Diary of a Detective

Breaking Point

8/12/1997 3.09am Matvei's house

The still body of Matvei lies prone in his bed, asleep. Dreaming of a serial killer-free town, a safer town, a better town. Suddenly from his slumber he is roused by the sound of glass shattering. It came from below. Matvei sits up, eyes wide. It sounded awfully like his window breaking. An intruder.

He had always been a light sleeper, and now Matvei silently thanks his sensitive ears as he unhooks the solid brass scalpel statue Henrique, the town blacksmith - the dead town blacksmith - had made for him a while ago. A weapon. Finally it would come in handy. Brandishing the giant scalpel like a club, he pads through the dark hallways of his home.

Maybe it was his imagination, he thinks. But maybe it was the killer. And this time the victim came prepared. He almost grins at the thought of the killer's body on his living room floor, Matvei standing proudly over them in front of a crowd of journalists. The unknown medical examiner would finally be famous. He would be on the news.

He turns right into the den. It is empty, devoid of movement, devoid of life. As he tiptoes on, brass scalpel in hand, he notices an object, barely visible, glimmering in the moonlight halfway beneath his sofa. He stares hard. A keyring. He bends down to pick it up, but the tiniest creak of wooden floorboards behind him stops him dead. Gripping the brass sculpture tighter then he ever did, Matvei swings upwards and back, pivoting on his foot to face the person, whoever it was, behind. A perfect surprise strike on the head.

And it would have been, had a gleaming kitchen knife not met his blow on the way up. The two weapons connect with a clang. Sparks fly, and Matvei is almost knocked off-balance as he lurches backwards in surprise, his nose narrowly missing the honed steel blade. He wields the giant scalpel like a solid brass bat, driving forward and swinging with all his might. Heavy. Slow.

Matvei trips on the assailant's stuck-out foot, and his weapon goes flying. He finds himself carried helplessly forward with his impetus, slamming onto the wooden floor face-first. A jolt of pain shoots up his spine as the wind is knocked out of him. Matvei struggles to stand, but is given a swift kick to the head. Stars cloud his reddening vision as Matvei collapses on matchstick arms. A foot firmly plants itself on his shoulder blades, and he feels something sharp prick the back of his neck. He struggles, but a terrifying numbness overcomes him. Unforgiving, unrelenting cold envelopes every inch of his body and more. He cannot move. He cannot see. He cannot feel.

8/12/1997 9.20am Tejas' house

Tejas slaps the newspaper onto the floor. "Mysterious serial killer claims 8th victim," the inky black headlines scream, with a grainy picture of Matvei's body snuck onto the front page. Tejas is in the midst of packing his things. His keys are gone again, even after he put it in his pocket last night before going to bed. Not that he would need it anymore. He is moving out. Enough with the murders, the sleep issues, all of it. He can't even remember going to bed last night. This village is going to hell. The killer, he decides, is uncatchable.

On his bedside table the phone rings. He ignores it. Continues stuffing his clothes into a brown suitcase. It rings for 5 minutes straight. "Damn it," Tejas curses, storming over to pick up the receiver. It’s from Hanna.

"Tejas, you had better come quick. I've got really important information about the murders." Hanna's urgent voice comes through the receiver. "I'm out of this, Hanna. Do whatever you need." Tejas answers nonchalantly. "But it concerns you. Please come." Hanna presses on. The receiver slams down. One last time, he resolves. I'll visit this crime scene one final time. Let's see what Hanna's got. Maybe I'll muster up the strength to arrest her. Or shoot her, if I had my pistol. Whatever.