Dr. Griffin's House

[Clirkus]

Out Of Character

November 29th, 1956
~

Blast this bloody rain!

Daniel Grimm pulled his coat tighter around himself. He held an umbrella, which kept the downpour off his head and shoulders, but the bloody wind whipped the wet up and around as far as his waist. The weather in London was always rather dreary, but with winter on the front now being outdoors was a truly nasty affair. Although all this was true, he still found a certain pleasure in stepping into his office downtown, hanging up the dripping coat and taking a seat at his own deks to review the latest news of the criminal underworld whilst the rain poured down, pounding against the roof and windows while he was warm and comfortable. Very nice. Sitting at his desk, he gazed for a moment at a small photograph next to the tele, then shook off any thoughts of wishing he was elseware and turned to the paperwork.

There were ups to being the man at the top, or near the top, such as being able to tell others to do the heavy lifting for you. However, the downside is that the man at the top has to deal with the paperwork. And boy was there quite a bit of that. He sometimes felt nostalgic over the old days when he was a constable on street patrol, a much more interesting way to spend one's time, but a quick glance out the window convinced him that his current duties weren't all that bad.

As he sifted through files and reports of the latest felonies committed, one case in particular jumped out at him. James T. Armstrong, found dead last night near the outskirts of town, cause of death was as of yet unknown and there did not appear to have been a struggle. He was reported missing two days prior. Another case to add to the list of unsolved murders. It was the same story for eleven other people, seemingly unrelated, who had also died of undetermined causes and later found on the outskirts of the city as if they had merely been walking along and collapsed on the ground. It was frustrating, because Grimm knew from experience that whoever the killer or killers were, they knew what they were doing. It was too clean, too organised. No witnesses, no leads.

But one name, one name that kept appearing here and there, just as a mention. For you see, five of the eleven victims were found to be in very close proximity to the property of a Mister--no Doctor--Griffin, who had bought an old ramshackle mansion on the edge of town shortly before the first of these strange murders began to occur. Now, it wasn't like Grimm to come to hastey conclusions, especially on such serious matters, but the odd behavoir of Dr. Griffin, whom he had never even seen, and the nature of his hiding away in his house, an introvert from society, could not help but raise his suspicions. Whether or not this Griffin fellow was involved was of less concern then that every time the police had attempted to contact him, they had been told that he was indisposed or not open to visitors. He was a notably wealthy man, and demanding an audience with him when there was no hard evidence was just not feasable at that time.

So now you might understand Grimm's frustration on the matter, which was why he busied himself with straightening the papers on his desk and checking his pocket watch, because in not too much time he was expecting an audience with someone, a private detective by the name of Marcone, to inform him of these strange events and employ his assistance in resolving the troublesome mystery. He was also expecting, a bit later, a fellow from the newspaper. Writers from the paper often paid visits to the police station, especially after the arrest of some notorious outlaw or if a particularly horrendous event happened.

Grimm sighed, then stood and paced to the window where the water running down the glass pane obscured his view of the street. He was not a tall man, but stout and strong, and he stood with the air of one who was used to being in charge and used to his orders being followed without question. He did not look forward to anyone from the press, they were so nosy and really quite a bother, but he supposed he had to put up with them, it was only fair that the public got to know about interesting events, wasn't it? Grimm had seen some horrible things in his life, though, and he sincerely believed that not all of them were worth retelling. He returned to his desk, and continued sifting through the reports, even as more were brought in, deciding which ones to pass on to those under him and which ones he ought to deal with himself, occasionally checking the watch. He always felt better about a person who arrived on time. Small things like that say a lot about one's character.

[Ghost Man]

"RIGGS," His editor, a very tall man in his late 40's shouted from across the room. He had a suit on but his jacket was hanging on his desk chair. "Where's that story? I needed it yesterday!"

Jeff sighed. The story was done, alright. But, it was absolute rubbish. "It's right here," he mumbled as he stood up, the story in hand. It was about a missing boy that was recently found alive and returned to his family. Though, Jeff had trouble getting an interview with the family so the information he had was basic knowledge off the police report. He walked over to his editor and handed it over reluctantly.

The editor skimmed it with skeptical eyes while Jeff kept his head down. "Jefferson, this is absolute shit," he said with disappointment spread across his face. He tossed the story onto his desk carelessly and sighed. "Son, I'll print this, but only because I like you. You need to step it up. Here," He handed Jefferson a file, "read up on this. Look into it. i'll give you like a month to come up with something. If you can't, its back to writing features about whatever rubbish they're showing down at the theater."

Jeff nodded and took the file under his arm. "Thanks, sir," he said as he nodded towards him and turned to head back to his desk. Jeff sighed and ran both his hands through his hair in frustration. He opened the file and read through it. It went into limited detail about a string of unsolved murders and the only likely suspect, suspected for nothing. Included in the file was a picture of Griffin's (the suspect) house and of him himself. Jeff furrowed his brows and looked for the address. "Hm," he said, now interested.

After his shift ended an hour later, Jefferson headed toward's the Griffin residence. He wanted to get a better look.

[Clirkus]

Griffin's house, which has been the subject of much interest lately, was nothing other than an old gothic mansion, at least a century old or so folks said. It certainly looked it, and had hardly been fixed up in the least since the new owner had purchased it and moved in. No doubt it was drafty in winter time, and in this downpour there were sure to be leaky spots in the roof, which was in sad need of repairs. It was somewhat curious that such a wealthy gentleman had not bothered to have the place fixed up.

When young Mr. Riggs began his approach to the property, he would no doubt notice that the lawn had seemingly never been trimmed, and thick weeds grew up between the cracks in the stone path that lead to the front door, which was no less forboding than the rest of the house. The door was solid, however, and securely locked and barred, although a moldy old bell rope was apparent, it seemed not to have been rung in years. But the threshold was swept clean and the windows on either side, though the curtains were drawn and only faint light could be discerned from beyond the glass, were also pristinely polished and clear, another sign that the place was not totally abandoned.

As aforementioned, all the curtains on the windows were drawn closed, save one on the second floor that was slightly held back, and behind that stood a dark, featureless figure, barely a shadow through the panes. If Riggs had happened to glance up, he might have seen it for a brief instant before the curtain was again pulled closed and the silhouette vanished from sight. It can be correctly assumed that this mysterious figure was the infamous Dr. Griffin himself, who had confined himself to his study all morning, poring over old papers and books in his solitude after eating only half the breakfast that had been cooked for him. That was his way, when he was so intensely focused on a task he barely could spare the time for trivial things like eating and sleeping, those were luxuries that he preferred not to indulge in his current state of mind. In fact, he had not slept a wink in almost two days and it was beginning to tell on his temperment and health. But his work was too important to bother worrying about those things, he would sleep tonight he had resolved, if only to quiet the incessant complaints of the cook who was also his housekeeper that he would work himself into the grave.

Perhaps he would, but he hardly cared. It was what he was doing now that was most important, and he could not afford interruptions or intrusions, and so this was the reason he had locked himself away in this private room, away from all manner of living things save for himself. And though he had spent some amount of time gazing out the window, he had not taken notice of the journalist on the street, for his mind was consumed in thoughts that left no room for speculation of the world beyond his study.

[Christiefries]

Richard McGraw smiled as he watched his lover sleep, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. Doris looked like an angel, so peaceful in her current state. The woman had no need for make-up, but she often times insisted, claiming it was so the spotlights didn't wash out her pale complexion. His eyes slid down her body in admiration as he watched the pink nightgown ascend with each and every breath, until it suddenly shivered. Immediately, he slowly lifted the blanket and laid it on top of her cold body. Once the shivering ceased, he cautiously removed himself from the bed, so as not to wake her. After a quick shower, he poured gel into his dark hair and shaped it into a more professional look. Slowly shaving, he made sure it was as smooth as possible, moisturizing it afterwards. From the closet he put on a custom-made business suit and a dark green tie, accessorized by polished shoes and an expensive watch.

After going down the stairs, he made his way through the corridor to the dining room where a breakfast awaited him. The table was long, surrounded by matching dark chestnut chairs with elaborate designs carved onto them. A large white vase took centerpiece, holding various colorful flowers. Above that was a grand crystal chandelier, glimmering light throughout the room. Taking his seat at the head of the table, he ate the warmly cooked breakfast consisting of pancakes, sausage, eggs, and toast, downing it all with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. When he was finished, the maid briskly cleared the table while he made his way to the front door, retrieving his winter coat. Seeing the rain pouring down the window, he grabbed his umbrella and left the silent mansion.

Opening the umbrella, he made his way to the bus stop where the bus was already waiting for him. Climbing in, he closed the umbrella and took a seat near the front. The bus was full of tired people making their way to work just as he was. Across the aisle, a lady was seen crying as she held a young boy, although they both were smiling. Richard knew not what brought on the tears of joy, but he was happy for her nonetheless. As he looked out the window, he watched the passing cars and observed the pedestrians as they lived their life. Suddenly, he heard the lady speak, her voice ringing in familiarity.

"I'm so glad to have you back! I'm never letting you leave my sight again!" She cried some more. Richard turned around and inspected her features more closely. Recognizing the woman, he leaned across the aisle and touched her arm. Once obtaining her attention, he smiled, his white teeth glistening in charm.

"Hello, Lucy." The woman's eyes widened as she recognized the man's voice. Briefly letting go of her son, she wrapped her arms around Richard in a tight hug, her wet tears smearing against his cheek, before she returned to holding her son.

"Thank you so much for helping me! You are so wonderful, so brilliant, so good at what you do!" Her smile widened as she wiped the tears away. Chuckling, he wiped her tears off of his cheek.

"Just doing my job," he smiled back, leaning into his seat as he returned to looking out the window.

Upon arriving at his destination, he gave another hug to Lucy before exiting the bus and opening the umbrella. At a brisk pace, he hastily made his way through the doors of the building and closed his umbrella. The place smelled as if it were recently cleaned, the floors glistening in the radiant light. Working in a law firm was the best decision he ever made, he was so comfortable here. Here is where he could escape his own problems and dive into other people's problems, solving them and in turn receiving a large sum of money. Greeting fellow lawyers on the way, he closed the door to his office, hanging up his coat and umbrella before slumping in his chair and sighing with relief.

---

Doris Day stretched out her arm, rubbing her hand along soft cotton sheets and a silk pillowcase. Reluctantly opening her eyes, she witnessed the lonely state she was in, staring at the empty space beside her. Although it was not unusual for Richard to awaken before her, it was still an unfavorable situation, however necessary it was that he arrive to work on time. Laying in bed for what seemed like hours, she eventually found the motivation to lift herself from the cushioned mattress and adjust her appearance for the upcoming performance. After a relaxing bath, she applied makeup that accented her naturally beautiful features. Lashes curled with the dark mascara, luscious lips adorned in a dark, savory red, cheeks blushed in pink, and last but not least her face polished with a fine powder. She curled her hair, framing it around her elegant face. From the closet she retrieved and put on a red dress, tight against her small but curvaceous frame, accessorized by black heeled shoes and a diamond necklace. Upon her finger was a gold ring, encrusted with many diamonds with a larger one in the middle. Staring at it blankly, she immediately turned her mind to something else.

Descending the winding staircase, she exercised her voice, stretching her range of notes. When her vocals were properly loosened, she rehearsed the songs for today's performance, making her way to the foyer and retrieving her luxurious white and black fur coat. As she was leaving, she encountered a smiling maid that was already halfway through the door, the sound of rain slipping into the otherwise silent house. Grabbing an umbrella, she accepted the servant's compliments and thanked her for holding the door, proceeding to exit her home. She had purposefully skipped breakfast, not feeling inclined to subject her body to anything but the emptiness she was already experiencing. Opening the umbrella, she walked down the sidewalk, breathing in the fresh air, looking desperately for life in the rich neighborhood. The usual small animals were absent, likely warm in their homes stashed with food for the upcoming winter. Before arriving at the bus stop, she decided to stop by the Griffin house as she often did, letting her mind wander loose from the rumors of London's residents.

The gothic mansion seemed to fall into a deeper state of disrepair with each passing day, no one ever seen leaving or visiting. A strange smell permeated into the neighborhood, its origin unknown, but no doubtedly stemming from the property itself. From a safe distance, Doris watched the home deteriorate, so far unsuccessful in her attempts at summoning up the courage to intervene. The owner of the abode sequestered himself from society, imprisoned within the dilapidated walls and what could only be assumed as poor living conditions, if the shambles of an exterior just so happened to reflect the interior. With the curtains drawn closed, the inside would forever remain a mystery to the outside world, a catalyst to the rumors of what lay inside. Luckily for Doris, she happened to stumble upon an enticing event: the curtain of the second floor window was pulled back briefly, exposing the silhouette of a man she assumed was no other than the Doctor himself. As soon as her heart pounded in excitement, the curtains were drawn closed again, her heart returning to it's previous state. Waiting, she watched the window, hoping for just one more peek into the other world. When the occasion failed to present itself after what she deemed a decent amount of time, she sighed, continuing on her way down the sidewalk.

[Ghost Man]

Jeff glanced up as he approached the battered Gothic mansion. All he caught was movement in a second story window. "Curious.." he muttered to himself upon inspection of the home and the prior knowledge he'd gained from the file he had. It basically just hinted that Griffin was very wealthy. Jeff coughed and fixed his coat as he walked up the steps of the mansion. He raised his hand to knock and hesitated. He smiled to himself and looked around the yard. no one.

Jeff hopped off the steps and wandered around to the right side of the house. The little voice in his head questioned what he was doing wandering around a suspected murder's land uninvited. But, the big voice was screaming for adventure. He looked at the mansion, which was in major disrepair. He took in every inch. He smiled at the task ahead of him.

[Clirkus]

The yard opened up to Jeff, as dismal and unkempt as it was. The grass was high and filled with wild weeds and wilting flowers where there once was a garden. Curiously enough, around the back of the house there was a small enclosure, a picket fence that was falling down, and inside that was a small grave plot. The tombstones looked to be ancient, for whatever engravings there had once been had been worn away by wind and weather. Beyond the tiny cemetary was a wall of trees, a patch a grim forest, and if one had pressed through that they would have found a main road that lead into the city.

Aside from that curiosity, and a few old oak trees, there was barely anything of interest on the property to be seen. And then the back door opened. "Who's out there!"

A thin gentleman holding a black umbrella against the drizzling rain peered into the yard, "Who is that?" He demanded again.

--

Grimm drummed his fingers on the desk. The clock hand was approaching the mark, and his expected guest had not yet arrived. Daniel Grimm preferred his appointments to be punctual. Another tick and the hand was at one minute after. Late. His mild anxiety turned into downright impatience. Didn't these civil detectives realize that the police had schedules to keep? He couldn't afford to wait around all day so that Marcone could show up when it fancied him.

He was busily muttering to himself when another case was brought to his attention. Another missing person, a young woman. It was a pity, but not uncommon. Twenty-four hours and no sign of her, reported her family. He busied himself reading the file, it was quite interesting, the circumstances of her disappearance. Grimm prayed that it wouldn't turn out to be another murder to add to the stack of unsolved mystery murders. The very fact that the victims of these murders seemed completely unrelated to each other in any form was particularly odd, and so far Grimm believed that the killer or killers were targeting people at random, which still left him wondering what the motive was.

[Ghost Man]

Jefferson cursed under his breath. He gripped a pencil inside his coat pocket as he began walking towards the voice. "Uhm, Jefferson Riggs! I'm with the Tribune," He kept walking as he spoke, the rain pelting him in the face. he wiped the water off his face with the inside of his arm. He examined the yard as he went, focusing mainly on the gravestones around back. He really wanted to look around more.. Maybe he'd sneak back in some time.. He approached the back door with a thin man doorway, wielding an umbrella." I'm looking for Mr. Griffin." he coughed once to clear his throat, looking up at the man as the rain drenched him. His hair which was previously nice and proper, was now flattened against his head due to his prolong exposure to the weather. His shoes were covered in mud due to his little exhibition and his blue coat was now closer to black along his shoulders. He carried a cheap, light briefcase that kept the file and a bad of paper safe and also strained and fatigued his arm. Even so, Jeff smiled in the most friendly way he could.

[WitchChild]

"DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN" Ash was cursing as he was struggling to get dressed. His alarm clock hadn't been working this morning so he overslept. He hurled the useless alarm clock across the room and shattered it. He had been sleeping on the couch mostly because it was more comfortable than his own bed. His apartment was compact to say the least. It was designed to hold everything it needed and have enough space for people to walk around, provided these people were 5 and wouldn't mind press against each other to get around. Ash didn't mind, it was cozy in a way though he wouldn't mind a bigger place. His breakfast consisted of apple and a handful of biscuits. The apple was in his mouth as he was putting on his jacket, almost tearing it in his haste. he rushed out the door but went right back in, took off his jacket and put on his shoulder holster, a M1911 Semi automatic pistol on his left side and pack on his right where clips were kept. He put on his jacket again and ran out the door, remembering the keys and locking the door, and his hat of course. He was on the second floor and he practically flew down the stairs and ran down the London streets. He lived some ways from the station but Ash could run.

He barely noticed the rain before he was 30 meters away from his home and he didn't give it much thought, one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing off his head and the other holding the apple and he ate as he ran, throwing the core away. He looked like a madman running with death at his heels, water splashing as he ran into puddles. He was at the station in 15 minutes, a personal record. "Jesus H. Christ" Ash gasped, panting loudly, some of the officers and other people staring at him like he had snapped. "Hey, how's it going" Was Ash's respond to their stares and walked into the station, closing his jacket some more as he went to Grimmy's office.

Ashley didn't like the guy but he respected him enough. The man did his job well and he had a family and Ash respected family men as long as they weren't child beaters. He stopped by the door to his office and knocked 4 times.

[Clirkus]

"I don't know you, or where you're from, but it is normally the custom in these parts that visitors deem to knock at the front door, not sneak around the back. Actions like that will only end in you in prison." The man addressing Riggs was dressed quite respectably and looked to be about fifty or sixty years old. He stood straight with a dignified posture and his graying hair was combed neatly into place. He had a rather pronounced hooked nose, thin mouth, and rather expressionless eyes.

He was the butler, of course.

Before Riggs could explain himself, the man went on to say, "Doctor Griffin does not see visitors, especially folks from the papers--and don't deny it, I know the look of you." He spoke slowly, to be sure that the other man understood every carefully pronounced word as it was said.

--

"Well come in already!" an exasperated Grimm exclaimed at the frantic knocking. When Marcone entered the room he was sure to give the man a long hard stare. The clock said seven minutes after. After a long, uncomfortable pause he said, "Now maybe you fancy detectives think it's all well and good to arrive on your own time, but I don't think it's too much to ask for a bit of common courtesy such as arriving on time. I don't know about you, but some of us have schedules to keep." He held up his hand before the detective could speak, "And don't waste your excuses on me, please, you've already thrown away enough of my time. Sit." He gestured to a chair, then sat in his own behind the desk, bringing the various files of the mysteriously murdered victims to the edge nearest Marcone so that he would be able to see them.

"Now," Daniel Grimm folded his hands in front of himself, shedding his irritated mood for a more professional state of mind, "I assume you've got a basic idea of what we're dealing with so I'll just move right along with it. Over the past three months," he flipped open one of the files, that of the first victim accounted for. Inside was a detailed description of the man and circumstances under which he disappeared, as well as the mysterious nature of his death. Pictures of him before he died and after he died were also present. Grimm went on, "Twelve citizens have turned up dead, and the cause of death is as of yet undetermined. There was no sign of bodily trauma and autopsies and blood tests turned up nothing. They all appeared to have died without a struggle and the chosen victims are as of yet unrelated to each other. We have no motive, no cause of death, and no culprit. Normally something like this would slide under the rug--after all, people are murdered every day and we have nothing to go on, no one to charge-- but for the fact that it is still happening. The twelfth victim was just found this morning.

"We are not dealing with a conventional thug here. Several arrests have been made but nothing could be proved. The fact that the targets have no specific pattern make the killer impossible to predict. That's where you come in." He took another file and placed it before the detective. Baring its contents, it was found to be almost empty. A photograph held in place by a paperclip was the most obvious thing. It was grainy and the lighting was bad. Apparently it had been taken at dusk. It showed a tall figure in a long black coat with the collar turned up walking hunched over, head down with a hat pulled down low to obscure his features. The caption read: GRIFFIN, JOHNATHAN L. There were a few other papers, one was a short description of his history, short because there was nothing on record for the subject before his settling himself in the old house on the edge of the city. The other piece of paper was a receipt, listing various chemical ingredients. It looked faded and rather old, dated for ten months previous.

"Doctor Johnathan Griffin," said Grimm, "Our only lead. The downside is that he really isn't much of one. Seven of the victims were found in that patch of scrubby woods that borders his property and we don't think it's coincidence. However, Dr. Griffin has so far evaded all attempts to speak with him, even on the tele, and we can't legally demand an audience with him.

"I want to know who he is, I want to know what he wants, I want to know if he could possibly be related to these killings and," he paused, "You are going to find that out for me."

[Ghost Man]

"Oh.." Jefferson said, disappointed. He opened his briefcase and dug around carefully until he found what he was looking for. He came up with a business card that read off Jeff's name, where he lived, and the phone number for his desk at work. He outstretched his hand to the butler. "If you could just give this to Doctor Griffin for me, I really would be grateful." He smiled again, trying his best to show sympathy for sneaking around. "And, I'm sorry for snooping around. curiosity always gets the best of me." He said finally with a chuckle, trying to lighted the mood as rain pelted him.