The case of the missing water

Dylan Hostetter, Executive Editor

The average human can’t survive more than three days without water, and as it turns out, the same goes for a city.

The mania began as I was sitting in the Commons at a hand-made booth, canvassing for new clients. Seeing as how classes hadn’t begun yet and the Commons was empty, I was admittedly having a tough time. I even had a bowl of free bite-sized Snickers on the table — I couldn’t believe no one was stopping.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of waiting at what looked like the world’s most melancholy lemonade stand, I was approached by my first exhausted client — and then my second, and third and fourth. Next thing I knew, my booth was surrounded by what seemed to be the entire city of Richmond. They told me the water was missing — all of it.

This was the biggest caper I had ever been a part of. Who could steal so much water? My first thought was that someone had drunk it all, but then I realized a creature that large would pose a much larger and more obvious problem than some missing water. I consider myself to be the highest quality private eye a man could buy, but as soon as a kaiju got involved, I’m afraid I would have to hang up my trench coat. 

Everyone was in a panic with no water, and I wasn’t too excited about it either. I couldn’t shower, flush the toilet or even hose down those ne’er-do-well kids who like to trample my garden. Private investigating may be my job, but my passion is hydrangeas. 

This case was so large, I struggled with the normal detective process. The only thing my usual sources had less of than water was information. Half of them said they were too parched to speak, and the other half smelled so bad from lack of showering that I cut my losses and let them be.

I never realized how tough the life of a private detective is without water. It’s hard to choke down a box of donuts without a pot of coffee to wash it down, and it’s hard to maintain an empirical investigation when you have to break every half hour to track down a place to use the bathroom. 

Seeing as how this case was more insane than anything I had ever encountered, I tried to think of the most insane conclusion a person could come to — and I found it. It was Richmond’s new mayor, Danny Avula.

“Of course I didn’t steal the water,” Avula said. “A pump failed so we lost access to the reservoir. We’re working diligently to get it restored.”

Yeah right, I thought, like that made any sense. Clearly he was lying and using made-up words like “reservoir.” Something more had to be going on, and I had to be the one to figure it out. On the way back home, I cracked it.

The man who had come to be my nemesis, Rodney the Ram, was handing out water bottles to a group of students and Richmonders. The only reasonable conclusion was that Rodney had stolen the water and bottled it to sell back at a higher price. I had to confront him.

“Rodney!” I yelled. “Aren’t you on probation?”

“I keep telling you man, my name is Kevin,” said the thief. “And yes, I am. I’ve turned around my life, you’ll be happy to know.”

“Is that what you call peddling stolen water?”

“Stolen? What are you talking about? I’m handing out these bottles of water to people in need.”

“Yeah right,” I said, gathering as many cases in my arm as I could carry. “I know what you’re up to, you villain.”

I tried to ask him where he was keeping the rest of the water, but he continued to berate both my detective skills and my intelligence. I began to walk away with the water in my arms, I couldn’t help but think there was still more to this case.

“You know, if anything, you’re the one stealing the water,” said the ram.

Little did he know, I had solved the case. Am I supposed to think it’s some kind of coincidence that the day after I reported Rodney the Ram to the police the water was restored? I think not. Single handedly restoring water supply to an entire city is definitely going on my detective resume.

Editor’s Note: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.