In the investigation hall of the London police station, the early morning held that kind of heavy quiet that precedes a storm. There were no sounds filling the space, no screams from the wronged, not even the rustle of the files Jim used to shuffle violently. He had closed them all, as if he wanted to bury the crimes of the past together. But seven files remained open on his desk, breathing like living entities.
These files represented a puzzle whose solution he already knew, yet he dealt with it like someone reading a novel written by an invisible hand, knowing its ending but captivated by the plot of its events. He sat staring at the scattered papers, his eyes moving restlessly, right and left, like a bird trapped in a cage. Between his fingers, a pen spun in a frantic dance, as if he were trying to squeeze the truth from his very nerves.
In his small notebook, he had written the seven names in black ink:
Olivia- Murdered
David- Missing
John- Missing
Alfred- Missing
George- Missing
Mary- Missing
Ellie- Missing
And two unknowns.
"What link connects them all?" Jim whispered as if chanting a funeral prayer.
On the other side of the table, Detective "Son" sat spinning the plastic cap of a pen with an obsessive-compulsive motion. Each rotation of the cap was like a grain of sand falling in their shared hourglass.
"Son..." Jim said suddenly, "what did you find in the girl's case... Olivia? Any evidence? Witnesses? Any trace?"
Son raised his eyebrows slowly, "Why this sudden interest? It's not a terrorism case, not even a serial crime... Leave some crumbs for us, my friend."
Jim smiled a heavy smile, the smile of a detective who knows the truth hides behind passing words, "All serial murders start with a first crime... don't they?" Then he added, placing his finger on the page, "And the removed fingernails... that's the killer's signature. And when a killer leaves a signature, it means one thing: he won't stop at one victim."
Son stiffened for a moment before saying, "Honestly... your words are convincing."
Jim replied arrogantly, "And when have my words not been convincing?"
Son laughed, "When you told me England would win the World Cup."
Jim laughed in turn, a short, bitter laugh, "Even if we don't win now... we will later. As for Korea... I don't think you'll live long enough to see them lift the cup. I doubt even your grandson will witness that."
Son laughed a "good one" laugh. Then he leaned slightly forward, "Regarding Olivia... there's one surveillance camera in the area, but it didn't capture anything. No one saw her... not even a bloodstain at the body site. The crime happened elsewhere. The killer transported her wrapped in black plastic, then placed her precisely. The only clue... tire marks from a Ford. A black Mustang."
Jim nodded. Then he stood up abruptly. A quick, sharp movement that made Son start without understanding why.
"Are you on the investigation team or not?" Son asked, confused.
Jim replied, putting on his coat, "I'll investigate it... my way. You all do what you see fit." Then he gestured toward the corridor as he walked away, "Goodbye, Son... This place has started to smell of blood lately."
He drove his car to the National Park. He arrived at three in the afternoon, long before sunset. He paced the park step by step, noting the trees, the benches, the faint light. Then he approached the guard.
Jim asked the guard with serious curiosity, "Where were you when they found the body here?"
The guard answered excitedly, waving his hands, "Someone locked me in the restroom... I spent the whole night there... When I woke up, a small child was standing in front of me, he opened the door in the morning... The child wanted to urinate but when he saw me sleeping here, he wet himself - it was a strange morning."
Jim interrupted him sharply, "Why are you telling me this?"
The guard said with childish annoyance, "I thought it might help you... It's an important detail... isn't it?"
Jim exhaled... "I'll take it into consideration."
Jim didn't know where or when the next crime would occur, but he used deduction: since the killer was a serial killer, he might try to prove it by using the same crime scene twice in a row.
He spent five full hours studying the place. And at eight in the evening... Jim lay down in the same spot where the body was found. The same position. The same distance. The phone in his hand. Some passersby looked at him in surprise, others ignored him as if he were a ghost, while he stared unblinkingly at the dark sky.
But drowsiness overcame him, and the hours passed.
Until the sound came... that static which opened hell for him.
Jim sat up quickly, sat cross-legged, then whispered:
"Em? Are you here...? Em?"
The voice came after long seconds: "Jim... where are you now?"
"In the National Park. Will the second crime happen here?"
"Yes. It's written that a homeless person discovered the body at 12:15. You need to move now."
Jim jumped from his spot. His body trembled, his breath quickened. He looked around - darkness covered everything, the trees swayed silently, the sound of crickets like a racing pulse in the heart of the night.
He ran - ran like time itself, in a straight line, but his head turned right and left searching for a small deviation that could mean life or death.
And suddenly... he stopped.
Under the faint yellow light of a park lamp... there was a body. And a few steps away from it... a man stood facing it.
A black hat... a dark coat... a long, motionless shadow. He raised his head slowly toward Jim as if the moment was prearranged.
Jim froze. He could no longer feel his feet. All he heard was the beating of his own heart.
The killer raised his hand calmly, adjusting his hat.
Jim swallowed his fear. One thought echoed through his mind like a curse:
"If I catch him... will my fate change? Will I finally break free from the ending written for me?"
That was all he had in mind; he didn't care about the victims of the crimes, only his wretched future. He realized this case was connected to it one way or another.
Then... while he was thinking, a mosquito stung him on the face.
Jim slapped his cheek hard, the slap echoed in the darkness - and in that moment... the killer fled.
Jim sprinted after him without thinking. Two men running: one fleeing from his past... the other chasing his future.
London's streets at midnight were empty like a giant shell. Lights flashed. Echoes ran with them. Jim's breath grew labored, but he didn't slow down. One step... then another... then another... He closed in - just five meters.
Then...
A car's headlights burst from a dark side street. A strong, sudden light; Jim screamed and raised his hands to shield his face. The car stopped near him, almost hitting him but it didn't.
He quickly turned his head to look where the killer was -
...He had vanished.
He yelled: "Damn...!"
He raised his head toward the black sky. Then toward the car that had almost hit him, it began to drive away... and as he watched it, he noted its specifications:
A black car. No license plate. Tinted windows... the same type of car, the Ford Mustang, whose traces were seen at the first crime scene.
Jim whispered, trembling: "It's... the same car..."
He was so stunned that another car from behind honked... for him to get out of the way... but he didn't notice.
The killer escaped... the truth escaped... and perhaps... Jim's mind escaped with them for a moment.