Detective Iredell wanted a drink, and not the enhancement formula. Too much clarity is a bad thing.
Still, the victim’s family needed closure, and Iredell would provide. He drank the syrupy liquid.
It worked at once—he spotted blood on the carpet. Smelled chloroform. Felt a draft and followed it to the window. Escape route.
Iredell also felt his own pains. Arthritic knees and hips protested as he squatted over the scene. His heart strained with clogged arteries. Mostly, his liver ached.
Each enhancement he was more tempted to drink to counteract the effects. Soon, he knew, I’ll give in.
Author’s Note: I recently read a great story about an alcoholic detective, and I wanted to try my own . . . with a sci-fi twist.