The anonymous tip reported another murder last night. At least, that’s what my answering machine claims. My assistant’s electronic voice says that a body was uncovered on an island nearby, with the killer’s signature left on their chest: a horizontal chess piece. This time, it was the white Queen. For the past year, I have been digging up chess pieces and their subsequent owners. People at the precinct call the killer the “Grandmaster” in reference to their apparent obsession with chess. I don’t see anything “Grand” about the psycho; to me, they are “the killer”. My colleagues are either as sick as the murderer, or blind.
I hate mornings. Not for the usual reasons, such as extreme tiredness. I hate them because they mock me. The sun rises, careless of the carnage of the night, and it pours its warm smile over the bloodstained streets. Disgusting. I prefer the moon. It is cold, and impassive. It watches the terrible things done on Earth with neither pity nor sorrow. There is no comfort in the moon, but at least it doesn’t mock me like the sun and its malignant smile. My job requires the same mask as the moon. I am a Detective Inspector at the 11th Precinct of the New York City Police Department. I see, and sometimes, do ugly things, but at least I never smile.
One ugly thing that I see every day is the man in the mirror. I sometimes stand for a full hour, like I am now, just staring into his red-rimmed eyes and sunken face. I’m sure it isn’t healthy, but I see it as a time of reflection. It’s like I’m realigning my body with my mind, reminding myself of the shell that I am living in. I could probably use a vacation, but the killer doesn’t care about my mental health. My boss at the precinct isn’t the Chief, it is the murderer. They dictate my every waking moment and haunt me as I sleep. Even now, I need to haul myself to the precinct because the killer requires my pursuit. It is a beautiful, sunny day outside my window. Today is going to be a bad day.
–
I can tell that the receptionist is extra cheerful today immediately after opening the large, wooden door.
“Hello, Rob!”
“Hi, Jordan.”
“Wonderful weather today, isn’t it?”
“Manageable.”
“Not a fan of gorgeous, sunny days?”
“Not when they cook my corpse.”
That always shuts them up. Just remind everyone of their job and the room goes silent. My colleagues try to forget that our daily duty is to dive into tragedy, waltz through crooked minds, and above all, meddle with the dead.
The precinct is a drab building; it has remained untouched during the whole ‘Open Concept’ interior design movement. For that I’m glad. I like my own little office that I’m sure is still insulated with asbestos. The yellowed folders and gray shelving units are more than enough decoration for me. And the smell, the smell is wonderful. My office permeates with the scent of justice. The rows of folders containing closed case files emit the righteous smell like incense burning in a holy place. But this is no holy ground. I scan my desk for anything I might need at the scene and spot something unfamiliar.
“Hey, Jordan!”
“Yeah?”
“Who put this disgraceful double-double on my desk?”
“Jeremy did. He brought coffee in for everyone.”
“Is he the coffee deliverer? I didn’t know we had one of those.”
“Jeremy just started on Shannon’s forensics team. New people usually bring stuff in on their first day to help people like them—you should take notes.”
“Hmmph. If you see him around, tell him I like it black.”
Harry, my assistant, strides into the office. He understands the gravity of our job and doesn’t mind talking about it without any sugar coating.
“Morning, Harry. When did they call?”
“EMS received the message at around 4:00 this morning, stating the victim’s name and location. Forensics is already there.”
“OK. We’d better get going before they obliterate our crime scene.”
“The body’s gonna be hot, boss.”
“Yeah. Here, take this poor excuse for a cup of coffee. I don’t want it.”
I’ve always believed that a good assistant should be treated like royalty.
–
Our boat gently brushes against the island’s mossy bedrock. I wonder how the killer managed to get the body six feet under, as they seem to prefer. Climbing over the scruffy terrain, I can see that the center of the island supports larger trees, indicating more depth to the soil. Shannon’s forensics team set up a tent over the excavated grave. At least the body wouldn’t be too hot.
“Morning, Rob.”
“Hello, Shannon.”
“This is my new team member, Jeremy.”
“Hi, Jeremy. Make it black next time.”
“What? Oh, the coffee. Let me jot that down.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jeremy. So, here’s what we know: The victim was a waitress at the Lakeside Pub who didn’t make it to her car after the evening shift. As you know, the Grandmaster isn’t picky when it comes to his targets.”
“What makes you think the killer is a man?”
“Handprints. Here, let me show you.”
Inside the tent, the waitress’s corpse lies on a pile of dirt. Crouching, I can see that her neck is bruised, and the spacing indicates large hands. Shannon’s right, it does seem to be the work of a man. The prints are dark and ugly. He never strangled anyone before. It was always cleaner, more humane. My eyes drift up from the waitress’s damaged neck and connect with her blank stare. She reminds me of someone. Actually, they all do—that’s why I never look at their eyes. A corpse is just a pile of inactive bones and flesh, but when you meet its cold gaze…it becomes human. I need to leave.
“Has your team finished bagging evidence?”
“Yep, the Grandmaster didn’t leave anything behind—as usual.”
“Alright, then bag her up. And Shannon, please stop calling him ‘the Grandmaster’.”
“I like it. He’s an expert at what he does, plus he leaves chess pieces as breadcrumbs; hence, ‘Grandmaster’.”
“I think Rob understands, Jeremy. I’ll stop if you’re bothered by it.”
“Thanks. I think Harry and I should check out the pub. They might have security footage of the parking lot.”
The boat’s engine roars to life after I pull the ripcord a couple of times. As I open the throttle, leaving the island behind, I feel a growing sense of discomfort. The refreshing wind on my face and hair should be calming; instead, it seems to be peeling away a part of me. Everything feels too familiar. I grew up on this lake and took the boat out for afternoon outings just like this one. Only, back then, I didn’t poke around corpses and chase murderers. For the first time, I no longer feel any desire to solve the case. What’s the point? People kill, and others get killed. We’re all going to die, just some sooner than others and some not early enough. I’m tired, and my face is stained with saltwater.
–
The pub is a welcome scene. People are eating, drinking, and laughing. I catch Harry fidgeting with a ring on his finger and looking longingly at the clock on the wall.
“Got somewhere you need to be?”
“Soon, but not yet. I can stick around for a while. I just don’t want to be late for my dinner reservation. My wife and I are celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary tonight.”
“Oh. You can head out now. It’s almost 5:00 and only one of us needs to collect the footage. I didn’t know you were married?”
“You don’t know a lot about me. We don’t talk about that stuff, remember?”
“Yeah, I guess. Is she a good woman?”
“Ha, now you’re all chatty. She is amazing—treats me like a king.”
“Well, you’d better be off. Don’t want to keep your Queen waiting.”
As Harry bounds out the door, the owner hobbles up with the tape.
“Here you go. I hope they help; she was a wonderful person.”
After muttering a few condolences, I make my way to the door. A detective’s condolences are rarely comforting or welcome. Those impacted by a tragedy know that we are present in their sphere of sorrow out of duty, not because of love or shared grief like the others that surround them. We sit back and take notes, watching the different characters interact with each other, like some sort of play.
–
At home, I flick on the tape and begin to watch the gravel sit in the Lakeside Pub’s parking lot. My eyes are heavy, and I suddenly become aware of just how tired I am. The tape can wait. Right now, I am battling the thoughts that survived the boat ride. I know that I cannot allow evil to exist, but there is a pointlessness to my efforts since I can neither save the targets nor punish the perpetrator. I think the source is the ‘the Grandmaster’. He is an enigma. There is no motive behind his murders, no bragging in his correspondence, and no perceived glee in the act of killing. Everything is done methodically, right up to the automated voice that contacts Emergency Services at my precinct. It is hard to smell the evil in his actions when all he seems to do is accelerate Nature’s course. I need to sleep.
It is around 1:00AM when I wake up, as I do on occasion. I crawl out of bed carefully and stumble towards the vanity. My dim reflection looks unfamiliar and peculiar at this hour. I look haggard, but I’m not ugly. Something is only ugly if it pretends to be beautiful, and since I make no attempt to mask my repulsiveness, there is beauty in my hideous complexion.
Opening the top, left-hand drawer, I check if my old chess box is still safely stored away. It’s worn and missing a few pieces, but tonight, I’m only looking for one: the Black King. There is something dominating about this piece’s presence on the board. He looms over all the other soldiers, even the White King waits in horrified suspense for the dark General to dictate the game’s second move. This piece deserves a good owner.
–
The street is empty and well-lit with the placid light of the moon. There is so much freedom, so many possibilities, in the empty canvas of the night. I’ll start this somber excursion by heading towards the casino down the road, where people gamble their lives away at all hours. Tonight, someone’s debt will be settled.
I don’t understand why I go on these midnight trips and donate my chess pieces; I just know that a part of me needs this process to stay alive. I can’t remember when it started, and I don’t know when it will end. My actions, like breathing, don’t fill me with pleasure, only relief that my body is functioning normally.
The pungent smell of cigarette smoke cuts through the cool, night air as I walk past a side street beside the casino. Following the scent, I turn around the corner and see a young man leaning against the brick wall. He’s smoking a cigarette while tossing and catching something that looks like a ring. It almost hits the ground when he hears my foot scrape on some loose gravel.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
“Take it easy. I’m just getting some fresh air. That place is suffocating.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar.”
“You might have heard me cussing near the slot machines. Tonight’s not my lucky night, I guess.”
“You and me both. Want a smoke?”
“Sure. That reminds me, I have something for you. Bring the lighter closer, would you?”
“Rob? What are you doing here?”
“Who’s Rob?”
My pocketed, gloved hand grips the switchblade’s cold handle a little tighter, and I take a quick breath, appreciating the moment before the King falls in checkmate.