A lightly overcast Saturday afternoon. Excellent weather for staying home and gorging yourself on junk food while wasting away on the couch, watching a classic sitcom. 

Unfortunately for Nelson, another murder victim had been discovered at 6am this morning. 

“You couldn’t wait until Monday?” He muttered, crouched over the corpse of the latest victim. He was a young man with short blonde hair and a well-groomed moustache complementing his wide open, striking blue eyes. He was wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt which had been unceremoniously ruined with two large bloodstains, betraying the positions of the two stab wounds in his body; one under each side of his chest. Police tape was put up on both sides of the alley, with small crowds being held back by the police officers that were called in with him. 

“Plans ruined, Detective?” The beat cop cast a light shadow over the victim’s body, her voice muddling Nelson’s thoughts. He gritted his teeth, letting out a quiet sigh of indignation, and turned to look up at her. She had her hands on her hips, standing over him. 

“A full day of Seinfeld re-runs. Nothing important.” 

“Really, now?” she chuckled. “I’d say that’s pretty important.” 

He shook his head, returning his attention to the body. “To each their own. Have we ID’d the poor sod who got me off the couch?” 

“A few minutes ago. Here,” she said, slapping a folder onto his shoulder. Without turning around, he grabbed the folder, opening it and scanning the contents. 

Reece Piers. 

Male. Obviously. 

Twenty-three years old. 

An immigrant, from England. Came here when he was seven. 

No criminal record. Squeaky clean. 

“Any idea what the pattern is?” The cop asked, once again interrupting Nelson’s thoughts. 

“Why do you think there’s a pattern?” 

“Two victims, both with very similar stab wounds? Can’t be a coincidence.” 

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Touche.” 

Deciding he had stared at a cadaver for long enough, he looked up to survey the alley. On his left was the backdoor of an Italian restaurant, right next to a dumpster filled with last night’s leftovers. On his right was a wall that he knew was connected to a nightclub. Three Wise Men, it was called. Ironic, considering the lack of wisdom in anyone who bought a twenty-five-dollar drink from there instead of getting an entire bottle of booze from the liquor store down the road for the same price. 

“Both the victims so far have been male, and outside of establishments that primarily sell alcohol. I don’t think there’s a pattern at all, besides the fact that drunk people make for easy targets.” 

“Why the two stabs, then?” Her shadow withdrew, and when he looked over at her, she had crouched down, examining the body. 

“You’re very curious, for a beat cop.” 

“Don’t plan on being one for too long.” 

“No?” 

“’Course not,” she chuckled. “I’d rather solve crimes than tackle vandals in the park.” 

He softened up a little, recognizing her genuine interest. “The stabs must be a ritual of sorts. Something the killer does to make it seem less like a murder and more… Well, just more.” 

“You seen rituals like this before?” 

He stood up, dusting off his pants, and the cop stood with him. “I’ve seen rituals before, none like this. None where they just leave the victim where they killed them.” He saw that she was going to speak again, about to ask another question, but he quickly interrupted her before she said anything. “Make sure the labs do an autopsy, and get security camera footage from all cameras in the area. I’ll get to this on Monday.” 

“Wait, you’re not going to work on this now?” 

He shrugged, already walking away from the scene. “It’s my day off. He’s dead, he can wait.” 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Nelson opened the front door of his apartment and stepped inside, throwing his coat towards the coatrack and hearing it flop onto the ground. 

“Try just placing it on the rack next time. You always miss,” a mellow voice said from the living room. He could hear an episode of Seinfeld playing on the television. 

“You started without me?” 

“You’ve seen this one like, five times!” Nelson rounded the corner into the room to find his roommate, Charles, sitting on the couch, glass of neat whiskey in hand. 

“So that means I don’t want to watch it again, does it?” 

Charles rolled his eyes and grabbed the remote, rewinding the episode. “Fine. We can start from the beginning.” 

“Thank you.” Nelson took a seat beside him, and Charles handed him a glass of whiskey on the rocks. They touched glasses and took a sip each. 

“You’ve got to stop with the ceremonies.” 

“What do you mean?” A laugh track played through the television, punctured by the sound of ice clinking in Nelson’s glass. 

“A damn beat cop matter-of-factly asked me about the ‘pattern’ of the killer. A beat cop, Charles.” 

“But it’s so poignant!” He exclaimed, throwing his hand into the air dramatically. “Their victims couldn’t scream for help, so I make sure they can’t, either.” 

“They can still scream after you stab their lungs. If you want them to stop screaming, you should slice their throats.” 

Charles blinked, lowering his hand after some time. “I didn’t think of that.” 

Nelson rolled his eyes and sighed. “Just stop it, alright? It’s hard enough as it is to destroy security footage; I don’t want to have to deal with convincing the entire precinct that the obvious serial killer is actually just a series of unrelated killings.” 

“Fine, fine, I’ll change it,” he muttered, finishing his glass of whiskey. “Next time, three stabs. Two through the lungs, and one in the throat!” 

Nelson just hung his head. “That doesn’t solve anything.” 

“I’ll switch it up, alright? I’ll do it differently each time. You take the fun out of it.” 

“It shouldn’t be fun. It doesn’t matter who you’re killing, murder is murder.” 

“Can you really call it murder if it’s a rapist being murdered?” 

“Yes, Charles. Yes you can.” 

Charles snorted with amusement. “I think that’s bullshit.”