Life had settled into a comfortable rhythm after Jay and Gloria's wedding. They'd moved into Jay's place—Gloria insisted on redecorating, which Jay pretended to grumble about but secretly loved. Manny was adjusting to his new school and our family gatherings had gotten louder, more chaotic, and somehow better. Gloria brought an energy that the Pritchett family desperately needed.
As for me, the Spice Club was thriving, my YouTube channel had crossed 750K subscribers, and my chess rating had finally broken 1600. Most importantly, L and I had formed an odd but effective friendship based on our shared love of solving puzzles and eating cheap noodles.
Which is how we ended up at Chen's Noodle House on a Tuesday evening when everything went wrong.
Chen's was our spot—a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in downtown Los Angeles that served the best dan-dan noodles in the city, according to L. It was cheap, quiet, and the owner Mrs. Chen always gave us extra portions because she liked that we actually appreciated her food instead of just ordering "whatever's not too spicy."
L was halfway through explaining a complex logic puzzle involving three liars and a truth-teller when the shouting started from the back room.
"You think you can just walk away? After everything?"
The voice was male, angry, and getting louder. Several other diners looked up from their meals, concerned but not quite alarmed enough to leave yet.
Then came the sound of breaking glass, followed by a woman's scream, and then—a gunshot.
The restaurant erupted into chaos. People scrambled for the exits, chairs scraped against floors, someone knocked over an entire tray of food. L and I instinctively ducked under our table, our years of consuming crime fiction kicking in with unfortunate practicality.
Within minutes, police sirens wailed outside. The LAPD had arrived faster than I expected, probably because there was a precinct just three blocks away.
The first officer through the door was young, efficient, and immediately started securing the scene. "Nobody moves! Everyone stay exactly where you are!"
Behind him came a man who commanded instant respect despite being younger than most of the senior officers I'd seen on TV. He was Black, impeccably dressed even in a standard police uniform, and carried himself with the kind of precision that suggested everything he did was deliberate.
His name tag read: SGT. R. HOLT.
"Sergeant Raymond Holt, LAPD," he announced in a voice that was calm, measured, and somehow conveyed both authority and reassurance. "There has been an incident in the back room. Until we determine what happened, this restaurant is now a crime scene. Nobody enters or leaves without my permission."
L and I exchanged glances. This was either going to be very interesting or very annoying.
Ten minutes later, after Sergeant Holt had taken preliminary statements and organized his officers with military efficiency, the situation became clear: there was a dead body in the back private dining room.
The victim was identified as Marcus Chen, Mrs. Chen's husband and the restaurant's investor. He'd been shot once in the chest at close range. The private room had been hosting a small business meeting—five people total, including Marcus.
The other four were now sitting in the main dining area under police supervision, and Sergeant Holt was methodically interviewing each one while his officers searched for the weapon.
The suspects were an interesting group:
Robert Hayes - Marcus's business partner in a real estate venture. Tall, nervous, kept adjusting his tie.
Linda Martinez - Marcus's secretary. Professional, composed, took notes even while being questioned.
David Wu - A restaurant supplier who'd apparently been renegotiating his contract. Quiet, watchful.
Jennifer Kim - Marcus's niece, who worked as the restaurant's manager. Young, clearly in shock.
"This is fascinating," L muttered, watching the proceedings from our table. We were technically witnesses since we'd heard the argument, so we couldn't leave yet.
"Agreed," I said, studying each suspect's body language carefully. The Patrick Jane template was analyzing microexpressions, stress indicators, and behavioral inconsistencies.
Sergeant Holt approached our table with a notepad. "You two are Ryan Pritchett and... L Lawliet, correct?"
"Yes sir," I answered.
"You're both minors. Should I be calling your parents?"
"My dads know I'm here," I said. "L's guardian is aware of the situation."
Holt nodded, accepting this. "Tell me what you heard before the incident."
L spoke first, his voice calm and analytical. "A male voice, angry, saying 'You think you can just walk away? After everything?' Then glass breaking, a woman screaming, and a single gunshot approximately four to five seconds later."
"Very precise," Holt observed, raising an eyebrow slightly—which for him seemed to constitute significant emotion.
"We pay attention to details," I added. "It's kind of our thing."
"Is it now?" Holt studied us both for a moment. "And what 'thing' would that be?"
"We solve problems," L said simply. "Usually at school. Missing items, interpersonal conflicts, that sort of thing."
"Amateur detectives," Holt said, and I couldn't tell if he was impressed or concerned.
"We prefer 'concerned citizens with above-average observation skills,'" I offered.
The corner of Holt's mouth twitched—an actual smile from someone who seemed to consider emotions an unnecessary luxury.
As Holt continued his interviews, L and I couldn't help but observe. Being stuck in a restaurant during a murder investigation was either the worst or best thing that could happen to two twelve-year-olds obsessed with detective work.
I watched the suspects carefully, applying everything I'd learned from Patrick Jane's template and the books L had given me about reading people.
Robert Hayes was clearly anxious, but was it guilty anxiety or just normal stress from being questioned about a murder? He kept touching his neck, a classic self-soothing gesture. When asked about his relationship with Marcus, he answered too quickly—"We were friends, great friends, no problems at all"—which usually indicates lying.
Linda Martinez was almost too calm, her professional demeanor perhaps a shield. But I noticed her hands were trembling slightly when she picked up her water glass. Controlled on the outside, panicking on the inside.
David Wu was watching everyone else more than he was watching Holt. Interesting. Either he was trying to gauge how much others knew, or he was also an observer type trying to figure out what happened.
Jennifer Kim was genuinely devastated—her grief seemed real, uncontrolled. She kept crying, apologizing for crying, then crying more. Hard to fake that level of emotional chaos.
"The weapon hasn't been found," L observed quietly. "They've searched everyone and checked all the obvious places. It's a small room with limited exits."
"So either the killer hid it really well, or..." I trailed off, thinking.
"Or it never left the room but we're not seeing it," L finished.
Sergeant Holt returned from interviewing David Wu, looking slightly frustrated—which for him meant a barely perceptible tightening around the eyes.
"Excuse me, Sergeant?" I called out, surprising myself with my boldness.
Holt turned, fixing me with an evaluating stare. "Yes?"
"Can I ask what the weapon was?"
"A small caliber handgun. Why?"
"And you haven't found it despite searching everyone and the room?"
"Correct." Holt's tone suggested he was wondering where this was going.
L leaned forward. "Were there any items removed from the room after the incident but before you arrived?"
Holt consulted his notes. "The restaurant's owner, Mrs. Chen, came in briefly and took out a tea service that had been delivered to the wrong room. She was questioned and searched—nothing suspicious."
"A tea service," L repeated thoughtfully.
I felt a spark of understanding. "Sergeant, could we possibly see the tea service Mrs. Chen removed?"
Holt studied me for a long moment. "You have a theory."
"Maybe."
"I'm listening."
Five minutes later, we were in the kitchen examining an ornate silver tea set. Mrs. Chen stood nervously nearby while Sergeant Holt watched with professional skepticism and what might have been curiosity.
"It's beautiful," I said, examining the large teapot. "Antique?"
"From China, very old," Mrs. Chen explained. "Wedding gift."
The teapot was substantial—easily a gallon capacity with an elaborate lid. I picked it up carefully. It was heavier than I expected.
"May I?" I asked, preparing to open it.
Mrs. Chen nodded, confused.
Inside the teapot, wrapped in a cloth napkin, was a small handgun.
Sergeant Holt immediately secured the weapon, his expression remaining neutral but his posture conveying surprise. "How did you know?"
"Process of elimination," L explained. "The weapon wasn't on any of the suspects, wasn't in the obvious hiding spots in the room. But Mrs. Chen removed an item—innocently—that could conceal the gun. The killer must have hidden it there in the chaos after the shooting, knowing Mrs. Chen would eventually remove the tea service."
"But which suspect had access and opportunity?" Holt asked, testing us.
I thought back to the interviews I'd overheard, the body language, the statements. "Jennifer Kim was the one who screamed, correct?"
"Yes."
"And she's the restaurant manager, so she'd know about the misplaced tea service. She was also the most emotionally volatile, which could be real grief... or could be an act to seem innocent."
"Additionally," L continued, "her position as niece gives her potential motive—inheritance, business control, family disputes. And she was seated closest to where the tea service would have been placed, according to the room layout."
Sergeant Holt was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he turned to one of his officers. "Bring Miss Kim to interview room. And get someone from forensics down here immediately."
He looked back at us, and this time there was definite approval in his usually stoic expression. "Impressive deduction. Though I should note that confirmation will require forensics, proper investigation, and likely a confession."
"Of course," I agreed. "We just pointed you in the right direction."
An hour later, Sergeant Holt emerged from the back interview room with Jennifer Kim in custody. Apparently, confronted with the evidence and the logical reconstruction of events, she'd confessed.
The motive was depressingly common—Marcus had discovered Jennifer embezzling from the restaurant and was going to press charges. In a moment of panic and rage, she'd shot him with a gun she'd brought for "protection," then hidden it in the tea service she knew her grandmother would retrieve.
She'd been counting on being just another grieving family member, not a suspect.
Sergeant Holt approached our table one final time as the scene was being cleared and L and I were finally allowed to leave.
"That was excellent work," he said formally. "Your observation skills and deductive reasoning are... exceptional for civilians of any age."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I said.
"Have you considered careers in law enforcement or detective work?"
L and I exchanged glances. "We've thought about it," L admitted.
"The LAPD will be issuing a commendation for your assistance in this case," Holt continued. "There will be a small ceremony if you choose to attend. More importantly, if you're serious about this kind of work, I'd be happy to provide mentorship or recommendations when you're old enough to pursue it professionally."
"Really?" I couldn't hide my surprise.
"I believe in encouraging talent where I find it," Holt said simply. "And I believe in giving people opportunities regardless of their age, background, or..." he paused briefly, "...any other factor that might cause others to dismiss them. Good detective work is good detective work."
After Holt left and we were walking to L's car (driven by his guardian who'd been waiting patiently outside), L turned to me with something that might have been a smile.
"That was interesting."
"Very."
"Do you think he's right? About us considering detective work?"
I thought about it. The Patrick Jane template had been growing steadily, fed by every case we solved, every observation we made, every time we successfully read someone's intentions. Today had proven we could apply those skills to real situations with real stakes.
Patrick Jane – Intermediate (4,650 / 30,000) +350
"Maybe," I said. "But for now, I'm just glad we solved it. And that our noodles didn't get completely ruined."
L actually laughed. "Priorities."
The local news picked up the story—"Twelve-Year-Old Detectives Solve Restaurant Murder"—which made my YouTube channel explode with new subscribers and interview requests. Mitchell had to field calls from three different news stations, and Jay was simultaneously proud and concerned that his grandson was now involved in actual criminal investigations.
The LAPD ceremony was small but meaningful. Sergeant Holt presented L and me with commendations for civilian assistance, shook our hands with his characteristically formal precision, and told us his door was always open if we needed advice.
"Though I sincerely hope you don't encounter many more murder scenes," he added drily.
The Spice Club's reputation at school went from "those kids who solve drama" to "those kids who solved an actual murder," which was both cool and slightly intimidating to our classmates.
Most importantly, it confirmed something I'd been suspecting: the templates weren't just party tricks or useful skills. They were tools that could make a real difference when applied correctly.
That night, over dinner at home, Mitchell asked me the question I'd been thinking about all day.
"Are you okay? That must have been pretty intense, being at a murder scene."
I considered this honestly. "Yeah, actually. I mean, it was serious and scary in the moment. But also... I felt like I was doing something useful. Like all that studying and practicing actually mattered."
Cam squeezed my shoulder. "Your talents are gifts, Ryan. Just make sure you use them wisely and safely."
"And maybe stick to school mysteries for a while?" Mitchell added hopefully.
I grinned. "No promises."
Looking back at Chen's Noodle House and that Tuesday evening, I realized that sometimes the universe gives you opportunities to test yourself when you least expect it. L and I had walked into that restaurant for noodles and walked out having helped solve a murder.
Not bad for a Tuesday. Though I had to admit—Sergeant Holt was right about one thing.
I really hoped we didn't encounter many more murder scenes.
[Status Screen: Updated]
Mikhail Tal – Intermediate (3,500 / 25,000)
No change.
Kazuma Satou – Advanced (8,500 / 25,000)
No change.
Patrick Jane – Intermediate (4,650 / 30,000)
+350 EXP: Successfully assisted in solving actual homicide investigation using deductive reasoning, psychological analysis, and evidence reconstruction.
Note: This is a Younger Raymond Holt who has not yet joined Brooklyn 99 , the timeline for Brooklyn 99 has been altered .