It was a cold, dark day in McMinville, Oregon. Detective McIntosh smelled murder in the air—it was actually a paper mill—as he sauntered towards his prized car, a 1994 Honda Civic he’d won in a bet that began with “hold my beer.” He loved that car; he caressed it with his purple eyes—no really, it’s a thing—as the sun glinted off its Aztec Green Pearl coat, carefully waxed semi-weekly by the sharp detective. Okay we’re getting very off topic.
The detective smelled murder in the air. This was only confirmed when he received a call from his Captain. Captain Peterhoff reminded him it was his day to pick up coffee for the office and also informed him of a brutal homicide on the city’s east side: off NE Lafayette Ave.
When the detective arrived, he found not one dead body but four, a group of young men who worked at a local winery. The responding officers told him it was a gas leak, but the keen detective knew that was too simple. Not on the mean streets of McMinnville. They told him they were drawn to the house by a natural gas alarm but that was too simple. He attuned his eyes and mind to clues, lurking beneath the surface of the conscious mind—and occasionally furniture. His eyes scanned the room for clues. He didn’t find any right away, but then his eagle-eyed stare fell upon a key sitting on the table.
Turning to a patrol officer he exclaimed, “The key! That will be the key to this lurid crime.” The officer informed him it was just a key to one of the victim’s gun safes and that they’d already looked inside. Nevertheless, he persisted and reviewed the contents himself. At last he found a Beretta M9A3. He quickly shouted to the officers to check who owned it per the state handgun registry. They quickly reminded him there was no such registry in Oregon, but he insisted so they went out and had a smoke before coming back to tell him it was unregistered. This only deepened the mystery.
Detective McIntosh moved outside, hoping to interview the local citizens. The patrol officers quickly brought him the only possible witness, Molly Smith, a tall young girl with an odd penchant for licking the boys in her sixth-grade class. He asked her what she’d seen. She told him there had been a NW Natural truck outside the house shortly before the police arrived. She barely noticed it because it had been there so often. It was an old house—or so she claimed—and it was in disrepair.
It was at this moment the detective realized the pieces of the puzzle were coming together too perfectly. He was more certain than ever foul play was involved. He would spare no expense and no effort. He would find their murderer.
For weeks technicians scoured the house. They tested the firearm for gunshot residue—though none of them were clear why when there was no gunshot wound—and tested every surface for a variety of poisons and chemical substances. But still they were stumped—well the detective was stumped since pretty much everyone else accepted gas had been the cause of death. But on the last day of the investigation came the answer they were looking for. Somehow, the dozens of police and technicians had managed to miss the extensive security system installed throughout the home. Detective McIntosh reviewed the footage, unable to breathe again until finding the answer he craved.
After a brief fainting spell, he continued reviewing the footage. He saw the NW Natural technician arrive. After approximately thirty minutes the technician came upstairs from the basement and warned the homeowners the home was unsafe, and that gas was building up in the house. He asked them to leave the home for a few hours until they could ensure the home would remain safe. The homeowners agreed but remained on the couch after the technician left.
Shortly thereafter, they all slumped over of asphyxiation.
Another devious crime solved by none other than Detective McIntosh!
Malum Prohibitum 