policesquadquest/cases/case-00-1958/rooms/room4.json

{
  "name": "1114 Delaware Avenue",
  "enter_text": "Home. The rain has stopped. Nineteen years on the job and the porch light is always on, because you always leave it on.",
  "music": 1,
  "strokes": [
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 0, "w": 160, "h": 168, "color": 8, "meaning": "Floor" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 0, "w": 160, "h": 60, "color": 0, "meaning": "Wall" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 58, "w": 160, "h": 3, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 61, "w": 160, "h": 107, "color": 8, "meaning": "Floor" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 12, "y": 10, "w": 34, "h": 26, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 16, "y": 14, "w": 26, "h": 18, "color": 0, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 104, "y": 8, "w": 44, "h": 34, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 108, "y": 12, "w": 36, "h": 26, "color": 0, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 124, "y": 12, "w": 3, "h": 26, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 108, "y": 23, "w": 36, "h": 3, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 96, "w": 160, "h": 1, "color": 0, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 164, "w": 160, "h": 4, "color": 0, "meaning": "Wall" } }
  ],
  "spawn": [22, 148],
  "exits": [null, null, null, 3],
  "objects": [
    {
      "name": "armchair",
      "sprite": "armchair",
      "x": 46,
      "y": 126,
      "look": "Your chair, and the lamp, and the evening paper folded to the page about Ardmore Street.  ARREST IN PAYROLL KILLING. Four column inches. Your name is not in it, because you asked them to leave it out, because a man does not put his name in the paper for doing his job.",
      "synonyms": "chair lamp paper newspaper seat",
      "use_text": "You sit down. It has been a long week and it has been closed clean, the way they all close."
    },
    {
      "name": "coop",
      "sprite": "coop",
      "x": 128,
      "y": 128,
      "look": "The coop you built in the yard in 1951. Six hens.  You take one in to the bureau every few weeks. You put it on the Captain's desk, on the arrest reports, and you soak the reports first because a hen on dry paper will not stay put.  Nobody has ever asked you about it. In seven years nobody in that building has said the word out loud, and so you have never had occasion to mention it, and it has never once occurred to you that anybody wondered.",
      "synonyms": "chickens hens coop yard birds",
      "use_text": "You feed them. Tomorrow you will take one in to the bureau, because it is a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are when you do it, and there has never been a reason given for that either."
    },
    {
      "name": "son",
      "sprite": "son",
      "x": 78,
      "y": 132,
      "look": "Your boy, eight years old, at the kitchen table with his exercise book, working through his spellings with an expression of total and unblinking seriousness.  He wants to be a police officer. He has wanted it since he was five. He asks you every night what you did and you tell him, all of it, plainly, because you have never in your life told anybody anything else.  He has never once understood what he was being told. That runs in the family.",
      "synonyms": "boy child kid frank junior",
      "use_text": "He asks what you did today.  You tell him: you closed a case. You tell him how — the corridor, the eleven seconds, the man who was not turned round for, the print on the inside lip, the lift, the log, the furnace at four fifteen, the register, and the ninth key.  He listens to all of it with his chin on his hands.  Then he says: 'Dad. Whose print was it?'  You say: 'Mine.'  He says: 'Oh.'  And he goes back to his spellings, because his father has never once lied to him, and so there is nothing here that needs looking at twice.",
      "dialogue": [
        {
          "says": "Frank: Dad? What's the most important thing about being a police officer?",
          "choices": [
            { "text": "Doing it properly.", "goto": 1 },
            { "text": "Telling the truth.", "goto": 2 },
            { "text": "The paperwork, son.", "goto": 3 }
          ]
        },
        {
          "says": "You tell him: doing it properly. Every time, all the way through, whether anybody is looking or not.  He writes it in the back of his exercise book. He will still be doing it properly in 1988, in front of the Queen of England, and it will go extremely badly.",
          "choices": [{ "text": "Finish your spellings.", "goto": -1 }]
        },
        {
          "says": "You tell him: telling the truth. Always. To everybody. About everything.  You mean it. You have never done anything else.  He writes it down.",
          "choices": [{ "text": "Finish your spellings.", "goto": -1 }]
        },
        {
          "says": "You tell him: the paperwork. Everything goes in the file, exactly as it happened, in your own hand, and you sign it.  Frank: What if it's bad?  You tell him: especially then.  He writes that down too. Fifty years later his own son will fill in a four-page form correctly and it will be the only reason he lives through a Tuesday.",
          "choices": [{ "text": "Finish your spellings.", "goto": -1 }]
        }
      ]
    },
    {
      "name": "lockbox",
      "sprite": "lockbox",
      "x": 100,
      "y": 148,
      "look": "Under the third floorboard from the wall, where it has been since Saturday morning, is a tin box with forty-one thousand dollars in it.  You have not spent any of it. You have never spent any of it. There is nineteen years of it under this house and the boxes go back to 1939, and you could not tell anybody what it is for, because it is not for anything.",
      "synonyms": "box tin money cash floorboard board",
      "use_text": "You lift the board and put the week's in and put the board back.  You could not say why you do it. Nobody has ever asked, so you have never had to find out."
    },
    {
      "name": "mirror",
      "sprite": "mirror",
      "x": 30,
      "y": 108,
      "look": "The hall mirror.  Detective Sergeant Frank Drebin. Nineteen years. Best clearance rate in the division. Never once had a file come back. Never once been checked. Never once lied to a living soul.",
      "synonyms": "glass hall reflection",
      "wins": true,
      "use_text": "You look at yourself in the hall mirror for a while, the way a man does at the end of a long week, and there is nothing in your face at all, because there is nothing in your face to find.  You did every part of this correctly.  You dusted the box and you lifted the latent, and lifting destroys it, which is what lifting is. You logged it in your own hand because you were the officer of record. You ran it against the elimination set and there was no match, and you wrote down why there was no match. You destroyed the spoiled card under section 9, at 4:15, witnessed, and the witness thanked you for showing him how it is done. You typed four pages in which every single sentence is true, and it superseded the rookie's notes, and it went to a Captain who has not read one of your reports in eleven years because there has never been a reason.  You arrested a man who had the key, and you wrote down that he lent it out fifty times, and you gave a widow an answer.  A hundred points out of a hundred. Flawless police work. Nobody in this department has ever done it better and that is the entire problem, and it will stay the entire problem for another twenty-two years.  Upstairs, your boy is asleep with his exercise book open at the back page, where he has written down three things his father told him.  He is going to be the most honest police officer this city ever has.  He is never going to find out.  His son will."
    }
  ]
}