Crucial

Dear Detective Brian Defoe,
Herein lay the narrative of his most cursory tortures.

Bralle was nearly finished with the familiar letter that had been found in the victim’s hand. And so it read:
“…you relay the information in your head, and it comes to you. For a second. And you sit there, in your pride, and you think you’ve figured it out. But you haven’t, because you aren’t paying attention. And for that second, as the truth finally comes to you and you realize you were wrong, the answer you’ve said aloud in your head will be drowned out by the screams of your end. Because that second was your last.”
Twenty-three years young, she was, and within the reaches of her bed she lay. Her coarse brown hair extended to her scrawny shoulders and, as was with the rest of her, caked in damp blood. In her tightly closed hand had Bralle found the letter. It was from a someone she knew, apparently. The same individual who was seemingly responsible for her murder. That observation was at the very least the very best Detective Martin Bralle could come up with.
“Every little bit helps.” said Detective Brian Defoe, his senior colleague assured him.
“Unfortunately, this little bit is all we have. Again.”, replied Bralle with a wearied tone to his voice. “I mean, it’s like the guy is killing these people just for the art of it. We’ve dusted the place for prints roof to floor thrice over, and still we’ve got nothing. Just like the past two murders. It’s astounding. We aren’t getting anywhere!” Bralle never did have patience. He was always so -- so anxious.
Defoe sat back in his wheeled chair on the opposite of Bralle’s desk. He let out a sigh and thoroughly gazed the surface of Bralle’s neatly, compulsively organized desk. The tape recorder Martin had on his desk made a slight humming sound. He always recorded his conversations for some reason. Probably related to his obsession with the details.
“Relax. It can’t be that complicated. We’ve got this. We’ll figure it out. Like always. I just need you to work with me. Okay? ”
“A-alright. I’m sorry. Let’s look at what we know.”, Bralle replied.
“The details.”, you said calmly.
“Yes, Mr.Defoe, the details.”, Bralle said with a smirk on his face.
Please do believe me, Brian; he was a decent detective, Bralle. He was young –thirty years old. A fairly attractive man if I say so myself, his tanned skin from mixed ethnic descent contrasted nicely with his piercing brown eyes and lush short hair. Brian, Bralle’s senior by at least twenty-some odd years had been his overseer for the last five. They knew each other quite well. Brian Defoe was brilliant, extremely so. Bralle’s deductive prowess would never extend towards that of Defoe’s. Never. His abilities rivaled those of some of the Department’s coyest staff, yes, but your abilities on your worst days rivaled that of Holmes’ on his best. But people didn’t see it that way. They should have, all of them. They were just too incompetent to. You were the best of them, friend, believe me you were. They just didn’t realize it yet. And that same incompetence led the most of them to lend a subtle yet obvious mocking eye towards him and his pretentious wit every time he entered the room. They didn’t respect him. You knew that, Brian. Yes, of course you knew that.
Martin Bralle took a sip of his coffee and looked at you.
“What we know, is that in the course of four weeks three seemingly unrelated individuals have been murdered.”
“Unrelated?” you asked.
“Seemingly. It’s what the background checks on the victim’s would seem to suggest.”
“And the family members, the friends of each of the three victims---“
“Have never met or even heard of the other two, no. We’ve checked phone contacts, email contacts, etcetera. There’s no pattern. There’s no connection.”
“No connections, no prints, how exactly how do you know we only need to be looking for one suspect when we don’t have prints for any of them?”
“The very fact that we don’t have fingerprints suggests that. Most killings aren’t planned, and the criminals usually are never that smart. The same type of weapon was used for each murder. It’s our best guess. And then of course the letters found near all three of the victims.”
“Okay. Let’s get back to the letters in a moment. Now tell me about the victims.”
“Sure. Insurance agent Nina Harper, 48 was found murdered in her family room three weeks ago. Four 22 mm bullets straight to the chest. Construction worker Will Maynard, 42, found dead on the kitchen floor last week, two bullets to the head, 22 mm. And then finally, college graduate Kristen Smith, 23, found dead in her bedroom. Shot to the chest.”

You sighed and thought for a few moments before speaking again. You leaned towards Bralle’s desk and switched the tape recorder off.

It was a beautiful way to take a person’s life, if ever there was one. Each victim was given a letter before they received it. Within the letters are always the details of the murder of the previous victims, in the form of a story- Will Maynard’s had the details of Nina Harper’s murder and Kristen Smith the details of Will Maynard and Nina Harper’s. Presumably, then, the next victim’s letter will contain the details of all three victim’s murder.

Bralle let out a long yawn and stretched, turning the tape recorder back on. “Well, it’s getting late. I say we sleep on it and start again first thing in the morning”, said Bralle.
“Sounds good to me, I’m beat.”, you said.

Before you left for home, you checked your work inbox to get your mail for the day. Martin took you home, since your car had been in the shop for the past week. As he drove you home you deftly sorted through the mass of filled enveloped he had gotten in the mail. You noticed an envelope of particularly peculiar design and began to open in as we arrived at your house. It is at this point that we, yes Brian, you and I, said goodbye and you got out my car.

And as you sit there, Brian, in your house reading this letter after a hard days’ work of critical thinking and criminal investigation you recognize the terror of the situation as you wipe the bead of sweat streaming down your terrified face.

You relay the information in your head, and it comes to you.

For a second. And you sit there, in your pride, Brian, and you think you’ve figured it out. But you haven’t, because you aren’t paying attention.

And for that second, as the truth finally comes to you and your heart goes on permanent hiatus from beating, the answer you’ve said aloud in your head will be drowned out by the screams of your end.

Because that second was your last.

Your friend,
Martin Bralle