A night at the opera can be quite the forte to some. But some don’t even give it a look, preferring to avoid it. But for some… it can be plain murder…
Detective Harold Capert fidgeted nervously in the overstuffed seat, his eyes dodging left and right. His foot tapped anxiously, sensing misfortune. He sat in the cavernous Montague Venue, the site for premiere operas and plays. Although one would suspect that he’d enjoy the baritone stylings echoing around him, he didn’t have time to notice. His gut told him that someone would be murdered that night. Sure, it was his gut, but if you can’t trust your gut, what can you trust? Anyway, he did respect the fact that such a vast, but niche-filled arena would be the perfect place to commit such a crime. This didn’t make his job much easier.
His perceptive eyes scanned the whole place, absorbing every inch of space. Each side had a small alcove with plaster columns lined inside it. He thumbed his chin in thought, but made the realization that such close range was impractical. His glance ascended past ornately carved, golden moldings to see twin balconies, one entrenched into either side. Oval windows, wide enough for a person to aim through, were prominent on the sides. Finally, he shook off the suspicions and tried to concentrate on the man bellowing onstage. His deep, soothing voice calmed him, or at least gave the illusion thereof. As the song cont- CRASH!!! Harold flew to his feet, trying to immediately find the location of the gunshot… CRASH!!! His head swung frantically, realizing the danger of the situation. Suddenly, he turned and saw a determined cymbal player crouching in the orchestra. He sighed and sank back into his seat, relieved. But an out-of-place black pipe slid from a balcony window.
Catching his breath, he flung himself out of his seat and down the aisle. Without hesitation, he tossed his weight into the stairwell access door. With a creak it swung open. Sweat beads formed on his face. His heart quickened. At his fastest speed he could remember, he raced up the stairs. He wasn’t racing against time, he was racing for someone’s life. As he rounded the bend to the assassin’s door, he wrapped his shaky fingers around the ridged handle of his revolver. He turned and flung his shoulder into the wooden door, hearing a crack. He could only hope it was the door, not his shoulder, as he collapsed the frame, sending the maple to the dusty floor. He wielded the pistol, aiming square at… a broom. It leaned out over the audience below. He slowly slid the sidearm back into his holster, viewing the audience below. He brought his glance up to see the opposite balcony. A shrouded figure aimed his rifle right on… HIM!