It was out of the question whether I should run outside and search for the young man or wait to do so the next morning. Charles’s approval was but a small win that I would get to celebrate only when our killer was caught. All I could do was simply wait for the sun to rise and then meet that enigmatic person, the psychologist, who would selflessly throw himself in our way. The chance of a lifetime—as he mentioned it—for his science and perhaps for our field as well.

            A thousand things were running through my mind, however, causing unbearable havoc, and most of them were the result of both the crime scene and the few words that Mr. Valentine Soar and I exchanged at my office. The expressionless faces of those young men kept crawling back to memory, like those damned creatures in the pictures. Lifeless, bloated bodies—nothing like the actual victims—with hollowed eyes and a poisonous touch. I couldn’t stop thinking of the pain they must have gone through or what their final thoughts were. What does a man nearing death end up thinking of? Family? Loved ones? Fond memories of the past to ease the pain of passing... Or maybe the choices that led him there and what he could have done differently. I thought of those boys having fun with girls, studying in class, or drinking and laughing. I thought of them at the peak of their innocence and then being robbed of it. The horror and the cruelty; the cuts and the stitches; the thin thread that was meant to tie around a small and sharp hook but instead held them like dolls ready to dance for their puppet master; the harsh end felt like a massive weight upon my chest.

            Once I stepped outside the headquarters, I threw my tired glance up to the sky, and I met the slithering gaze of the moon, spreading its dim light across the empty streets of a sleeping city. I didn’t move, as my legs were keeping me still, right outside the entrance. Where was I supposed to go? I pulled the coat tighter around my body and took a deep breath. I couldn’t go back to my apartment. Sleep wouldn’t be kind enough to give itself to me, and even if I were lucky enough to surrender to its embrace, my dreams would make sure I’d wake up in the worst and most shocking ways. I had only a couple of hours ahead of me until dawn, and within those hours I should offer myself a form of solitude that no bed or work could possibly fill me with. I was alone, and within that loneliness I had found ways of temporary comfort.

            From the little interaction Charles and I shared outside the office, I learned about a small bar not too far from where I was. It used to belong to an Italian man, Marcelo. But as it usually happens in those cases, the man lost everything in a bet, and he was forced to give it away. Of course, he didn’t go down without a fight. Charles described as vividly as he could the day that Marcelo and his famiglia met the Yankees, who dared threaten them. The police were instructed not to interfere; otherwise, the whole city would be brought down. Conflicts between locals, after all, were not a rare sight. They were big boys, Charles explained, and like big boys, they should resolve their differences. Two minutes. That’s how long it lasted. Marcelo was dead on the street, and the Americans walked to their brand-new business. No one batted an eye that day. The women mourned, the family moved away from New Orleans, and the incident was forgotten after a week. Marcelo died from an unfortunate backshot, according to the records. The American got an insignificant fine, and that was it; no one ever bothered to ask more questions, and neither did I.

Soon, the place was renovated completely, transformed from a dirty hole into a modern jazz bar where everyone was welcome, even the cops. It’d stay open until early in the morning and then start once again somewhere between five and seven in the afternoon. There was no consistency in good quality after all.