-Insert Mysterious Mystery Title Here-

    On second thought, maybe I should have waited up for the rest of the investigation team. I step out of my safe, heated car and into the unrelenting, icy rain. As lightning splits the sky, illuminating the tiny house on the edge of the dark woods, I'm almost tempted to turn around and go home. But I can't afford to be afraid now. This is my job.
    Someone was murdered here. Stabbed to death in his sleep. The local police have already marked it off as a crime scene, checked for fingerprints and other important clues, and taken the body away. In fact, they've even formed a special investigation task-force. I was welcome to join it, despite being from out of town, but I don't work with them much. I guess I'm a real detective now, despite the fact that I'm still young and I've only really solved one major case.
    I quickly but carefully approach the house, which looks a lot creepier up close. The door is unlocked. It's not much warmer inside, but at least it's dry. I'm sure this entire place has been searched many times over already, but I'm well aware of what idiots those who were searching are, so it's likely they've missed something. And even the smallest thing could be important to finding the culprit.
    Not quite sure what I'll find, I begin to wander through the house, looking closely at everything. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that the murder took place in the master bedroom – or should I say, the only bedroom. A man lived here alone, a bachelor in his twenties. He didn't have much of a social life, he might not have been very nice but he had no obvious enemies. So who would want to kill him? There is no indication of anything anywhere in the house that could possibly lead to the killer.
    I've never believed in ghosts, but there is still something very haunting about this house, even after I've turned on the lights and cranked up the furnace – something I would be frowned at for doing, but I'm cold. Like most murder scenes, the blood hasn't been cleaned up properly, the smell of it still detectable under the heavy disinfectant. The bloodstains really ruin the effect of the cheery décor – the brightly coloured walls and posters for bands and movies I might have heard of once. The rain still pours down, lashing the windows, the walls, and the roof with a horribly steady rhythm. Accompanied by the high, shrieking wind and the deep booming thunder, it creates some sort of awful symphony orchestra. The perfect music for a night like this.
    Why do homicides never occur on cheerful, sunny mornings?
    The sudden shrill ringing of my cell phone causes me to jump several feet into the air. I answer it with a tentative, “Hello?”
    “Oh, you're there, Lya. Good,” responds the voice on the other end, and I'm relieved to find that it's only Phil, who's been my boss for a couple years now. He came here with me to “help” with the investigation. Really, he doesn't help at all. He would if he could, but he's, to put it lightly, an idiot.
    “'Good'? You were worrying about me?”
    “Well, you never know where you could be. You're probably at the crime scene right now, searching for clues.”
    Despite his idiocy, Phil can be pretty good like that sometimes. “Oh? How did you know?”
    “We traced your cell phone.”
    Okay then. “Really? For a second there, I thought you were actually intelligent enough to figure that out on your own.” I laugh, not really thinking about what I just said.
    “Hey, did you just call me stupid? Oh, never mind that, come back here right now please.”
    “No thanks. I'm investigating on my own. I don't need you guys.” And I don't. But maybe it's not the nicest thing to do to admit something like that.
    “You did call me stupid, didn't you? Because if you did, I'm going to-” But whatever he might do if, heaven forbid, I called him stupid, is cut off when I hang up and stick my phone back in my pocket. I have more important things to do than offend my boss tonight. I'll remember to apologize later.
    Maybe there is nothing that indicates the killer's identity, but I might be able to find something that would prove... I don't know, something. I'll know it when I see it. I start digging through drawers and cupboards, even the refrigerator – surprised to find that there's still food in there, I take a leftover slice of pizza for myself – feeling like I'm intruding, but I have to check everywhere, and there's not really anyone living here anymore to object. I crawl under the bed and the couch and chairs and tables, which must have looked pretty funny if anyone was watching me, but still I find nothing. Nothing that says anything about who would want to kill this man, or why. Maybe it would be easier to ask his family or something.
    Discouraged, I decide to leave and go join Phil and the investigation or something. I just have to get out of here now. I'm almost out the door when I detect a slight movement out of the corner of my eye. I whirl around to face whoever it is, to find nothing. It was just my imagination. I return to the cold rain. I must be tired. That's all. I'm going home now. Striding quickly back to my car, I look back one last time to make sure I didn't forget to turn off a light or something. And I see it again. Motion, a figure that is just a shade darker than the rest of the night. A man.
    And not inside the house, but outside, moving quickly and purposefully towards me.
    I'll admit, I'm afraid. It crosses my mind that this could be the killer, returning to the scene of the crime. Maybe I did see something important, and now he's going to kill me. Maybe he wanted that piece of pizza I took.
When he gets close enough, I realize that he's just a young man; a lot taller than me, but couldn't be much older. His hair is long and dark, almost completely covering his eyes, and he wears loose and currently soaking wet clothing. I wonder how long he's been out here in the rain? I'm relieved that he looks just as surprised to see someone else out here this late as I am.
    “What are you doing here?” I ask him, working hard to keep my voice strong and authoritative.
    “I was about to ask you the same question,” he replies, his voice a little higher than I'd imagined.
    And what can I do but tell the truth? “I'm investigating. This is a crime scene, and I intend to find the culprit myself. What about you?”
    He thinks on this for a minute, then says in a careful, controlled voice, “Me too. I'm a private investigator. So don't tell your team I was here.” He starts to leave.
    “Wait!” I get the impression he's a lot smarter than the other people I could be working with. “Maybe we could work together on this case!”
    He turns a little faster than I'd anticipated. “Really?” I can't tell what emotion that is in his voice, but he seems to be good at hiding it. “That's great. We'll get to work tomorrow then? Be back here tomorrow morning then.”
I'm not sure if I can trust this guy, but there's something about him that catches my attention. Something about his intense gaze, barely visible under his long hair. A dark seriousness that reminds me of someone I once knew. A friend who was killed a year ago, when we were working on a different case. I can't just leave and never see him again.
    “Okay,” I promise him, “I'll be here.”
    I don't even ask him his name or anything.

    We are both back at the old, as of recently abandoned house at the break of dawn. The rain has cleared up and the birds are chirping. The man is here already, restlessly pacing around the living room, looking a lot less creepy now that it's light out. In fact, he might actually be a bit younger than me. When I arrive, he just asks me, “Figured anything out?”
    As if. “No, I haven't.” And then I remember, “Oh, by the way, what's your name?”
    He looks at me as though that were a strange question to ask. “My name? Why would you need to know that?” He pauses, rolling a pencil between his fingers in what could either be thoughtfulness or nonchalance. “I've been called a lot of names. But for this case, you can call me Zack.”
    So he's either an unlicensed detective or in hiding, maybe even both, and uses a different alias every time he has to introduce himself. But I don't comment, just respond normally, “I'm Lya. And have you figured anything out?”
    “Well, no. I do have an idea, though.”
    “Which would be...?”
    “I think we should eat all the food from the victim's fridge before it goes bad, because that wouldn't be good at all. Don't you agree?”
    I resist the urge to slam my face down on the table. And here I'd thought that he was onto something. I walk up angrily and hit him over the head with my notebook – the only weapon I have handy at the time. “I meant concerning the case, genius.”
    “It was a joke, Lya,” Zack explains as he rubs his head, “I was joking. Or can you official detectives not afford to have a sense of humour?” He doesn't sound very comical, though, still speaking with no expression whatsoever.
    I look him in the eyes – or as much of his eyes as I can see, anyway, and tell him, “I'm serious. If you think murders are funny, then go home. This is nothing to joke about.”
    “Okay, got it. I'll be serious. Dead serious. Get it, because it's a murder and – okay, I'll admit, that one was bad.”
    We don't speak to each other again for at least half the day, separating to do a complete search of the house. Even working together, we find nothing. Which means that the killer has worked hard to make sure he left nothing behind. That he knew there would be someone looking closely. So the killer is someone smart, and is unlikely to make any mistakes.
    Finally I break our silence by asking, “If you were the murderer, where would you leave clues?”
    “Oh? Where you talking to me?” Zack responds, “Well, if I were the killer, I wouldn't have left any clues at all. Nothing that could implicate me personally. Wouldn't you do the same?
    Right. “So, you're saying there's nothing to find?” Just confirming my own thoughts.
    “Exactly. What we need to find are this man's connections. Who does he know? Who could want to kill him?          An inferior he's always bossing around? Someone he bullies? Or a person who just doesn't like him for no reason at all? No, those don't seem very likely...”
    “An ex-girlfriend or childhood enemy seems most probable,” I conclude aloud.
    “Why?” He appears to be genuinely curious.
    “Because this is just too childish. I mean, the person just breaks into his house in the middle of the night and stabs him to death?”
    “Seems like a fair enough way to kill someone.”
    “No, it isn't,” I argue, not even knowing where exactly I'm going with this, but afraid I'll lose the idea if I stop, “it's completely unfair. A cheap shot. I think that the killer is someone very immature that can't stand to lose, trying to get even.”
    Zack considers my analysis for a couple minutes,  now chewing on the eraser of that pencil he's been carrying around with him. Then he finally responds, “So, if your supposition is correct, you'll have to contact his friends and family and ask them about anyone that fits your description.”
    “Me? Then, what will you do?”
    “Well, first I'm raiding that refrigerator. I'm starved. Let's keep in touch, though, by cell phone. Tell me everything interesting, and I'll keep track of it.”
    Suits me fine. But I can keep track of my own information, thank you very much. “All right. I agree.”
    “Good.” Is that a hint of a smile I see tugging at the corners of his mouth?
    I feel his eyes watching me as I leave.

    Over the next four days, I'm making all sorts of phone calls and visits to people who knew the victim: parents, siblings, cousins, neighbors, friends, co-workers, anyone who had interacted with him recently. A few seemed suspicious, namely his clearly mentally unstable ex-girlfriend and an old enemy of his that one of his brothers pointed out. Too many suspects, too little time. I'm on my way home when the sudden shrill ring of my cell phone causes me to jump several feet into the air. I have really got to get a new ringtone.
    I answer carefully, “Hello?”
    To find that it's just Phil on the other end of the line, again. “Hey.”
    “Hey yourself, Phil. What's up?” No doubt he wants an apology for my being mean to him, and for me to get over to the police headquarters right away.
    “I was just wondering what you were up to,” he answers, good-naturedly as ever. Way to defy my expectations. “And,” he continues, “I had something important to tell you. Another man has been murdered.”
    “Shouldn't that have been the first thing you mentioned?”
    “I forgot. But I remembered on time this time!”
    I cover the mouthpiece of the phone as I shout some things I'd rather he didn't hear.
    “You there?” He asks, “this is important, so get over here right now.” He gives me the address.
    Along the way, I wonder whether any of my suspects have any connection to the new victim, or if I'll have to make a new list of suspects. And then I wonder about Zack, and who he really is, and whether he even knows that someone else has been killed. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't. I'll have to call him later.
    I arrive at the scene to find most of the other officers and detectives there already, marking off the area with that fluorescent police tape and keeping inquisitive passers-by away. I don't  bother announcing to anyone I'm here, I just follow the small group that enters the house to investigate.
    Separating from the group, I search through the house. This house is much larger; the victim isn't the only person living here. The others are out on vacation. Or they've been murdered too, but it seems unlikely.
    I find the man's bedroom, and he's in there too, lying face-down on the thick carpet in a pool of blood. I don't need to take a closer look to know that he's been stabbed as well.
    Stabbed to death. A bit of an odd choice when methods that require a lot less effort exist. Could the killer simply not get his hands on a gun? Or did he just hate both of these men so much that he'd rather kill them like this? Sounds twisted.
    Whatever the reason, I can now be sure that this is just due to a personal grudge. The killer is definitely after a certain group of people. This man is about the same age as the first victim. Will there be more victims, more men in their twenties? All stabbed? What are the killer's intentions? Does he just want to kill the type of people he dislikes? What have they done to him?
    The rest of the investigation team is in the room now, looking around, taking photographs and fingerprints. I leave, needing to get out of here now. I need to contact Zack. Once I've told everyone I'm leaving (some of them seem surprised to see that I'm even here at all) and distanced myself from anyone who could be eavesdropping, I dial in his number. Somehow I'm sure he'll be the key to solving this case.
    He picks up halfway through the first ring, surprising me. No greeting, just a “So, anything new?”
    “Well, I'd say a new murder victim is 'new.'”
    “And there's proof it's connected to the first one?”
    “Well, yeah. Both the same age, same sort of social level. Both stabbed...”
    We both fall silent for a little while.
    Then Zack asks, “So was this new victim related to the first one? Any connection of any sort?”
    I really don't know this. “I'll have to look into that. I'll do that right away.”
    “Okay.”
    If the only connection between the two men is that they were both murdered by the same person, why would they have been the targets anyway? “This case makes no sense,” I blurt out.
    “I agree. But you'll figure it out, won't you?”
    I'll figure it out? Not we will? Everything I've been thinking over the past few days has been a question. Maybe this case is a bit hard for me. “But I could never give up...”
    “What was that?”
    “Nothing, okay? Just meet me at the second victim's house – that's number 115 on 10th street – tomorrow morning, okay? Just meet me there.” I'm not sure whether I really want to see him, but I could never give up on him now.
    “Got it,” he replies, and hangs up.
    I wonder what goes on inside his head. What does he think about? What must it be like to be him? I wonder who he even is. Not that I'll ever know. And I'm already trying to uncover enough secrets without having to worry about his, too.
    We meet at a whole new crime scene to examine many times over. A task that neither of us is looking forward to.
    We still uncover no new clues, nothing that indicates anything new about the killer. All it shows is that the killer is still making no mistakes. Maybe he never will. I'm slowly feeling more and more frustrated as we go along, which seems to amuse Zack, causing him to try his hardest to frustrate and annoy me even more.
    After almost all day and still finding nothing, I'm nearly ready to quit. The only connection we can find between the two victims is that they both attended the same school up until third grade. That was too long ago to mean anything to normal people.
    Zack derails my train of thought by voicing a question, “When will the next murder take place?”
    I count it in my head. There were about six days between the first two murders, so it could only be another six days. “So five days from now,” I finish my theory aloud, “the twenty-eighth, unless there is no pattern.”
    “I'd say there's probably a pattern, considering how similar all the other aspects of these murders has been.” Still talking in a monotone. Still chewing on that poor eraser. “And who are our suspects?”
    “No one. Well, it could be anyone. Absolutely anyone.”
    “This isn't a very big town, but I see what you mean. Okay, then who is likely to be killed? Think, more twenty-year-olds who don't get out too much, maybe who are sort of rude?”
    “Like you?”
    “This isn't the time for jokes.” He doesn't seem very amused.
    “I couldn't resist. And besides, you have no right to criticize me for jokes in questionable taste.”
    And suddenly it hits me. Someone who is likely to be killed. The man that lives next door to the place I'm staying at. He only moved in recently, from another part of town, a rather obnoxious man, a recent college graduate, not much older than me...
    “Keep an eye out for that type of people, and try to warn them, okay?”
    “Sure, I'll try” I agree. Why does he look so intense all of a sudden? Or was he intense all along?
    And then I leave. I know I'll do more than try. I'll be at my very best. It means everything that this case is solved. I'll do everything in my power to make sure that the murderer is stopped.
    I hardly get any sleep over the next few nights, just lying awake listening to those little sounds you tend to forget all about until you're up in the middle of the night and can't sleep, just the house creaking in the cold, and the rain causing branches to tap against each other. Of course, I'm also thinking about the killer, what kind of person he must be, and watching out the window. Watching the neighbor's house. Wondering if he will be killed. If I can even do anything about it. And I'm sure he'll be targeted at some point; further research revealed that he was in that same class as the first two victims. Whatever this means, I'm sure it's the connection. Was the killer in that class too? I never mentioned this to anyone, though. I'm on to something, and I want to be the one to come face-to-face with the killer.
    Still, one thought keeps haunting me. What if I actually do come face-to-face with the murderer? What if it's someone I know? What if they have a perfectly good reason to be killing these people? Would I be able to stop them?
    Phil and the task force seem pretty busy over these days and nights that feel like years, especially after I tell them my theories about what people might get killed, and why. They don't have much time to chat with me, at any rate.
I keep in touch with Zack over this time as well, and he seems to be pretty busy too, but he always has time to joke around. I can't explain it, but I feel as though we're getting closer somehow. Maybe I like him? I don't really feel like thinking about that right now.

    And finally, it's the night of the twenty-eighth. I can't sleep or even stay in my room, so I get dressed, grab my gun, and go outside. I sit down in the shadows, where I'm freezing but unlikely to be seen.
    Then I see him – a human figure, a shade darker than the rest of the night. Striding quickly and purposefully down the back alley...
    And straight into my neighbor's house. The murderer for sure.
    What choice do I have but to follow him? Silently through the still-ajar backdoor, quickly but carefully. I can't see him clearly, but he's wearing a black jacket with the hood up over his face. I stay at a safe distance, waiting for the right time to corner him. What if he attacks me? It's too late to call in backup.
    This is the first time I've ever felt reassured that I'm armed.
    Suddenly he whirls around to face me. His face is smothered in shadows, but the thin, sharp knife he carries reflects slivers of moonlight in all directions.
      A small, choked cry escapes his throat as he recognizes me, and I start to feel dizzy as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I recognize him too.
    The whole world seems to stop turning.
    There are a lot of emotions blurring together in his eyes. Eyes I have never seen before, but recognize just the same.
    The same emotions I can be sure he sees in mine.
    Zack. The killer is Zack.
    And now he's going to have to kill me, unless I kill him first. I raise my gun, flicking off the safety, but knowing I could never shoot him. My shaking hands lower the gun, and instead I shoot at him a question, a single word, “Why?”
And now I can see his face clearly, his green eyes filling up with all sorts of expressions, the dark lines under them from sleeplessness. And then he answers, “Because they were bad people. And they deserve to die.” He isn't speaking in a monotone now.
    “Bad people... by your standards alone? They picked on you or something? And now you have to kill them... for that?” I feel the anger bubbling up inside me, but I can't bring myself to raise the gun again.
    He looks guilty, apologetic even. He nods.
    “Who are you,” I ask. I want to know, but at the same time I'm afraid to know.
    “No one,” He responds, “I was no one.”
    “Was?”
    “Until I met you.”
    “That makes no sense. This whole time, we were technically just trying to get rid of each other, and now you're saying...” I'm fighting back tears now.
    “This case makes no sense.”
    For some reason, I think he's going to kiss me, which is comically absurd, yet somehow likely for the current situation. But he doesn't. And now I can't kill him. He's a bad person, but to kill him... would be so easy, but I can't bring myself to do it. How many times will I have to grow close to someone, only to lose them?
    “Get out of here. Now.” I demand. I want him to leave before anyone knows he's here, before anyone can arrest him, and also before I do something stupid, like cry.
      But he doesn't leave. Instead he makes a request of his own. “Kill me.”
      I stare in open-mouthed shock. It seems like a weird request.
    “No,” he says, “I'm serious. Kill me. You'll be the hero, and it's the only way out of this. Or would you rather I get arrested and go to jail for the rest of my life? At this point, I have no future anyway.” I can't hold his gaze anymore.
    “I... I can't.” And I know that's the truth. “Just... go.”
    Before I can protest, he takes the gun from my shaking hands, and I can only watch helplessly as he raises it to his head, gives me one last smile (or is that a first smile?) and pulls the trigger.
    A sound that I'll never forget for the rest of my life.
    Another person lost. I almost collapse here and now, but instead I pick the gun up off the floor and call Phil. I go on, for Zack, or whatever his name really was.

    I saw some guy breaking into the neighbor's house in the middle of the night, and shot him when he realized I was following him. That is my story. I think that even the idiots on the police team can tell this is a lie, but at least the case is solved. No more murders. I am a hero, whether I wanted to be one or not.
    I still watch him die every time I close my eyes. But I think I finally understand. He was going down, so he wanted to take some people down with him. Some people he'd always hated. Why was he going down, though? We finally identified him as someone who had, in fact, been in the same class as the three targets. They had, indeed bullied him. He had gone missing, presumed dead, about five years ago. Even though I know his name now, he'll still be Zack to me. Why? I don't know. I guess it's a mystery.