THE JOURNAL

final

“So, Alex,” Dave began, his voice gruff yet strangely gentle, “tell me about Nick. What kind of man was he?”

A pause. Then, a sigh. “Good man, Detective,” Alex replied, his voice tinged with a quiet sadness. “No enemies, kind-hearted to a fault, the kind of guy who’d cry over a dead sparrow.”

Dave perked up. “A dead sparrow?”

Alex chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Yeah, a few days ago we found a near dead Robin due to the sun near our office. Nick, bless his heart, spent the day moping around, after he failed to save its life.”

Dave’s mind raced. The seemingly innocuous entry in the journal – “Bird, Water, Sun” – now took on a new meaning. All the entries were accounted for.

Dave slumped back in his chair, the journal clutched in his hand like a venomous snake. The air hung heavy with the weight of the cryptic entries, each word a chilling premonition etched in black ink. Mr. Brooks’ fall, the children’s accident, Tuffy’s demise – these weren’t random tragedies. They were macabre scenes from a play scripted in the journal, and Nick, the unwitting protagonist, seemed destined to witness them all. Suddenly, a connection sparked in his mind, a synapse firing in the labyrinth of his thoughts. He lurched towards his computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. He pulled up Nick and Sarah’s phone records, his eyes narrowing with a predatory glint. Something, subtle yet undeniable, began to emerge.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through him. He slammed his hand on the desk, a single word escaping his lips in a triumphant rasp, “Bingo!” Without a second thought, he grabbed his coat, his movements imbued with a newfound urgency. He raced out of the station, the city lights blurring into streaks of yellow as he hailed a cab. His destination – Nick’s House. He

practically burst through the door, the silence of the ransacked apartment a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.

He barged into the study, his gaze scanning the room like a heat-seeking missile. Drawers were flung open, furniture haphazardly pushed aside. And then he saw it – a familiar bottle of vitamins nestled amongst the clutter on a shelf. He picked it up, the worn label screaming at him. “Bingo,” he repeated, this time a low growl of satisfaction escaping his throat.

A manic energy propelled Dave through the sterile halls of Mercy General. The journal, clutched tightly in his arm, felt more like a loaded gun now, the weight of its secrets a palpable burden. With each hurried step, the pieces of the puzzle he’d been frantically assembling clicked into place. He barged into Nick’s room where he lay pale and still on the bed, a tangle of wires and tubes his only companions. Dave felt a pang of regret, a prickle of something akin to guilt. He’d been so consumed by the puzzle, the chase, that the man at the center of it all had faded into the background. He leaned closer, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. “Nick,” he rasped, “I know the truth now.”

But the silence in the room remained unbroken. No flicker of recognition in the unseeing eyes, no response to Dave’s desperate plea. A frantic dance unfolded around the bed – doctors barking orders, nurses rushing with equipment. But their efforts were in vain. The flatline on the monitor echoed the hollowness that bloomed in Dave’s chest. A single, defeated sigh escaped his lips. He watched, a silent observer, as the doctors, their faces etched with grim determination, finally relented.

“Time of death,” a voice droned, the words flat and emotionless, “21:47 hours.”

Dave watched with a leaden heart as Nick’s body was wheeled away, the clean white sheet a shroud for the secrets it held. He caught the doctor’s eye, a young man with a weary expression that mirrored Dave’s own. “Doctor,” he said, his voice hoarse from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few hours. “Could I spare you a minute?”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded curtly. They stepped aside, the hushed murmurs of the hospital a low hum in the background. Dave reached into his pocket, the worn bottle of vitamins a stark reminder of his newfound theory.

“This,” he said, placing the bottle on the sterile counter, “was found in Nick’s apartment. It belongs to him.”

The doctor frowned, his brow furrowing as he examined the label. “Vitamins, huh? Doesn’t look familiar.” He unscrewed the cap and peered inside. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, replaced by a jolt of surprise. “Hold on,” he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of alarm. He pulled out a pill, examining it with a practiced eye. “These aren’t vitamins,” he declared, his voice gaining a new edge. “This is Olanzapine.”

Dave’s smirked. Olanzapine – a powerful antipsychotic medication, used to treat schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. “I thought so?” he said, somewhat proud of himself.

The doctor’s gaze met his, a mixture of concern and something akin to a grim epiphany. “It treats mental illness, Detective. But in high doses, it can cause confusion, hallucinations... even in rare cases, full-blown schizophrenia-like symptoms.”

Dave slammed his fist on the counter, the sound a punctuation mark to his frustration. “He thought they were vitamins, only God knows for how long. Deceived. Lied to.”

The doctor shook his head, a frown creasing his brow. “But who? Who would do such a thing to a man like Nick, a good man by all accounts? No enemies, well-liked... it doesn’t make sense.”

Dave’s eyes narrowed, a spark of icy certainty flickering within them. “Sarah,” he declared, the name a bitter pill on his tongue. “She was having an affair. Phone records, chat logs – they confirmed it. An affair that stretched back over a decade.”

“With whom?” the doctor asked. The detective revealed, “Oliver . . .”

The doctor’s eyes widened in surprise. “An affair? Well . . . that solves another mystery, doesn’t it?”

Dave’s heart hammered in his chest. “Another mystery? What do you mean?”

The doctor leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Hospital protocol, Detective. When the remains of Sarah, Aaron, and Oliver were brought in... we conducted DNA tests. Standard procedure for burnt victims.” He paused, his gaze fixed on Dave. “Aaron’s DNA... it didn’t match Nick’s.”

A cold shiver ran down Dave’s spine. The nagging suspicion, the anomaly he’d brushed aside – it suddenly slammed into him with the force of a revelation. “So, Aaron wasn’t Nick’s son?”

The doctor shook his head, a grim smile playing on his lips. “Not biologically. But a test against Oliver’s DNA... well, let’s just say your theory seems to be holding water, Detective.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a fresh report. Dave’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the doctor’s confirmation – Aaron, the child Nick had believed to be his own flesh and blood, was Oliver’s son, the product of a ten-year-long betrayal.

“So, poisoning?” the doctor asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

Dave shook his head, a grim smile playing on his lips. “Not exactly, Doc. I reckon he thought these were just sleeping pills, something to help him catch some Z’s. Sarah, bless her conniving heart, probably didn’t understand the real kick these meds packed.” He paused, his eyes hardening. “She likely just wanted him out of the way, a little more sleeping beauty time so she could cavort with her boyfriend.”

The doctor whistled, a low, mournful sound. “A love triangle gone bad,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Makes you wonder what people are capable of, doesn’t it?”

The doctor’s gaze darted towards the worn leather journal clutched in Dave’s hand. A flicker of curiosity ignited in his eyes. “What’s that, Detective?” he inquired, his voice laced with a hint of professional interest.

Dave met his gaze, a steely glint hardening his features. “Evidence,” he replied curtly, handing the journal over.

The doctor flipped it open, his brow furrowing as he scanned the seemingly nonsensical entries. “Son, Wife, Friend, Fire,” he muttered, his voice betraying a hint of confusion. “Bird, Water, Sun – these don’t make any sense, Detective.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Doc,” Dave said, a grim smile twisting his lips. “These are the victims. The people and animals Nick killed.”

The doctor’s eyes widened in shock. “Nick? But... how?”

Dave leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low rasp. “The drugs, Doc. They messed with his head good. Look at the handwriting.” He pointed to the inscription on the first page. The doctor squinted, comparing the inscription to a report on his desk. A gasp escaped his lips. “It’s a match,” he breathed, a tremor of realization running through him. “This is Nick’s handwriting, alright. But... why would he write about killing them?”

“Because he did,” Dave declared, his voice heavy with a grim certainty. “He must have written this under the influence, a twisted record of his intentions before he... before the drugs took hold.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of police reports, fanning them out on the counter. “Look closer, Doc. Each entry in the journal coincides with a reported incident. Mr. Brooks’ fall, the children’s accident, even Tuffy the dog – Nick was there at every scene.”

The doctor’s voice dropped to a hushed murmur, laced with a chilling certainty. “Officer,” he began, “I don’t think Nick was aware of his actions. The Olanzapine, it scrambled his mind good. Made him delusional.”

Dave nodded grimly, “So he wasn’t a monster, Doc. Just a victim of an unwitting twisted plot and a potent drug.”

The doctor sighed, a weary sound that echoed the hollowness in Dave’s own heart. “There’s more,” he continued. “Olanzapine, in rare cases, especially when combined with a heavy emotional blow... it can trigger a fractured mind.”

Dave’s eyebrows shot up. “Fractured mind? You mean...”

“Dissociative identity disorder,” the doctor finished, his voice grave. “Multiple personalities sharing the same body. It’s rare but happens. Imagine it, detective. One Nick, completely unaware, living his life. Another, a dark reflection, twisted by the drugs and the emotional turmoil – perhaps triggered by discovering the affair.”

A cold dread coiled in Dave’s gut. This wasn’t just a case of manipulation anymore. This was a descent into the abyss of a fractured mind. “So, the journal entries,” Dave rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

“Weren’t premonitions,” the doctor confirmed, his gaze locked on Dave’s. “They were fragmented memories, warped perceptions of a mind under immense strain. One personality, the one who committed the acts, recording them in the journal. The other, the unsuspecting Nick, interpreting them as dark prophecies.”