The Coldest Cold Case - Opening Scene

[Keith Howells]

Introduces the protagonist, important secondary characters, and an indication of the plot. 

“You shouldn’t go. It’s not safe.” Daphne spoke over her shoulder as she stood expertly distant from a pan of spitting bacon, not a drop reaching her immaculate white-and-mauve flight attendant’s uniform.

Alan had expected such a demand from his mother, ever since the dramatic news had broken the day before. He was ready with his answer. “No can do. The event’s mandatory for faculty. Brooksey’s rules.”

Brooksey was his nickname for Brooks Cartwright, professor of history at Fullington University, and instigator of the “Past is Prologue” lecture series. The presenter at the prior event had complained about sparse attendance, oblivious to his reputation of speaking in a monotone, from notes anyone could have found online beforehand. Brooks had responded by making attendance mandatory for anyone who was on the teaching staff, which included graduate students like Alan. “If you get bored in a two-hour lecture, then you shouldn’t be studying history,” he’d proclaimed.

His mother slid a delicately presented plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and lightly buttered toast across the kitchen table, then sat opposite him with her standard cup of herbal tea and half a bran muffin. “Brooks doesn’t have the right to get you killed. Tell him you can’t make it.” Her deep brown eyes burned into him, under well-plucked eyebrows, and the few creases her Botox-treated forehead would allow. She looked seriously concerned.

“Mom, it’s a joke! Here, let me show you.” Alan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a well-folded, glossy brochure for that evening’s event. Tuesday September nineteenth at seven p.m., it read, followed by the theme in large, bold letters.

Our distinguished panelists will give historical perspectives on current events.

… and one of them will die.

The last line was in a deep red, followed by two blood-drop emojis. When the university staff had discovered the apparent hack, they’d desperately tried to recall the copies, but it was too late. The PDF used to print the brochure had also been attached to a campus-wide email, and had since gone viral on all the popular social media platforms.

“I knew history was murder, but this is ridiculous!” blared a Facebook post from the student’s union; a TikTok video featured a clock running backwards, with the caption “Apparently historians can now research the future.” The Abraham Lincoln references were too numerous to count.

Alan stabbed a finger at the blood-red text. “That’s a Comic Sans font. Comic as in funny. If this file came off the shared server, then there are hundreds of people who could have made this change as a prank. It’s just a joke, Mom!”

“And suppose it isn’t?” She poured coffee into his mug, tipped in a splash of cream, and stirred vigorously. “Why hasn’t the university canceled the event?”

Alan took a sip of coffee. It was scalding hot, but he needed to slow the pace of the confrontation. “The university president issued a statement saying we have an unbroken hundred-and-eighty-year tradition of free speech, and we’re not going to abandon that now. They’ll lay on extra security. It’ll be fine.”

“And you trust that?” She grasped his hands as if scared to let him go. “What if there’s a bomb in the theater and you all get blown up?”

“Then it would say they’re all going to die!” Alan freed his hands and picked up a strip of bacon. “There’s going to be no bomb, no hail of bullets, no horde of machete-wielding ninja zombies. All it means is that our sleepy little lecture series has suddenly become the hottest ticket in town. I’ve already been offered fifty bucks for my seat in the front row.”