It was winter and the air was frigid. The room was poorly lit, with only a small candle, who's fire was slowly starting to burn out. Mr. Sebastian Beckett sat in his study in a worn down fabric chair, his head in his hands, contemplating his beloved wife's death. Beckett knew how his wife died, that wasn't the question, but who committed the horrid crime was a bit more interesting. 

There was a soft knock on the study door. Sebastian Beckett sighed, and unwilling rose from the old chair. While he moved towards the study's large wooden door, he caught a glance at himself on the cracked mirror on the wall. Beckett turned to look at himself. His face was red and tear-stained, and his eyes were puffy. The person on the outside of the door knocked again, and he reluctantly turned away from the cracked mirror and opened the study door. Hunched over, wrapped in a thick black coat, stood Randel, the teenager who ran Mr. Beckett's pawn shop when he was away. 

"Can I help you young man?" asked Beckett, surprised on how raspy and weak his voice sounded.

Instead of answering, Randel stepped inside the study and shut the large, creaky, wooden door.

"Can I help you young man?" repeated Beckett, sounding a bit more exasperated. 

"No sir, I was just checking on how you were doing."

Beckett attempted to smile, but instead it came out as a weak grimace that looked impolite and snobby. 

Randel looked down to his shoes and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Randel, take a seat."

Randel shuffled over to one of the worn-out armchairs, and sat down. He sat stiffly, obviously not comfortable in the sad dim room.

"Randel, make yourself comfortable, please, I-I, I need someone to talk to. I think you will be perfect company".

Relieved that he could help Beckett in a way, Randel sunk into the old chair.

***

"Mr. Beckett, I'm so terribly sorry about your wife, I really am, and I would love to stay and talk some more, but I really must go. I have three examines to study for, and-"

"No, no, Randel, it's fine. I do appreciate you coming here and chatting for a while."

The teenager stood up, and walked to the study door.

"Randel,"

Randel turned around and faced Beckett.

"Yes sir?"

"Randel, I-"

Beckett hesitated. He had been bursting with the question, for he had kept it quiet throughout their full two hour conversation-well, one-sided conversation. Beckett had done most of talking.

"Yes sir?" Randel asked again.

"Um, would you be able to come to work at the shop tomorrow?"

Randel sighed, and looked up at Beckett. The man was obviously tired, with dark bags. His hair was greasy and his face was red. It was clear Beckett hadn't showered in days.

"Yes sir, I would be glad to work tomorrow."

Beckett smiled, but Randel was sure it wasn't genuine.

***

Every time Beckett closed his eyes, he saw his wife's lifeless, limp body. Therefore, Beckett refused to sleep. He just sat on his clean white sheets, staring at the empty space in the bed where his wife used to lie. His wife always had a difficult time sleeping. She would always lay awake, looking at the ceiling and would tap Beckett on the shoulder to wake him up. He would always turn and face her, but kept his eyes closed. He so desperately wanted her back, but he couldn't just sit there. Sebastian Beckett, at 2:49 AM on a cold, December morning, decided to solve the case of his wife's murder. 

The sun was rising by the time Beckett had showered and had gotten dressed in fresh clean clothes. He then went down to the kitchen. The kitchen was small, with white cabinets, wallpaper, and a small table that had four small chairs around it. The cabinets were old, with the crusty paint falling off in big splintery chunks. The wallpaper was a light, powdery blue color. If you look close enough, you would notice that there are white polka dots sprinkled within the solid blue. The table was old. Mr. Beckett remembered when the two had bought the table. Mrs. Beckett had forced him to get away from his work for a few days. Beckett grudgingly agreed, and Mrs. Beckett took him to a flea market. It was summer time, so the sun beat mercilessly on their heavily sun creamed skin. Mrs. Beckett spotted the table sitting by a fence. It was so dirty it looked dark brown, and there were four chairs stood on the top of the table. She was clearly excited about the old table, so being the loving husband that he was, he bought her the table.

Now he regretted it. The table was just another reminder of his late wife. Everything pretty much was. Her slippers, her coat, the lavender perfume that sat on her dresser. Beckett checked his watch. The small timepiece read 6:07. He picked up the phone and called Randel. The phone rang for a while until someone picked up.

"Hello?" said Randel. His voice was raspy and dry.

"Randel! It's Mr. Beckett. Do you think you can meet me at the pawn shop in 20 minutes?"

Beckett heard Randel sigh, and then replied with, "Beckett, I know you have been having trouble since your wife's passing-"

"No, no you silly imbecile! I want to do something about it! I have had my time to grieve, but now I have to take action. Please, meet me at the pawn shop in 20 minutes." Beckett slammed the phone back into place, hanging up the line, not giving Randel a chance to answer.

***

Randel walked through the pawn shop door. He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms, and his black coat. Randel's feet were covered with soft slippers and dark socks. His brown hair was disheveled and his eyes were covered with dry eye crud. His lips were chapped and were cracking. Beckett was the opposite. His hair was styled with gel and was neatly combed back. His eyes were bright and alive, his lips were moisturized. Beckett's skin was hydrated and he was dressed smartly, wearing a pair of dark slacks, and stiff winter boots.

"Don't you look dashing." Mr. Beckett sneered sarcastically. 

"Well, I wouldn't even have to be here right now, if it weren't for your frivolous and ridiculous ideas." Randel replied with a snarky tone.

Beckett gave Randel an exasperated look, and said "I have decided to solve the case of my wife's murder. Being that I'm the only capable detective in this god-damn city."

"Sir, first of all there are many superb detective in this lovely city, and second of all, how do you even start to solve a case like this?"

"Psssh, the most complex case you solved was what you were eating for dinner, and no-one knows about your sketchy detective business."

"I do not appreciate your smart-aleck responses. Anyways, I will start as any good detective should. I shall review the case and see who was involved. Then, I will look who was involved in the case and elect my suspects."

"Sir, I'm not sure if it is that easy. Have you ever read any of those unsolved mystery cases in the paper? Most of those cases are attempted by professional detectives, and are never solved."

"Randel, if you haven't noticed, I'm different than most detectives. I am going to first speak to anyone who went out with my wife that fateful night. Let's see- I know Deborah was with my wife. She was on the news. She looked terrible. Her hair was greasy, her eyes were bloodshot, and she was shaking. She claimed that she forgot what happened, and I highly doubt that. Deborah is very intelligent. She is now studying astro-physics at Cornell. Another suspect Cynthia. She was a family friend. A bit off I admit, but she was kind when she lasted. One day she just blew up and insulted my pawn shop business. My wife defended me, and Cynthia called my wife something I can't exactly say in front of a young teenager. She has now since been calling my home occasionally, saying that one day she would get me back. I don't necessarily think she would actually go through with hurting me or anyone I love."

Randel scratched his head, thinking about what Beckett said. He wondered if Beckett realized that the solution was simpler then he thought.

***  

Randel sat on his bed. Spending the day with Beckett was absolute torture. Why anyone would want to be with someone for hours on end, hearing them whine about their "loss". Randel thought it was pathetic. Human lives had no worth, so why does it matter who lives and dies? Eventually, everyone was going to die forgotten. He was out late in town, taking a walk, and breathing in the cold night air, when he decided to take a couple drinks at a local bar that didn't care about the legal drinking age. He drank beer after beer, when eventually the bar tender kicked him out at about 3:00 am.Randel stumbled out of the bar, confused and disoriented when Mrs. Beckett came over to Randel.

"Randel, dear are you okay? Oh no! Have you been drinking? Oh, dear I-I have to call the police, stay here!" Mrs. Beckett turned in the direction of the local police station. Randel whipped around, and in his drunken daze, reached out and snatched Mrs. Beckett's thin neck, and clenched. He squeezed harder. He could feel the bones in her neck, and the popping of each blood vessel. Mrs. Beckett resisted and tried to pry his hands off her neck, but Randel would not relinquish his tight grip. 

***

Beckett picked up the phone. He dialed the number 555-6578. A women picked up the phone. 

"Beckett? Is that you?" croaked Cynthia into the phone.

"Yes it is! I suppose you hear of my wife's murder?"

"Of course I did! What a shame, what a shame."

"Yes, it is horrible." Beckett licked his lips. "This is hard question to ask, maybe harder to answer, but were you involved in the death of my wife?"

Beckett's ear was filled with silence.

"Hello?" Asked Beckett, unsure if anyone was still on the phone.

"Uh-yes-um... why must you ask?"

"I remember a couple years ago, when you insulted my pawn shop business, you cursed at my wife, and threatened my family name."
"Oh Beckett! I didn't mean that I'm sorry if I alarmed you! The night after I insulted you pawn shop, I called your wife to apologize!"

"I'll keep that in mind." Beckett slammed down the phone, feeling discouraged. He slid to floor and cried.

***

20 years had gone by, and Beckett hadn't found his wife's murdered. Beckett was about 70 years old, too old to do anything about it anymore. Randel had disappeared, so he could never help Beckett find his wife's killer. Beckett was at a breaking point. It came to the point where suicide game to play, and Beckett was the winner.