Felix Scarr's Questionnaire

Brooklyn, New York.
This is where I call my home, the city that never truly sleeps. I live in a small studio apartment off Nostrand Avenue, the wallpaper is thin and crumples at the edges, the door creaks, the floor too. Old wood, old brick and the AC barely serves to keep the heat from layering my forehead with sweat. The dirt on the windows has formed rings around the whole pane and the cold has cracked it over time. I'd get it replaced if I could afford the maintenance cost, but my landlord overcharges, I know he does. I've seen those receipts, I see the gleam in his eye when he sees me struggling. Ready to make a quick buck off of me a soon as I even think of complaining. 

Still, it's home. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else, I don't think I'd deserve it. A beat down detective like me, no family, barely any friends...
Yeah. I think an old apartment is just what I need. Besides, it has everything I need to to my job. Enough plug sockets to keep my laptop and my phone charged and it's local to a lot of incidents. Areas like these give you a lot of work too, people can't turn to cops, at least when you're paying a PI they're less likely to ignore you, or throw it down the chain until it becomes an unsolved case on a pile of unsolved cases. In a way I guess I believe it's my duty of sorts, I give a decent price that I can live off of and in return I offer a service to a community long forgotten.

I'm a private investigator, I work on mostly civil cases. You're husband's cheating and you need proof? Got a son hanging with the wrong crowd? I'm who you go to. My line of work is gruelling, people imagine fancy detective work with high tech gadgets. I've found there's nothing your two eyes and wit can't make up for when funds are low. That doesn't mean it doesn't get to you, the lack of funds that is. The U.S. treats its cops like royalty while I'm out here barely scraping enough for a set of cuffs and film, 

That's what my money is used for, when I'm not paying rent. Smashed and lost equipment is more common than you think, people don't take kindly to an investigator tailing them and you can't always walk away unscathed. My handgun gets me out of a lot of scraps, the sight of a gun can often calm a person down, but even that has ammunition and needs maintenance. The only treat I get is the pack of cigarettes I afford myself, keeps me sharp. Ironic, the one thing I buy that isn't protective is a cancer stick that slowly kills me. Still, I'd rather die on my terms.

The streets are laced with crime, antisocial behaviour, thuggery, drug deals, but we ignore the biggest criminals at all. The politicians are blind to them, chuck a few dollars in their face and watch them smile and point their bony, war-mongering finger at the disenfranchised. But I see through their façade, true criminals don't wear balaclavas, they wear suits and talk stocks while the world burns.

Fifty Billion Dollars. That's the estimated amount that was stolen from the working class through wage theft alone. You know what a private investigator can do about that? Nish. Nada. Nothing. A tough pill to swallow. If I ever feel a lick of power, a moment of weakness in their defences I'm on the attack immediately. It's not going to be easy, my life will be on the line but working to death can't be my legacy. First I have to build community, I can't do it alone, I'm not a vigilante. Then it's focussing on making workers realise the power they have. After that it's dismantling everything these monsters have built brick by brick.

I'll do anything to help, justice isn't something society has been given, so it's my job to try and make it right. I've only got a decade or so in me before I get too old for this, so time is of the essence. No backing down. May my death inspire the next freedom fighter.

I was working a case, 1989, this family had reported of wage theft, said the cops and the courts wouldn't do anything about it. I was confused but willingly took the case, figured if anything it's a short job. Just in and out, get the evidence I need. What I didn't realise is how much power even the CEOs of chain stores had. Cops in their back pocket. I was in the public library, late into the evening, just before they shut and that's when the case started to crack open. Report after report, of mistreatment. Verbal, physical and sexual abuse, underpaying, all in all essentially slave labour. I had to do something but the more leads I followed the more dead ends.

People didn't want to talk, those who would have were dead already, accidents, all of them. I realised what had happened but they were clean, professional, no evidence left. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. My apartment was more newspaper clippings than wallpaper. I was going insane until it happened. 

The phone rang.

I picked it up. A dial tone.

Then something was slipped under my door. A document. A warning. They had me, evidence planted against me chaining me to crimes I couldn't have committed. They were spooking me, but I had no power to stand on. Calling their bluff could have lead to my reputation being destroyed. So I dropped the case. I still have the files, the clippings, but until I can be sure it's safe, it's mutually assured destruction.

Edith Holland - Edith is my neighbour, she's a sweet old lady with a son that visits from time to time. She's been a calming break from the stresses of work more times than I can remember. She bakes goods when she can but her age is getting to her. She's in her mid 80s now, thinning grey hair, she still wears her bright colours though, proud of her African heritage, she's short, around 5"4' but despite her height and age she's got the energy to light up a room.

Rafael Cabal - Raph is an ex colleague of mine when I worked in the force. He's a thin guy, a paper pusher mostly but as sharp as a knife on cases. Used to see things I never could. Olive skin and shitty moustache I must've told him to shave about a dozen times. He still works as police but is close to retiring, we talk about old cases together and catch up once every few weeks.

(Closest) Kenzie McCain - One of the only women I ever loved, she's closer to me than I would've ever let in my right mind but she's comforting nonetheless. She's got blonde hair she wears in a ponytail and a smile that just brightens the darkest rooms. She's got kids now and I don't see her as much as I should, she keeps bugging me that get out of the house and I think she's right. I call her up when I get the nerve to and we talk about life. There's an air of sadness to it, but one that's bittersweet.