der of the night. While brewing myself a cup of coffee, my
cellphone went off.
"Is it true that he was... found dead in his home? That
Warner killed him?"
Ring Ring Ring!!!
"Look at the case files yourself if you want proof."
"Who is it," I said, tired and annoyed.
"I didn't mean it like that!"
"It's Amanda, your partner," she replied with an
unpleasant tone and added emphasis on the word
"partner".
I disregarded her last sentence and paced around
the scene of the crime, observing even the slightest detail
as to the victim's death. With about five minutes of examination of the crime scene, I came to my conclusion.
"What do you want at five in the morning," I complained. "Unless someone is dying..."
"This man is Mr. Harris, the butcher from the market in downtown. He was killed approximately around an
hour ago, on his way to the meat-shop after having his
breakfast. He was followed from behind and subdued with
chloroform, then injected with a high dose of cyanide," I
concluded. "As for the motive, I am not sure. I still have to
determine whether Warner kills for a cause, or simply out
of pure mental instability."
"There's been another killing. It's Warner's work."
"I'll be right there. Text me the location."
Edgar Warner. My parent's murderer. The serial
killer who hunts and resides in the lower north-east side of
New Jersey, where I have lived my entire existence.
Strangely enough, even though I never had any real sense
of affection towards my abusive parents, I dedicated my
crime-solving career to finding this monster.
"How on Earth did you come up with that so
quickly?" Groves exclaimed.
As soon as Amanda Groves sent me the address, I
headed out the door and walked to the location of the fresh
murder. Whether it be by luck or misfortune, the murder
had occurred only about some ten blocks away from my
apartment, giving me a speedy arrival.
"Simple. I have seen Mr. Harris at the market
plenty of times and know he owns the butcher shop. The
shop opens at 6:30am, so he must obviously be there beforehand. If it is currently 5:10 in the morning, during the
time of death he must have been heading to prepare the
shop. In addition, he still has English muffin crumbs in his
hand from breakfast and a receipt in his pocket. As for the
cause of death, this is rather obvious for me as I am a
chemistry enthusiast on the side."
"Well if it isn't Mr. Rude," Amanda called out as
she saw me coming around the corner of the street. "That
was fast."
I ignored her comment, crossing the yellow tape
and approaching the corpse.
"Are you like a 21st century Sherlock Holmes or
something?"
"Here's Warner's signature," she said to me as she
handed me a piece of paper with the words "Edgar Warner" written in blood. "I don't get why they leave a signature
so we know it's them. Wouldn't it be smarter to let us think
it's just another street kill?"
"Get used to it," intruded the forensic doctor,
Mark Grayson. "Though, Sherlock Grump is more like it."
"You lot are agonizingly immature and worse than
children," I replied and began walking.
"They are psychotic maniacs. They are mocking
us, yelling at our face that they are more intelligent and we
will never get to them. He doesn't want to do the smart
thing, he wants to do the twisted thing," I replied roughly.
"You're thinking like a rookie, Groves."
"Where are you going?"
"To analyze all the information I have thus far,
Groves. I will be in my office and I want no interruptions
unless absolutely necessary."
"Okay."
"Geez, you really are a blunt grinch, aren't you."
With that, I left. I headed to the station and locked
myself in my office immediately upon my arrival, scavenging though every single piece of evidence I had collected from Warner's crimes since day one to the present, try-
"Start thinking like a detective, or you will end up
like my previous partner."
She looked up at me with a perturbed expression,
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