The life of a homicide detective is pretty simple these days. The success rates of a killing spree are incredibly low. It's extremely common in this day and age for a sociopath to be forced into sales work where they can contribute to society and make coworkers uncomfortable in the elevators. But there's one case that's famous in our line of work, even though this job has lost most of its pomp and circumstance. One man in particular chose not to say "Jimmy Johnson, my factory coworker killed me," or "Oh fuck, I should've been more careful," or even "Well, I knew better than to eat those delicious sausages." This man breathed his last to the tune of "Don't bother taking my evidence, you've all gone soft; you're hopeless!" It was infuriating on so many levels! I put away people for a living. I put them away by the dozens everyday. My numbers speak for themselves! Except... they don't really stand out from the rest of my department. I only barely reach the numbers we're supposed to pull. And, indeed, we've been sitting on the "evidence" this man had stowed away for years. There's so little here! Could he even have been close to putting anything together? Was he crazy? We begged his family history to get us off the hook, but to no avail. He was fully sane, as were his father and his father's father. The man was brilliant, and studied what was now considered the ancient and archaic art of sleuthing in great detail. He had books I only knew to be considered part of the field, because my grandfather read them and advised me to read them, too, so I could know how much of a man detective work used to make someone before I became one. When this man told us all not to bother and was right about us? Oh man, were we cut to the core...