Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “The Last Trial of Judge Charles Kearns”
Nova Loncastre, 1924
The office reeked of stale bourbon and old cigarettes, a heady perfume that clung to the cracked leather chair and the worn wood of the desk. The scent had seeped into the very bones of the place, as much a part of it as the man who occupied it. Harvey Turpin sat back in his chair, the low murmur of the city outside filtering through the grimy window. The sun against the glass promised warmth. The streets below, filled with people, all smiles and pleasantries, as if nothing evil could touch them on a day like this.
So something terrible will happen. After all, if nothing happens, there’s no story and since we’re at the beginning of one... But who is Harvey Turpin? He’s the quintessential 1920s detective who lives by a simple mantra: drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat. You can learn more about Harvey here: GiovaniCesconetto.Substack.com. And me? I’m the omniscient narrator! The one who brings a different flavour to this worn-out genre. On with the story!
“Jack,” Harvey muttered before the door had even creaked open.
“Harvey,” came the gruff reply, and Jack O’Keeffe, the Chief of Police, stepped into the room, his badge more a burden than a shield these days.
Harvey gestured toward the chair opposite and reached for the bottle of whiskey. He poured it into a dirty glass. “Been here long enough to know who’s coming up the stairs just by the sound of ’em.”
O’Keeffe eyed the glass, lifting it under his nose. “Illegal. And this glass... aiming to poison me, Turpin?”
“Whiskey tastes better with a little dirt,” Harvey said. “Adds character.”
The chief took a slow sip, the liquid burning down, leaving a trail of bitterness that suited the conversation waiting to happen.
“One-Eyed taught me that,” Harvey said. He tipped his glass back, the whiskey sliding down easily. “Whiskey always goes down smoother with a little grit. Call it a special blend.” He reached for the bottle, pouring another round for himself and O’Keeffe. A few amber drops splashed onto the newspaper across his desk. The headline screamed: Premier Bows Out of Prime Minister Race.
Harvey’s eyes flicked to O’Keeffe. “You look desperate,” Harvey continued, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
O’Keeffe ignored the barb, his lips barely twitching as he took another slow sip. Then, with the measured precision of a man staving off a storm, he lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke like it might steel him against whatever was coming. Harvey watched him through narrowed eyes, saying nothing. It wasn’t hard to tell this wasn’t some ordinary mess. The tension in O’Keeffe’s jaw, the way his fingers tapped against the armrest—this was bigger than either of them could handle alone.
The chief finally broke the silence. “Charles Kearns is dead.”
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy as the smoke between them. Harvey set his glass down, the echo of it loud in the sudden quiet. He couldn’t believe it. Judge Kearns had been one of the few decent men left in this cesspool of a city. “How?”
“Shot,” O’Keeffe replied. “One in the head, one in the chest. In his study, at home. Thank God his family wasn’t there.” His gaze dropped to the floor, grateful for small mercies.
Harvey sat back, still struggling to wrap his mind around it. Charles, Jack, and him—they’d all been friends once. It had been years since Harvey had seen him, but some men left an impression you never shook. Kearns had been one of them. A rare breed of honest and ruthless. A man who knew what it took to keep the city from falling apart.
Harvey refilled his glass. Then O’Keeffe’s. And his again. “I’ll find the son of a bitch,” Harvey muttered. “Tonight. By midnight, you can hang him, fry him, or let me have ten minutes alone with him. Whatever justice suits you best. All I need is access.”
“Harvey, you think you can just waltz into this?” O’Keeffe leaned forward, the glow of his cigarette casting a faint light on the hard lines of his face. “We’re talking about Charles Kearns here. You won’t get within spitting distance.”
Harvey’s fist slammed the desk, rattling the half-empty bottle. “Then why the hell are you here?”
O’Keeffe took a long drag, letting the smoke curl out between his teeth as if the words were too bitter to spit out without it. “Because I need your help,” he admitted. “You can’t get near it, but I can’t crack this fast enough without you.”
Harvey stood, pacing the room like a caged animal. “I can keep in the shadows,” he offered.
“There ain’t any shadows in this one, Harvey. Thing’s too damn bright.” O’Keeffe’s voice was steady.
“So, again... why are you here?”
O’Keeffe ground his cigarette into the ashtray, the smouldering tip hissing as if it, too, was fed up with the tension. “Officially?” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’m here to warn you off. Tell you that if we whiff you near this case, we’ll throw you in a cell and make what happened last time feel like a Sunday picnic.”
Last time? “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator.”
“And unofficially?” Harvey asked, knowing the real reason hadn’t come out yet.
O’Keeffe gave a slow, almost reluctant smile, the kind that said he was enjoying this dance of power a little too much. “Unofficially, I’m handing you the only crack in the door you’ll get.”
Harvey’s muscles tensed, betraying the calm he was trying to maintain. He needed that crack, and O’Keeffe knew it.
“I’ll tell you what I know right here, right now,” O’Keeffe said. “You solve it from this chair. I’ll bruise you gently. You don’t? It won’t be gentle.” The smirk that followed carried all the weight of control.
“You’re loving this, eh?” Harvey said, but it wasn’t a question.
“If I came here just to say ‘stay away,’ it wouldn’t look right. But if folks see you next time black and blue, they’ll understand I had to... persuade you.” O’Keeffe’s smile widened.
Harvey looked around his office. There wasn’t much left to say. “Tell me.”
They clinked glasses, sealing the unspoken deal, before O’Keeffe settled into the story. “I got the call first thing this morning. I grabbed my best detective and ran to Charles’s place. When we arrived, the mayor and the Crown Counsel were already inside.”
Harvey narrowed his eyes. “Who called them?”
O’Keeffe exhaled sharply. “The Crown Counsel caught wind of it down at the station. Pulled the mayor in.”
“Shouldn’t you be the one calling the mayor?”
O’Keeffe’s lips tightened around his cigarette before nodding.
“So why didn’t you?”
The chief tapped ash into the tray, his eyes fixed on the curling smoke. “I wanted to be sure first. Judge like Kearns... well, a man’s not dead till I see him cold. Didn’t want to stir the city before being sure.”
“Go on,” Harvey said.
“No forced entry. No struggle. Whoever did it, they weren’t a stranger.”
A shadow flickered across O’Keeffe’s face as he stood, pacing the cramped office like a boxer about to deliver a blow. “Charles was expecting someone last night. Kept it quiet. Sent the staff home early. Not the first time.”
Harvey smirked, the edge of the grin sharp as broken glass. “A boss?”
“That’s what the staff thought. The Rat’s name came up. Given his recent rise, they figured it was business. But the Rat’s clean, as clean as a rat can be.” O’Keeffe’s tone dripped with irony.
The Rat ascended in the “The Blind Tiger.”
“Charles knew how to keep the bosses at arm’s length. Not the kind of man you kill if you’re running a racket—bad business.”
O’Keeffe nodded, leaning against the desk now, tapping the rim of his empty glass.
Harvey was still chewing on the details. “How many were expected?”
“Just one,” O’Keeffe said, his gaze sharpening.
“A lone wolf?”
“Here’s the twist,” O’Keeffe said, lighting a fresh cigarette and sinking back into his chair. “Only two settings at the table. Two plates, two forks, two knives. But there were three glasses. Two in the study, one out of place in the kitchen.”
Harvey felt the knot pull tighter. “Out of place, how?”
O’Keeffe’s voice lowered, almost a whisper. “It didn’t belong there. Crystal, not glass. Private collection. Should’ve been nowhere near the kitchen.”
Harvey’s jaw tightened, some pieces clicking into place. “Let me guess—whoever cleaned it didn’t know the first thing about doing dishes.”
O’Keeffe nodded. “Smudged but wiped. Someone unfamiliar with housework.”
Harvey’s mind was racing now, thoughts spinning like a revolver chamber. “So it wasn’t a loner. It was a pack.”
“Two doesn’t make a pack.”
“When it comes to these wolves,” Harvey’s voice dropping, “it does.”
They held each other’s gaze, the room heavy with unspoken understanding. Whatever had happened at the judge’s house, it wasn’t over.
“So we’ve got a mystery guest,” Harvey muttered, pacing slowly like a cat stalking something just out of reach. “Someone close enough to sip whisky from crystal. But he’s not alone. There’s another. Either the judge didn’t know about him, or he did and kept it quiet.” His voice dropped, fitting the pieces together. “Whoever they were, they were real pals. Real tight. Close enough to pull a gun without startling the judge.”
O’Keeffe leaned back, tapping ash from his cigarette, “What makes you think they were both there when it happened? One could’ve pulled the trigger and called the other after.”
“And leave a trail? Records of a call? Nah. They were in this together from the jump. It’s plan B. One cracks, the other takes over.” Harvey had seen this kind of thing before.
O’Keeffe smirked, barely a twitch of his lips. Harvey was good. “So, who did it?”
Harvey didn’t answer right away. He was turning the story over like a puzzle in his mind. O’Keeffe watched him, knowing better than to interrupt. Harvey was a man who lived in his head sometimes, pulling the threads until they formed a clear picture.
Then, suddenly, Harvey slammed his fist down on the desk hard enough to send the whisky bottle rolling, amber liquid spilling across the newspapers scattered there. “Why?” he barked, the frustration creeping in.
O’Keeffe moved to mop up the spill, reaching for the bottle to salvage what he could. He started with the newspapers, but Harvey’s hand shot out, stopping him cold. “Wait!” Harvey’s eyes lit up like a man seeing something for the first time. He grabbed the soaked newspaper, lifting it as the ink bled, words running.
“The premier,” Harvey whispered, sharp as a knife. “The premier quit the race.” He stared at the headline, the whisky-soaked ink smudging but still legible enough to light the fire in his mind. “It’s right here!” Harvey’s voice rose, triumphant. “The premier gave up!” He smiled wide, his eyes gleaming. “That’s the motive, Jack.”
Chekhov’s gun: every story element must be necessary and come into play.
O’Keeffe smiled. Harvey had cracked the case wide open.
“And?” O’Keeffe’s tone dripped with satisfaction, a glint of triumph flickering in his eyes—one that didn’t belong there, not in this room, not at this moment.
Harvey leaned back, the wheels in his mind turning, the pieces falling into place. “The mayor wants to be premier, the Crown Counsel’s gunning for mayor, but the premier... he’s not going anywhere anymore. That’s no sweat for the mayor—he’s still got time in office. But the Crown Counsel...”
O’Keeffe nodded, a thin smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The Crown Counsel already handed in his resignation. According to the law, he’s gotta sit out for a year. A year out of the spotlight’s a death sentence to his ambitions.”
The good thing about reading old stories to get inspired is that sometimes creativity strikes in a way that makes it look like I plan everything I write, which couldn’t be further away from the truth!
Harvey’s grin was bitter as if he could taste the dirt on his tongue. “And with Kearns out of the way, who better to fill the seat than the one man who’s spent his career upholding the law?” His voice turned cold. “But a judge willing to bend the law to suit the mayor’s agenda? That’s a prize worth killing for.”
“Explains why they beat me to the scene, too. Too early for whispers... They knew before the judge hit the ground.”
Harvey’s eyes narrowed as he studied O’Keeffe’s face, reading every twitch, every flicker in the chief’s expression. “And so did you.” His words came out slow, deliberate like a man putting his cards on the table. “You didn’t need me to solve this. You needed me to confirm what you already knew. Because whatever’s coming next, it’s too big to handle alone. You needed to be damn sure... or it’d be your neck on the gallows.”
O’Keeffe chuckled softly, “I’ve grown attached to my neck.”
“And that’s why you didn’t want me sniffing around,” Harvey’s tone was flat, but his eyes gleamed with understanding. “You’ve got your badge to shield you. Me? I’m disposable.”
O’Keeffe’s smile widened. “Now, Harvey, don’t go reading too much into things. Like I said... I happen to like my head where it is.”
O’Keeffe’s grin said it all, though his lips never moved to speak the truth. Harvey saw through it. Men like O’Keeffe didn’t spill feelings. They masked them behind smirks and batons.
“What now?”
O’Keeffe thumbed his baton, the old one he’d swung in back alleys and police riots, the one that had seen too much. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, his tone almost casual, but his eyes held a glint of something darker. “Might even enjoy myself a bit.”
It didn’t take long. O’Keeffe strolled out of the office, his smile lingering like a man who knew this would be the last taste of satisfaction he’d get in a long while. What came next wouldn’t be easy. It would stir up the wrong kind of trouble with the wrong kind of people. But O’Keeffe knew something else, too. They were sloppy, leaving a trail any fool could follow. Even Harvey, from the shadows of his office, could piece it together without seeing the whole picture. O’Keeffe’s days ahead would be hell, but only for a while.
Harvey felt the numbness spreading through his body, the dull ache from O’Keeffe’s “gentle” touch settling into his bones. He sank into his chair, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the world carried on—sunlight bathing the streets, families laughing in parks as if nothing had changed. But Harvey’s world didn’t belong to that one. His world was steeped in shadows, a place where sunlight couldn’t reach, couldn’t cleanse.
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.