Sleuth Home - Detective John Earl Doe

Title:		Sleuth
Experience:		19660
Archetype:		Tough and Smart
Age:		97 days
Gender:		male
Background:		Disillusioned Police Detective
Sleuth Theme:		Shady Character
Last Login:		Jan-5-2025
Account Status:		Inactive
Subscription Status:		Unsubscribed
Community:		Post History

Equipment

Completed Missions

• Packages Delivered: 0
• Overdue Books Returned: 1
• Nemeses Captured: 0
• Secret Plans Revealed: 0
• Artifacts Unearthed: 0
• Journal Pages Found: 0
• Brass Rings Won: 0

Detective Biography

I used to believe in the badge. It wasn’t just a piece of metal to me—it was a promise, a shield against the rot in this city. Twenty years, I gave everything to it, thinking I could carve out some piece of justice in a world hellbent on swallowing itself whole. I was naïve.

The cracks started small. A drug bust that went sideways, where the perp walked because the evidence “disappeared.” A partner who started taking envelopes I pretended not to see. Then came the day the mayor’s son put two bullets in a girl who said no, and the brass made sure the kid never saw the inside of a cell. They called it a “tragic accident.” I called it the moment my faith died.

But I stayed. You don’t just walk away from twenty years. I thought if I kept my head down, stuck to the small cases, maybe I could still make a difference. Maybe I could live with it. Then came her.

She was seven. Blond hair, blue eyes, the kind of smile that should’ve been lighting up playgrounds, not missing-persons flyers. I found her in an alley—dead for days, a needle mark in her tiny arm. The report said overdose, but I knew better. The bastard who did it was untouchable, someone with connections that ran higher than I could reach. The captain told me to “let it go.” So, I didn’t.

I started digging, asking questions I wasn’t supposed to ask. The more I uncovered, the uglier it got. Drug money, human trafficking, cops on the take—it all led back to the same people I once called my brothers. And they knew I was getting close.

The threats started with whispers, then escalated to dead rats on my doorstep. I thought I could handle it. I thought I was ready for whatever they threw my way. But nothing prepares you for betrayal.

The call came late—my wife’s car had been found wrapped around a tree. Drunk driver, they said. Except she didn’t drink, and the brake lines told a different story. The funeral was a blur. I barely heard the priest over the sound of my own heart breaking.

After that, I did what they wanted. I walked away. I handed in my badge, packed up my life, and disappeared into the city I once swore to protect. Now, I work the shadows, solving crimes for people who can’t afford to pay but can’t afford to lose. I don’t sleep much anymore. The nightmares won’t let me.

Sometimes, when the bottle runs dry, I think about the little girl in the alley, about my wife, about all the lives I couldn’t save. And I wonder if justice ever really existed—or if I was just too blind to see the truth.

I look in the mirror now and barely recognize the man staring back. He looks tired, beaten, broken. But tonight, as I load my gun and walk out the door, I tell myself one thing:

I’ll find them. And when I do, they’ll learn just how much a broken man has left to lose.

Politics

Contacts

None

Arch Villains

None Caught

Books Collected

The Mysterious Affair at Styles
Agatha Christie