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Andrew Clifton Case of the Gorilla Killer Copycat PART 1

Short story By: NEONETWORK
Mystery and crime



Andrew Clifton, a sly sleuth private eye who owned the "Andrew Clifton Detective Agency" from 1920-1949, is called upon to a new case by a slut in a coffee shop. This takes place in Fall of 1926.


Submitted:Feb 5, 2011    Reads: 35    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


ANDREW CLIFTON DETECTIVE AGENCY CASE NO. 1289
DATE BEGAN: November 10, 1926
DATE SOLVED: November 20, 1926
DATE FILED: November 21, 1926
DATE UPDATED: January 14, 1928
DATE RE-UPDATED: January 1, 1950
DATE RE-RE-UPDATED: February 5, 2011
CHAPTER 1: "THE GIRL IN THE COFFEE SHOP"
It was a cold day in mid-November when I was smoking a cigar in my office. I had just come upon a large sum of cash when my Uncle left his inheritance, worth approximately 1,200 dollars, to me. This was about 1,700 in 1950 dollars, about 14,000 in 2011 dollars. I was ecstatic, and bought a box of cigars to celebrate. Then suddenly, I got a telephone call. I picked it up, and I heard a soft, sensual voice. "Why Hello, Mister Clifton." The woman said. "Who is this?" I asked interrogatively. "No need to fret, Mister Clifton. I mean no harm. I would like to meet you at 'RYAN'S WORLDE FAMOUS COFFEY' at 6pm. Can you be there?" I leaned back and considered her request. "In regards to what?" I asked. "I'm afraid I cannot give you that information over the phone. So what's it going to be Andy?" she questioned. I was slightly annoyed she called me Andy, for that was what my mother called me, but I let it go. "Okay." I answered. "Perfect. I'll see you there." She hung up before I could say goodbye. I got up, straightened my tie, and put on an overcoat any gray hat. I walked out of my office, which was on the second floor of a small office building in downtown Chicago. I hailed a Taxi, and told the driver to step on it. I don't really know why, I just always wanted to say that. As he drove through Chicago, I looked through the windows to notice how sleazy it really was. There were drug addicts, prostitutes and politicians everywhere. It was not a pretty sight, and that was BEFORE the Depression. He stopped at the Coffee Shop, and I tipped him a couple of bucks. I entered the Coffee Shop rather quickly when I realized, I had no idea what the hell this woman looked like. It could be a man. It could be a man with a set of high vocal cords and a huge dick. And then I saw her. This alluring goddess siting in the corner of the shop, playfully stirring her cup of coffee. For some reason, I knew this was the woman I was looking for. Not only that night, but forever. I walked up to her. She looked up at me with her blue eyes and said "Why, if it isn't Mister Andrew Clifton. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." She extended her hand, which I took and kissed. "Oh my goodness." She squealed. I sat down and said "It's nice to meet you as well. What is your name?" She blushed and said "How rude of me! My name is Lisa Von Newell." "I see." I said. "Newell, is that Swedish?" I inquired. "No, I think it's Dutch. Anyway, you're probably wondering why I invited you here." She noted. She read my mind completely. "I am." I responded as the waitress came near. "Welcome to Ryan's World Famous Coffee, would you like some of our World Famous soups or salads?" The waiter droned, barely conscious. I decided to use my wit. "Let me just ask you, is your coffee actually world famous?" I asked facetiously. The waitress was incredibly annoyed by the question, but Lisa seemed to like it. "Can you just order sir?" the waitress, who had 22-teeth, no facial expression and barely curled black hair, asked. "Sure, I'll have a cup of black coffee and toast." I requested. "I'll have black coffee and an English Muffin." Lisa ordered. The waitress jotted these things down and left without saying anything. "Jesus Christ." I remarked. "Yeah, she doesn't seem like a jolly soul." She retorted. I nodded and then tried to get us back on track. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meal?" I asked. Lisa reached down and pulled out the November 10, 1926 edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. It seemed odd she would have a copy of the Chronicle since we were nearly 2,000 miles away from its distribution area. But then, I saw the front page. "GORILLA KILLER MURDERS NINTH VICTIM" it said, plastered across the page in large print. I looked at it and then looked at her. "Hell of a thing isn't it?" she remarked. "Yes indeed." I responded. I knew who the Gorilla Killer was. He was a necrophiliac serial killer that was on the loose in the west. I had heard he had recently claimed the life of his ninth victim, an innocent boarding house lady named Mrs. William Edmonds. He grew up without a mother and father, who had both died of syphilis when he was two and was hit by a streetcar at ten years old. This made his behavior erratic, and made him quick to violence. He was released from a mental hospital a year or so ago and then went on a killing and raping spree. He killed people, and then raped their dead bodies. A more despicable act was hard to think of at the time. He was one of America's most notorious serial killers, and California's most. I had to ask her one thing, though. "I know a lot about this killer, because I'm into criminology, but if you're asking me to track down this Son of a Bitch I'm going to have to decline." I stated outright. "Oh, absolutely not. I invited you here because there is a copycat here in Chicago. A copycat serial killer." She said. "A copycat? But The Gorilla Killer's still active." I remarked. "I know it's rare, but it happens. Some jealous fool out there is killing people and having sex with their bodies, right here in this city." She said. I was astounded that someone in Chicago might have been doing this. "I don't believe you. What's your game, here?" I interrogated. "Let's cut the bunk. I know about how you 're paying the Chicago Tribune to not report about the copycat killer so you can look like you've got this city under control." She accused. The waitress then came at the most inopportune time. She put the coffees and the food down while we sat there awkwardly. She left, and then I said "Look, you bitch. I'll track down this asshole just so I can prove that I'm not trying to censor the media." She took a bite of her English muffin and looked up at me. "Good. Because I didn't think you were." The bitch-slut-whore said before sipping her coffee. Her manipulative ways filled me with disgust. I could hardly believe I felt an attraction for her earlier. "So how much are we talking here?" I asked. She put down her coffee and said "Twelve-hundred dollars." I chuckled at this because that was the exact amount of money I had just earned from my uncle's inheritance. "I know that's the exact amount of money you just earned from your uncle's inheritance." The slut-bag remarked. I put down my coffee and asked "How the hell did you know that?" "Did you even know your uncle?" she asked. I paused for a second to consider the question. I had met my uncle various times, and he seemed to take a liking to me. He saw a lot of potential in me, especially as a child. But there came a rift in our relationship when I found out he was involved in the Chicago mafia as a powerful boss. I was even scared for my life; it's why I joined the Army in '17. But yet, the poor bastard forgot to update his will and I was a happy man. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did." I answered. "When's the last time you saw him?" The skank asked. "Yesterday, in an open casket." I replied. The bitch rolled her whore eyes and then clarified her question. "When's the last time you saw him alive?" She asked. I thought deeply, and then responded "Nineteen-seventeen, when he began his criminal enterprise." The tramp got out her purse and reached into it. She pulled out a card with her number, address and everything. The whore then left me with the check. What a bitch. I looked over my shoulder to see if she was coming back, but she wasn't. So there I was. No leads, no name, no Modus Operandi. I had nowhere to go. What I ended up doing was researching the killer. When I arrived at my office that day, I went through newspaper after newspaper. I collected Chicago Tribunes, and I got I had been for the last eight years. I had Tribunes from as early as July 1920. I saw several articles on this supposed copycat killer. The only thing is, I didn't think he was a copycat killer. Granted, he was a necrophiliac, but his victims were not of the female persuasion. This Serial Killer was a faggot.




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