Harry kicked the door, huffing as he stepped inside the office.

Dozens of wooden tables stood in a disorganized fashion. Pins and needles stuck photographs and maps to the walls, where red strings connected dot to dot, evidence to evidence. Boxes of donuts and snacks filled the trash cans, and the soothing scent of freshly-brewed coffee wafted in the air.

Most officers paid Harry no heed. They kept on, chattering, typing, sleeping. Lewis reared his head towards the door. He glanced at Harry, grinned, and waved. “Not goin’ well, huh?” He asked, his smug grin growing wider by the second.

“Shove it, Lewis.” Harry groaned. “Nothing. We’ve got literally nothing.”

Lewis chuckled. “No leads, huh? So what, the hobo had an alibi?”

Harry ruffled his hair wildly. “Yeah, that’s just the fuckin’ thing, ain’t it?” He kicked the wall, earning himself an annoyed glare. “Turns out he was robbing a store exactly then. I seriously can’t believe this shit.”

“No leads elsewhere?” Lewis’ grin shrunk.

“Yeah, well, that’s about it.” Harry said. He sat himself down on his chair and kicked back.

“Sucks to be you.” Lewis whistled.

“Really does.” Harry said. He picked up a stack of papers. “Now I’m back to square one.” He sighed. “How’re things on your end? The guy still not spillin’ the beans?”

“Going swimmingly, actually,” Lewis said, smiling. “The department’s sent us a psychiatrist to talk with the guy. He’s spillin’ the beans, alright. Only two sessions in and he’s changed his tune quite a bit.”

Harry frowned. “Lucky bastard. I got nowhere with the guy.”

“Well, guess this shows who’s the better cop, don’t it?” Lewis said. “Just jokin’. I owe the whole case to Dr. Helmer, really.”

“That the shrink?” Harry asked. “Maybe I’ll have him take a look at your head next.”

“He’s only gonna find a Playboy mag in there.” Lewis laughed.

“You best pray he doesn’t find the chief’s wife, too.” Harry said. Suddenly, his telephone started ringing. “Lemme get this first.”

Lewis nodded and turned back to his computer. Harry picked up the black receiver and held it up against his ear. “Harry Jackson. Who is this?” He said in a monotone voice.

“Harry? This is Jenkins.” A voice soon replied. “You got some time right now?”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “Sure. What’s this about?” He asked, twirling with the cord.

“We’ve got the results back.” Jenkins said. “Pretty conclusive, actually. They’ve done a better job than I thought they would. You wanna come check this out?”

“Can’t you give it to me over the phone?” Harry asked.

“Well, I can give you the name, but you better check out the files.” Jenkins replied. “There’s some extra stuff here. Like an extended autopsy report. It’s pretty extensive.”

“I suppose I ain’t too busy right now.” Harry sighed. He stood up, the chair creaking beneath him. “I’ll be right down. You’re at the lab, right?”

“That’s right. Bring me a donut while you’re at it, won’t you?” Jenkins asked.

Harry quickly ended the call, slamming the receiver against the telephone. He turned to Lewis. “Seems like Jenkins has somethin’ for me.” He said. “Hopefully something good this time.”

Lewis waved. “Good luck, man.”

Harry headed towards the door, stealing a box of donuts from a sleeping colleague’s table on the way. He quickly walked down the staircase. Many officers and clerks passed by, some waving or giving a small greeting as he passed. Harry headed for the forensics department with the well-trodden path.

The forensics department always had an eerie ring to it. Much contributed to that atmosphere - the faint smell of rubbing alcohol in the air, the lab coats, and the morgue. All in all, a Harry felt uneasy in that department. Something about these sanitized environments unnerved him. Like a child fearing the dark; an instinctual reaction.

He knocked on Jenkins’ door. Jenkins sat behind his impressive oaken desk, a satisfied smile curved up as he read from a file. A single table lamp lit the room, a shadow covering Harry as he stepped in. Noticing Harry’s entrance, he perked up, and waved.

“Harry. Good to see you.” Jenkins said. He held up the brown file. “Here’s the report.”

Harry walked towards him and placed the box of donuts on the table. “And here are your donuts.” Harry said, snatching away the files. He whistled. “Phew. This is pretty thick, Jenkins. Mind filling me in on the highlights?”

Jenkins nodded. “Sure,” he said. “It’s basically just an extended investigation. I’ve sent some samples down for evaluation, and they’ve made some new findings.”

“Like what?” Harry flipped the pages, skimming the details briefly.

“Well, I guess we’ll start with the autopsy.” Jenkins coughed. “You remember what we established, right?”

Harry scratched his chin. “Well, I might’ve skimmed the details a little…” He looked away. “But I remember the details. Murdered between five thirty and five fourty AM. Cause of death - internal bleeding. Fifty-six stabs, most to the torso, a couple to the groin, and two to the head. Judging by penetration depth, a knife.”

Jenkins clapped. “Good job. At least you know your case,” Jenkins said. “You’re mostly right. That’s basically it, as far as we were able to determine. No incriminating biological data left on the body. Death occurred before stabbing stopped. Small details.”

“And I really hope you’ve got some good news for me.” Harry glared. “I ain’t got much to work with at the moment.”

“Well, let’s get to it, then.” Jenkins paused. “First thing is, we’ve got a better clue regarding the weapon used. The forensics lab found a couple of shards of metal in the blood sample we sent. Judging by those, we can determine what kind of knife was used.”

“They found that it was a cheap, low-grade stainless steel.” Jenkins continued. “Judging by the bruising along the stab wounds - and the shallow cuts of the later stabs, they’ve found that it is likely from a cheap kitchen knife.”

“And that helps us, how?” Harry cocked his head. “My wife’s got a set of those, and I’m pretty sure she ain’t killed anyone.”

“It allows us to establish a psychological profile.” Jenkins stated. “We can say with near utmost certainty that this was a premeditated murder. Things don’t just add up.”

Harry tapped his foot. “...I see where you’re goin’ with this.” He said. “So, no evidence is left behind - the knife’s likely some throwaway from a gas station, and the body’s riddled with more than enough holes to kill four.”

Jenkins nodded. “We’re likely dealing with an unstable mind. There isn’t enough evidence to really draw a conclusion, but we know that this was neither an accident nor self defence.”

“That ain’t really tellin’ us much yet, though.” Harry said. “What else you got?”

“We’re only getting to the good part.” Jenkins grinned. “The samples we got from the murder site.”

Harry smiled softly. “I’m liking what I’m hearing.”

“We’ve got three suspects, based on DNA analysis.” Jenkins said. “First off, it confirms the two suspects we outlined for you - the hairs belong to John Zimmer and Lenny Crawford.”

“Two people we’ve cleared, I’d like to add.” Harry said.

“Yes, yes. But here’s the good part.” Jenkins waved. “The bile sample. They were able to figure out who it belongs to - well, within eighty-five percent certainty.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Well, out with it.”

“It belongs to an Alister Moore.” Jenkins said. “He’s in your files.”

Harry listened to the soft tunes playing in the radio. A classic rock channel repeated favorites from his childhood - songs, the newfangled youth would likely never appreciate. He coughed, the warm air of his cigarette singing his throat slightly. He breathed rings out of the window. The shapes dissipated quickly in the wind.

In the passenger’s seat sat his suitcase. A fine piece of leather with more pouches than necessary. Inside waited the files he’d requested - the files he needed for this investigation. Packed neatly together with Alister Moore’s personals sat the search warrant.

In a worryingly rare case of competence, the higher-ups granted the warrant without any issues; it went more smoothly than any case before. Harry whistled, the music amplifying his good mood. Finally, the case started getting somewhere.

A pesky thing lived inside every copper’s gut. The hunch. An odd sensation, and any cop worth his salt had felt it before. When one worked with cases day in and day out, sometimes, a sixth sense for trouble developed. That sense came and went like a tramp; it lacked reliability. Many times would it prove itself wrong. And yet, most detectives trusted it.

Harry’s hunch told him that a breakthrough was near.

Alister Moore had gone missing about four days prior, right around the time of the murder. Harry didn’t have the opportunity to call many of his relatives or friends, but none of them had kept up with Alister. The last person that had seen Alister was his boss, who had fired him that afternoon.

His Ford strolled gently into the driveway of Alister’s apartment. His nose wrinkled. He could never get used to the ugly, utilitarian buildings of the city. Grey flakes of aged paint chipped off the walls. Cheap curtains drew the windows shut. In front, an older man impatiently waited.

Harry turned the keys and stepped out. He clutched the bag underneath his shoulder and reached for the search warrant. His badge and papers in hand, he approached the old man and tipped his hat.

“Good day, sir.” Harry said. “You’re the landlord here, I presume?”

“That I am.” The old man picked his ear. “You’re the copper from the telephone, ain’t cha?”

“That I would be.” Harry said. He opened his wallet, revealing a shiny badge. “The name’s Harry Jackson. I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

“Here to look at that kid’s apartment, yeah, I getcha.” The old man said, glaring at him. “Ain’t like them coppers much, but what can an old man like me do?”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Harry said. “If you wouldn’t mind, could I talk to you about Alister Moore?”

The old man shot him an annoyed look. “Guess I may as well.” He said, after a moment of silence. “But I ain’t known that kid for long, y’hear?”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Harry said. “Could you perhaps describe Mr. Moore for me?” He pulled out a small notebook and pen.

“Well, there’s not much to tell.” The old man picked his nose. “The boy’s moved in ‘bout a year and a three-fourths ago, probably more - the quiet type, he was. Ain’t much of a talker.”

“Did the neighbours ever complain about him?” Harry asked, his gaze focused on the moving pen.

The old man paused to think. “I heard he’s quite an angry drunk.” He said. “Bashing against the wall and all that. Seen him once like that. I ain’t even sure it was the same kid.”

“I see.” Harry muttered. He continued writing. “Anything else?”

“Nothin’, really.” The old man grimaced. “Listen, I barely even visit the place unless some young’uns cause trouble. I’m just an innocent old man, y’hear?”

Harry finalized his notes and shoved it in his breast pocket. “Loud and clear, sir.” He said. He pulled out the search warrant. “And as for Mr. Moore’s apartment…”

The old man turned around and signalled Harry to follow. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He said.

Harry followed the landlord closely behind. The apartment soon came into view. “Nobody’s been in there, right?” He asked.

“Nobody, as far as I’ve known.” The old man said. “The kid left the door wide open. I closed it for ‘em, but I can’t be too sure.”

Harry grunted. “Guess I’ll have to hope.” He said. “He left the door open?”

“Yes,” the old man nodded. “Left the keys in the lock, too. Guess the kid was busy.”

“Can I borrow the keys?” Harry asked, reaching his hand out.

“Go ahead.” The old man said, passing Harry a small keychain. “I’ll be waitin’ downstairs. Don’t run off without giving the keys back, y’hear?”

Harry nodded, watching as the landlord slowly walked down the stairs. He fumbled, trying to find the correct key for the door, but soon slotted in the matching key. He turned the doorknob open and pushed. The metal door creaked open.

Harry took a step inside.

Harry felt his hairs tinge. Excitement filled Harry; he sensed the evidence in the air. As per procedure, he took a couple snapshots first.

He first noticed the disorganized mess. A black suit and tie lay on the ground, together with a brown leather suitcase. The crumpled sleeves indicated that they’d been discarded in a hurry. Harry put on a pair of gloves and stepped inside.

The interior was simple. Much of the furniture looked like they’d been purchased off an IKEA catalogue. No single feature stood out. From the entrance, a short hallway stretched out for about a meter. From there, three doors branched out, one leading to a living room and kitchen, another to the toilet, and the last to the bedroom.

Harry slowly pushed the door to the living room in. Inside, he found an another mess; a cabinet had been drawn open, and its contents all lied on the ground, slowly gathering dust. Besides that, there sat a nondescript couch and a coffee table. He approached the kitchen and checked the rack of knives. Five handles stuck out of five holes. Harry felt no surprise; if Alister was the killer, he most certainly had used a throwaway.

The simplistic design carried on in the bedroom. A table with a laptop. A small, wooden bed. A nightstand with a lamp. A single bookshelf. Dozens of books, mostly boring, nerdy crap, filled the bookshelf. Opening the nightstand drawer, Harry uncovered a dirty pair of socks.

An issue Harry came across during the investigation was the question of motive. A reason underlied every murder. If no motive existed, then surely better targets existed for an indiscriminate killing than a public official.

Harry turned his attention to the laptop. A thin layer of dust gathered on the blue lid. It had been stuffed to the corner of the table, while a spreadsheet dominated the center. He spread the laptop wide open and clicked the power on. The small cooler whirred silently. Soon, a login screen presented itself - luckily, password protection was disabled.

Modern operating systems contained very powerful tools. Used correctly, they could potentially make one’s user experience far easier and more comfortable. Of course, most people didn’t have enough brain cells to read the manual. In those cases, they proved to be very useful for people like him.

One such feature was the “Recent Places” folder. It documented the last folders and drives opened. Harry clicked it open, not expecting much. A list of names presented itself. The name, ‘Personal’, drew Harry’s attention, and he navigated to it. The folder had been set to hidden; usually, it couldn’t be seen.

Harry’s grin grew wide as a document presented itself.

Alister spent the past six days in intense anxiety.

His cabin stood in the middle of nowhere. No roads connected that shelter to the well-trodden paths of hikers and hunters. Even wild animals tended to stay away from the area, as sunlight shone down rarely upon that section of the forest, and vegetation sparsely grew. He’d never seen anything even resembling a human during his stay.

Alister rarely left the cabin. No need presented itself. Only for toiletries and water had he exited, and both could be done within meters of the cabin. Lack of proper insulation made the cabin rather cold, but he felt a different type of chill every time he left. The layers of blankets kept him sufficiently warm anyways.

In only an arm’s length away, enough entertainment waited. He couldn’t run the consoles for long before the battery pack discharged. Then, he’d have to wait for hours for the panels to gather enough sunlight. Because of the tree-shades, this process took a while. The cheap antenna tended to distort the image and sound quality of the broadcast, but TV reception came through. Lots of games had been loaded on the flashcart, allowing Alister to enjoy some childhood classics.

But he found himself flipping through news channels frequently. The nervous, paranoid fear never left his mind; it occupied a part of his brain, regardless of what he did. Entertainment served only to distract, and distractions never lasted long. He calmed himself down, lying that he’d covered up sufficiently, that he’d never be found. He’d found a good spot to hide the evidence; the tool of murder, together with the poncho and boots, lied six-feet under.

As usual, a shadow cast itself through the thin pane of glass. A storm brewed outside, the grey clouds swirling and churning. Alister snoozed, his face staring outside the window while absentmindedly holding a half-open comic in his hands. A lightning bolt snapped Alister awake, and he shuddered. He checked his watch and found that he’d overslept; only to realize he no longer had a job.

He grabbed the remote and turned the television on.

The local news channel lit the darkened room in a bright, orange light. Small flickers of grey covered the screen periodically. Two anchors sat behind a pearl-white desk, arms crossed, making grave faces. A bolded headline scrolled underneath.

“Breakthrough in political murder case - New suspect, Alister Moore, Age 26…”

Alister’s jaw gaped. He stumbled backwards, tripping and landing on his ass. Fear paralyzed his limbs and he simply watched, most of the words entering and leaving his mind simultaneously.

“The police found damning evidence in suspect’s house.” The female anchor recited monotonously. “The detective heading the case, Harry Jackson, has revealed the suspect’s manifesto…”

Alister’s ears perked up at the mention of a manifesto.

“Manifesto? What Manifesto?” His mind raced with possibilities. He gained control of his body once more, and slowly slumped up.

“This document, found in the suspect’s personal laptop, contains hateful rhetoric against the victim of this case, Brian Fox, and his party…” The anchor continued, not even batting an eye.

“My laptop?” Alister blinked. His eyes stuck to the screen. “I barely even fucking use that thing.”

“Here is a picture supplied to us by the police.” The anchor pointed at the screen behind her. A screenshot of a text file appeared. Disorganized, badly punctuated lines filled the document:

“Fuck the Republican party. Fuck the capitalist pigs.”

“Fuck you, Brian Fox, Fuck you, Brian Fox…”

“Somebody must do it, somebody must do it, somebody must do it…”

“This is only a portion of the entire manifesto. The entire document spans well over ten thousand words…” The anchor continued. “And is currently subject for review by the police. Anybody with any information regarding Mr. Alister Moore is encouraged to come forward…”

This kind of pressure usually caused Alister to quake in fear. But at the present moment, he hadn’t the freedom to fully comprehend the exposure he’d just recieved.

Instead, he noticed a sound. A small whirr and crackle sounded from the outside. A bicycle.