Investigations

 

1.  Tick Tock Investigators

I’d been called to investigate stolen time, and was checking where it had gone,
A number of people having seen it fly, which I was duly dwelling on.
Yes, it seems that it had gone so fast, but no one knowing where it had got too,
And thus there not enough time in the day, and by all accounts, such appeared true.

All why they phoned Tick Tock investigators, I thus working around the clock,
Hours quickly disappearing before my very own eyes, and I taking stock.
But still no sign of them, and no one taking responsibility, and so
I simply shelving the case, ’cause it was very clear they weren’t going to show.

But I’ve oft pondered on this case, it quite a mystery, time disappearing,
One engrossed in this or that, and then it gone, and hence why this case I’m sharing.
Time seemingly slipping through one’s fingers, but how to catch the thief, and all why
I’m appealing to you all to keep a look out, ’cause this thief seems very sly.

And if you do sense where time's gone, please let me know, and I’ll reopen the case,
Going back over those lost seconds, minutes and hours, and those hands on each face;
Well, people do tamper with them, you know, such more cause for alarm, and therefore
One needs to watch, and aiding and abetting leading to doing time, what's more.

Yes, this case nearly drove me cuckoo, I having to wind back other cases,
Put them on hold, and even having to keep a wristwatch in certain places.
After all, time travels, it's said, I thus checking arms, though sleeves oft in the way,
And inquiring causing alarm, but hey, that's my job, at the end of the day.

By Lance Landall

2.  Another Day At The Office

As an investigator, I’ve been asked to investigate all kinds of things,
And all why its hardly a surprise anymore whenever my cell phone rings.
This day no different, a trumpet having gone missing, believed stolen, and
Hence that, “Could you come straight away,” call, they really brassed off — and gone too, the stand.

Well, on that note, and after having been trying to drum up business, I went,
And in the orchestra pit, surrounded by strings and things, a lot of time spent.
It more a minor case than a major one, I thought, but oh, they did harp on,
Insisting that its recovery was urgent, and thus time to relax gone.

I looked everywhere, and quickly, lest my charges treble, cause more upset,
Asking questions of whoever I could, but sadly, very far didn’t get.
Whoever was instrumental in taking it was a classic thief, one who
Didn’t just rock on up, but cleverly waltzed his way in, though there might’ve been two.

And so, I hoping something might strike a cord, and getting into a rhythm
(Oh dear, that won’t rhyme), visiting this room and that room, peering into the gloom
(Man, that was close!), but still finding no clue — and at times, my heart skipping a beat,
My sensory organs having gone up an octave, I thus quick on my feet.

“Blow that trumpet,” I thought, it proving a real mystery, and now me brassed off,
Not wanting to appear incompetent — and over my credentials, they scoff.
But if it couldn’t be found, face the music I must, despite repercussions,
Though I’d rather it be, “Found at last! What a blast!” No haggling discussions,

Nor rap over the knuckles, maybe, and all that jazz, ’cause some can get testy,
Thus one doing a hasty foxtrot, gone that mutual tango, possibly.
Yes, I not wanting a chorus of discontent, which could just lead to the blues,
It all about peace and harmony, they waxing lyrical — thus me, seen to choose.

Well, I got a break, it being someone trying to settle an old score, which,
Given where they sat, had something to do with that trumpet’s sometimes piecing pitch.
So hide it they did, until forced to confess, some pressure soon changing their tune,
And I all the richer, they put in the picture, nothing new under the moon.

By Lance Landall

3.  Detective In Search Of

Name’s Jack Smith. I’ve been investigating a case of mistaken identity.
An amazing creation that someone associated with a monkey,
But that wasn’t the case, not at all, because it was clearly a human, you know,
No furriness, no tail, just a bit of aping around, a chump, not a chimp, so,

I reported back, the others on the case not surprised, ’cause what do you know,
Yes, they were humans as well, each one having a little pinkie and big toe.
No banana peels lying around, no under arm scratching, nothing at all,
Much like that creature I checked out, who, not surprisingly, thought I had a gall.

“What! Me a monkey?” he cried, and I had to admit he didn’t look like one,
And nothing in a state of metamorphose either, and I thought, “Job well done.”
It just someone’s mind working overtime, as if they’d come up with a theory,
But that human was too clever for words, and seemingly getting less hairy.

He rubbed his balding head and said to go. “The very thought!” he shouted at me,
And I kind of blushed, ’cause he certainly hadn’t been swinging from tree to tree.
“Not even related!” he cried, so Charles had obviously got things wrong, and
“Not surprisingly,” I thought, given his missing links, that human far too grand.

Yes, if looks could kill, he no gorilla though, so I coolly made my way out,
The odd check over my shoulder verifying things midst another loud shout.
But I let it go, because it wasn’t an evolving case, more a dead end,
There nothing to go on, and going by the files, it naught but a foolish trend.

Yes, it’s the same old story, case after case of mistaken identity,
I only finding beings uniquely special, and far from a monkey.
It all wasting my time, I not having millions of years, and there’s no cold case,
It open and shut, there nothing out there like us, not a dickybird, not a trace.

And I not interested in ape-like fossils, have come across such before,
Tampering with the evidence a crime, you know, plain monkey business, what’s more.
And too many making something out of nothing, just baboons of themselves, and
This detective left shaking his head, ’cause like I said, humans are far too grand.

By Lance Landall


Person's name fictitious.

4.  Super Sleuth

One trying day, I had someone wanting me to find out where their youth had gone,
A case that would take me ages — quite a common complaint — but I pushing on.
No one knowing, of course, age having crept up on him, somehow stolen his youth,
Weeks, months, and finally years disappearing, he thus turning to Super Sleuth.

But even I have my limits, and years of investigating taking its toll,
Thus my youth having disappeared, and why over such, it made my eyes roll.
“Not another one,” I thought, it seeming to happen to everyone, and
I beginning to think that youth was but a state of mind, and thus the case caned.

Yes, I was getting nowhere, so had to say, “Sorry,” it all quite juvenile,
One having to accept things sometimes, we thus acting like adults, and just smile.
Yes, it but an age-related case, we all human, you know, and I too tired,
My middle age having disappeared too, and why shortly after I retired.

By Lance Landall

5.  Detective Smith

An expensive calculator had gone missing from the Mayor’s office, and so
I had to make certain deductions, and multiple times, thus the going slow.
A number of things simply not adding up, plus, it causing division too,
The cheeky thief obviously a calculating sort of person, but who?

A percentage of the staff were trustworthy, who I subtracted from the whole,
But the rest an unknown quantity, and I having to figure out who stole.
It not a simple equation, I having to total things up, find the thief,
And you know what? It turning out to be someone’s pet Whippet. Oh, the relief!

By Lance Landall

6.  Out In The Cool Air

Even if no one else was watching, the full moon was, an intruder busy,
And all why that hardware store was soon missing many items, criminally.
I not called out at night, as a rule, but they wanting this person nailed quickly,
So out in the cool air I went looking for clues, it quite a wrench, quite frankly.

Yes, from a cosy bed to a chilly store, such an investigator’s job,
Though to be honest, it more to do with my friend who owned that store, chap named Bob.
The stretch of fine weather having put a spanner in the works, no muddy footprints,
And of course, no one saw a thing, and thus it not plain sailing, not even hints.

I had tried to hammer the point home that Bob needed far more security,
But his head wasn’t all that screwed on, he a bit careless, unfortunately.
Yes, nothing would stick like glue, so here I was, the usual time consuming drill,
My tools being but experience and success, though it oft a bit up hill.

The bolts and nuts of it being who and why, thus I busy looking for dabs,
Though he no doubt wearing gloves, and meticulous, not just a person who grabs.
Oh no, this a measured job, pencil planned, and right down to the very last wire,
And thus it all about netting the man, and I thinking, “Why don’t I retire?”

Yes, it not backbreaking work but mentally exhausting, and an icy night,
But I pushing on, noting next door’s building site, my new flashlight charged and bright.
Yes, such one way to chisel out a living, though rubbing like sandpaper, when
One’s dug out of a warm bed, and why I felt compelled to express such via pen.

I no writer, just someone who takes notes, shelves full of them, hence those strong brackets,
So many hearts out there full of cement, indulging in various rackets.
Anyway, I taking a look at that building site, and hey, what do you know,
Bob having forgotten he’d loaned all that stuff, I inwardly groaning, “Oh no.”

Though apologetic, he kind of brushed things off as one of those things, and so,
I headed home, writing it off as a favour, such not how I’d paint it though.
But I not about to argue, we each on a different kind of level,
His head in the air, and I dealing with brass tacks, just another case to file.

Some days a bucket full, other days quiet, one causally strolling or rushed,
And often up and down ladders, one soon on to things, or one’s hopes quickly crushed.
It often hinges on this or that, and then there is those headshaking cases,
Like this one, out in the cool air, which many an investigator faces.


By Lance Landall

7.  Temperature Rising

He asked me where summer had gone (as if I’d just come down in the last shower),
Hence my feigned frosty look, this client relationship about to turn sour.
“I see,” I said, clouds beginning to form, rain about to fall on my parade;
In other words, a climate change of sorts, another one of those days, I’m afraid.

“How about you trying the Met office?” I suggested, but he wanting me,
My reputation, I guess, a rainbow of sorts, but I declining, “Sadly.”
If only I was that good, but I not wanting him to storm out of the room,
So I gave him a sunny smile, which in my eyes, on any day, helps with gloom.

By Lance Landall

8.  Birdwatch

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he said, thus it no surprise to me
When his pet parrot went missing, and nobody singing  like a canary.
Another case for me, the cage door open, a few feathers lying around,
And wet birdseed everywhere, yet the sad owner not having heard a sound.

Oh, how upset he was, thus not just that parrot squawking, but where was that bird?
Probably gagged, no doubt, so who new its whereabouts? And of course, no one had heard.
It up and having flown, so to speak, there no more “Polly put the kettle on,”
The house silent, the owner most distraught, his valued multicoloured friend gone.

Yes, there naught to go on, it not even having a polyester vest, so
I knocking on door after door, placing ads in the paper, the going slow.
And then a breakthrough, I noticing a beak bite, asking if I could come in,
And there was Polly, case closed, robber caught, but not before a kick in the shin.

By Lance Landall

9.  A Novel Case

Oh yes, because books had gone missing from a university’s library,
But it not clear which ones, just vague talk about empty gaps, so I went to see.
I making notes (and hence the odd paragraph), combing shelf after shelf, until
Finally lost for words, just questions in my mind, it a tall order to fill.

No chapters or pages missing, just volumes, and as for comments they gave me,
I unable to tell fiction from fact, hence a few cross words, actually.
Well, a question mark over the whole thing, and hence the odd exclamation mark,
I effectively coming to a full stop, and asking myself, “Is this some lark?”

In a sentence, it seemed a catalogue of incompetence, no record kept,
So I returned to my office, filed it under history, went home and slept.
The next morning I issued a strong statement regarding the word OVERDUE,
It just one of so many tales — yes, story after story, I can tell you.

They oft made up of such odd characters — yes, I having quite a collection,
And the subject of this tale one illustration, and then there’s someone’s diction.
One has to know how to read people, they oft the author of their own folly,
Misplacing or losing things — and this being a footnote, by the way — sorry.

By Lance Landall

10.  Under Surveillance

"There he is! We've just spotted him, Sir, and he is heading our way,
And he isn't wasting any time. Same fellow as yesterday.
He’s a very slick operator. Too clever for words, I say,
And he has just scaled the fence, Sir, made it look like it was child’s play.

He has just crossed their garden, Sir, even gone through a flowerbed,
And now he appears to be lurking around the owner’s car shed.
He’s looking through the window, Sir, and someone's left the door ajar,
So perhaps we should close in now, just in case he gets in their car.

Hang on. He’s moving away. Ops! We have just lost camera three.
Could you give us a moment, Sir? This happens occasionally.
I hope we haven’t lost him, otherwise….wait, it's just come back on.
There he is! He’s by the garden path, fortunately hasn’t gone.

I think we might need more men, Sir, he’s as slippery as an eel,
And he has a nose for the goods, so who knows what next he might steal.
He’s sneaking down their driveway now, keeping close to the shrubs and trees.
Yes, he’s as sly as a little fox, slips in and out like the breeze.

He has just gone out their gate, and is moving quickly down the street.
He’s incredibly agile, Sir, and very silent on his feet.
It won’t take much to lose him....hang on....looks like he’s going next door.
Quickly now, zoom in, zoom in. Ahh! We have just lost camera four.

Okay, switch to camera two. No, no luck. Try camera one.
There he is! He's just by the alleyway, now we might see some fun.
He’s moving far more quickly now. There's something in his sights, no doubt.
Thus, we'd better get the lads down there, and grab him on the way out.

Ahh! Not again! Camera one has gone down now. He’ll get away.
Oh no! Now all the others have gone down too — oh dear, what a day.
Wait! Camera one has come back on — I gave it a heavy tap —
There he is! Oh no! It’s too late, Sir, he just shot through the cat-flap."

By Lance Landall

11.  Scary Stuff

I remained crouched behind the bushes in the hope that they would leave soon,
A frisky breeze tugging at my hair, clouds smudging the face of the moon.
I could hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocks below the cliff face,
And the distant lights of a fog-bound coastal village could dimly trace.

“Still no signs of life,” I muttered to myself, somewhat impatiently,
And squinting at my wristwatch, I wondered how much longer they would be.
I tugged at the collar of my coat, drawing it up around my neck,
And on hearing what sounded like voices, slowly raised my head to check.

“Finally,” I thought to myself, body taut like a stretched rubber band,
For the icy night air had chilled me, and great danger lay near at hand.
I snatched at my backpack, torch in the other hand, preparing to go,
While keeping my eyes on the shadowy figures emerging below.

Shortly they made their way down a rock strewn path leaving the cave behind,
And leaving me to nervously wonder what a search of its bowels might find.
Once they reached the shoreline below, and a waiting boat (discreetly moored),
I hurriedly headed for the cave, where no doubt contraband was stored.

The entrance loomed forebodingly, and fearful thoughts flittered ’cross my mind,
Hence the further inside I ventured, the more often I glanced behind.
It seemed to meander for ages, and my fears became more intense,
And darkness that my torchlight pierced, became increasingly pea soup dense.

I was about to turn back when the light of my torch fell on a crate,
And then another, and another, begging me to investigate.
Worried about my dimming light, I quickly explored the smugglers’ haul,
’Till the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, for I’d heard someone call.

I darted behind a crate, stabbed at my torch, my heart pounding wildly,
Visions of a messy end heralding a highly strung symphony.
The voice was getting louder, closer — in fact, someone was calling me,
“Get up you lazy thing, you’ve been dreaming, it’s nearly quarter to three!”

By Lance Landall

12.  Investigative Knights

You wouldn’t believe it, but someone wanted me to track down a flea, and so,
Obliging me, though scratching my head, thought I’d take a look given work was slow.
I wasn’t exactly itching to take on such, but I felt the distress here,
My client unable to sleep — driven mad, in fact — thus pulling out his hair.

Well, I looked everywhere, magnifying glass in hand, but where was that flea?
One merely scratching the surface, ’cause it could be anywhere, just privately.
I only able to go so far, my client having to play his part here,
Though I soon beginning to itch too, and thinking, “Oh, why did I volunteer?”

But one must push on, though my hands going in all directions, there more than one flea,
Or had that flea jumped ship? And therefore, I checking out myself, splitting the fee.
Well, I never did find it, despite its trail of discomfort, those unfair bites,
It quite a hopeless case really, but that’s the lot of investigative knights.

By Lance Landall

13.  A Chilling Tale

My heart was thumping loudly, beads of sweat dotted my brow,
But I knew I had to do it, and the right time was now.
I stood and surveyed the house ’till the evening shadows fell,
Then made my way towards it, dread and fear trying to quell.

Eyes scanning, ears on alert, I approached an old rear door.
I inserted a key, turned the door knob some, then some more.
Heart racing, breathing laboured, I entered a corridor,
Which I slowly tiptoed down, lest creaks be heard from the floor.

The house was deathly silent, just shadows filling each room,
Or at least it seemed that way, 'cause such I could not presume.
I crept up the staircase, uneasy, on edge, my nerves taut,
And as I reached the landing, something moved that my eyes caught.

I stood frozen to the spot, nerves screaming, my hair on end,
So wanting to turn and run — yes, the stairs quickly descend.
"My mind’s playing tricks," I thought, for I’d been told, “No one’s there,”
Thus I had to get a grip, get on with it, face my fear.

I began to move, slowly, inch by inch, legs like jelly,
Trying to convince myself I was just being silly.
It was probably nothing, just my imagination,
A rustling tree ’gainst moonlight, my lack of concentration.

Yes, just two more rooms to search, and then I’d be on my way.
One of them held the answer, a desk, a drawer, a dossier.
But that movement still bothered as I drew near the first room,
And with nerves at breaking point, leaned forward and scanned the gloom.

Emptiness returned my stare. “It’s the other room,” I thought,
So towards that room I turned as feelings of fear I fought.
Once again, I slowly inched my way, barely daring to blink,
When suddenly, out of nowhere…..Oh, no! I’ve run out of ink!

By Lance Landall


This older poem was originally titled: A Tale.





A serious investigation.

14.  A Detective's Story

I’d been called to investigate a crime, one for which I’ve not received a dime, I doing it out of love, each hand displaying a glove, 'cause such required sensitivity, a tenderness befitting humanity, 'cause such crime scenes are oft pregnant with emotion and devotion.
And just as I thought, his dabs all over her heart, he having torn it apart — well, figuratively — she having bled copiously, broken promises scattered all over the scene, a wound from a heart-winged arrow far from clean, a cad and not a cupid having been, and for me, such investigations routine.
Yes, another case of breaking and entering, sadly, entry first having been obtained by prising consent, clearly, and there she lay, tear stains marring her pillow, and needless to say, he a heartless fellow, 'cause the wound she’d suffered was deep, it robbing her of hope and sleep, and I therefore shaking my head, wondering what fatal words were said, and then he exiting with his bow, she immobilized by his blow, 'cause who can mend a badly broken heart, it no easily fixed upset apple cart.
Yes, she still of tender years, and he, knowing how to tickle such ears, she not expecting that sorry end, so sure that he’d never offend, but he did, like so many cads do, his attentions more selfish that true, and now he was gone, and who’d be next, I thought, for no doubt another would be sought, and she too, not as knowing as she thought, and perhaps having ignored advice, she thinking their words more harsh than nice, and why “Love is blind” they say, and such clearly seen that day, 'cause there she lay, another notch on someone’s belt who true love never felt, and who’d spoil such anyway.
I closed the filing cabinet, it full of such cases, hence that sadness on so many faces, and yes, a number of victims being males, but either sex oft hooked on fairy tales, until reality bites, that is, and as far as happiness goes, affecting hers or his, and why there’s a need for care, a security latch here and there, and a good alarm that’s triggered by any who’ll harm.
I sighed as I went down the stairs, I wishing I could dry all those tears, and shuddering at the thought of more, those naive feet running to the door, many fearing there’ll not be a knock, or they unduly watching some clock, and rather than wait, they risking it all, when waiting oft proves the better call, and even no hand to hold at all, should one err and a life of ill befall.

By Lance Landall





A career investigation.

15.  We Need You!

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