3 am Location: Batesman’s Bay, Australia It was another closing night at the Hogbreath Pub. By law in Australia, all pubs on Saturday nights had to close by three o’clock or encounter a fee per hour after thereso. The dark haired owner was on the phone, in his office, at the back of the pub. The room had tattered wallpaper that was peeling off at the corners. The dim light that filled the room reflected the pale and faded pinkness of what used to be a mild pink decoration. The smelt like damp mould combined with fresh cigarette smoke. It was obvious that the owner was smoking, as he sat at his desk, leaned back against the wall, with his grey office chair tipped backwards slightly. In one hand, he held an alive Peter Jackson Gold, and in the other wrinkly and aged hand, had the black ear piece of the corded phone. His grey hair reflected his old age and the years battling with the glass next to the phone, filled with gin. The dark circles showed the kind of pain that he had to battle with on a daily basis - insomnia had plagued him with its sickness and the cancer in his lungs was making his life shorter by the day. He had basically nothing to live for now. His cancer was killing him, his failing kidneys were failing him, and his wife was leaving him. Anything that he said to get her back, seemed like as though he was talking to a brick wall. No a brick wall at least tried to look human and his imagination tried to convince himself that somewhere in that pattern of cement there was a person willing to let him live - he had nothing, so he talked to no one. He slammed the phone down after his wife abused him and blamed him for every marital problem there was under the sun. He took another drag of his cigarette and gulped down another mouthful of gin. There was nothing. And there was no one. There was a knock at the door and he looked up, to see an employee clad in her black coat, looking like she could offer some advice. But she didn’t. “Do you want a lift home, Greg?” she asked, as her bright red hair turned to a dull redish brown in the dim light of the room. “No thanks, Beck,” he grunted, as he cleared his throat. Greg couldn’t look at another woman the same after his failed marriage. “Go home, I’ll be fine.” Beck knew he wasn’t okay but she didn’t know what else to do and how she could help. She bit her lip with her pearly white teeth and looked down. She looked up again, and looked back at her boss. “Okay then,” Beck replied, unsure about her boss. “Drive safely.” Beck closed the door, before her boss could answer her. “I will,” he whispered. 6 am “So what do we have here, Sargent?” asked the Agent, as she was handed a manilla plain folder. Sirens, police radios, chatter, gossip, all to be heard. Even the media got a nibble of one story and now it was a feeding frenzy. “A white male, late forties, found in his own business, with a noose around his neck,” answered the Sargent, as he lifted the crime scene tape from around the pub up and both the Sargent and Agent ducked under it. He let her in first and he followed, continuing on what had been found. “We found defense marks on his wrists and fingers, a few bruises visible on his chest-” The Agent stopped and turned around, interrupting him in the process. “Don’t play dumb with me Sargent, this wasn’t the usual suicide. It was a staged murder made to look like it was a suicide.” The Agent smiled. “Got hit by the obvious stick again, did we?” The Sargent lowered his head, almost like he was in shame. Took his police officer cap off and brushed through his hair with his fingers. “Little nervous are you?” “No, I’m not,” answered the Sargent, as his corner of his mouth twitched which immediately caught the Agent’s eye. “You just don’t give me micro-expressions for nothing, you know?” asked the Agent. “And if you’re lucky you’ll become my prime suspect soon.” “Micro-expressions, Agent?” asked the Sargent. “We all give off micro-expressions no matter what the circumstance, unconsciencesly, you don’t know you do it, but I do,” answered the Agent, as she flicked her bright red hair out of her dark blue eyes. “Now tell me something I didn’t know. Who is he? What does he do?” And then someone caught her eye suddenly. A woman with a bunchful of tissues in her hand, with a tall man trying to console her. The Sargent saw who she was looking at with curiosity. Before he could open his mouth to tell her who she was, she stepped in. “And let me guess, that’s the widow?” “Yeah, how did you know?” asked the Sargent as the Agent looked at her strangely. “Obvious signs, mourning with the tissues in her hands, tears, looking helpless, seeking refuge in another man’s arms, and by the looks of it, she’s looking guilty about something,” and that was when the Agent detached herself from the conversation with the Sargent and went straight to the woman who was in mourning. “Good morning.” The distraught widow looked at the Agent, who stopped with a hand in her black coat. “Let me guess, you’re the widow?” The widow nodded. “What are you on about? Can’t you see she’s already distraught enough without more harassment by officers?” the man went off at the Agent. “I’m not an officer,” defended the Agent. “Then who are you?” asked the widow. “I’m Agent Harris, I’m from the FBI, I’ve been called in to investigate,” answered Agent Harris. “My husband killed himself, there’s only that to the case, he killed himself because of me,” wailed the widow. “Look,” Harris didn’t know her name so she opened the manilla folder she still had in her hands and looked for the name and looked back up again. “Carla. It says here that you were going to leave him for let me guess.” Harris pointed at the man who was consoling her. “Him?” Carla wailed even more. “So why are you letting him console you if your husband killed himself for the sheer reason that’s standing right next to you?” Harris was blunt and loved it. Carla looked at Harris. “Look, I don’t know about you Yankees and what you do over there, but if you think I have anything to do with his death, I can tell you now, I had nothing to do with Harold’s death.” Harris had a thought and walked away from the crime scene. The Sargent followed her, wondering what she had just done. “What was that about Agent Harris?” She stopped and faced him. “She’s guilty of something related to that man’s death,” replied Agent Harris. “You can’t go around accusing people like that without hard evidence,” the Sargent argued. “You know how the rules go.” “Fuck the rules,” snapped Agent Harris. “By talking to her just then, I can tell if someone’s involved with someone’s death just by talking to them and seeing their expression when they talk. She started off talking about her husband in second person and then switched tenses, referring to him as Harold. And why would you want to be with the man that you wanted to leave your husband for, full on knowing that your husband just apparently killed himself for that sheer reason? She suddenly got very defensive for someone in mourning. She got nervous, her speech became hurried and she looked like she was struggling to find words because she was that nervous to talk to a 'Yankee’. She’s hiding something.” “Hiding what exactly?” asked the Sargent. “That’s what I am going to find out,” answered Agent Harris, as she turned her back to head back to her office.