The man chain smoked on the park bench several yards from where I'd settled. He looked over at me as I played fetch with his little French Bulldog for about an hour. I had no business in the dog park, really, being in town without a dog.

I just went out for a walk. The hotel had grown too small and the world outside just a little too large; the relative quiet of the Tribeca park was a nice compromise between New York City and me. The fact that it was a dog park was a happy accident. No one seemed to mind me being there, quietly petting or playing with the furry visitors as they came by to pay respects.

This man's dog, though. She was different. She took a shine to me as soon as I shut the iron gate and sat on an empty bench. She was a stout little thing, fifteen pounds of muscle in a seven pound frame. The little critter actually reminded me of the cartoon bulldog from Tom & Jerry in shape if not size. Her front legs were like oversized arms on a bodybuilder, with her rear legs like that same bodybuilder who ignored leg days. She snuffled at me and dropped a ball at my feet.

I looked up at her owner, and he gave a tiny nod. Permission granted to play, from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I grinned, and tossed the ball across the park and the feisty little bulldog fetched. This went on for the better part of an hour, not a word was spoken, and I lost count of how many times the flare of a Zippo caught my eye.

Finally, flicking away his last butt, the man slid to the end of his bench and turned towards me. He stood, straightening a tan trenchcoat that fell from his shoulders like it'd hung there for years. Watching us continue to play fetch, he spoke in what I immediately clocked as a British accent. I'm terrible with identifying them beyond "British," it could have been somewhere in London or the countryside, I don't know.

"That ain't my dog, bruv," he said. I was surprised to see a new unlit cigarette between his pointing fingers. "Nope. I'm just watchin' 'er for a bit. Thank you for playin' with the thing. Saved me the trouble."

I smiled. "It's been fun. A nice distraction from...everything." I tried to keep melancholy out of my voice, but it always has a way of creeping in around all the edges.

"Mate. It ain't my business, but what brings you to the city?"

"Family stuff." I wasn't going to tell this stranger that back in my hotel room were ashes to be spread at places in the city that meant a lot to someone I cared about.

He nodded, not comprehending, but understanding. I gave him a weak smile as thanks for his refusal to press the issue.

"You notice how that little mutt keeps droppin' the ball just out of your reach every other time she fetches?" I had noticed, in fact. We'd established a pattern: after about four throws, she'd break in the shade, lying with her legs splayed so her belly would rest on the cold autumn concrete. I was comfortable in the crisp air, but several people around us were wearing sweaters or coats. The little Frenchie was obviously getting heated with all the exercise. Every other throw, though, she'd drop the ball too far to my right, almost like she thought I was sitting on that side of the bench instead of leaning on the left armrest. I'd tell her to bring it to me, she'd stare up at the empty seat, look over at me, then kick the little ball so it would roll into my hand. I thought it was a clever trick, but odd that she kept doing it that way instead of bringing it directly to me.

"Yeah, it's strange. Like she forgets where I'm sitting."

The man nodded, grunting in what I assumed was an affirmative.

"It's not that, mate."

She dropped the ball at the opposite end of the bench again.

I looked over that way, then back up to the blonde chainsmoker.

He reached into a coat pocket, handed me a plain white business card. I thanked him, looked at the card, and then back at him. "So, Mr. John Constantine, what kind of work do you do?"

He paused, lit yet another cigarette, and stooped down to hook up the bulldog to a leash. He didn't answer until he'd taken a couple of long, contemplative drags.

"Mate, when you ever need me, call me. I don't know what brings you here to the City, but what I do know? You ain't been sittin ’ere on this bench alone, and the mutt knows it, too."

I should have felt a cold chill, but instead, all I felt was happy.

Sherlock Holmes, the master of deduction, suddenly found himself in the uncharted territories of a bustling, futuristic city. Flickering neon lights and towering skyscrapers replaced the foggy London streets he once knew. The air buzzed with the hum of drones, and holograms advertised gadgets he could hardly comprehend. This wasn’t his London—this was a new world entirely.

As he began to piece together his surroundings, a voice interrupted him. "You must be new here." A woman in a long, dark coat with a high-tech visor approached, her movements precise and unflinching. She introduced herself as Captain Nova, a detective from this advanced world.

Holmes, intrigued by the bizarre circumstances of his arrival, agreed to join Nova in investigating a series of mysterious disappearances haunting the city. People were vanishing without a trace, and not even the advanced technology of this world could explain it. With Nova’s tech skills and Holmes’s sharp wit, they uncovered a complex web of conspiracies that stretched from the city’s high-rise elite down to the darkest alleys.

In the end, Holmes realized he’d been brought here for a reason. His unparalleled skills were essential for unraveling a case too intricate for even the most advanced AI. Together, Holmes and Nova ventured deeper into the unknown, facing challenges that tested the limits of their abilities.

I have always been fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald - and with his clearly detailed preoccupation of love, clearly demonstrated in his works. Herein lies a fictionalized account of Fitzgerald's possible musings on just such a topic.

*“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,

is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic

person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Mariposa was seated at a small, round table in the Café Secretos in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting the arrival of her date. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city nonetheless due to the bullfights. It was entirely possible Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he was employed by El Arena Tarraco where the bullring was housed. Looking toward the door but not seeing Santiago, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive very soon. He had promised, after all, tonight would be a new beginning and a very special night. Even though the two had known each other for a year now, previously having met through mutual friends, this evening would be their first date.

Mariposa drank from her glass of Sangria, enjoying its blend of rich, fragrant wines embodied with hints of fruit and aromatic spices. Despite steadily sipping of the wine's essence as she waited, she was unable to quell the butterflies floating about in her stomach. The anticipation to see Santiago only seemed to grow by the minute. She looked forward to whatever an evening spent with him might bring. Love....or el amor....was a splendid feeling.

A bit nervously, Mariposa glanced about the dimly lit room, her attention focusing on the wall to the right. On it hung a beautiful painting of a brave torero or bullfighter. A vibrant, red cape draped the torero’s arm, seeming to sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had accurately captured the bull’s furious eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward. The painting was so lifelike, a shiver ran down the length of Mariposa’s spine. Quickly, she diverted her eyes, finding refuge in an uninteresting map of Tarragona covering the left wall. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and found even such renditions of their brutality revolting.

Drinking from the Sangria, her attention was drawn to two men who sat conversing at another table in the corner. They drank from beautifully etched crystal glasses filled with the Green Fairy or Absinthe. While no law had been passed outlawing the liquor like in Paris, the milky green alcohol was still considered by many to be taboo, its effects strong and unpredictable. One gentleman was handsome, tall, and blonde-haired, while the other was shorter, stockier, had dark hair, and wore a mustache. Whatever the two men discussed, it was obvious to any who observed their conversation was heated. Eventually, the stockier gentleman rose in haste, clearly agitated. His chair thudded as it fell to the floor as he abruptly vacated the café.

A bit surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away, again hoping to see Santiago coming through the doors. Such was not the case. Curious, she glanced back at the lone remaining gentleman. The man locked eyes with her, gave a charming smile, and shrugged his shoulders. When she somewhat timidly returned his smile, he rose, straightened the overturned chair, and then picked up his drink before leisurely heading her way.

“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has unexpectedly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he flashed a charming smile and not waiting for her answer, he took a seat at her table.

Mariposa was surprised yet again by the man’s boldness but did not wish to rouse a scene. “Sí,” she reluctantly agreed but then quickly added, “Please know, however, my date will arrive very soon, señor.”

“He’s a lucky man - your date, my dear,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself more comfortably. “By the way, the name's Scott,” he said with a brilliant smile. Mariposa was sure such a handsome face and charming smile had impressed many a woman wherever this man traveled.

“Buenas noches, Scott. My name is Mariposa,” she said, introducing herself.

“So, Mariposa, are you waiting for your sweetheart - tu novio?” he asked. It was obvious from the man’s voice he was American.

“Oh, no – I mean sí!” Mariposa blushed as she answered him with a shy smile. “But this will be our first date, señor.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as the man seated before her returned her gaze, as though studying every nuance or look in her dark eyes. In the background, lovely strains of a Spanish guitar filled the air, enhancing the silence of the moment and the next words the man spoke.

With exerted concentration, the handsome gentleman began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young, is it not, Mariposa? Even still, as time passes, it so often becomes such a damning element that leads our lives.” His glorious smile dimmed. “I should know, you see,” he added as he held, holding up his left hand so she could see the ring, which indicated he was married. He shook his head and pushed loose strands of falling blonde hair back. “At best, you can’t live with love, and you can’t bear to live without it either.” His handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last declaration.

Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of love? El amor or love was a wonderfully captivating emotion. More so, why was this man inclined to share his personal, sad reflection of love with her? It was obvious he’d drunk far too much. Mariposa surmised such was most likely the reason he and his friend had argued. Mayhap it was a subject of love about which they had argued.

“Señor,” she began, but the man immediately held up his hand, interrupting.

“Please, I insist you call me Scott, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes entreating in his supplication.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” Mariposa looked around the room nervously, as though she were doing something illegal. “Isn’t this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala, sí, Señor” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him, indicating the drink was very bad for any who drank of it. She would never dare to drink of the dangerous, green drink.

Scott rose his glass, staring in wonder at the green drink it held. “But my sweet, young señorita, did you not know such intense and glorious pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden?”

Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she corrected herself.

The man gave another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her glorious pleasures in the forbidden as well, but unfortunately, just not with me,” he sighed. Mariposa felt it embodied an immeasurable depth of regret and unrequited love. Scott continued, “Alas, my wife has scampered off in an unknown direction with her friends in hopes of more exciting times. She grows weary of intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I - as you have just witnessed.”

“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely feeling compassion for this man and his misfortunes in friendship and love.

“But do you, Mariposa? Do you really, really see?” Scott asked, watching her and awaiting an answer.

Not sure how to respond, Mariposa once again steered the conversation in a new direction. “Why are you in Tarragona, Scott? You’re not from here, but do you work here?” she asked.

“Si, Tarragona is a lovely city, its sea so inspiring and relaxing. I am visiting my dearest friend while attempting to write my novel, my dear – at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink more than I should and also argue more than I should with my friend." He laughed before taking a drink of absinthe again before continuing. "I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – all too frequently.”

“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! It must be so interesting to be a writer. Por favor…..please tell me what your novel is about.” Mariposa was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back, obviously pleased by her keen interest. “Well, should I tell you, my sweet? It’s a topic we’ve discussed this very night and about which I’ve argued with my best friend. You see, I love writing about love. Do you not find it ironic, considering the poor view of el amor I’ve been painting?”

Mariposa nodded. Indeed, she did find it ironic. How strange such a man – with such a disparaging view of love - would choose to write books about it. Then again, el amor was a wonderful topic, discussed by many scholars and artists throughout the years.

“Please allow me to explain a bit, my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said, his elbow casually propped on the table as he stared intently at Mariposa. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I cannot help but do so. I fear I am a hopeless romantic who refuses to give up on achieving love’s wondrous bounties in my life.” He relaxed in the chair as he drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a prevailing need to know and understand love, to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with a passion, with an intense need extending beyond food.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, sweet Mariposa, I crave el amor more than I crave even this foolish poison.”

Scott emptied his remaining drink before adding, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”

Before Mariposa could respond, however, he rose, declaring it was time for yet another drink before making his way to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe, wondering how much he could actually drink before he succumbed to the heavy drink’s effect. While Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café, immediately finding and joining Mariposa at her table.

Mariposa rose, sweetly kissing Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave assured him she was pleased beyond measure to see him.

“I am so sorry I’m late, querida. I was detained at work,” Santiago said.

Mariposa smiled. “No es una problema. It is not a problem - you are here now, and I am so happy to see you, Santiago.”

The two were so focused on each other they failed to see Scott approach the table. Pausing, he interrupted the two, taking a moment to introduce himself to Mariposa’s newly arrived date. In his hand, he held a fresh drink of absinthe.

“I see tu novio – or rather, your amigo or your friend - has arrived,” Scott said, giving Santiago a smile and extending his hand in greeting.

“I fear my companion left unexpectedly, and since I was a bit lonely, señor, I insisted Mariposa keep me company until you arrived. We enjoyed a very interesting conversation on the question of love. I may very well have bored her with my recitations and earnest opinions.” Scott laughed with his words.

Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, but nonplussed, Scott continued. “I shared my secrets with your lovely Mariposa for you see, I am a hopeless romantic. I truly believe el amor will win the day for all. Do you not agree, señor?" But Scott didn't await Santiago's response. "Ah, I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, this may well be true.” Suddenly, Scott gave a gracious bow and with the utmost sincerity, he added, “I pray el amor will triumph in your lives for it is most easy to discern it’s already an eager bud on the precipice of a full and beautiful blossom.”

Just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared at their table, Scott was gone, heading back to his own table. The friend with whom he’d argued earlier had returned and waited for Scott to rejoin him. As Scott neared the table, his friend rose. The two men hugged and laughed as they patted each other's back. Resuming their seats, they began another intense conversation.

Mariposa nervously turned to Santiago. The look on his face was not what she had expected. Instead of anger or even irritation, Santiago watched in her in wide-eyed amazement.

“Santiago, por favor,” she began. “Please. I did not know how to tell him to leave after he sat at my table. He began to talk about such serious things like love, and I found him to be such a sad man, always hoping and searching for love.”

Santiago continued to stare in disbelief. “Mariposa, do you not know who that señor is?” he asked, clearly amazed Mariposa appeared none the wiser.

“No,” she shrugged. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but…...”

“Querida, he is none other than the famous American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald – and, he’s now sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways and heated conversations. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne all day and night – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men with open curiosity.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? No, I do not know who they are, but Scott did say he is a writer.” Mariposa watched the two men seated across the room, a new view of Scott taking root. She needed to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about el amor. She may be wrong, but she was sure his writing would prove to be encantador - or ever so lovely.

Mariposa glanced at Santiago and with conviction, she said, “Famous American writer or no, I’d much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago. Together we will enjoy beautiful night.”

Santiago picked up Mariposa's hand and kissed it sweetly. “And I would rather be with you, querida. Still,” his brows rose as he added, “not just anyone can say that they met F. Scott Fitzgerald and discussed love on their very first date! Maybe you should write about this famous encounter, Mariposa.”

“No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two experts,” she said. The couple laughed as they began their first night of many shared nights ahead.

As though borne from a moment of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most profoundly prophetic words, a lifetime of deep, abiding love and long years together was in the stars for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can really say for sure? Perhaps it was all because of one hopeless romantic’s words, spoken on a fateful night so long ago, this couple’s love triumphed to such beautiful heights precisely as predicted. Regardless, there is little to no doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, even though a wee bit envious, too, of the love discovered by these two over the course of long lives spent as one.

*“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Cynthia Calder, 11.22.24

The music is ambient, the lights are low. Scraping chairs fall into the beat of the soft jazz; the receipt emerging from the till yet another piece of percussion. I am sat with a laptop- the quintessential 21st century person.

Facing the entrance, I have seen every person who's entered the bottle shop since me. People come in alone, looking harried. Some come in unlikely partnerships whilst others look perfect for one another.

An email pings: something is expected from me. I type and click, my brain whirring. Productivity is a noble goal. I am excited for the buzz I'll feel when I achieve something, anything.

Breathing deeply, I press 'send' and take in the scent of frying ingredients, a real mix of vegetables and carbs. The door opens once more, a light December breeze aerating the space.

I am used to many things, having moved to Los Angeles, where anything seems to go. That doesn't stop a small gasp escaping my throat when this tall, mustachioed man enters, a firecracker scent reaching me from even meters away.

The barista audibly sighs, assessing the queue and balancing the lesser of two evils. He scurries from behind the bar, grasping the sleeved arm of the new presence. "The restrooms are this way," he scolds, the two men moving in tandem out of my view. A woman in the queue with a crop is already drafting her poor Google review.

Before he rounds the corner, the man catches my eye. A singular jet-black curl peeks from beneath a worn green cap. With a short wave of his wrench, he manages to connect with me for a mere second. Then, he's gone.

I recommence my tapping, waiting eagerly for the plumber to re-emerge. The barista clears the queue, again and again, as it goes from a matcha latte crowd to a local IPA crowd. The sun crests the building opposite.

Mumbai’s chaotic streets were alive with the hum of honking horns and the chatter of countless voices. A city that thrived on its unrelenting pace—until the laughter started.

It began in whispers. A dissonant, cackling echo that seemed to bounce off the crumbling walls of Dharavi’s labyrinthine slums. Nobody knew where it came from. It was a sound that didn’t belong, alien yet intoxicatingly sinister. Then the bodies appeared.

In a forgotten corner of the city, a cluster of mutilated corpses was discovered by a group of schoolboys who had chased a cricket ball into an abandoned factory. Their shrieks brought the entire neighborhood running.

There they lay—five men tied to chairs in a macabre circle. Their faces were stretched in grotesque smiles, lips carved into bloody grins that extended to their ears. Eyes wide open, bulging as though frozen in eternal agony. A note pinned to the chest of the central figure read:

"Let’s put a little smile on this city. – J"

Mumbai’s chaotic streets were alive with the hum of honking horns and the chatter of countless voices. A city that thrived on its unrelenting pace—until the laughter started.

It began in whispers. A dissonant, cackling echo that seemed to bounce off the crumbling walls of Dharavi’s labyrinthine slums. Nobody knew where it came from. It was a sound that didn’t belong, alien yet intoxicatingly sinister. Then the bodies appeared.

In a forgotten corner of the city, a cluster of mutilated corpses was discovered by a group of schoolboys who had chased a cricket ball into an abandoned factory. Their shrieks brought the entire neighborhood running.

There they lay—five men tied to chairs in a macabre circle. Their faces were stretched in grotesque smiles, lips carved into bloody grins that extended to their ears. Eyes wide open, bulging as though frozen in eternal agony. A note pinned to the chest of the central figure read:

"Let’s put a little smile on this city. – J"

, the weight of the city pressed heavier than usual.

The Joker’s arrival in Mumbai was as theatrical as it was horrifying. He commandeered an entire local train, replacing its passengers with mannequins dressed in traditional Indian attire, each holding a severed human head. The train rolled into Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus at rush hour, its horn blaring a haunting rendition of Saare Jahan Se Achha. The people screamed.

And the Joker laughed.

Draped in a tattered green sherwani, his face painted like a demented Kathakali dancer, he stepped off the train. His long purple hair hung loose, blending with the blood splattered on his face. “Namaste, Mumbai!” he cried, spinning theatrically. “Your new master of ceremonies has arrived!”

He lobbed a gas canister into the crowd. Panic erupted as the vapor seeped into the air. Those who inhaled began to laugh uncontrollably, their eyes rolling back as foam frothed from their mouths. They fell one by one, lifeless.

That night, Rajan tracked him to a desolate textile mill on the outskirts of the city. The Joker had transformed it into a carnival of nightmares. Twisted metal beams were strung with garlands of intestines, and flickering oil lamps cast ghastly shadows across the walls. The air reeked of death and decay.

Rajan stepped silently through the darkness, his every sense heightened. His voice, modified through his cowl, was low and commanding. “Joker.”

From the shadows, the Joker’s laughter erupted, echoing like a maniacal symphony. He emerged, twirling a cane tipped with a razor-sharp blade. “Ah, the great Rakshak! Mumbai’s very own cowled crusader. I was hoping we’d meet.”

The Joker’s movements were erratic, his gaze shifting unpredictably. “You know, there’s something about this city. The chaos, the noise, the... madness. It’s beautiful. It deserves someone who understands it.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Rajan growled, stepping closer.

The Joker’s grin widened. “Oh, but I do. I understand that you’re too late.” He snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a group of kidnapped children, their mouths gagged and their tiny bodies strapped with explosives, stumbled into view. A timer on their vests began to tick.

Rajan’s heart pounded. He activated his gauntlet, scanning the explosives. The timer read 60 seconds. His mind raced. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, trying to buy time.

“Because it’s FUN!” the Joker shrieked, throwing his head back. “Look at you—scrambling to save them, sweating under that fancy suit. You think you’re their savior? No. You’re just a puppet dancing on strings I control.”

Rajan dove into action. His grappling hook fired, pulling one child toward him. He swiftly disabled the explosives with a device on his belt. Thirty seconds. He moved to the second child, his hands steady despite the chaos.

The Joker watched with fascination, clapping mockingly. “Tick-tock, Rakshak! The clock’s running out!”

With a final, desperate leap, Rajan grabbed the last child. The timer hit zero. A deafening explosion tore through the mill, but Rajan had shielded the child with his body. He groaned in pain as shrapnel pierced his armor.

When the smoke cleared, the Joker stood over him, his cane poised to strike. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he said, leaning close. “But persistence doesn’t win. Madness does.”

Rajan, bloodied but defiant, activated his gauntlet. A surge of electricity coursed through the Joker, sending him sprawling. Rajan rose, his voice like thunder. “You underestimate Mumbai. It doesn’t need a savior—it has me.”

Their battle raged through the night, a brutal dance of fists, blades, and wits. In the end, Rajan outmaneuvered the Joker, pinning him to the ground with a reinforced net.

“You think you’ve won?” the Joker spat, his grin unbroken. “I’m not a man. I’m an idea. And ideas... don’t die.”

Rajan knelt, his eyes piercing through the cowl. “Neither does justice.”

The Joker was handed over to the authorities, but Rajan knew this was far from over. As the first rays of dawn broke over the city, he stood atop the Gateway of India, watching over Mumbai. The laughter had faded, but its echoes remained—a reminder of the darkness he would always fight to keep at bay.

December 27th, 2016

“You don’t see that every day.” Detective Walter Sanders said as he looked down and rested his hands on his waist.

"That’s for sure.” Jun Cho said as he snapped another picture with his digital camera.

"Helluva way to come away from his victory yesterday.” Sanders stood shaking his head.

Cho’s face scrunched in confusion. “Is he a fighter? He doesn’t look like it to me and he’s way too old to be in sports.” Cho’s attention went back to his camera.

-Click-.

-Click-.

"Nah, that’s Dave Larios. He’s one a’ those hot shot lawyer guys from Larios, Beale, and Webb. I take it you don’t know who Cal Stark is.”

Again Cho’s face hinted at ignorance.

"Caldwell Stark. The billionaire oil tycoon from Tribeca?”

The Asian man feigned comprehension, but it was a miserable attempt.

Walter didn’t feel like embarrassing the relatively new forensics tech for not knowing so he mustered on. “He killed, or should I say allegedly killed his wife last year. That was until yesterday when he was acquitted. The man you are snapping photos of got him off, scot-free.”

There was a creak of Cho’s knees as he rounded the body of Dave Larios, squatted again and aimed his lens for another shot. “Looks like his after party got a little out of hand.”

-Click-.

Walter wanted a smoke so bad his nicotine laced fingers itched. He was about to give Cho the finer details of the trial when he was interrupted by Mike Morris, one of the other on scene detectives.

"Hey, Sanders. Just got word.” Mike said, but didn't follow up with more information.

“Alright, out with it.” Walter waved his hands for Mike to continue but his mind was still dying for that smoke break.

“Oh, uh, yeah, Sloan is on his way. He said he needed to see this for himself.”

“Shit, is he bringing him also.” Walter’s craving for tobacco vaporized.

“Not sure, he wants to make sure it’s not a copy-cat.”

“I’d bet my bottom dollar it is. You honestly think the Shoestring Killer is at it again? It’s been twenty years. That’s a long fucking hiatus.”

“Dunno, maybe he was locked up for something else, and just got out.”

Mike was pulling out his notepad, not to actually scribble down some notes, but it seemed more of a ruse to look busy when Sloan arrived.

"Geezzus Christ. I hope not.” Walter huffed out, dug his hand into his pocket and wrangled his keys in anxious frustration.

“What should I do?” Mike said to the senior detective.

“Depends on how much time we got. What’s his ETA?”

“Ten. Fifteen tops.”

“Alright, well. Let’s not rush the forensics boys, but clear a path for them.” Walter turned around to see the body again, with Cho still busy flashing away. He took a moment to button his shirt to the top and tighten his tie to a stranglehold. He could feel his pulse beating against his collar now. In his mind Walter was hoping the scene below him was just a one-time thing, he didn’t want a repeat of 1996.

The pale form of Dave Larios laying on the floor of the luxurious apartment seemed almost surreal. There will be one for lying, mouth sewn up with string, another for fun, a casual fling, one for whoring, her holes now shut, and one will be innocent, the skin left untouched. He remembered reading the note for the first time all those years ago.

Dave Larios looked almost peaceful except for the silly expression on his face. However, this time it was not so silly, it was eerie to see it again. Dear God. He prayed again that it was a copy-cat.

The mouth of Dave Larios had been stitched closed by a single shoestring. The crisscross work of the stitching went beyond the natural corners of his mouth almost to his earlobes. It appeared to give Dave a crazed smile, similar to Jack Skellington from A Nightmare Before Christmas.

He hadn’t bothered to check the man’s pockets before, hoping that it was all a farce. But he knew that in a few moments Sloan would be here, and he would search for it. And his senses were screaming, knowing that it would be found. Another little note. Another little hint at victim number two. He should have retired two years ago when his thirty was up, but retiring then felt more like he was moving faster into the grave. Now, it was different. He didn’t want to do this dance again.

-***-

Weren't they just the pair Sanders thought. Sloan and Sherlock. Sloan's little pet. Sherlock walked with and air of cockiness about him that bordered on complete arrogance, and Sanders hated it. It may have been true, but when Sherlock spoke even though it was not that often; it was as if he was speaking to children who barely comprehend his words.

He wanted the cigarettes again now. The craving had returned, but he stayed to watch Sherlock work. The man hovered over the body. He leaned in. Gave a sniff here and there. Twisted his neck to view the scene from alternate angles.

The tall man moved his heavy coat aside and withdrew two pairs of metallic tweezers. He used one to lift up the pocket flap and with the second pulled what Sanders had known was there but dreaded to see. Sherlock inspected the paper. Then the writing on the surface, and gave the delicate paper a sensory sniff as well.

He placed the note into a plastic evidence bag and moved on. He dropped to the floor and examined the bottom of the dead man's shoes. With the tweezers he snagged what looked like dirt from the grooves in the sole. From what seemed like nowhere Sherlock had produced a test tube, he dropped the dirt and then from another pocket revealed a small vial of liquid which was added to the tube. The color changed from clear to light blue.

A stopper was placed on the tube and was handed over to Sloan to place into another evidence bag.

Sherlock although already standing seemed to stand taller now. "I've solved the case gentlemen. I shall explain. Follow along ... if you can."