Who Killed Nelson Drake?

The auditorium was filled. Cameras flashed from every direction with reporters asking question after question hoping to get the opinion of the man on stage. Chef Nelson Drake had done it once again. His smoked salmon recipe was given 5 stars from one of the toughest food critic groups, “Food Critical,” in the United Kingdom. This five star feat had only been accomplished by a handful of chef’s in the country, and this was Nelson’s third five star dish.

Nelson sat on a large stage with a square table directly in front of him. His posture indicated an air of superiority and as he stroked his trademark handlebar mustache, he soaked in the attention of the room. A spot light was shining down on him and a smug look of confidence sat upon his face.

“Where do your ideas come from?” asked one reporter. She held a recorder in her hand which poked through the mass of reporters closest to him.  

“How did you become so successful so quickly, when just last year no one had heard of you?” exclaimed a different news reporter from the very back of the room.

“Would you consider yourself one of the greatest cooks of your generation?” asked another short, stalky reporter who seemed to sneak to the front of the crowd using his size as an advantage.

Nelson gazed over the crowd taking in this moment as if storing this memory inside his head for later use. Before he spoke he ran his fingers over his curled mustache once again and cleared his throat loudly, and with importance. The room seemed to quite almost immediately. Only the clicking of cameras was audible.

“I wish I could tell you where my inspiration comes from,” he said with a mischievous grin across his face, “but I consider myself a magician when it comes to the dishes I prepare. And just like magician, a chef must never reveal his secrets either.”  He then picked up his bright white chef hat that had been laying on the table in front of him and waved both hands in the air as he stood up, hoping to capture a great picture for the local paper.

As he left the giant auditorium through the curtain behind the stage, he made his way outside into a back alleyway where a stretched limousine awaited him. Before he exited the building a group of reporters had broken through eager to have him all to themselves. He made his way through the sea of reporters not only dodging bodies, but dodging questions as well. A team of security guards ran up to separate him from the barrage of fanatic reporters.

“My apologies Mr. Drake,” one security guard said. You could hear the nerves in his voice as he spoke.

“Not a problem,” replied Nelson, “Life just isn’t the same when you become famous,” he said in a way prompting someone to pity him. Instead it gave the effect that he wished more reporters would have come begging to hear him speak.

Finally making his way to the stretched limousine awaiting him outside the auditorium, his chauffeur opened the backseat, greeting him as he entered.

“Looking more dashing than ever sir,” the chauffeur said in a thick Italian accent, “where are we headed tonight chef?”

“Let’s make a stop at my restaurant downtown before continuing home. I need to tidy up a few things before I call it a night,” Nelson responded to the limousine driver. The chauffer had shut the door and made his long journey to the front of the limousine. The chauffeur entered the driver’s seat and started the ignition. Through the rear view mirror he saw a respectful nod from his driver before they sped off towards his restaurant.

After about fifteen minutes of driving, and a few glasses of chardonnay, Nelson’s limousine approached a dazzling restaurant. The lights from the restaurant reflected off the many windowed limousines as they pulled to the front of the “Nelson Drake,” one of the most popular eateries in town. In bright letters on a sign outside one could easily read, “Home of 3 meals rated 5 stars from Food Critical.” The driver put the car in park and raced around the limousine to open the door for Nelson.

“I’ll be in and out, shouldn’t be long,” he said to his driver as he pulled a gold key from his pocket. As Nelson approached the glass doors he rubbed his hand across the large Michelin star etched into glass on the front with a smile. He then slid his key into the lock and opened the door.

Although the shop was closed he could still smell the vibrant spices and aromas which filled the restaurant on a daily basis. He had always closed the restaurant on days he made appearances across towns so that everyone had the opportunity to see him in action. He walked through the common dining room area and into the kitchen through white, wooden swinging doors. He then made his way to the office in the back of the kitchen through similar swinging doors.

The lights were off in his office as he threw his keys and chef’s hat onto the desk in front of him. Just before he flipped the light switch on, a familiar voice spoke to him.

“You forgot to mention me again.”

Nelson stood still for a few seconds, and let out a sigh before he turned the lights on to illuminate the room.

“It’s not that I forgot to mention you,” he said as he emphasized the word forgot, “it’s that I chose not to mention you.”

There was silence in the room as Nelson made his way back to his desk to finish up tallying total profit for this restaurant for that week.

“How can you live with yourself, knowing that you are not responsible for your own success?”

The room was silent. Nelson pretended to act busy as he shuffled pages around and marked off tallies in his notebook, but soon it became too much. Nelson turned harshly to his right and stared down the sharp object in front of him.

“Oh that’s right, you’re selfish and greedy. You always have been,” responded the object.

Nelson stared at his own reflection in the knife he was speaking to.

“We agreed from the beginning. You would be the brains and I would be the vessel. We work together as a team; I could never convince the world I get all my ideas from a knife!” Nelson had tried to stay calm, but this conversation seemed to be more and more reoccurring recently.

“Well, consider our partnership null and void then!”

Nelson slammed his papers down on his desk and stood to his feet. He darted his arm forward and grabbed the knife by the base.

“How can you say that? I have followed every piece of advice you have given me. Every recipe, every piece of creative control…it’s all yours!” Nelson exclaimed fogging the metal which was only inches from his face.

“I want the recognition too!” exclaimed the knife deep within his mind, “I am your secret ingredient and without me you would be nothing.” 

Nelson felt a deep seeded rage boil within his stomach as his forehead began to sweat. Without thinking he threw the knife with all his might against the wooden swinging doors in front of him. The knife hit and stuck inches into the wood causing the door to make a creaking sound as it swung back and forth.

Nelson fell to the floor in exasperation. He was breathing heavily and felt sick to his stomach.

“This has gone on long enough,” Nelson said in between labored breathes, “I should have cut you out of my life years ago.”

The door continued to swing back and forth with less momentum each time. The knife said nothing.

“I have all the fame and success I could ever want. I don’t need you anymore,” Nelson said with confidence in his voice.

He stood up walking menacingly towards the door. As he approached, he placed one hand on the door and another on the base of the knife. He then yanked the knife out with all his might. As he pulled, the knife cut the outside of his opposite hand leaving a deep and bloody wound.

“Agh!” Nelson exclaimed as he dropped the knife. Blood poured from his wound to the floor and onto the knife beneath him. He hurried to grab a towel to clot the bleeding.

“Look what you’ve done,” yelled Nelson, “don’t you understand? Hurting me will only hurt you when it comes right down to it.” Nelson continued to apply pressure to his wound while pacing back and forth.  

“The thing is,” the knife finally responded within the mind of Nelson, “You are not my first master. You are easily replaced. Maybe the next person will learn quicker than you.”

Nelson stopped in his tracks and looked at the bloody knife beneath him.

“What do you mean ‘next person’?”

Immediately Nelson felt a cold rush throughout his entire body and the hairs on his arms stood straight up. Goosebumps covered his body and a rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had lost control.

“What are you doing?” Nelson responded with trepidation in his voice. His feet began to move as he began walking towards the bloody knife.

“Doing what needs to be done,” the knife responded.

Almost robotically Nelson bent over and retrieved the knife. He raised it to his face and looked deep within the blade past his own reflection. He slowly lowered the blade until it was inches from piercing his stomach.

“The fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” the knife said, laughing maniacally.

With one foul swoop, Nelson plunged the knife deep within his stomach and he fell to the floor.

As police investigated the scene that night they found nothing except the famous Nelson Drake dead on the floor of his own office. He was stabbed, but no evidence of a bloody knife lay anywhere.

“Hey,” the detective said as he motioned his partner over to Nelson’s desk, “does this knife look weird to you in anyway?” The detective picked up the knife in his hands analyzing all its features.

“Just put it in the evidence bag, we can look at it later. There’s not even blood on it,” responded his partner.

“Yeah…” the detective said, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else. He picked up the knife and instead of putting it in the bag of evidence, a strange feeling overcame his senses. He wanted this knife more than anything he had ever wanted before. He peered over at his partner, and with a sleight of hand worthy a famous magician, stuffed it away in his pocket.

“Good move,” the knife responded, “you’re perfect.”