The pattern had been altered. The timeline rewritten. Someone had been tampering with the truth, rearranging reality itself.
But why?
And more importantly—who had the power to do it?
Detective Colhoun tapped his fingers against the table. Weeks spent retracing steps, rechecking reports, comparing timestamps. Nothing had stood out—until he revisited the crime scene photos.
Detective Michael Cornors.
It was a small detail, easy to overlook.
Gregory Wallace, the third victim, was found in his office, a silver coin forced into his throat. Official records placed his time of death on a Thursday. But in the first officer's handwritten report, something stood out:
"Detective Conors on scene at 10:32 PM. Verified victim's ID."
Colhoun frowned. That wasn't possible.
Conors had been assigned to a completely different case that night. The records placed him across town at another crime scene—one he had personally briefed Colhoun on the next morning.
So how was he at Wallace's office before the body was discovered?
A mistake?
Or something more?
Colhoun leaned back in his chair, rolling a marble between his fingers. His instincts told him this wasn't an error. This case was precise, methodical.
Michael Conors wasn't just investigating the murders.
He was inside the case.
---
He found Conors outside the precinct, leaning against his car, cigarette in hand. The air smelled like rain and burnt tobacco.
"You look like a man who's figured something out," Conors said without looking up.
Colhoun smirked. "You always say that when I come looking for you."
"Maybe you always look like that."
Colhoun pulled out a cigarette but didn't light it. Just rolled it between his fingers. "You remember Wallace's crime scene?"
Conors exhaled smoke through his nose. "Vividly."
"Yeah? What stood out to you?"
"His mouth." Conors shook his head. "The way it was forced open… Like he was trying to scream but couldn't."
Colhoun nodded. "You ever wonder why the coin was there?"
Conors gave him a sideways glance. "Same reason they all had one. The killer's signature."
"You sure about that?"
A pause—too long. Conors took another drag. "What are you getting at, Colhoun?"
Colhoun flicked his unlit cigarette away. "You were at Wallace's crime scene before the body was found."
Another pause. Longer this time. Then Conors chuckled. "Paperwork mistake."
Colhoun smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Probably."
But inside, the truth settled. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't a coincidence.
Michael Conors wasn't just a detective.
He was the killer.
---
That night, Colhoun sat at his desk long after the precinct emptied. He combed through every file, every case where Conors' name appeared. One after another, the pattern sharpened.
Conors had been there. Not just at Wallace's crime scene.
At all of them.
First responder. Assigned detective. Always present, but never suspicious. Just another cop doing his job.
Until you looked closer.
Until the coincidences stopped being coincidences.
Conors wasn't following the case.
He was controlling it.
---
The next morning, Colhoun found him at a diner, stirring coffee like he had all the time in the world.
"You look like hell, Colhoun," Conors said.
Colhoun slid into the booth. "Didn't sleep much."
"Case keeping you up?"
"You could say that."
Conors sipped his coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. "So, what's on your mind?"
Colhoun leaned forward. "How long have we known each other?"
Conors tilted his head, amused. "Two, three years? Why?"
"You ever lie to me?"
A pause. Then a slow, deliberate smile. "That's an interesting question."
Colhoun kept his voice steady. "You were at Wallace's crime scene before the body was reported."
Conors set his cup down. "We talked about that already."
"We did." Colhoun studied him. "You know what bothers me?"
Conors raised an eyebrow.
Colhoun tapped the table. "You never denied it."
The smile lingered, then faded. Conors exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping the ceramic mug.
Then he leaned in.
"You're a good detective, Colhoun." His voice was low, almost kind. "But some questions don't lead to answers. Just deeper questions."
Colhoun didn't blink. "That supposed to mean something?"
Conors sighed, shaking his head like a teacher disappointed in his student. He slid out of the booth, leaving a few bills on the table.
Before he left, he leaned close, his breath warm against Colhoun's ear.
"You should get some sleep, partner." A quiet chuckle. "Wouldn't want you seeing things that aren't there."
Then he was gone.
Colhoun stared at the empty seat across from him.
He didn't have proof yet. But he had something else.
Michael Conors had just made his first move.
---
Over the next few days, Colhoun unraveled the quiet trail Conors had left behind. It wasn't sloppy. It wasn't obvious.
But Colhoun had learned to read between the lines.
The first clue came from Wallace's autopsy report.
A small amount of industrial adhesive on the victim's wrists. The kind used in construction. The kind Colhoun remembered seeing in Conors' garage years ago.
The second clue came from an old, unsolved case. A woman strangled in her apartment. Buried in the case log—a footnote.
Traffic camera footage had been requested.
Then the request was canceled.
By Detective Michael Conors.
Colhoun felt the weight of it settle in his chest.
And before he could dig deeper—Conors disappeared.
When Colhoun finally tracked him down, it was too late.
Someone had broken into Cornors' apartment. Blood at the scene. Not much, but enough.
They had left him alive.
Colhoun stood outside the hospital room, watching the steady rise and fall of Cornors' chest. It didn't make sense.
Conors had been in control. A careful hand moving the pieces.
So who had moved against him?
---
The evidence was piling up.
• A missing witness had seen someone near the last crime scene. The sketch matched Conors.
• A storage unit, rented under a fake name, linked back to Conors' account. Inside: plastic sheets, a matching knife set, and gloves with traces of the victims' DNA.
• Phone records. Conors had contacted multiple victims days before their murders, under the guise of routine police work.
It was enough,the case was closed.But michael cornors passed away.
Colhoun sorted through the evidence. That's when he found it.
A small cassette tape, buried among the items recovered from Conors' apartment. It was old, unmarked—out of place. Curious, he slid it into the recorder and pressed play.
It was their thing using old antique in the time of pendrives .
At first, just static.
Then, a voice.
Breathy. Low.
Unmistakably Michael Cornors.
But it wasn't just his voice—it was his confession.
He spoke of the three murders, methodical and unrepentant, detailing how he chose them, how he ended them. The silver coins weren't just a signature. They were a message—one only he understood.
But it didn't stop there.
He went further, unraveling a history of crimes buried beneath the city's surface. Unsolved cases. People who had vanished without a trace. A nauseating string of deeds, each worse than the last.
Then, his voice began to slow.
"...be... beware of my s..."
A thud.
And then—silence.
The rest of the tape was empty.