Haiku Files of the Seventeen Syllable Detective
A private detective solves domestic mysteries in seventeen syllables.
The name's no-one.
Private Investigator License #47291, no questions asked if you pay the filing fee in cash. I work the domestic beat. The small mysteries that happen when people think nobody's watching. Evidence always adds up to seventeen syllables, if you know how to count.
Case File #1: The Bathroom Floor Conundrum
It was a Tuesday night when the phone rang. Disturbance on Maple Street. Client found something "deeply unsettling" on their bathroom tile. Routine call, or so I thought.
I stopped by later that evening. The evidence was still fresh: one toenail clipping, curved like a question mark, positioned three inches from the waste basket. Too deliberate to be accident, too small for most investigators to care about.
But that's where they're wrong. The small stuff tells you everything.
Toenail on the floor…
A crescent moon of regret,
blinked off by the broom.
The positioning told me this was a crime of poor aim, not passion. The crescent shape suggested late-night grooming, probably during a commercial break. The guilt was written all over that keratin moon, you don't leave evidence like that unless some part of you wants to get caught.
Case closed. The perpetrator was dealing with domestic shame and inadequate bathroom habits. Classic suburban desperation. I've seen it a thousand times.
Case File #2: The Denim Conspiracy
The client came to me with paranoid delusions about their clothing. Claimed someone was "gathering intelligence" from their pockets during routine laundry operations. Suspected either industrial espionage or a very small stalker with fabric-based interests.
I could tell they weren't being straight with me. Or maybe not with themselves.
Lint in my pocket…
A soft conspiracy grows,
from idle denim.
The story was right there in seventeen syllables. The lint was writing their biography, one fiber at a time. Every coffee shop chair, every subway seat, every park bench they'd touched had contributed to the tale.
Most people would call that beautiful. I call it evidence.
Case File #3: The McDonald's Meditation
McDonald's corporate brought me in as a last resort. The Route 9 location had been dealing with the same customer for weeks - strange behavior, multiple complaints, but nothing the police could act on. Corporate needed to know if they had grounds to ban the customer or if there was something bigger going on.
I went undercover. Ordered the same meal, positioned myself three booths away with a clear sight line. What I observed changed my understanding of fast-food crime.
Big mac contemplates…
the silence between each bite,
Lettuce knows too much.
The suspect wasn't disturbing anyone. The Big Mac had stories about assembly line efficiency, kitchen operations, the teenager who'd built it with minimum-wage precision. The lettuce had witnessed everything.
Sometimes you just have to stare until the truth reveals itself. I filed it under "case closed, no crime committed" and recommended they comp the meal.
Case File #4: The Case of the Frozen Screen
Remote work call came in during peak pandemic hours. Client reported experiencing "digital confusion" during a routine video conference. Claimed their own reflection was behaving in ways that defied logical explanation.
Standard technology malfunction, I assumed. Until I witnessed it myself during the investigation.
Zoom screen still loading…
staring at my frozen face,
Why am I waving?
The evidence was clear: the client had been caught in the act of performing social rituals for their own digital reflection. The frozen screen had trapped them in a moment of pure, unfiltered human awkwardness, waving at themselves while waiting for technology to catch up with intention.
This wasn't a malfunction. This was the modern condition: humans trying to maintain dignity while interfacing with machines that refuse to cooperate on schedule. The wave wasn't for other people, it was a desperate attempt to prove they still existed in digital space.
I filed it under "user error, no crime committed, dignity temporarily suspended."
Final Report
I've worked enough cases like these to know something about mysteries. The real ones aren't dramatic. They don't involve femme fatales, stolen diamonds or poisoned cocktails in broad daylight. They happen in bathrooms, laundromat corners and dining rooms, the places where nobody thinks to look.