“Look, John,” Stephen said, rubbing at his eyes, “Maybe you should just get some sleep, it’s three,” a glance at the clock, “four in the morning, why don’t—” “It’s undeniable,” John interrupted, “Look at the cleaver wounds on kill number four. The killer has to be exactly five-foot-eight and I’m—” “One of the thousands of people who are that tall,” Stephen finished, as he reached for a new coffee filter. He figured the extra caffeine might switch the tone of this conversation from “unbearable” to “incredibly annoying.” “Sure,” John admitted, “but what about the time the killer was cornered in an alley, and he escaped by climbing up the drain pipe.” “How does that—“ “We took rock climbing classes together numbnuts!” John nearly shouted, “This theory explains everything.” “What this theory explains is why you might need to see a better psychiatrist.” Stephen fired back, opening a kitchen drawer, trying to remember where he kept the coffee grounds. “Think about it,” John said, “It explains how the killer is always one step ahead of us. How he set that taunting note as the background of your computer. How he was able to sneak a head into my refrigerator, how he was-“ “JOHN,” Stephen shouted, “You’re not the fucking Long Island Butcher.” “I’ve been having crazy dreams lately. Dreams where I imagine myself covered in blood. What if I’ve got a split personality?” John replied frantically, “How do you know that I’m not—“ “John there is one very simple reason you can’t be the Butcher.” Stephen said, as he reached into another drawer. “What’s that?” In one fluid motion, Stephen grabbed John, lifted the knife from the drawer, and dragged the blade across his throat. “Because I am.”