"Who are we, if not souls wandering without purpose?"
"Who are you, if not purpose wandering without a soul?"
23-year-old PI Matthew Brown is on the verge of losing everything. With cases running dry, funds running low, and badge hanging on the edge...
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Act I. Fall. 1982
Prologue
By the time the police had shown up to the campus to announce the death of Boris Richmond, my name had disappeared from every roster on campus. Of course, it has been quite a difficult thing to achieve, for one will never find it quite simple to vanish within a month. Despite the attempts, my name had been plastered among the conversations of students who had no other option of coping with the dread of the midterms. And although I had truly thought I had bested the university, it seemed as though the ghost of my image would always be a stain in their books.
"In morte, aves adhuc cantant."
The cold covered any sin that was whispered through the campus that night. The local detectives had driven through and questioned anyone who was out walking the streets on the bright, impeccable morning of the murder. October 13th, 1982. Boris had been discovered behind a shed by the party house located around fifteen yards away. He'd been drenched in his own blood, not a weapon in sight. They declared he had died from a brain hemorrhage. But only the devil and I truly had the knowledge that the people had been dying to possess. How did Boris truly parish that night?
Of course, I took my own liberties and stayed indoors for most of the week. The telephone had gone off a little more than twelve times in the past hour, but as another cold breeze wafted through my broken window I solemnly disregarded it.
But even a true psychopath could not stay put in the same room for a week and not lose more sanity than they contained. I was not a psycho. I was not a murderer. And I was not going to be late for tomorrow's lecture.
Every man lies once a day in their life. For whom cannot resist the dutiful temptation of such a beautiful sin? A display of erotic poetry though none of it would ever be considered real. We form bonds, we eat, breathe, make love to lies. But has one ever sought the truth of this? Not quite. We fear what we cannot lay a hand on.
I was horribly late to today's lecture. But on the path to the hall, I spotted a singular bluejay nodding in the trees. How beautiful it was, singing with a slight disdain for the looking passerby. Its eyes passed mine with a swift glance. And although we had shared two different lives and sang two different songs, there was a quiet understanding of the simple thought of:
Who are we, if not wandering without reason?
After a hardening three-hour English lecture, I decided it would be refreshing enough to slip quietly into town to the laundromat where I had dropped my blood-stained clothes off. Of course, no one had seen me go in, or leave with inconspicuous stains under my fingernails. Instead, I went during the dead of night right before closing.
It was horribly planned--the entire murder wasn't properly thought out. The aftermath was easily just as disorganized. I would never admit to that, of course, until a couple of years later. I guess my apathy never affected my ego, and as much as the days leading up to the murder took a major blow on my psyche, it was something I could recover just by smiling and conversing with anyone willing to talk.
