The following evening, I got a very interesting phone call from Stephen Hawking doing a Darth Vader imitation and claiming his name was Nick Fury. At least that is what it sounded like because the caller was using some type of voice distortion device to disguise his voice. The caller would not give me his real name, he just said he would use the codename Nick Fury. He did give me the real name of a man he said would prove crucial to my current investigation. He also gave me a room number at a local no-tell motel where the man could be found.

The fact that the caller even knew about my investigation, and my use of comic book characters for codenames made me think this was more than a prank call and I probably should follow up. I wondered if the codename he used was meant to convey even more. The character Nick fury was a CIA agent who eventually became director of the Marvel universe's fictional espionage agency Shield. Yes, if you didn't know already, I'm a comic book nerd.

I decided to check this lead out by myself. I felt it was potentially too dangerous to call any of the girls; yet, it didn't seem solid enough to merit calling any of the guys.

The motel was in a questionable neighborhood and it was rather late. This only added to the creepy feelings of paranoia I'd been having lately. I thought seriously about waiting until morning to pursue this. Then, I saw at least one nice sports car parked at the motel which led me to believe the area might not be as bad as I had presumed. I parked next to the Jaguar, got out and headed for the room number I had been given. The number implied it would be on the second floor. The doors to the motel rooms were all along exterior walkways. The second level was accessible by exterior stairs at either end of the building. I was walking on the walkway in front of the first-floor doors headed toward one set of stairs, when I heard what I thought was a car backfire. None the less, my heart missed a beat. I then heard running on the walkway above. A braver soul would have stepped out to the parking lot to see what was happening on the walkway above. I opted to stay out of sight, staying close to the building and continuing to the stairs in the opposite direction of the way the runner above me had gone. By the time I got up the stairs, the runner was out of sight. I found the room number I was looking for. I heard the Jaguar I had parked next to leaving. I knocked on the door and realized it hadn't been pulled completely closed. Still, I waited for an answer. There was none. I tried again, this time I opened the door slightly and called in," Hello, Mr. Gregory are you there?".

Against my better judgment, I opened the door further. I stuck my head in to call out again and realized I need not bother. This was the second time in my life I've walked in on a dead body. I'm getting used to it. This time, I decided to take my time to take in as much of the crime scene as I could.

There wasn't much to see in the room. There were no suitcases. Either his assailant had taken them or, more likely, he was not planning on spending the night. The victim was dressed expensively. It seemed unlikely he would choose this place for its sleeping accommodations. A cheap room like this was probably rented as a clandestine meeting place. The only thing I saw that wasn't part of the room's normal accoutrements was an open bottle of Russian Standard Vodka. There was a single motel room glass beside it. On the nightstand by the phone was a blank notepad. I checked for impressions from the prior page. From the impressions, it looked like a phone number had been written on the missing top page. It looked like a three-zero-one area code. The last three digits of the number were double zero seven. Ironic, but easy to remember. I couldn't make out anymore. I didn't want to try using the pencil trick to make the impression more visible, because I didn't want to explain to the police why I had tampered with a crime scene. For the same reason, I didn't star sixty-nine his phone or check his wallet. I'd leave all that for the police.

I got out my phone to take pictures thinking how valuable the pictures I had taken at my previous murder encounter had proven. After photographing everything from every angle, I heard sirens out on the street which reminded me I should probably be using my phone to dial nine one one.

I had just gotten through to the operator when two cops came rushing through the door with their guns drawn. The one I recognized as detective Visconti.

"I was just trying to call you," I said taking my cell phone from my ear and holding it out toward him so he could see the number I had entered.

That is when the uniformed cop beside him shouted, "Gun!" and drew his.

I saw detective Visconti knock the uniform's arm aside. I heard the shot at the same instant I felt a blow to my chest. I looked down and saw the hole in my shirt and then, I fell down to the floor, dead.

Comments please.  You don't really think I died do you?