Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “The Whispers of the Twisted”
Nova Loncastre, 1924
“This ain’t about a crime.”
You’re right about that, Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator. But who is Harvey Turpin? He’s the quintessential 1920s private eye, with a rugged exterior and a simple motto: drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat. And who am I? The omniscient narrator. The one who knows everything, who changes the pace of this worn-out trope, and who comes to the rescue when the writing abilities fall short. Now that we all know each other let’s begin this riveting tale of... I’m still unsure. Pantser for life! Also, don’t forget to read the previous chapters: GiovaniCesconetto.substack.com.
The words hung in the stale air of Harvey’s office, thick with the scent of old paper and regret. He’d just come from The Blind Tiger, which meant shelves restocked with bottles that clinked like skeletons in a closet. The usual banter with One-Eyed Bill had been skipped—a first in a long time. Locking the door behind him, Harvey made sure the world stayed out.
Today, it was just him and his relentless demons.
“This is about me,” he muttered, his voice as rough as the whisky he was about to ingest.
He crossed the room with the slow, deliberate steps of a man carrying a weight heavier than the gun at his hip. The dull light from a crooked lampshade cast long shadows across the Turpin family desk, the last remnant of a lineage lost to time and bad decisions. Harvey dropped into his chair, boots propped on the polished wood, the only thing in the room that hadn’t surrendered to decay.
The bottle’s neck clinked against the rim of the glass, a familiar sound that echoed too loud in the stillness. He didn’t bother savouring the amber liquid; he tossed back half the bottle like it was water in a desert. The burn hit his throat, then his chest, then his gut, spreading a warmth that chased away the cold knot of memories he’d been running from since the war.
A half-smile tugged at his lips—a ghost of something that might have been happiness once. The room spun slightly, the edges blurring, and he knew he’d reach that sweet spot where the world went quiet and the past stopped clawing at his mind.
This wasn’t about drowning sorrow or silencing pain. No, this was about finding the void where nothing mattered, where Harvey Turpin could forget the man he was and the man he had become.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Harvey drained the bottle of whisky, the liquid fire scalding its way down to a place that felt comfortably numb. With a rough hand, he reached for the moonshine, uncorking it with the ease of a man who had done this too many times. The clear poison went down even faster, its bite sharper, more unforgiving.
By the third bottle, his hands trembled, not from fear but from the weight of knowing he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. His pace slowed, not from a sense of caution but out of necessity—a man can only push the limits of his body so far before it starts pushing back. He learned that the hard way. He let the half-empty bottle slip from his grip, its dull thud on the floor a sound that echoed in the quiet like a death knell.
I mean, saying “half-full” in a Harvey Turpin tale will never sound correct. Also, read “The Dark Labyrinth” to see what happened the last time he went too hard on his drinking binge. And yes, this story will be thematically similar to that one because I’m interested in exploring Harvey—not because I couldn’t come up with a mystery idea... not at all...
“Last time... things got outta hand,” he mumbled, words slurring as the fog crept in, dulling the edges of his thoughts. “This time... gotta be careful.”
From the shadows of his mind, a voice slithered out, slick and familiar. “So, you don’t wanna wake up tied to a chair?” It was him—no, not him, but the twisted reflection that stared back from every bottle, every darkened mirror.
Harvey, the real Harvey, let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Next time, clown,” he sneered, but the words rang hollow, even to his ears.
The twisted figure cocked an eyebrow, a mockery of surprise flickering across his face. “I gotta hand it to you, didn’t think you had it in you.” There was something almost amused in his tone, laced with disappointment. “You’re showing signs of growth, Harvey. Control, even.”
Harvey’s lips curled into a sneer, but there was no confidence behind it. “Always had it in me.”
“Be honest.”
“I’ve always had.”
“Be honest,” the twisted voice pressed, relentless as a hangman’s noose tightening around his neck.
Harvey’s resolve cracked, and the truth spilled out: unbidden. “You scared the hell outta me last time,” he admitted, hating himself for the weakness, hating the voice for dragging it out of him.
The twisted Harvey leaned back, feigning shame but failing miserably, the glint in his eyes betraying a sick pride. “What can I say? I’m growing too, Harvey. After all, what am I if not you?” His smile stretched into something that could freeze the Devil himself.
But Harvey didn’t flinch. He knew that smile, knew it as well as his own reflection. And that knowledge gave him power, a power Harvey hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d faced down his demons, stared into the abyss, and now, with a bottle in his hand and the darkness closing in, he was ready to fight back.
The twisted grin kept staring and smiling at Harvey, but this time, it’d lost its power. The smile that once curdled his blood now felt like an old, worn-out trick. After all, it was his smile, his words—a reflection of the darkness he carried inside. Understanding that gave Harvey something he hadn’t felt in a long time: control. The kind of control that made the uphill battle ahead seem not just possible but inevitable.
“You ruined a good thing,” Harvey’s voice cut through the stillness, low and full of the kind of authority that comes from a man who’s been to hell and back. The kind of voice that makes enemies think twice. “I drank to forget, to numb myself. You took that away from me.”
The office around him shifted—no longer the real one but the shadowy version that existed in the depths of his mind. Papers stained with blood littered the floor, a grim testament to the battles fought within these walls. The walls that had seen him teeter on the brink and that had watched as he nearly ended it all with his own bare hands, again and again.
“You sure you wanna go down this road, Harvey?” The Twisted’s voice was laced with a false innocence, but there was a sharp edge beneath, like a razor hidden in a smile.
Harvey’s lips curled into a smile of his own, one that carried none of the fear or uncertainty of the past. “I’m not going down,” he said, his voice steady, unyielding. “I’m going up.”
The Twisted figure raised an eyebrow, mock admiration flickering in his dark eyes. “You really are growing, aren’t you?”
“You’re a criminal. I’m a detective,” Harvey continued, the realization settling in with a clarity that felt like a revelation. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”
A laugh bubbled up from the Twisted, harsh and mocking. “You’re comparing me to those lowlifes you haul in? Harvey, you’re forgetting something. Calling me an idiot means you’re calling yourself an idiot. After all, what am I if not a piece of you?”
Harvey didn’t flinch. He’d expected that, knew it was coming the way a seasoned detective knows when a suspect is about to bolt. But this time, Harvey was ready, “This time, I’m the one in control.”
The room fell silent as Harvey stood tall in his chair, ready to face whatever came next because he knew what was bound to happen.
Harvey leaned back in his chair, the weight of his words hanging in the air like smoke from a half-burned cigarette. “I was a damn fool,” he muttered, the confession rolling off his tongue with a bitterness he could almost taste. “That’s why you’re here. Started with a drink during the war—just something to get me through the night. But it didn’t stop there. First, it was to sleep, then to forget, until I was drowning in the stuff. It wasn’t about helping myself anymore. It was about needing it. I was no better than the scum I haul in. And that’s where you came from.”
The Twisted figure, usually so quick with a retort, stood silent. The truth had a way of doing that—cutting deep enough to leave even the darkest parts of a man speechless.
Harvey’s gaze locked onto the reflection before him, that twisted mockery of himself. “You’re just like those poor saps I catch red-handed, too dumbstruck to say a word when the cuffs snap shut. Idiot.”
Still, the Twisted said nothing, just stared back with eyes that couldn’t entirely hide the sting of Harvey’s words.
A slow, unexpected smile crept across Harvey’s face—not the cold, hard smile he usually wore, but something warmer, softer. It wasn’t the kind of smile that threatened or intimidated; it was the kind of smile that disarmed, that reached into the soul and offered something rare: peace. It was the kind of smile that could change the world.
“You’re right about one thing,” Harvey continued, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. “I’ve been growing. It’s taken me a damn long time to see it, but now it’s clear.”
The Twisted finally found his voice, incredulous and almost desperate. “All this because you found a friend?”
“Not just a friend,” Harvey admitted, his voice tinged with something that felt suspiciously like hope. “One-Eyed showed me there’s another way to see things. But it’s more than that—a community, a place where I belong. The Blind Tiger won’t be a speakeasy forever. Prohibition’s days are numbered, and when it ends, I’ll be standing in the light, not the shadows. I almost found love twice this past year. Maybe third time’s the charm. The darkness... it’s lifting. There’s a new world on the horizon, one that’s brighter than anything I’ve known.”
An explanation: I’ve been inserting so many new elements into Harvey’s world that making him stay at his office brooding no longer made sense. So...
The Twisted figure stared at him, but for once, it was Harvey who had the final word.
The Twisted’s voice, once sharp as a razor, now dulled with disbelief. “And you think that’s enough to change what you are?” The menace that once dripped from every word had faded, losing its edge as he began to dissolve into the shadows.
Harvey leaned back even more, a weary grin playing on his lips as the haze of alcohol started to lift. “The booze had its grip on me once. Then you came along and twisted me further. But why shouldn’t I believe that something else—something better—could change me again? We’re not carved in stone.” His words came out smoother than he expected, like he was speaking someone else’s poetry. “We’re not forever!” Harvey said it so beautifully that even he didn’t understand where it came from.
Neither do I. And I wrote that!
“We’re just a heap of experiences,” Harvey continued, his voice steady. “Every new one chips away or adds a layer. Get enough good ones, and who’s to say a man can’t climb out of the gutter?”
The Twisted barely clung to the edge of existence now, his form a faint echo of what it had been. “You can’t get rid of me,” he whispered, the bravado gone. “You’ll always come back. And when you do, it’ll be for good.”
“Maybe,” Harvey conceded, the alcohol’s warmth retreating from his mind, leaving clarity in its wake. “But maybe not.”
He stirred from his chair, feeling lighter than he had in years. The usual ache in his back had vanished, replaced by a strange sense of renewal. He was ready for whatever lay ahead, a new Harvey Turpin—a better one, perhaps, or at least one who was willing to try.
His gaze fell to the bottle lying on the floor, the last dregs of whisky drying into a stain. The smell of it hung in the air, but it no longer called to him with the same urgency. He picked up the bottle and drained it in one defiant swallow, the burn in his throat more comforting than familiar. A twisted smile crept across his face.
“I don’t drink to forget anymore,” he murmured. “I drink to remember.” With that, he tossed the bottle into the garbage and reached for the cleaning supplies. For the first time, he started scrubbing the grime from his office, a small act of defiance against the man he used to be.
Do you really think I’d make him stop drinking altogether? That’s not how addictions work. And I’m not talking about Harvey here. After all, after ten instalments, how can I say I’m not addicted to...
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.