Horror City Detroit: The Lost Years - The Maggie P. I. Affair

Frank A. Fiorello | June 1, 2026

AI generated image.

The rain came down in sheets over Corktown Detroit, turning the cracked streets into black rivers that reflected neon signs and flickering street lamps. Somewhere in the distance, a train screamed through the night like a wounded animal.

Inside the old bar, Ira Frankensteen’s leg bounced vigorously while The Impaler sat back drumming his fingers on the table, deliberate rhythm. Genevieve Dragonweed lounged in a booth off to the side of the table, feet dangling, smoking while she watched them both with amused eyes.

“Genevieve put that out!” Impaler said sternly, adjusting his medallion for the third time. “A professional detective should respect the clock, she’s late.”

Genevieve smirked. “Maybe she’s investigatin’ another missing doctor.”

The Impaler didn’t laugh. He rarely did.

The door bell echoed through the room.

The rain was heard louder as the door opened.

Ira rushed to the door as Maggie P.I., drenched from the storm, wearing a Detroit Tigers cap low over her eyes, a low buttoned Hawaiian shirt and carrying a weathered notebook under one arm.

“You the people looking for Dr. Frankenstein?” she asked.

Ira straightened proudly. “Yes. uh a brilliant man. D-D-Dangerous mind. Possibly hiding in the city sewer tunnels or uh, um maybe Windsor.”

Maggie stepped inside, looking around the dark barroom filled with lovable loser’s, strange vibes, and old portraits, perhaps some with missing eyes.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Well… I’ve tracked cheating husbands, stolen motorcycles, and one guy who thought raccoons were spying on him for the government. I can probably find your doctor.”

Genevieve watched her carefully.

There was something off about Maggie.

Not fear. Not nerves.

Comfort.

Like she already knew more than she should.

The Impaler slid a thick envelope of cash across the table.

“Half now,” he growled. “Half when Frankenstein is found.”

Maggie grabbed the envelope almost too quickly.

“Pleasure doing business.”

For the next several nights, Maggie kept returning with stories. Leads. Rumors. Excuses.

“Someone spotted Frankenstein near the Detroit River.”

“He’s connected to smugglers.”

“I almost had him.”

Every update cost more money.

Every lead went nowhere.

Ira believed every word.

The Impaler wanted to believe.

But Genevieve Dragonweed trusted instincts more than stories.

And her instincts were screaming. They were screaming she needed another joint, and something else… But what was it?

Oh yeah! That was it! So one fog-covered evening, Genevieve followed Maggie.

The detective wandered through the west side wearing her Tigers cap and Hawaiian shirt, stopping occasionally to scribble nonsense into her notebook whenever someone walked by. She didn’t investigate anything. Didn’t question anyone.

Instead, she entered a dim little bar near the railroad tracks.

Genevieve slipped into the alley beside the building and peeked through a cracked window.

Inside, Maggie laughed while counting stacks of cash.

The Impaler’s cash. Which was Genevieve’s cash if you didn’t know.

A heavyset bartender asked, “So you really got those weirdos chasing ghosts?”

Maggie grinned.

“Oh, absolutely. Every time I say ‘Frankenstein sighting,’ they hand me another envelope.”

The entire bar erupted in laughter.

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed.

“Silly detective,” she whispered.

She stayed hidden while Maggie bragged about the scam for nearly an hour. Fake clues. Fake witnesses. Fake maps. There never had been a trail.

Maggie was playing them from the beginning.

But Genevieve didn’t storm inside.

Didn’t warn Ira.

Didn’t even tell The Impaler.

Instead, she smiled.

Because secrets were powerful things.

And timing was everything.

The next night, Maggie returned to the funeral home carrying another fabricated lead.

“I think Frankenstein’s hiding beneath an abandoned church—”

“Interesting,” Genevieve interrupted softly.

Maggie, the smooth confidence man, never revealed anything. Just nodded, grabbed her envelope and left the old church that served as the Impaler’s HQ.

Genevieve set off to the ghetto against the Impaler’s objection. As he sat back he noticed his credit card missing yet again. “GENEVIEVE!”

Maggie P. I. was sneaking out the back of the Leland when Genevieve sniffed out her trail.

Genevieve did not understand it but her sense of smell was overwhelming.

Genevieve stood in the doorway behind Maggie, dressed completely in black, her wide-brimmed hat casting shadows across her face.

“You know,” Genevieve spoke out of the shadows, “I spent last night investigatin’ the investigator.”

The world went silent.

Genevieve stepped closer to Maggie.

Maggie’s confidence cracked for the first time.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Genevieve smiled wider.

“Oh, I think you do.”

The streetlights flickered.

Genevieve tackled Maggie to the ground and ferociously attacked her.

And Maggie P.I. suddenly realized the biggest mistake of her career wasn’t scamming monsters.

It was underestimating Genevieve Dragonweed.

Genevieve covered in blood buried Maggie P. I. in her final resting place on Zug Island.