A dim light shone through the penny-wide gap in the blinds.

The boss held two greasy fingers out, holding the two shutters open. He peered into the outside. The room smelled like cigars and whiskey; the chief always had a taste for the exquisite, the dramatic. Harry disliked all the theatricts. It was a waste of resources. Resources, that could be spent on doing what they needed to do.

“I thought I’ve made myself clear, Harry.” The chief said, turning to match his gaze. “You aren’t needed to catch the fugitive. We’re already working with officers all across the nation. He’s as good as caught.”

Harry stifled a scowl. “As I’ve said, chief-” He glared. The boss looked away. “I’ve been thinkin’ something was fishy, you know? I haven’t caught the suspect yet, and that means the case ain’t over either.”

“Again with your gut, Harry-” The boss started to sit on his fancy leather chair.

“Hasn’t been wrong so far, chief.” Harry said. He didn’t hate the man, but he sure was a pain to deal with. “Just give me some time, will ya?”

The boss stared, his expression telling that he regarded Harry the same way. “Look, Harry.” He said. “The higher-ups want us to be operating more ‘efficiently’, and that means we can’t bother to waste… Resources.” A worried tone slipped into his words.

“I’m not askin’ for much, chief.” Harry said, standing his ground. “Just a little more time.”

The boss sighed. He pulled out a cigar and snipped its tip. “Alright, Harry.” He said. “I’m giving you a week. I expect some results by the end of it.” He lit the cigar. “I’ve a call to make, Harry. Is this over?”

Harry turned away before his frown could show. “Have a nice day, chief.” He blurted out.

Shutting the door behind him, Harry kicked the opposite wall. Dozens of officers, detectives, and clerks face his way, recognized the door, and gave him an understanding smile. Harry began walking away, his back hunched and both hands slipped into his jacket.

It was always higher-ups this, higher-ups that. Always getting into the officer’s way.

Harry gave the receptionist a greeting before he exited the building. His hand against the door’s handle, a woman walked up to him, and patted his shoulder for attention.

The woman was dressed in full-blacks, from top to bottom. In her hands held was a basket of goods. Her hazel eyes looked sad, blood-shot and weary, but a small determination shining through.

“Excuse me,” she pulled on Harry’s jacket. “You’re Harry Jackson, the detective, correct?”

Harry turned around and gave a surprised, but welcoming, smile. “Uh, yes.” He said. “That would be me.” He had a voice for working with civvies - including his wife. The costs of working as a professional.

“May I have a moment of your time?” She asked, her hands gathered together neatly. “If you’re not too busy, of course.”

Harry lifted his hand from the handle. “I’ve got some time right now.” He said. “What’s this about?”

The woman led him to a nearby set of chairs. A couple of his workmates sniggered. Assholes.

“I heard you were the detective responsible for the case of…” She gulped. “My husband’s murder.”

Harry stared back blankly, but realization dawned. “Oh, you must be Mrs. Palmer then?” He said. “I used to be. I believe we’ve met before.”

Mrs. Palmer nodded. “Yes, it was during the interview.” She said, nearly reaching for a handkerchief, but resolutely stopping her shaking herself. “I wanted to thank you, now that the verdict’s been called.”

Harry tipped his hat. “No problem, ma’am.” He said. “It’s just what we do.”

She handed a basket over to him. “Here’s some goodies we have left at home…” She said. “Please take it… It’s a token of my appreciation. Our appreciation. The kids…”

“It’s really not necessary.” Harry said, but accepted the basket. “I understand it must be a very hard time for you, Mrs. Palmer.” He looked into her teary eyes. “If there’s anything we can do…”

“It’s fine.” Shs coughed. “We’re… We’re over it, now. Just some lingering regrets, is all.” She looked forlorn at the ceiling. “He’s at a better place now, I hope. If we’d only listened…”

Harry’s ears turned up. “I’m sorry to inquire, Mrs. Palmer…” He said. “But listened to what?”

“His warning.” She wiped a single tear off her rosy cheek. “And I called him paranoid. Oh, Arnold…”

“...A warning?” Harry instinctively reached for his pen. “Did you mention that during the investigation?”

“I did.” She nodded. “Not to you, though. We only remembered later - it was a bit of an offhand remark. I’d called in to the office - I don’t quite recall who it was…”

Harry smelled something big. His heart beat faster. “And the warning was about…”

Mrs. Palmer looked away. “He said he was scared he might be killed.” She said. “I figured he was being dramatic - journalists tend to be like that, and he’d said this a couple times before…”

Harry told himself not to get too excited. “Did he mention what that was in regards to?”

“No, not really.” She said. “Probably in regards to his research… He was so excited to get an article in the papers, too…”

“I see.” Harry said blankly. “That’s very interesting to know.” He slipped his pen back into his pocket. “Mrs. Palmer,” Harry stood.

“Yes?” She looked up.

“If you remember anything like that…” Harry said, fumbling in his pockets. “Please contact me here.” He passed her a business card. “Thank you very much for the basket.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” She said. “I think I’ll go home and rest now.”

“Please, do.” Harry said, opening the door for her. “Shall I drive you?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve got to get used to doing things alone. My car’s right here. Thanks.”

Harry watched wordlessly as she stepped into her car - suitably black - and waved when she drove off, the car disappearing amongst the morning traffic. He headed straight back into the office with a curious expression.

A crack and a blow awoke Alister.

Alister’s head spun. His vision was blurred; a light shimmered right in front of him, a bright blue glow of a screen. Covering it was a shadowy figure, almost nightmarish from the limited field of view. His mind wasn’t working properly; he wanted to scream and shout, but something stopped him from doing so. A power compelled, no, convinced him to keep tapping his fingers.

His vision shook alongside his entire body. Two hands clutched his arms and shoved him aside, taking him away from the monitor. His fingers continued tapping away at nothing. He didn’t recognize any shapes in the darkness. Nothing seemed to make sense; in fact, he didn’t feel quite conscious, like looking back at a hazy dream.

A shout alerted his other senses, forcing his body fully awake.

“Alister!” Someone yelled right into his ear. “Wake up!” He continued shaking Alister like crazy.

Alister’s attention snapped back into focus. Once again did he notice shapes, formes and figures. Ahead of him sat his friend, George, his face lit partially by the dim light of the laptop. Feeling sick, Alister grabbed George’s hand, and tapped it.

“Wait-” Alister said. “Stop!”

George stopped his movements and studied Alister’s face. “You awake?” He asked. “You’re awake, right?” He asked, looking concerned.

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Alister yelled, pushing him away. “The hell do you mean? What’s going on?” He asked, his voice cracking towards the end.

George sighed, and shot him a concerned frown. “You…” He said, looking back at the laptop. “You were… Sleepwalking, I think.”

“Sleepwalking?” Alister asked. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He asked. He folded himself in his blankets.

“I… I was playing some games.” He said. “Then I saw you fumbling with the laptop.” He pointed at the brightly-lit screen.

“I did not.” Alister looked uncertain.

“Yeah, you were.” He said. “I asked you what you were doing, but your eyes were like… Half-closed. You didn’t answer.”

Alister’s fingers felt a little warmer than the rest of his body. “What’re you saying?”

“You were typing something on a document.” George held up the laptop. “I tried waking you up, but you wouldn’t respond, so…”

“You shook me awake?” Alister asked.

“Yeah.”

The two stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence, their eyes slowing turning to look at the laptop’s screen. Alister slowly picked up the laptop and began reading. George sat next to him, intently burning the contents into his eyes.

A single word document was opened.

Its name : ‘Manifesto’.

Sprawled were dozens of lines, all perfectly punctuated and capitalized, flawlessly written; the work of an alert man. A man focused on an objective. The objective to deliver a message. A message of hatred. A hatred of…

The republican party and Brian Fox.

Alister recognized those lines. Words of hatred, vulgarity, and pain. Words that were never his.

Glimmering on the screen were the same lines that broadcast across the news.

“Fuck the Republican Party. Fuck the capitalist pigs…”

“Fuck you, Brian Fox… Somebody must do it...”

Alister stared, awestruck at this discovery. Wordlessly, his mouth flapped, a pained moan and whimper emanating from his dry throat. His eyes focused on a single point, unable to take anything in. They burned from overexposure, having forgotten to blink.

George finally broke the ice.

“You…” He paused. “You wrote this.”

Alister finally blinked and gulped. “Did… I?” He asked, his head spinning to find an answer.

The two fell silent again.

“You were… Sleepwalking.” George said again. “You weren’t awake, were you?”

“I don’t remember anything.” Alister nodded. “Almost like…”

“Like with the murder?” George asked, rubbing his chin. “Damn it, why didn’t we consider this?”

“What?” Alister asked.

“What do you remember about the murder?” George said. “You… Said you were holding the knife, right? What was it like?”

Alister looked stupefied. He wanted to let George know how much of an idiot he was being, but he stopped and considered. “It was like waking up.” He said. “Like that time you poured the bucket of water over my head… Snapping awake.”

“And you don’t remember anything?” George’s curious gaze made Alister feel uncomfortable.

“Yeah. Nothing.” He said. “I kinda remember… Like something bumped against me, right before I fell asleep on that bench. Something was off… But nothing else.”

George stood up, a mysterious half-grin, half-frown painted on his face. “I have an idea.”

“What would that be?” Alister asked. “Don’t even start with this sleepwalking nonsense…”

“Yeah, that’s probably not it.” George admitted. “I have an even crazier idea.”

“What?”

George stared right into Alister’s eyes. “You were brainwashed.”

Alister nervously chuckled. “You…” He stopped. “You’re joking, right?”

“No.” He was serious. Alister could tell.

“Are you-” Alister angrily motioned. “Are you insane?”

“Yeah, well, maybe,” George said sagely. “Maybe the world’s gone insane. I dunno.”

“Brainwashed?” Alister asked again. “What do you think this is? A scifi novel? Wanna call Yor?”

“Or hypnotized.” George said.

Alister’s mouth hung open. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No, that’s just it!” George said, shaking Alister. “This isn’t a joke, Alister.”

Alister slapped his wrist away. “Sure fucking sounds like one.”

“Don’t you remember? We read about that whole MKUltra shit before.” George said. “That was real shit, Alister. Hypnosis. It’s real!”

“You’re telling me I got… What, brain-scrambled?” Alister covered himself more inside the blanket. “By who?”

“That’s who we have to find.” George cracked his knuckles. “We beat the asshole and he’ll spill the beans. That’ll prove you’re innocent!”

“You’re serious, right?” Alister frowned. “You really think… I was hypnotized?” Alister felt disembodied. Like his own limbs wouldn’t follow direction; like wading through water.

“I mean, what else could it be?” George asked. “Or did you develop a secret sleepwalking habit or something? Are you Dr. Hyde?”

Alister gave an uneasy smile. “I mean…” He gulped. “I dunno. That sounds insane.”

George pointed at the screen. “This,” he said, furiously tapping at the screen. “Is insane.”

Alister stared wistfully at the screen, uncomfortably shifting around in his warm wrapping.

Finally, he spoke. “Hypnosis.” He said. “I guess that could explain what’s going on.”

“We don’t have much else to go by, anyways.” George said. “Cheer up, man.” He slapped Alister’s back. “We could be onto something here.” He smiled.

“I guess so.” Alister smiled back. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

Harry leaned back in his office chair, examining the reports laid out in front of him. A television rumbled in the background, the volume too low to disturb him. It broadcasted the election results for the local mayorship. A couple colleagues watched the screen intently.

The reports detailed the case of Arnold Palmer, the victim of a shooting. It happened a month ago at a deserted alleyway. A seemingly random passerby - Ron Smith - shot him at point-blank range, unloading his entire magazine within seconds. The sound attracted attention, and the suspect was apprehended quickly.

What made the investigation difficult was the suspect’s adamant claim that he did not remember committing the crime. In fact, he said that he didn’t remember the past eight to ten hours, and that he’d fallen asleep around then. But evidence pointed towards a premeditated murder. The lawyers tried to get him out on an insanity clause, but that failed when their defendant eventually caved after a session with a therapist. He had quite a bit to say.

According to the shooter, Arnold Palmer was less than honest, and his articles had slandered innocent people, endangering livelihoods. He had to be taken care of. Arnold had apparently written a hit piece on the man’s working place, which got him fired. His ex-boss testified that the shooter was fired because of work quotas.

All in all, a rather simple case, from top to bottom. Crazy people feeling marginalized was hardly a story to write home about. Harry had dealt with enough crazies to keep composure for the most part, although the false amnesia irked him.

Now, he read through the files again. None of them mentioned what Mrs. Palmer had noted; Arnold’s apparently precognition. It could’ve been a simple mistake, but then again, it was quite a striking line for a murder victim to make.

Harry recalled that Arnold had been working on an investigation at the time. Mrs. Palmer had mentioned it. According to his profile, Arnold worked freelance, but currently held a contract with a local newspaper company, the Fairview Weekly. A small publishing company with no noteworthy achievements.

The results rolled in and the winning candidate hopped on to the stage, waving her hand with a gentle, warm smile broadly scrawled onto her face. Sophia Stone looked happy, her bright-red lips accentuating her red hair. She grabbed the microphone with confidence. Harry looked away.

Arnold’s most recent article, according to the web archives, was a criticism of a well-known non-profit organization, the Lincoln-Brown foundation. They were well-known across the country, and many politicians supported it. Their goal was to provide better healthcare for the country and improve living conditions for the poor. Generally speaking - not that Harry knew much about this - the Lincoln-Brown foundation was praised amongst critics and supporters alike.

But Arnold’s piece was anything but appreciative of their efforts. It detailed potential cases of fraud, tax evasion, and most importantly, patient abuse. Hospitals supported by the Lincoln-Brown foundation were found nationwide, and many of them had reports of malpractice and mistreatment. A little above the national average, according to Arnold Palmer.

The article went mostly unnoticed. Arnold Palmer had continued working on the case.

Had continued. He was dead now.

Harry kicked back, separating himself from his work. At least it was an amusing dive - he loved the investigation, the search for the truth, much to the displeasure of his wife. But this had no relation to the current case. Not that he’d expected much.

Small details just irked him. Murders in an alleyway. Prominent figures.

But there was no connection between the two. Many murders, unfortunately, occurred at this very moment. Many of those in alleyways. There was a rise in, ‘political assassinations’, as the media loved to call it, recently. A hundred different politicians and psychiatrists came to speak of a generational shift or whatever bullshit that basically amounted to saying, ‘people are pissed’.

A few men in the room clapped as her speech winded down. Harry paid attention again. She shook hands with famous members of the audience - a couple wannabe celebs for the most part. What caught his attention was the person holding a giant check.

“...And I’d love to thank these people…” Sophia shouted, her voice hoarse from the day’s events. “From the Lincoln-Brown foundation!” She smiled, and held their hands up. “They’ve decided to donate a million dollars to our local hospitals as a sign of their generosity!”

Harry stood up, much to the surprise of his colleagues. He slammed his palms on the table.

“They’ve supported me so much throughout this campaign!” She said, the roused cheers almost drowning her out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

A connection.