The Story
I was once the lead detective on a crime involving two hundred grams of coffee beans.
Not officially, obviously.
I didn’t have a badge or a gun or even one of those little magnifying glasses. I had a hat, a slightly dramatic trench coat and enough confidence to make everyone believe I knew what I was doing.
One of my housemates had these expensive coffee beans sent down from Melbourne. The kind where the packet tells you the flavour notes are “dark chocolate, stone fruit and the tears of a Peruvian farmer.”
They cost about forty dollars.
I thought that was ridiculous until I tried them.
Then I became emotionally invested.
Anyway, every few days, the beans started disappearing. Not all of them—just enough for someone to make a few coffees and act like nothing happened.
There were four of us in the house. Nobody confessed.
So I took the case.
I made a little evidence board out of cardboard. I wrote everyone’s names down, along with their preferred coffee order, recent financial situation and general facial expressions when accused of something.
There was string involved.
A lot of string.
One housemate got offended when I wrote “definitely capable” underneath his photo. Another one cried, which felt suspicious at the time but turned out to be hay fever.
The evidence was everywhere.
Coffee grounds on the bench.
A teaspoon in the sink.
The smell of espresso coming from a bedroom at 6:30 in the morning.
I was convinced it was an inside job.
So I set up my phone in the kitchen overnight.
The next morning, we all sat around the table to watch the footage. I had prepared a small speech. Something about betrayal. Something about how no crime is victimless when the beans are single origin.
Then the video started.
At 2:17 a.m., I walked into the kitchen wearing only undies and one sock.
I opened the cupboard.
I took the coffee beans.
Then I made an entire French press, drank it standing at the bench and wandered back to bed with the bag under my arm.
I had no memory of it.
We found the beans later in the pocket of my work jacket. Along with a muesli bar, a USB stick and a receipt for something called “emergency nachos.”
So technically, I solved the case.
I just also happened to be the criminal.
This hat feels like that version of me. It’s the colour of a good flat white, with a vintage cream Petersham band, a crooked bow and visible stitching that looks a little like someone tried to hold the evidence together after the fact.
It’s smart enough to make people think you’ve got your life under control.
But not so smart that you’d trust it alone in a kitchen after midnight.
KM