"What did he look like"?

"It was dark. Cold. I didn't get a good look of him."

"Come on, he can't hurt you. We'll make sure of it. We'll just start with the small details, and see what comes of it, okay?"

"Okay."

"What was he wearing?"

"Ummmm..."

"It's okay, just take your time."

"I think. I think he was wearing all black."

"That's it. Now, anything else he was wearing really stand out to you?"

"His shoes."

"Excellent. And what about his shoes do you remember?"

"They were mainly white. Really shiny."

"Okay, good. Anything else you remember?"

"They also had red on 'em. White with a splash of red..."

The night was dark out. The lamps lighting small parts of the street outside the house. The boy had the curtains pulled back, peering out into his driveway. 'Mom should already be home. Where is she?' He thought, as he was becoming more and more anxious. It wasn't like her. She'd usually already have dinner on the table and be relaxing with a book as he listened to the radio.

Cars came and went. Went, and came. His hopes soared as he caught the sight of headlights slowly getting brighter as a car neared at a slow pace. Yet, it turned into the neighboring Jones' driveway instead. His heart sank. And so he let the curtains dangle closed as he sulked his way over to the couch and planted himself down.

His face was that of a thunder cloud. Or so his mother would tell him when he'd get in a mood. He'd cross his arms and defiantly plant himself in a spot and not move. Not speak. Just let his fiery emotions eat away at him, and hopefully those around him. The young lad had a lot to learn, and tonight he'd be given a handbook of lessons to sulk over for years to come.

As he began to resent his mother for not providing him dinner at an appropriate time, and just as he had given into the notion she wouldn't be home anytime soon, which happened on the very odd occasion, he heard a car pull up outside the house. He leapt to his feet and ran like the wind that flapped the curtains at the window before he had even touched them.

He ripped them back with anticipation. His eyes wide. His heart pumping. Yet, the car looked different. It had a Yellow paint job and looked more like a taxi, than anything else. 'Maybe she'd caught a cab home!' 'Maybe her car broke down!' The boy kept his hopes high until a dark figure stepped out of the car. And almost as if intentionally, looked directly at the spot the boy was glaring out from.

The decently lit lounge room made it easy to see for the man outside, who shuffled his stance to be squared up and gawking right at the kid. In response, his heart fluttered even more, and closed went the window curtains with a frightened tug. It wasn't his mother. And now due to being home all alone, his sense of fright was heightened even more.

'Who was this man?' 'And why was he looking at me?' He was already concerned, the footsteps now walking up the rocky driveway sending him into a panic. And as a result, the boy high-tailed it out of the living space and into his bedroom, pulling closed the door behind him. Once inside, he slid along the floorboards and under his bed. The burns on his knees were felt but he had more pressing concerns as there began to be a thud against the main door of the house.

Another thud. And another. Until it sounded like the door had been busted open, as the boy could hear the inside of the wooden doorway snapping. His earlier growing resentment was taking on a bright glowing fear as a shadow started pitching itself along the floor outside his door. He could see under it from where he was, under the safety of his bed, which was feeling less and less that way.

With the footsteps, the shadow increased in volume, as it seemed like it was heading straight for the kid's room. Until all of a sudden it stopped. No more noise. The darkness outside the room, steady. But he could see something under the door. And as soon as the silence began to fill, it was shaken up with the door being slowly opened.

The boy's heart was now pounding out of his chest. Tears streamed down his face. 'Who is this man?' 'Why is he here?' 'Where is my mommy?' The thoughts raced through his mind as adrenaline pumped through his system. All the while, he could see them from under the bed. A pair of two-tone oxfords. White, with a splash of red.

"And you're sure they were white and red?"

"Y-yes. I-I'm s-sure."

"It's okay, it's alright. Everything's gonna be alright. You've done good, kid."

"Can I take him home now?"

"Yes, mam. I really appreciate you doing this for us. I know how hard-"

"How hard? He's only nine years old! His best friend, our neighbor, found his own father's body shot to shit in the house next door to us!"

"Mam, I know-"

"No, no you don't know! No boy should have to deal with this! He heard the gunshots that killed his best friend's father!"

"Mam-"

"No, just do your job and make this mean something. Hell, maybe it was suppose to be me!"

"We don't know that, mam-"

"Yeah, you don't! You don't know shit!"

"Look, we've got our best guy on this. He'll sort it out. You have to trust what we do here. He'll catch him. Bring him in. And we'll lock him away for good, so he wont hurt anyone else, ever again."

She flashed a sarcastic grin as she took her son's hand. He was a hardened police officer and due to the growing crime rates the country over, he'd dealt with many instances just like this. It didn't pierce his sensitivities as it probably should, seeing the mother not having faith in the work he, and his colleagues, were doing.

As the mother and child left the interrogation room, the questioning officer turned his attention to the guy taking down notes. He was called in specifically to deal with cases like these. He got results. It was what he did. Point him at a crime, at a case, and he'd uncover it and put a [solved] stamp across the manila folder.

All he had so far was one detail. One specific detail. Two, if the officer had've rung out the detail of the car that was parked out front. But he focused in on the perpetrator. All he wanted was something to go on. Anything. So the guy holding the pen and pad could get a little something down to start his investigation.

Unbeknownst to him, @LondonHolmes didn't need the bits of stationary. He already had it sketched, drawn up in his mind. He was that damn good. Not because of the abilities the man possessed, solely. But because he was what you might call a 'Criminal Consultant'. He worked the blurred line. Made deals where others never thought they could be done. Shook hands with shadows. And in this case, and others like it, he was the artist that kept the likes of Adonis and his two-tone oxfords, white with a splash of red, from sending him back to the slammer.