Who Am I?
A mystery with all the clues — can you solve it?
The note read.
“Stay away, more people will die.
My beginning was my end.
mAcrony”
Handwritten, red ink in cursive with little tears dotting the I’s and left on my windshield. It was tucked in a red envelope. ‘Detective Frank Laius’ is written on the front. Laius?
I’ve stared at this note for 5 hours and still, I stare. Nothing. I hadn’t entered it into evidence yet. It feels… personal.
I thumbed my files.
The murder of Ian Austin. Found bound in his room starved to death. Mark Young had razor blade slits all over his throat. Orville Uriss was beaten with a bat. Ron Smith strangled with a tie.
Each victim was missing for 6 days, before being discovered on the 7th day. Today, Owen Nicholson has been missing for 6 days.
All young men. All 21 years old. No other connections.
The first body was found on Saturday, March 2nd with a new body found every Saturday for the last 4 weeks. Today is Friday.
The note stares at me.
‘Stay away…’
did I get close?
‘mAcrony?’
Is that a name? I tap the steering wheel; the note is written on a betting slip from the casino. For me, the Royal Casino may as well be called Gloria. The night we met there led to 6 drug-filled days.
I rub my eyes. I feel old. 16 years as Detective Frank Thebe must make up for 8 years of Frank the mess. Right?
“…more people will die.” Stay away OR more people will die? Or IF I stay away, more people will die?
Stay away from what?
Orville, a non-smoker, curiously had a carton of unopened Drake cigarettes on his bed.
When I smoked, that was my brand. My mind slips to my bartending days, days as a professional partier with not a care.
Coffee and clues, I have one but I need both. Fred’s Café has assisted me before. The back booths' leather seats feel custom for deliberation or using coffee to drown inebriation. I’ve done both.
The low lampshade over the table lightly swings in response to any hustle or bustle in the café. The light dances small directed spotlights on whatever is under it.
I spread the photos and the note over the table. The ‘beginning is my end’ part of the note haunts me. I know it means something and it feels like I should know.
Ding. The door rings as a lady walks shaking tears of rain off her umbrella. The bulb sways across the photos. A smartly dressed man whisks by to the washroom. The shade changes direction, swishing over the photos. The note blows off the table and lands with the casino logo staring at me.
The color reminds me of Gloria’s hair, strawberry blond. She had to choose with her heart; I was too young and high; I chose to stay away. Those days were not my best, foggy nights, heavy mornings, and bags of regrets.
I pick up the note—the light bobs over Ian Austin’s photo. The Lucky Gin logo glows beside him, funny, that was my gin. The light swishes, and a green bottle of Jimmy’s Irish Whiskey shimmers unopened on Mark Young's desk. I used to drink that too. According to their friends, these lads didn’t drink.
Ron Smith, cocaine cut into lines on his dresser, although, the toxicology report says he was clean. Owen Nicholson had unopened condoms thrown all over his floor, during a struggle maybe?
What am I missing?
(Have you solved it? Please make your predictions in the comments).
Here’s another short story of mine.
Nicholas Simon is a writer and sales professional. He is a Canadian living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three kids. He writes short stories, articles, and other peculiarities that dawn upon him.
