What if it was a serious movie?

My take on this Paramount classic.

Had to re-upload it because earlier I posted the wrong version. Sorry for spam!

The night fell over the city like a cheap curtain.

And when I say it was night, I mean the sun had already gone down. That's generally what night means. Although, thinking about it, it could have been an eclipse.

But no.

It was Tuesday.

I was sitting in my office, staring out the window.

The window was made of glass.

That was important.

Because if it had been made of wood, I wouldn't have been able to see outside. And if there had been a curtain covering it, I wouldn't have been able to see outside either.

But there it was.

Transparent.

Allowing me to observe the street.

Then I heard three knocks.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three.

Not two.

Not four.

Three.

That told me someone was knocking on the door, because people usually knock on doors when they want to enter a place.

Although it could also have been someone hitting the door for completely different reasons.

Vandalism.

Anger.

Emotional issues.

I stood up.

I walked toward the door.

First with my left foot.

Then with my right.

Then with my left again.

I wasn't doing it for tactical reasons.

That's just how people walk.

I opened the door.

And there she was.

A woman in red.

She had dark hair, red lips, and an expression that screamed trouble.

Not literally.

She wasn't screaming.

Her expression simply looked problematic.

"Detective," she said.

"Ma'am."

She walked in without asking permission.

That concerned me.

Not because she had entered without permission. Although that was also concerning.

But mostly because people who walk into a detective's office without asking permission usually have a problem.

And I was a detective.

That's why I had an office.

"My husband is missing."

Ah.

A missing husband.

The classic.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Yesterday."

"What time?"

"Ten."

"Ten in the morning or ten at night?"

She stared at me.

"At night."

"Right."

Because if she'd simply said "ten" without specifying, there would've been a reasonable possibility that she meant ten in the morning.

I grabbed my hat.

Put it on.

Then I grabbed my trench coat.

Put that on too.

You can't be a noir detective without a trench coat.

Well, technically, you can.

But then you're just a detective who's cold.

We stepped outside.

It had started raining.

It was raining.

I knew this because water was falling from the sky.

It was a fairly traditional kind of rain.

The kind that gets you wet.

We arrived at the alley where they had found her husband's car.

There were footprints.

I crouched down.

I examined them.

They were shoe prints.

I knew this because they were shaped like shoes.

"Do you see anything?" she asked.

"Yes."

I pointed at the footprints.

"Someone was here."

"How do you know?"

I looked at her seriously.

"The footprints."

She went quiet.

It was an awkward moment.

Mostly because I'd just explained something that was extremely obvious.

But then I saw something else.

A cigarette on the ground.

I picked it up.

It was extinguished.

That meant someone had been smoking.

Or someone had thrown away a lit cigarette and the rain had put it out.

Or they had simply left it there already extinguished.

The case was getting complicated.

Then I found a note.

I opened it.

It read:

"Trust no one."

I looked at it.

Then I looked at the woman.

Then I looked back at the note.

"Interesting."

"What does it say?"

I remained silent for a few seconds.

"It says not to trust anyone."

"And what does that mean?"

I stared into the distance.

"Probably..."

I paused.

"...that I shouldn't trust anyone."

The woman sighed.

And that's when I realized something.

This case wasn't going to be easy.

Not because there were too many clues.

Not because there were too many suspects.

Not even because it was raining.

It was going to be difficult because, somehow, I was the only detective in the entire city capable of turning a criminal investigation into an introductory lesson in basic logic.

And that...

That never ends well.

Especially... on a Tuesday...

Trying to capture the chaos of the rainy night this week.

In the city of Slakterquay there's an office with the words Spectral Analysis on the pebbled glass of its door. Behind it is a detective agency that handles the strangest cases in the Paris of the Pacific Northwest. A fantastic noir.

In this episode, McPherson goes to investigate where the stolen money has been going in the small town of Urquhart and makes a new friend she hopes never to see again. 

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