𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃.

Prologue

It was a horrible day outside, or rather just the usual sight that I and many others were already used to. The rain pattered against the window of my office in a musical pattern that could've  easily been the drum notes of a song. The thick, dark clouds covered the sun from our eyes and made the residents light up their homes with their chandeliers and candles.

  I sat in my wooden, hand carved, chair that I cherished with my entire being. That piece of furniture has been in the exact place ever since I finally managed to become a detective. My chin was resting on the palm of my left hand as my right was occupied with a cigarette that I occasionally took a small breath from.

  It was a boring day. Nothing has happened and the only thing to keep my mind preoccupied was the small hum of a melody from a record that I placed down to play. I have been rotting in this enclosed room at the back end of a hallway for the past four hours. Ever since the sun rose above the horizon I have been seated in this exact position, waiting and waiting for something to happen.

  I have solved many cases in the past and I became obsessed with the thrill of it. There were plenty murders solved by my hand in this enormous city, many criminals behind the grimy bars of prison cells because of me, poltergeist activities stopped with my help.

  This was the only thing as close to infatuation that I have experienced.

  My fingers tapped along to the rhythm of the music against the desk. Papers, notes and newspapers were scattered across the table and any other surface in my little room. This place was my second home, sometimes I think that I might be spending more time here than at my house.