases had been solved, they could have brought down an entire criminal empire. Now they stand as a reminder not to take on those who pull strings from the shadows, and that no matter how hard we tug, we can’t tie up the loose ends. Evidence of murders, kidnapping, and all sorts of shady affairs fade away without a source. Somehow, Jimmy not only got ahold of every news scrap and article ever written on the investigations, but the original case files themselves.

“Now there’s a scoop that could have filled a whole paper! Justice gave up suspiciously soon, don’t ya think? I’m tellin’ ya, kid. If you can work this out, then it’s going to end up somewhere much more important than the rack for a nickel.” I rip my eyes from the files to study Jimmy’s face, but it gives no further explanation.

“You want me to write up a story on all this?” My face goes red as Jimmy lets out a dismissive laugh.

“Nah, that would be a waste of paper. All of this has been sung before, it’s old news. Hell, the Gazette already covered it when it first came about. But that’s just it. No one got the chance to cover the full story. That article ended on a cliffhanger, murderers and gangs still on the loose. Our readers forgot the suspense as soon as they flipped to the funny pages. People like you and I, though, we’ve been kept awake at night. Surely you’ve noticed it. That investigation was a candle, slowly melting away at the dark’s defenses. When that Gray brother got snuffed, everything went up in smoke. Illegal activity’s gotten worse. The city’s one big crime scene. Soon you won’t be able to walk down the street without a knife in your back.” Jimmy gives a shudder and has to regain his composure. “The shadows multiplied after that first murder. I’m sure they’re involved. Hell, I think they know something.”

“What does it matter?” I scoff. “It’s been two years. Any leads now are as dead as that detective. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the shadows don’t do much speaking.”

“True,” Jimmy nods, “but that’s why I’m handing this over to you.”

“You want me to investigate a dead case?”

“Bingo.” He’s outta his mind. Yesterday he had me reporting a ribbon cutting for the new Cheesy Burger down the street. Now he wants me to solve a murder?

“I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but I’m a journalist, not a detective,” I try to sound disinterested, but for some reason it’s not convincing. Jimmy reaches across the desk and lays a hand on my shoulder.

“Come on, kid. You know you’re the only one who could do it. Don’t tell me you’re not itching to get your hands on this. Every reporter in the city’d be, if they could shake any more out of it. You’re the only one who might still find something. You know, with your… connections.” I give a violent start.

“Oh, no, I’m done with that. What goes on in the shadows ain’t none of my business.”

Jimmy won’t have it.

“Come on, you know it is! If only the shadows could speak… we’d have all the answers! Right now, they’re all that’s left of this investigation, and you’re the only one who can make them sing!”

“I told you before, Jimmy, I’m never doing it again. I get my own information. How can I trust what they show me? I still struggle with what’s real and what’s not, even with the shadows themselves. For all we know, they’re some city-smog induced hallucination. The effects of this fever dream are just worse for me.” Despite my protests, Jimmy refuses to give up his case.

“I’ve seen you work with them before. I understand your reluctance. It takes a toll, I know, but you can’t just ignore the truth. Not when it’s out there, waiting. And trust me, it won’t wait forever! You’ve got a gift: one that could unwrap an entire criminal organization!” He notices me drifting off into thought, speculating, considering. He’s got me.

“I try to keep to myself, but you’re right. It’s different now… and they’re only getting stronger. I can hardly take a step without slipping into darkness. It’s getting to where I have to concentrate to stay conscious rather than the other way around. There’s more strangers. New faces… and not like yours and mine. It’s getting harder to avoid them on the streets.”

The shadows. Spectral figures that roam the city. We even have a couple that hang around here, black silhouettes with hardly any definition, all decked out in news attire. Occasionally they snap pictures with their similarly featureless cameras at action scenes that the rest of us can’t see, probably to publish in their own mock magazine, to which I can’t confirm the existence of. After two years living alongside them, it’s become more sad than eerie. We don’t understand them, and they seem fine to keep it that way. For the most part, they’re unbothered by us. They interact with the living, but seem to have their own existence to deal with. Some faces are familiar, such as people who went missing. Others don’t seem to have any root in reality, either taking on the visage and character of archetypes or extras (like in one of them moving picture shows). It’s obvious the shadows are connected to secrets; mysteries just waiting to be solved. They must have a purpose, for why they exist. What’s the cause of them? The theories dispute: a new species of intelligence or a message from beyond? Not only is their nature unknown, but their potential. I’ve had my wallet stolen from a spectral swindler. A gunfight brought two bodies into a hospital, flesh and smoke, but only one of which was treated. If the shadows are truly living, then that shadow gunslinger, bleeding out with mist for blood on the operating table, proved they can die. It makes sense that the shadows are living. While they’ve been known to replace the alive and missing, and there’ve even been accounts (though how credible is still under investigation) of witnessing a transformation from flesh to smoke, no shadows have brought someone back from the dead. Some theories claim a connection between the living and the shadows. A man, stalked by his own seemingly sentient silhouette, was driven mad and committed suicide. It was as if the spectral figure had left with his last breath, finally free from this shady version of himself in death. We all followed the news story of the spectral banker, who would go along collecting debts. It wasn’t until his last victim, who dove out of a ten-story window to escape him, that the banker withdrew from this world, merging back with the darkness. Perhaps every debt had finally been cleared. They’re not ghosts. No, whatever they are, they are rooted in the living. Some say they are secrets left unsaid. That they are created by our own guilty consciences, as living reminders of what we haven’t spoken. Others say they are people who’ve lost themselves in darkness, drinking in the shade and smoke of a sinful life until they’ve joined its black embrace. Others say they personify the city and its people, turning life into a living stage play. I think they’re here to drive us all mad. If we weren’t already.

“The shadows see things from the other side. The side we missed. They can show it to you, right? Come on, kid! I’m not asking you to find witnesses, just ask around a little.” I’m terrified of the thought of it, but I’m actually starting to warm to Jimmy’s proposal. I hadn’t thought of it before. Perhaps the shadows do know something we don’t, and I’m one of the only men who can learn their secrets. My chest takes on that same, stubborn fire that it does when I’m hot on a scandal. When I get this way, I put the paparazzi to shame. Nothing can stop me from pursuing the truth.

“They don’t talk, even to me. Hell, I don’t even know if they have that level of function. But if it gets you off my ass and me out that door, I’ll keep an eye out for something.” Jimmy seems so excited, I can almost feel the old him returning. So he hasn’t completely lost his passion. He’d been doing his own digging into the dark all along. But why now? Why throw in the towel and set another man off on this wild goose chase? What is he hoping to achieve with all of this?

“You’ve got to answer me this, boss. What’s with the sudden change of heart? I thought you stopped caring about uncovering the truth. I mean, it doesn’t sell papers like it used to, right?” The cold returns to Jimmy’s eyes.

“I know we’ve never seen eye to eye, but greed’ll blind me yet. Why do you think I’ve held onto all this?” He ruffles the stack of evidence. “I’ve wanted to see the Gray cases resolved as much as any other justice-seeking citizen. In a perfect world, I’d be the one to do it. But I’ve let them collect dust for long enough. I’ve puzzled out as much as I can, which is hardly more than those corrupt policemen and investigators wanted us to find.” So Jimmy’s energy hasn’t been entirely wasted on this joke of a newspaper. This is what he’s been working on. “This was going to be my big story. Don’t think I’m handing it over to you for your sake. This isn’t for you or me anymore, it’s for the city. It’s been suffering for two years now. The investigations are over. If we don’t keep ‘em awake, soon they’ll be put to rest. Crime’s only going to get stronger once it realizes it can come out of hiding. I can’t write this story. I have nothing to add, nothing to uncover. Do what I can’t, and prove to me that you’re more than just the money-making reporter I’ve been forcing you to be.” I’ve heard enough. This is exactly what I’ve been looking for the past few months. The dread of dealing with the shadows has drifted back into the old feeling of addiction. I must know the truth, and I can get it from them. Of course it takes leaving my job to begin any real work.

“I’ll take the case.” Jimmy looks up at me and I watch an approving grin stretch across his face.

“Great! Then you’re fired,” His curt reply nearly causes me to fall back out of my chair.

“What, why?”

“Don’t take it so personal, kid. Another week with you and I’ll get an ulcer. I think this morning’s paper will be ready without you now.” He pulls the papers I had been slaving over from under my arms. “Go on, take your unemployment and get to work. Get outta here!” Jimmy helps me clean out my desk and I’m basically kicked out on the street. “Don’t come back until you’ve solved a murder and made the headlines!” Jimmy’s final shout rings in my ears as he slams the door behind me. A second passes as I stand outside the Silhouette Gazette. I hold the case files and my few desk possessions in a delivery box in my hands. Well, this is it. From this point on, I’m not a journalist: I’m an unemployed criminal investigator hot on a cold case.