Now, More Than Ever, the World Needs Frobisher

In 1990, a series of murders held Mid-Sized City in a grip of fear. Several victims had been found, with no outward clue as to cause of death, save for one minor detail: a small indentation behind their right ears, often with trace amounts of a substance that the forensics lab had determined came from the tip of an unpeeled banana.

First-year patrolman Milton Frobisher had graduated top of his class in the academy. He was smart and hardworking, and people in the right positions were already fast-tracking him for the coveted gold detective shield. He had been partnered with a senior detective named Torvick, who was in his last year before retirement.

Torvick and Frobisher were leaving the scene of the latest victim of the killer, when Frobisher noticed a dark figure lurking in a nearby alley. Frobisher jumped from the moving car and sprinted toward the character. Grumbling, Torvick turned the wheel and sped down the alley.

When Frobisher reached the dead end of the alley he could see no sign of the perp. Torvick pulled up and hefted his bulk out of the unmarked car. As Frobisher turned to his partner,  a shadow separated itself from the darkness behind Torvick and moved with inhuman speed. An appendage holding a curved object lashed out, and Torvick went down without a sound. Before Frobisher could react, he was struck from behind, and fell into blackness.

The next thing Frobisher knew, he was tied to a chair with a hood over his head. An electronically modified voice told him that if he wanted to make detective, he would forget what he had seen that night, and he shouldn’t pursue this case any more.

Frobisher tried to protest, but the voice said, “You’re going to sleep now, and when you awaken you’ll have forgotten all about this. I promise.” Frobisher felt a poke in the side of his neck and knew no more.

When he awoke in his bed, he had a vague sense of having forgotten something. When he reported for duty, there was no mention of a series of unsolved murders, but he hadn’t really thought there would be. He had a new partner. When he asked where Torvick was, he was told that he had gotten an early jump on his retirement, and that was that.

Now, 30 years later, seated at his desk, a flood of memories were washing over Frobisher as he looked at the lab report of the substance found on the Uber driver. His musings were interrupted by the appearance of an investigator from Internal Affairs, accompanied by two beefy patrolmen. The IA dick said, “Milton Frobisher, you’re under arrest for the murder of…”, he paused to consult the warrant in his hand, “...a Mrs. Svetlana...Pre-oh-brah-zensky?”

Frobisher said, “What the hell are you talking about? I just saw her an hour ago!”

The IA man said, “We know. Your pen was sticking out of her neck! Take him away boys!”