2024.04.08: The suspicious death of Jason McCrory

Near a set of set stairs adjacent to a certain proprietress' favored record shop is a small placard that reads "Corazón Valiente Investigations" in a clean, jazz-era serif font. Narrow metal stairs climb up the side of the record building to a reinforced steel door with no window. It opens to an empty reception area with hardwood floors and bare gray walls that continue into a short hallway that ends in a wooden door with frosted glass. A familiar, if bolder font reiterates "Corazón Valiente Investigations; Balcésar Cruz, P.I." The doorknob is worn brass, and unlocked.

The voicemail had been short and professional, but still with the tinge of worry that Balcésar had probably heard so many times before. "Hi, this is Lizzy McCrory from the Blue Rose. I may have a case for you. Do you have the bandwidth to take on something? I'd like to discuss it in person, if possible. Please call me back at (insert number here) and we can arrange a time. Thank you!"

It doesn't take very long for a reply to be sent, though the message is brief. "Of course. Stop by office at night. I'll be there."

Sure enough, the next night, she is there, as he requested. She's in skinny jeans, a tank top, a flannel shirt that is easily two sizes too big for her, and engineer boots. She could only be bothered to do eyeliner and lip balm, and her hair is in a loose braid. She has a manila folder clutched to her chest. She hesitates a moment at the door, hand poised to knock.

"You can come in," echoes a familiar male voice through a hidden speaker. The metal door to the outside beeps roughly, and then opens, revealing the mostly empty reception area. The door with the frosted window is in the back; it's cracked open. Pushing it aside will reveal an office that's actually furnished, with antique bookshelves filled with reference materials, filing cabinets with locks, a smoking table, and a drinking island with crystal decanters. It certainly has the appearance of a Hollywood Noir office, but it also looks well-used and unpretentious. Balcésar's not trying to make it look a certain way; this is just his way.

Below a hanging piece of haunting surrealist art depicting a shadow walking through a forest, the man himself is seated at a richly-colored cherrywood desk, which appears much more formal than he, what with his sunset-colored v-neck, worn jeans, and comfortable-looking (but functional) brown loafers. His hair keeps with that "intentionally messy" look. He (and the room) lightly smell of wood and smoke.

"Hey," he says, gesturing to a cushioned armchair set before his desk.

Lizzy heads on in, her steps cautious. "Hello?" she says to the empty lobby space before she realizes what is immediately beyond. She pushes on to the office proper, and when she sees Balcésar himself, the decidedly far more casual attire makes her step back a step. "Hi..." She can't help but smile a little, but even then, it's still uncertain. "Thank you for meeting with me.  I imagine this is well outside your normal working hours, but I appreciate you making the time."

"I don't have off hours," the man says as she sits. Like much of what he says, it's probably intended to be comforting, but the ambiguity of his tone always leaves open the possibility he's actually an enormous dick. But let's think positively.

"Something to drink?" he adds, standing, and gesturing to those decanters. It looks like he's going to pour himself something anyways (and he does), so an additional pour is no bother. It looks like he's got the hard alcohol standards: bourbon, scotch, even some rye. There's a few other bottles in a cabinet nearby as well, just in case.

"Vodka tonic?" Lizzy asks. She sets the folder down on the edge of his desk, looking it with continuing trepidation. Her hands move to her lap, clasped tightly together.

Far from an uncultured barbarian, he does in fact have both vodka and tonic. The latter of which he has to pull from his cabinet, but in short order the drink is made (stirred, not having specified), and in a crystal glass no less. He hands it over gently, and then resumes occupying his space behind the desk, leaning back and sipping some scotch. "So how can I help you?"

She murmurs a thank you as she accepts the drink and takes a sip. She licks her lips, mulling over the taste a moment. Once she deems it acceptable, she pushes the folder across the table. "Short version: my brother is dead under suspicious circumstances. The police report says suicide. The facts don't seem to add up to that, and I'm not sure why." Inside the photo is a picture of a dark-haired man with warm brown eyes, a soft jawline, and a sweet smile. The family resemblance comes through in the eyes and the shape of the lips. Also included is a photocopy of the death certificate and medical examiner's report. The line "self-inflicted gunshot to the head" is highlighted in yellow.

Balcésar leans forward to accept the folder, and then begins to peruse its contents amidst their explanation. "Unfortunately, there's a statistically significant number of police cases with flawed conclusions; I've dealt with several. That said, there's obviously a marked different between lack of precision and subterfuge." He spreads out several of the photos on the desk as if to get a better grasp of the man. "Do you have any reason to suspect some kind of coverup? If it's a simple matter of rechecking the facts and reviewing the case files to see if the investigators missed anything substantial, that's one thing, but if you're asking me to find proof of criminal malfeasance, that's a different matter entirely." He leans back in his chair and takes a long sip of his scotch. Apparently business Balcésar is much more chatty than his off-the-clock self.

"'I don't know' is an acceptable answer," he points out, helpfully. "I can always just shake the tree and see what falls out." Rather apt, considering the forested portrait hanging above him.

Based on the pictures, the dude seems like a good dude. Jason McCrory, age 31. No spouse, no children, lots of friends who were surprised he even owned a gun, much less shot himself with it. "A couple days before he died, he called me and told me he was in trouble and that he needed to go away for a while. I told him I was coming over, but he told me to stay away. After a couple days, he texted me." She taps a printed screenshot between the two of them. His message says 'help me,' dated only a few minutes before the time of death listed on the medical examiner report. "I went over immediately, but when I got there, two men were coming out his front door that I hadn't seen before. I'm still kicking myself for not taking a picture. Once they were gone, I went to the door and the lock was broken. That's when..." Her voice begins to tremble. "...that's when I found him."

The police report mentions Lizzy's call, but any sign of forced entry or a broken lock is conspicuously absent.

With his lips pressed against entwined hands, Balcésar listens with what is, perhaps, a surprising amount of empathy, never interrupting, and offering Lizzy plenty of verbal space to fill in the details. "I'm sorry about what happened," he says, with a thoughtful sincerity and lightly accented English. A consummate professional, however, he leaves it at that, instead sliding his fingers over some of the report details. "You do paint a compelling picture. It's certainly too soon to start throwing around words like "corruption," but there's definitely some sloppy detecting work here based on what you've told me." The office isn't brightly lit, more of a warm dimness, so when he looks up at her, his pale eyes are clearly seen against the backdrop of his darker features. The gaze seems attentive, sympathetic, and... intrigued.

"I'm willing to give this a cursory look-see pro bono. Let's get everything you recall documented, including what you recall about him in the weeks leading up to this. If I start digging and don't find anything, consider it some free peace of mind. But if things start to fail the smell test, we can draw up a contract and I'll give this my full attention." He flicks his mouse so the monitor on his desk buzzes and comes back to life, and then taps a few keys on the companion keyboard to begin a digital file. "Let's get started. Did Jason have any enemies, or know anyone who might wish him harm? Even a disgruntled waiter might be relevant, so don't leave out anything."

Lizzy looks visibly relieved when Balcésar says he'll at least take a look at it. She takes a deep drink of that vodka tonic before she starts answering deeper questions. "None that I was aware of. His assertion that he was in deep trouble seems to indicate otherwise, though, and while Jason and I were close, he did have his own life, and I wasn't privy to all the details. Before he got into trouble, though, he seemed to be doing pretty well. He was super healthy and had a lot of energy the last couple weeks."

Tapping with practiced alacrity, the mechanical keyboard echoes as the investigator tracks the pertinent details. "Zoom in on his health. Had it changed recently? A sudden burst of energy, or was it common for him to go through energetic spikes?"

"It was pretty sudden and stayed up from there. His weightlifting game got really strong." Lizzy frowns. "Might have been drugs or something, but I never found any kit or anything like that, nor was there any in evidence. There is also no record on whose gun was used to..." She can't bring herself to say it: blow my brother's brains out.

The man curiously lifts a brow and glances from the monitor to her and back again. "Were there any other out-of-the-ordinary habits? Such as always being out at night, sleeping more than normal, hanging out with a particular group of people--anything you might recall as unusual, if not bizarre." Tappity-tap!

"Some later nights, but nothing entirely unusual? Then again, I might not be the best person to ask. My schedule has me working nights, mostly.  He didn't tell me about any new friends, or any changes with any old friends..."

Reading over his notes so far, the man taps his short beard and 'hmms' something to himself, leaning forward against an elbow thoughtfully. "So what I'm hearing from you is that you noticed some meaningful and sudden difference, but nothing that would have otherwise concerned you. Maybe he was just making some small life-changes, et cetera. Does that sound about right?" And then as an addendum, he fishes a clipboard out from one of the deeper desk drawers, sliding it across the wooden surface along with a pen. "Also go ahead and write down any contacts you can think of that may have spoken with him in the weeks leading up to this."

"That's what it sounded like." She takes out the clipboard and jots down a couple names. "A couple of these names were pulled from his phone during the investigation. I think the police still have it, since it wasn't turned over to me."

"Okay." There's a few moments of silence save for the tapping of keys. Balcésar appears to be drawing notes and names from the police reports--likely details of the investigators, themselves, so he can follow up. "Did he have any particular hobbies I should know? Gaming, the local arts scene, particular clubs." The tapping stops, and the man leans towards her, inquisitive. "Essentially, anywhere you think I should poke my nose into."

"There was a club he went to every Friday. Axiom, I think it is? I tried getting a bartending gig there, but they're selective as hell. Apparently, there's something they want in their staff that I don't have and they didn't tell me what. No idea what."

"Que porquería," the man finally exhales, along with a short smile-smirk and the implication he can smell the pretention already. "Figures a place called "Axiom" would be more of an ass than me." He notes down the name. "That's everything for now, then. I've got your number saved already and I'll contact you if I have any further questions or updates. Give me a week or so to scratch the surface and see what there is to see."

She nods, then takes another sip of the drink. "Thank you very much for your time. I thought I was at a loss for any recourse."

The file is saved, the typing stopped, and the man goes back to his scotch. "Happy to be of service," he says, lifting his drink to her before tossing the rest of it back.  He then leans over the desk to extend his hand. It's only slightly cool to the touch.

She leans in to shake his hand, and then finishes her drink. "And if you have any more questions I can answer, feel free to call."

"Of course," he says, gesturing to the door. "I was wrapping up anyways, so I'll walk you out." He steps out from behind the desk, only grabbing a pair of red sunglasses and a ring of keys. He politely waits for her to walk out of the office before turning off the lights and locking up.

Lizzy nods and rises, heading for the door. "Thanks again."