Frantic eyes darted from face to face. I stood beside Constable Russo, taking in the scene. To the left: the paper that held all the answers; to the right: the body that beckoned all the questions.

His eyes were marbles bulging in the light, staring at the ceiling, as if the answers were written on the yellowed plaster. A striped nightgown, dried milk still in his beard, face frozen in its cold stillness. Dead.

The paper shook in my hand. The cursive was slanted and begrimed, but legible - too uniform for a man of his physique.

‘He came for me. I didn’t mean to, I swear…I didn’t mean to kill.’

I traced the bloodied paper and read on.

‘I was weak. I did what he told me to. But I can’t live with this guilt anymore. I told and now he’s coming to kill me.’

A swift, clean cut, centre of the pectoralis major. Efficient.

A murmur travelled through the room. All faces turned to Russo. He sighed, and with a mournful glance at the deceased, pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket, and began scribbling.

“Well, gents, seems we have a write-up to do at the station. We’ll organise a follow-up on the hour. Gates, Reynold, you’re with me. The rest of you, move on.” He bagged the note and handed it back. “Johns, see what you can make of it.”

Scott and Dodd were already debating the nature of the crime.

“I think it cowardly to own up like that.”

“And how do you feel about the whole ‘two victims’ thing, Johns?”

“Poor men,” I said. A pause. “Or – woman, I suppose.” They chattered on, without noticing. I slipped the bagged evidence into my pocket.

They never see past the uniform.