NOTE: This story takes place around the 1920s or 30s, so there is some use of racial language that is not appropriate by today's standard, but was common back then. I am not advocating the use of such language, just depicting it as it would have been. It's not THAT word, but still.

“Mr. Wilhelm McCormick?” the detective asked as he entered the questioning room.

“Uh... yeah. Yeah that's me,” said the man at the table.

The detective hung up his coat and sat across from McCormick.

“My name is Detective Malcolm.”

“Does my wife know yet?” McCormick asked, holding his hat in both hands. It was a gesture that conveyed the man's unease and uncertainty.

Malcolm looked over his shoulder at the officer standing by the door.

“Ah, yeah,” the officer replied. “She's on her way to come see you.”

McCormick sighed, and nodded.

“I know you've had a rough evening,” Malcolm said, “but I need you to tell me what happened. Can you do that?”

Visibly shaken, but not broken, McCormick nodded.

Malcolm looked back at the officer again. “You can go now, if you would.”

The officer nodded and left the room, and McCormick recited the evenings events.

“I was walking home from the theater, and as I passed by that jazz joint on Lincoln avenue, this guy comes out of the alley way with a gun! He tells me to give him my wallet and anything of value or whatever.”

“Did you see what he looked like?” Malcolm asked.

McCormick closed his eyes, trying to recall the memory. “He was, uh, pretty tall. I guess. He was wearing all black and had a black bandana over his mouth, but I could see his eyes and that whole area fine. He had grey eyes-- crazy eyes, and his face was pale. Real pale. Fella must not have spent much time out of doors.”

“So what'd you do?” Malcolm asked.

“Well I did what he said, of course. I took out my wallet and tossed it down by his feet. Must not have seen my watch, or he would have asked for it, too. So he kneels down to pick it up, I take a step back. Then the doors to the jazz place open up and people start coming out. It must has spooked the robber, because the next thing I know, the gun goes off, I trip on the curb and fall over backwards and hit my head, and the guy takes off. Didn't even get my wallet. I see this colored fella run out of the place and sees the robber running away. 'Yeah get outta here!' he shouts, then comes over to me, asking me if I'm okay. He's wearing this nice white suit, so I guess he worked at the jazz place. Must have, to afford a set of threads like those. Anyways, I hear people talking about calling the cops, and calling a doctor, and a bunch of other noise... all the while the colored boy just stays by my side as I lay there on my back like a fish on land. He stays around 'till the ambulance takes me away. And that's about it.”

Malcolm put down the pencil he'd been writing with and looked over the notes again.

“You gonna find him?” McCormick asked.

Malcolm looked up from his notes.

“You gonna find the guy... who killed me?”

Malcolm nodded. “You have my word. We'll get him. We'll get him.”