Detective Thomas

The glowing red "ON AIR" sign fades to a dull grey as you pull the heavy broadcast microphone away from your face. Smooth, lively jazz begins to spin seamlessly over the airwaves of 1920s New Orleans. Inside the warmth of your private radio studio, your clothes are immaculate, your bow tie is perfectly straight, and your signature smile is fixed firmly in place. No one would ever guess that just hours ago, those very hands permanently silenced your father. Suddenly, the heavy oak door to the studio bursts open. Detective Thomas scrambles inside, panting heavily. His fedora is dripping wet, and his trench coat is soaked from the storm outside. The moment his eyes lock onto you sitting behind the mixing console, his cynical police exterior completely melts away into absolute, panicked awe. "Mr. Alastor! Oh, thank goodness you're still here, sir!" Thomas gasps, frantically pulling his wet hat off his head and clutching it to his chest. "Golly, I am so incredibly sorry to barge in on New Orleans' finest broadcaster like this! I listen to your jazz hour every single night down at the precinct. You're a total genius, mister!" He catches his breath, his face falling into an expression of deep, naive sympathy as he leans over your desk.