The anonymous tip reported another murder last night. At least, that\u2019s what my answering machine claims. My assistant\u2019s electronic voice says that a body was uncovered on an island nearby, with the killer\u2019s 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 \u201cGrandmaster\u201d in reference to their apparent obsession with chess. I don\u2019t see anything \u201cGrand\u201d about the psycho; to me, they are \u201cthe killer\u201d. My colleagues are either as sick as the murderer, or blind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t 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<\/sup> Precinct of the New York City Police Department. I see, and sometimes, do ugly things, but at least I never smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019m sure it isn\u2019t healthy, but I see it as a time of reflection. It\u2019s like I\u2019m 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\u2019t care about my mental health. My boss at the precinct isn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I can tell that the receptionist is extra cheerful today immediately after opening the large, wooden door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHello, Rob!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHi, Jordan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWonderful weather today, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cManageable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot a fan of gorgeous, sunny days?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot when they cook my corpse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The precinct is a drab building; it has remained untouched during the whole \u2018Open Concept\u2019 interior design movement. For that I\u2019m glad. I like my own little office that I\u2019m 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey, Jordan!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho put this disgraceful double-double on my desk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJeremy did. He brought coffee in for everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs he the coffee deliverer? I didn\u2019t know we had one of those.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJeremy just started on Shannon\u2019s forensics team. New people usually bring stuff in on their first day to help people like them\u2014you should take notes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHmmph. If you see him around, tell him I like it black.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Harry, my assistant, strides into the office. He understands the gravity of our job and doesn\u2019t mind talking about it without any sugar coating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMorning, Harry. When did they call?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEMS received the message at around 4:00 this morning, stating the victim\u2019s name and location. Forensics is already there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOK. We\u2019d better get going before they obliterate our crime scene.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe body\u2019s gonna be hot, boss.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah. Here, take this poor excuse for a cup of coffee. I don\u2019t want it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019ve always believed that a good assistant should be treated like royalty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Our boat gently brushes against the island\u2019s 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\u2019s forensics team set up a tent over the excavated grave. At least the body wouldn\u2019t be too hot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMorning, Rob.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHello, Shannon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is my new team member, Jeremy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHi, Jeremy. Make it black next time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat? Oh, the coffee. Let me jot that down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry about it, Jeremy. So, here\u2019s what we know: The victim was a waitress at the Lakeside Pub who didn\u2019t make it to her car after the evening shift. As you know, the Grandmaster isn\u2019t picky when it comes to his targets.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat makes you think the killer is a man?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHandprints. Here, let me show you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside the tent, the waitress\u2019s corpse lies on a pile of dirt. Crouching, I can see that her neck is bruised, and the spacing indicates large hands. Shannon\u2019s 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\u2019s damaged neck and connect with her blank stare. She reminds me of someone. Actually, they all do\u2014that\u2019s 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\u2026it becomes human. I need to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHas your team finished bagging evidence?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYep, the Grandmaster didn\u2019t leave anything behind\u2014as usual.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAlright, then bag her up. And Shannon, please stop calling him \u2018the Grandmaster\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI like it. He\u2019s an expert at what he does, plus he leaves chess pieces as breadcrumbs; hence, \u2018Grandmaster\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think Rob understands, Jeremy. I\u2019ll stop if you\u2019re bothered by it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThanks. I think Harry and I should check out the pub. They might have security footage of the parking lot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The boat\u2019s 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\u2019t poke around corpses and chase murderers. For the first time, I no longer feel any desire to solve the case. What\u2019s the point? People kill, and others get killed. We\u2019re all going to die, just some sooner than others and some not early enough. I\u2019m tired, and my face is stained with saltwater.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGot somewhere you need to be?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSoon, but not yet. I can stick around for a while. I just don\u2019t want to be late for my dinner reservation. My wife and I are celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh. You can head out now. It\u2019s almost 5:00 and only one of us needs to collect the footage. I didn\u2019t know you were married?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou don\u2019t know a lot about me. We don\u2019t talk about that stuff, remember?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, I guess. Is she a good woman?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHa, now you\u2019re all chatty. She is amazing\u2014treats me like a king.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, you\u2019d better be off. Don\u2019t want to keep your Queen waiting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n As Harry bounds out the door, the owner hobbles up with the tape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHere you go. I hope they help; she was a wonderful person.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n After muttering a few condolences, I make my way to the door. A detective\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At home, I flick on the tape and begin to watch the gravel sit in the Lakeside Pub\u2019s 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 \u2018the Grandmaster\u2019. 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\u2019s course. I need to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019m 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Opening the top, left-hand drawer, I check if my old chess box is still safely stored away. It\u2019s worn and missing a few pieces, but tonight, I\u2019m only looking for one: the Black King. There is something dominating about this piece\u2019s 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\u2019s second move. This piece deserves a good owner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019ll start this somber excursion by heading towards the casino down the road, where people gamble their lives away at all hours. Tonight, someone\u2019s debt will be settled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t 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\u2019t remember when it started, and I don\u2019t know when it will end. My actions, like breathing, don\u2019t fill me with pleasure, only relief that my body is functioning normally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey! Who\u2019s there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTake it easy. I\u2019m just getting some fresh air. That place is suffocating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, tell me about it. Do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou might have heard me cussing near the slot machines. Tonight\u2019s not my lucky night, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou and me both. Want a smoke?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSure. That reminds me, I have something for you. Bring the lighter closer, would you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRob? What are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho\u2019s Rob?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My pocketed, gloved hand grips the switchblade\u2019s cold handle a little tighter, and I take a quick breath, appreciating the moment before the King falls in checkmate. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The anonymous tip reported another murder last night. At least, that\u2019s what my answering machine claims. My assistant\u2019s electronic voice says that a body was uncovered on an island nearby, with the killer\u2019s signature left on their chest: a horizontal chess piece. This time, it was the white Queen. For the past year, I have […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":190,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","WB4WB4WP_MODE":"","WB4WP_PAGE_SCRIPTS":"","WB4WP_PAGE_STYLES":"","WB4WP_PAGE_FONTS":"","WB4WP_PAGE_HEADER":"","WB4WP_PAGE_FOOTER":"","_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[15],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-189","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"yoast_head":"\n–<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
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