The PostHistoric Problem-Inspector Noir

1 - Sextinction of A Dinosaur

The body lay on the floor, clothed in some sort of dinosaur outfit. The long, blonde hair and the remnants of a brassiere strap indicated that the victim was in fact female, or a pretty strange man. The suit had several holes in it, and adjacent to the cadaver, right there on the floor, in bucket loads and bucket loads, was a whitish substance.
The two detectives walked confidently but carefully into the room. One was dressed in a black trench coat, with a pair of jeans and a matching fedora that mostly covered his messy dark hair. His left breast pocket read “Noir”. He was tall and wiry, and at six foot two, towered over his partner. Said partner was inexplicably dressed in a yellow T-shirt and a purple pair of shorts. It was he who approached the body first.
“I bet that when she got that suit, she thought ‘This is the last time I’m going to be screwed.” He turned to Noir, smirking, trying to illicit a reaction from his partner. However, the inspector remained stoic.
“Jaune, I don’t pay you to make inappropriate innuendos.”
“Jerk-off, you don’t pay me, full stop.”
It was true.
The force had had to cut back on detectives, primarily because they kept marrying prostitutes, getting shot in the face, etc. Basically anything that would have been taught in the handbook for detectives that they couldn’t afford. ‘Couldn’t afford’ was also the main reason Jaune was on the scene. However, it did not justify his unnecessarily flamboyant attire.
“You think the killer made some makeshift vaginas?” enquired Mr. Flamboyant, pointing to the body.
“Unless he pulled out at the last minute to spunk all over the floor, I don’t think that makes any sense whatsoever.”
Jaune shuffled, and his expression changed slightly.
“Oooh. Kinky.”
“What?”
Jaune began to walk awkwardly towards the door. “Where do you think the bathroom’s at?”
“If you’ve got to throw up, there’s a sink in here.”
“I don’t have to throw up.”
Noir diverted his gaze and attention towards the body as quickly as he could, and internally begged himself not to let his mind wander. He took several deep breaths, before giving up and racing to the sink to empty out the burger and fries he had eaten for lunch.
“God damn it, Jaune,” he whispered under his breath as he hunched over the sink.
After Noir and Jaune finished with their respective excretions and collected the evidence they would send back to HQ, they made their way back to the car in the sunset heat, or at least the spot where the car had been. For the fourth time, Jaune’s car had been stolen.
“Jack Jaune, how the hell do you manage to get your car stolen half the goddamned time? You’re meant to be a cop.”
“Don’t know, dude. I guess I have one sweet ride.”
“It’s a 1966 Pontiac. Every time you start the engine, it gives out enough smoke to kill a medium-large bird.”
“Clearly a vintage then.”
At this point, Noir’s annoyance reached boiling point and he spent 30 seconds simply staring at Jaune in fury, whose attention had been overwhelmed by an overly energetic pigeon, who it seemed was attempting to create a tornado with its wings.
“Jaune.” No response. “Jaune.”
“I wonder if it witnessed my car being stolen. Sure does show the symptoms.”
“Jaune.”
“Oh, hey Inspector. Spaced out there for a sec. My bad.”
“Are we going to stand here while you fabricate a poor excuse for a coherent thought, or are we going to try to get out of here?”
“So you’re going to pay for the taxi, then.”
Noir sighed. “I spent the last of my taxi fare cash on that ice-cream you so desperately wanted.”
“Hey, sometimes I get a craving for the cold cream.”
“It was seven thirty in the morning. And you’re lactose intolerant."

*****

“Noir,” whined Jaune, “This bearded guy keeps trying to feel my thigh.” He squirmed as a homeless man shamelessly attempted to probe the detective’s pockets for a wallet.
Noir sighed.
“Just tell him to go away.”
Once Noir had tired of Jaune’s non-sequiturs and constant nonsensical rambling, they had scrounged up enough money for a bus fare, and caught the 1803 back Downtown. Having just beaten the rush hour, Noir and Jaune both got a seat, though they were separated from each other, much to Noir’s relief.
“Is he, you know,” The woman sitting next to Inspector Noir gestured to Jaune, then leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Retarded?”
“You have no idea how much I hope that is true.”
He much preferred his new seat partner; a redhead, five ten (just the right height for him), wearing stripy tube socks, and surprisingly an orange jumper; it was a brave move in the August heat. They had struck up a decent conversation, and there seemed to be no warning signs. Maybe I might get lucky tonight, Noir thought.
It was at this moment that Inspector Noir’s phone rang. He sighed and checked the caller ID, and sure enough, it was exactly who he expected it to be. Commissioner Curtis Ciel, or as he was commonly known at HQ, Commissioner Cockblock. He had gained this nickname thanks to an uncanny knack for contacting his work force at crucial moments in which they could seal the deal. He excused himself and answered the phone.
“This is Noir.”
“Evening, Inspector.”
Noir then gave the conversation a moment’s silence; allowing the hostility to carry over the phone.
“Crap.” Ciel’s notoriety for blocking his staff elevated to the point where even he noticed it. “Did I do it again?”
“Yes, indeed you did, sir.”
“You’ll get ‘em next time, Inspector.”
Then, it was down to business. Noir listened, and slowly, the happier expression that he’d obtained from his short conversation with the redhead became morbid, and soon he was back in work mode.
“Thanks, sir. Will get right to it.”
He stood up and turned to the woman.
“Sorry, I got to go. Any chance I can call you later on?”
“Sure.” The redhead brandished a pen and wrote a number on the back of his left hand. “I’m Marron, by the way.”
“Nice handwriting.” Perhaps Noir would have a shot at having some fun in the near future. His phone vibrated, and he opened up an SMS from Commissioner Ciel giving him some other random trivia that he probably didn’t need. Noir raised an eyebrow.
Typical Cockblock.
He stood up and turned back towards the front of the bus to look at a slightly less-uncomfortable-than-before man in a yellow shirt and purple shorts.
“Jaune? We got to go.”
Jack Jaune looked relatively relieved as they exited the bus.
“Phew!” exclaimed Jaune, confirming his relief. “So glad we’re out of there.”
“Why?”
Jaune squirmed slightly.
“You know that guy who kept on feeling my leg?” Noir nodded. “I punched him out, and he was bleeding pretty badly. Hadn’t moved either.”
Noir started to quicken his pace. Jaune stumbled slightly in an attempt to catch up to his partner.
“Why are we out of the bus, Noir?”
For the first time that day in Jaune’s presence, Inspector Noir grinned.
“We got ourselves our first lead.”