Introduction

The last time I saw Benjamin Camen was in a small bohemian coffee shop that catered to the eclectic and pretentious. Camen was sitting sipping a cappuccino he had spiked with brandy from a hip flask he kept in the laptop bag that he always carried around but I believe had never actually carried a laptop in its life.

This was the day that he told me what had happened during our last case. Benjamin Camen is one of the best freelance private investigators in the world. Or at least, that’s what he claims. I admit that I’ve only met a handful. But among that handful he is indeed the best, better than many detectives in police employ.

I was sitting with my laptop open, typing away while Camen spoke. I have been acting as his unofficial transcriptionist for the past three years. It was originally just case notes, but then progressed to random ruminations and monologues that he would archive and then scour for clues he had glossed over. Lately he had been talking about having me write out complete narratives.

“I want you to write it all down, Sugoi. This whole word of mouth advertising just isn’t working for us any longer. Can’t keep living the good life like this. You know more about that sort of thing than I do, maybe you can find a market for it. A procedural publication or something. And then we can expand our client base.”

I wasn’t entirely sure people would care, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. The last thing I wanted was a scene in a public place. Encounters with police—by and large, though there are some exceptions—suck.

“I’m not sure I can turn this into a narrative,” I told him.

“Nonsense. You’re a smart fellow. You graduated high school, didn’t you? You read a lot of fiction, right? Enjoy English? I’ve seen your notes, you have fast fingers and an accurate mind. What else do you need?”

“Creativity,” I muttered. “Talent wouldn’t hurt either.”

“HA!” He snorted far too loudly for the situation. A few people glanced over at us, the wild-eyed middle aged man and the young Asian boy sitting together huddled in the corner. A few of them looked too long, especially at Camen, as though they suspected him to be some sort of pedophile meeting a young boy. Those were the ones that wouldn’t bother looking at me out of shame or their dutiful rejection of getting involved.

“You don’t need talent,” Camen went on. “You know the case, you know all the details now, just put them down how they happened to us. Try to make me look good, too. This is a walking advertisement, gotta pander to the future clients.”

“Do you want to see it when I’m done?”
“No need, no need,” he said absently as he drained his cup and then refilled it directly from his flask. Camen is not an alcoholic, I don’t think. He only seems to drink when there’s nothing better to do. Or when we’re out in public at a place that doesn’t allow smoking. Without a project, his hands always fidget and he always is driven to do some bad thing or another. At least this wasn’t making a scene. The last time, after a very busy night when the tables hadn’t been bussed in some time, he had collected all the cups to build a tower of ceramic. That had been really embarrassing.

“I trust you well enough. Besides, the better I look, the more things you’ll get to do, too. I become famous, and you’ll be able to come along with me. Money, fame … women.” He grinned at me and winked. I hunkered down over my laptop so he didn’t see me roll my eyes. He was all talk and no action, at least when it came to women. Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t more than professionally interested in hanging out with a young boy instead of someone on the fairer sex.

I wouldn’t know. I don’t care what he does in his free time, but I’m batting for the right team.

The problem, as you’ll see, is that his story is so unpublishable that I don’t even know where to begin. He wants an accurate accounting, but one that makes him look good. That’s impossible. He can’t have both. So I’m forced, as always, to choose between two options. Neither of them sound great for me.

Either way I’m stuck writing up these stupid stories in the hopes that someone is going to take them seriously.

Either way, it’s not exactly going to be Dupin or Holmes or even Marple running around.

I’d rather just get it over with and go the path of least resistance. He wants an accurate story, I’ll give you one. Bells and all. But no publisher would ever believe they’re true. And he won’t let me publish them as fiction (I checked). So instead you’ll get them written down, warts and all, here. And I don’t really have to worry about Camen getting upset, because as far as I know he tries to remain as far away from the internet as possible. Well, sometimes. You’ll probably see.

When I write up the stories I’ll post them here for people to read. Maybe someone will care. Maybe some crazy will actually believe they’re real. I swear to you they are, but this is the internet. I know better than to hope for too much. And if some desperate soul decides to actually contact us and hire Camen for a case based on these stories, I’ll be justified and that person will be certifiable. But they won’t be disappointed.

These are the case files of Benjamin Camen, Master Detective.

All true. No holds barred. Narrated by his assistant and protégé, H. Sugai.