Chapter 10. Celebration

Chapter 10. Celebration

"So it's these same old scraps again?" Bernie complained, his dissatisfaction evident.

Despite his grumbling, he dutifully placed the thick stack of vouchers back into the paper bag.

Wenner's smile dimmed noticeably. He turned to Theodore with obvious disappointment. "These are the department's reward offerings. Take yours."

After Theodore accepted the remaining bag, Wenner waved them away dismissively. "Alright, you can go now."

Bernie hunched his shoulders, clearly embarrassed. He opened his mouth to explain, but Wenner cut him off.

"Go."

After the two departed, Wenner stared blankly at the venetian blinds for several minutes, then pulled open his desk drawer, unwrapped three pieces of chocolate, and popped them into his mouth in succession.

Outside his office, the celebratory atmosphere continued unabated. Team members lounged around casually—not a soul was actually working.

Seeing the two emerge, someone approached and raised their eyebrows expectantly.

Bernie opened his paper bag to display the contents and said sourly, "Same old junk as always."

A chorus of disappointed boos erupted nearby, spreading outward at remarkable speed and even drawing detectives from other departments to peer curiously through the doorway.

Someone wandered over asking for gas vouchers, and Bernie, never one to be stingy, grabbed several from his bag and handed them over.

At least half the bag contained gas vouchers. They couldn't possibly use them all, so sharing with colleagues made perfect sense.

Theodore followed Bernie's lead, distributing various discount coupons like some benevolent 'wealth-spreading fairy.'

He lived close to the station—only a thirty-minute walk—so gas vouchers held limited value for him. The same applied to the household discount vouchers; living alone meant his consumption needs for such perks were quite modest.

His generous actions earned considerable goodwill from team members who already held him in high regard.

After their impromptu distribution, several officers who'd received vouchers learned that Theodore and Bernie had become official partners. They helpfully moved Theodore's desk adjacent to Bernie's, then everyone resumed clustering in small groups, accomplishing absolutely nothing productive.

Some dozed at their desks, others spun tall tales, and a few covertly produced playing cards from hidden stashes.

Everyone seemed to be simply waiting for the workday to end.

Theodore quietly retrieved his notebook, recalled additional details from the two cases, and methodically recorded them.

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The Old Gun Bar sat right next to Rose Street.

It was a distinctly Western-style establishment, located in the basement of a weather-beaten building at the street's end.

Newcomers to the area would struggle to find the entrance—only after turning the corner could one spot a battered wooden sign nailed to the railing. One corner had broken off, causing the sign to hang at an odd vertical angle.

Though the exterior appeared ramshackle, the interior possessed genuine character.

The Old Gun Bar's décor was deliberately rugged, saturated with frontier atmosphere. The establishment's most distinctive feature was its decorative theme: firearms of every description adorned the walls.

Upon their arrival, the one-eyed, limping owner behind the bar greeted them with boisterous laughter and embraced Wenner warmly.

They slapped each other's backs with resounding thumps, then both erupted in hearty guffaws.

Wenner introduced Theodore to the proprietor, explaining that their recent success with two consecutive cases was largely due to the young officer's contributions.

The bar owner smiled genuinely and invited Theodore to visit anytime he pleased.

While they conversed, the others had already scattered throughout the establishment. The jukebox sprang to life first, followed by the pool table, then darts and the television.

Clearly, they were regular patrons and intimately familiar with the venue.

As the atmosphere gradually intensified, a crowd began gathering around the mechanical bull, clutching their drinks and offering meaningless but enthusiastic cheers.

The contraption resembled an oversized rocking horse designed for adults. When someone mounted it, the spring mechanism below would engage, causing the horse to rotate while simultaneously bucking up and down in unpredictable patterns.

The speed varied erratically—sometimes fast, sometimes slow. When the spring's power neared exhaustion, it would suddenly accelerate and lunge forward violently, ejecting most riders.

Each time someone was thrown, it triggered explosive cheers, followed by multiple drinks being passed from the bar.

Homicide Team members queued up to challenge the beast—even Wenner wasn't exempted.

Wenner's portly frame provided excellent lower-body stability, but the mechanical bull's final acceleration surge possessed genuine power, and he was eventually launched like the others.

Loud cheers erupted from the crowd, and five consecutive glasses of whiskey were delivered. Wenner, never one to back down, downed them without hesitation.

When Theodore's turn arrived, several nearby observers eagerly offered advice.

However, Theodore had witnessed their earlier performances—some hadn't even survived until the final acceleration phase—so their counsel could only be considered lessons in failure.

After the mechanical bull, they regrouped for arm-wrestling competitions.

By then, the atmosphere had reached fever pitch. Everyone had consumed several drinks and existed in a state of pleasant inebriation.

Theodore couldn't quite recall what transpired after the arm wrestling. He only remembered constant cheering filling his ears, followed by endless rounds of drinking, drinking, and more drinking.

⋯⋯⋯

The next day dawned bright and sunny.

Theodore massaged his throbbing skull and forced himself upright for a cold shower.

If not for his ingrained biological clock, he would certainly have been late today.

With this thought, Theodore drove his alcohol-reeking vehicle to the West District Branch, only to discover that despite being work hours, he remained the sole occupant of the Homicide Team office.

The Chief's office door: locked!

The Deputy Chief's office door: locked!

Even Wenner hadn't arrived!

The entire Homicide Team was running late!

This made him wonder if today might be some unannounced holiday.

After confirming it wasn't, Theodore settled with his coffee and several newspapers, reading at a leisurely pace.

The papers were published by a local Felton news agency. The organization possessed excellent sources—the front page actually featured cases 600403 and 600511.

Upon reflection, this made perfect sense.

Felton was fundamentally an oil town. An exploration team had discovered petroleum here in the previous century, and soon afterward, an oil company had brought substantial numbers of workers to establish operations.

People from surrounding communities had migrated here to conduct business with the oil company employees, and gradually, a city had formed.

Rose Street—frequently mentioned and adjacent to the Old Gun Bar—had originally served as headquarters for the region's largest oil company.

Such a community genuinely lacked entertaining events worthy of coverage, particularly given this era's general entertainment scarcity.

Therefore, the police department solving two related homicide cases naturally became material suitable for public consumption.

Moreover, the case had employed relatively rare 'modern' technology—fingerprint analysis.

Theodore was unaware that Texas news law required homicide information to be reported within seventy-two hours. The Felton local newspaper had to cover it regardless of their editorial preferences.

The article highly praised the West District Branch and provided a glowing evaluation of the Homicide Team's performance.

Near the article's conclusion, Theodore and Bernie's names appeared, noting their crucial roles in solving both cases and crediting them with proposing the fingerprint technology that ultimately identified the killer.

This was followed by the usual string of platitudes about the Felton City Police Department's commitment to protecting citizen safety and similar bureaucratic rhetoric.

After finishing the newspaper, Theodore leaned against his desk and continued writing his case notes. When he reached the section about Brian's family, Theodore approached the telephone, hesitating whether to contact his uncle.