He tried to relax in the study. This latest mystery had required his undivided attention for such long periods of time that he found himself completely and totally exhausted. For the moment, however, Professor Shawn Andrews found himself in the middle of composing a new poem. This artistic urge of his always seemed to settle his mind enough to focus more clearly on any pertinent issues at hand.

The case at hand. It was perplexing indeed. Thus far, there had been four victims. All of whom could not, at present, find their heads. One headless body had been discovered near the lake looking lackadaisically serene. Another was within a hotel room. The final two had been within a lovers’ embrace--at least, this is how their bodies were found. So now to the crux of the issue: the police. As of the current time, it appeared the police to believe these all to be unrelated cases. Their reasons for such a ludicrous claim? One, there was absolutely nothing in common with any of the victims. Two, the murder weapon: at each crime, the scene has been laid out very differently. At one, a meat cleaver--which was obviously used for the crime (indeed, it even had the victim’s stained blood upon it). At another, there were signs that, mayhap, a thin cable was used. At the lover’s sight, it appeared to be a clean swipe--clearly the work of a professional hacker. And three, thus far all of the incidents had been discovered in very different areas of town.

Professor Andrews rose up from his chair in the study and began to stroke his chin. “Intriguing indeed.”

Suddenly, a knock happened upon the door just as the good professor begun to set about the poem in front of him.

“Enter, please.”

Shortly after the invitation, the town’s Constable entered through the door.

“Do you generally make it a habit to allow unknown guests into your home, dear professor?”

Professor Andrews looked toward the Constable with a face full of sincerity. “Your knock was casual and without hesitation. If you were some sort of wary individual, the knock would have played itself off with a more formal tone--so as not to attract my suspicions. Indeed, I too have a knack for remembering small eccentricities such as those of certain people’s knocking. Yours, dear Constable, typically has two quick, crisp knocks and one softer following shortly behind. Beyond that, this is the likely time you would pay me a visit if you had such leisure to.”

“Indeed. I’m impressed you would remember something as simple as a knock. Surely, that could not be an important detail. Regardless, however, I have not been to your home in several months. In honesty, I had hoped not to come this night as well. However, there has been another beheading.”

“Indeed. Tell me then, Constable, what are the details to this one?” As he waited for an answer, the professor walked over toward a corner in the study and sat down where he could view the entire room.

“A young woman around twenty-two years of age. Her body was found near her home in the Northern Quarter. We are starting to believe that mayhap the first crime of this fashion has set off a trend throughout our fair city.”

Professor Andrews stroked his beard. “So the police are still under the belief that these are unrelated crimes?”

“Of course. Should we believe otherwise? All the evidence points to a very different modus operandi in each case.”

“Indeed, this is true.” The professor walked over to his desk, where on rested his incomplete poem. “Tell me, Constable, exactly where in the Northern Quarter was the body found?”

* * *

There were street lamps lining the road. The brick sidewalks were well cared for. Indeed, there were no visible signs that a murder had recently occurred in this neighborhood--at least, from the outside.

Finally, he arrived. 307 O___ Street. The lawn was still in wonderful condition--obviously, it had been groomed within the week. According to the Professor’s information, her body had been discovered within her very own backyard. A frightening thought, really. Everyone needed to feel safe--at least in a familiar back yard such as their own.

The Professor decided the backyard would be the last place he would examine. For it could be assumed that the police scoured every nook and cranny of it. No, he would start inside the house.

The inside of her home matched the outside neighborhood. Nice and quaint. Within the living room, there was found a desk, sofa, coffee table and a fireplace still fresh with the smell of burnt oak. Upon her desk Professor Andrews found a stack of papers, all of which appeared to be a sorted manuscript being given a “once over” in order to polish it. The Constable ne’er mentioned to him that she had been an author. This is the sort of evidence that could inevitably make or break a case. The house looked to be unusually clean for one who pursued artistic endeavors. The floor was swept, all the tables were wiped and any stacks of papers to be found were piled in a structured fashion.

Her bedroom, the only one in the house, was much the same. Her bed, elegantly made with the satin sheets properly folded; her dresser, wiped clean with nothing on it besides a small mirror; and another desk. This on had no papers on it, however.

There was, to be certain, a small trashcan beside her desk that had an envelope resting inside. The envelope was in a condition to make one believe it had been opened hurriedly. The Professor made some exception to this and, in retrieving the envelope, placed it in his jacket.

The rest of the house was not quite so interesting. There was a dining room, clean; a kitchen, spotless and an untouched bathroom.

Now, the backyard was another story entirely. Its care looked more fitting for that of an artist. The grass had not been cut. Weeds were sprouting out and the small, unpainted patio wavered under his steps.

As suspected, however, the grounds looked well trodden--a key sign that the police had been here investigating the scene. If there were time to thoroughly examine these grounds, the Professor was quite positive he would discover that every blade of grass in this backyard had been trod upon during the police investigations--for such was their way.

The good Professor, satisfied with his investigation, left the scene for the comfort of his own home where he might sit within his study and contemplate.

* * *

Professor Andrews placed the envelope next to his unfinished poem. He sat for a moment, not reading what might be inside the envelope so as to collect himself and have an objective view of the contents as based upon the condition of the package itself.

He lit the candles within his study for the softer, gentler light that they produced. Stroking his beard, he stared at the beaten envelope that rested next to his poem. “Hmm.”
He pulled out the tattered letter, which was inside.

______________________________________________
Dear Miss R____;
We were pleased to receive your manuscript and would be more than willing to see it published after incorporating the edits and suggestions made on the text.
Sincerely,
M______
Editor
______________________________________________

So, she was to be a published author. This fact had to not yet be known--otherwise, this would have been news in the local paper for sure. And if memory served him fair, one of the other victims was soon to be acknowledged for his work as a painter.

The good professor stood up and began working on his poem again. Then mayhap there is a connection after all. He began to think back on the locations of the other victims. The lovers; they were found in the SoHo district--three blocks away from the college of art. This left only the body found near the lake--indeed, the very first in this series of crimes. How can I connect this murder with the rest?

An odd knock happened upon his door. “Enter, Constable.”

“Professor Andrews, it still disturbs me as to how you know who it is. My knock was different this time.”

“Ah, but it was too contrived. And considering you are the only person I have informed as to this talent, it was quite obvious who was on the other side of my door.” The professor walked away from his poem to greet his guest. “Now, I am in need of your assistance. So, as it is, I am quite glad of your sudden arrival.”

The Constable laughed. “Good professor! How could it ever come to pass that you should need my assistance?”

The professor paced quickly around the study. “It has occurred to me that there may be some important avenues that have not yet been traced in these cases?”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. It has also occurred to me that I have not all the information that I need to investigate these other avenues.”

“What?”

“Indeed again. It is imperative that I see the files on all of our headless friends. There may be a common thief, yet.”

“What, by God’s blood, are you talking about Professor?”

“Pardon?”

“You speak of this and that and bring it back around to petty theft! You lost me on avenues--though I’m still not sure which avenue you mean!”

The professor sighed. “Calm yourself Constable. All shall become clear--once I figure it out myself. Now then, get me the files. In particular, I’m looking for permanent addresses, professions and hobbies--if this can all be collected, of course.”

Without anything further to say, Professor Andrews rushed the Constable out of his home.

* * *

The Constable had returned with the said files the following day. And within the following month, Professor Shawn Andrews had devoured the information within and scoured all of the appropriate places.

“Good professor…” the Constable was fidgety. It was obvious to Professor Andrews by the way he kept rubbing his fingers together. “It has been over a month and still nothing has been proposed to us by you and whatever investigations you have been doing. Have you any insight for me?”

“I am proud to say that theories I had a month ago, I still carry with me today.”

“Yes. That is all nice, but hard evidence is what we need. Have you at least suspects for each crime.”

“I suspect it could be anyone, dear Constable.” He began to stroke his beard. He glanced over at his still unfinished poem. Over the past month, it had made it to near finished quality several times--only to be rewritten.

“Well, it would do us all well if you could hurry up with this. We are having just as poor of luck, it seems.”

“Indeed, I shall. Goodnight Constable.”

Professor waited some time before exiting his own home. He needed to be sure that any and all of the Constable’s men were gone--for surely they would be following him as they had the entire past month to see what evidence he had or had not uncovered.

* * *

He found his way to a local coffee shop. This night, in particular would be quite important for him. It was a night for any who will to read their own poetic pieces. And while his latest poem was not quite complete, he was confident he could come up with something. Besides, he was not exactly going for the poetry--at least, not this night.

The inside was lit only with dim lamplight. There were several tables and a decent enough mix of persons about. A gentle smoke lingered in the air. And though he was not a smoker, it was a trend of the times. Thus he was acclimated to the smell and needed not to leave the shop for a respite.

He sat back, stroking his beard, and examined all the people who stood up to read poetry. Some of them had a fire in them for it, while others appeared only to want that fire--though not knowing how to truly attain it.

He watched the audience as well--taking note on their opinions of the young artists and seeing if anyone gave an intrigued eye to any of the performers. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

Finally, he, the good Professor, stood up to read his piece.

“Ahem. This is a little piece I’ve been working on. It has recently won me a place in an up-and-coming literary magazine.

____________________
trapped. in a cage.
I circle about.
staring at the cold iron bars
that now confine me.

I am awake. lost in silence.
as this cell that has become
mine own hell
strangles my desire.

can I escape the fire?
or shall it consume
the meat of my existence
leaving me broken.

trapped. in a cage.
____________________

“Thank you all.” He allowed his eyes to shift through the audience--hoping that his contrived story of up and coming success would pique someone’s interest.

The Professor did not stay around long after he read. He wanted to make sure he conveyed a sense of urgency in his actions, albeit a subtle urgency--much like that of an artist, feeling the desire to write when the muse comes upon him.

* * *

The good Professor did not make it very far before someone approached him from behind. Indeed, he just entered an alley--as a shortcut through the town. He did not see the person approaching from behind, nor did the person attempt to speak to him. Rather, his own footsteps echoed more than they should have through the alley. Someone was keeping in pace with his steps. Someone was following him.

“Good sir, I hear your steps are as equally paced as mine own.” The Professor did not look back to see his culprit’s reaction. He merely came to a halt and waited.

“It is mere coincidence, I assure you, sir.” The stranger’s voice was low. The words were spoken slow and detached, like the man was an unfeeling shell that hosted a calculated mind in replace of his heart.

There were no more resounding footsteps. The Professor stood where he was and listened as the stranger also stood--motionless.

“So tell me, kind sire. Why this incessant need to purge our community of its artists?” He remained facing away from the stranger.

The sound of one footstep was all it took. Professor Andrews sprung around to face his associate. The man looked dignified, wearing nicely pressed suit. His cold, black eyes, alone, spoke of his own misery. Perhaps he was, at one time, an artist--like those he has slaughtered. Somewhere along the line, he lost track of himself. He gave in to the pain that comes with being an artist. His spirit, broken.

The two locked--vying for control of the other. The stranger, wanting to break those as he had been, the Professor wanting to remain focused, stable yet able to adapt.

They moved around. The stranger lunged forward and the Professor parried. The stranger threw a punch, the Professor grabbed the swinging arm and spun the man around--keeping him off balance.

As they continued, they found themselves ever advancing toward the lake. The stranger stepped wildly forward as the professor consciously stepped back and to the side. The fire that the Professor saw in his eyes spoke of someone who, had not lost all passion--just allowed it to be misguided. He thought it unfortunate that this person who, at one time, obviously had so much talent would now be nothing--and all from his own broken heart.

The professor felt a reassurance as his left foot stepped onto the bridge overlooking the lake. Almost instantaneously, the stranger came to a halt. His thoughts appeared to return to him. He looked about, and noticed he was now at the very onset of the bridge. The professor stepped backwards, hoping to lure the stranger ever further on the bridge and to the other side.

What occurred next, however, was not what the professor expected. The stranger, without any provocation, leapt over the bridge. The water below was a good forty-five feet away--at least.

Professor Andrews watched the stranger fall. He watched as the man hit hard against the water’s surface. He remained there, on the bridge looking down, for another five hours--just watching. Perhaps he was hoping for the stranger to resurface--for once, he was unsure of his own thoughts.

He left the bridge and made his way to the police station. The Constable would be pleased to have this case closed.

* * *

Some months later. The Professor found himself within his study, completing a poem. As he was finishing, an unfamiliar knock happened upon his door.