text: The note read. Stay away, more people will die. My beginning was my end. mAcrony Handwritten in cursive, left on my windshield, tucked into an envelope. 'Detective Frank Laius" written on the front. Laius? &#x200B; I've stared at it for 5 hours. I hadn't entered it into evidence yet. It feels...personal. I thumbed my files. &#x200B; The murder of Ian Austin, bound in his room starved to death. Mark Young, razor slits all over his throat. Orville Uriss, beaten with a bat. Ron Smith, strangled with a tie. &#x200B; Previous victims were all missing for 6 days, discovered on day 7. Owen Nicholson, missing for 6. &#x200B; All young men, 21 years old. No other connections. Body 1 was found on Saturday, March 2nd, a new body found every Saturday for the last 4 weeks. Today is Friday. &#x200B; The note stares at me. >"Stay away..." I got close? mAcrony? A name? I tap the steering wheel; the note is written on a casino slip. For me, the Royal Casino may as well be called Gloria. The night we met there led to 6 drug-filled days. &#x200B; I rub my eyes. I feel old. 16 years as Detective Frank Thebe must make up for 8 years of Frank the mess. Right? &#x200B; >"...more people will die." *Stay away* **OR** more people will die? Or **IF** *I stay away,* more people will die? Stay away from what? &#x200B; Orville, a non-smoker, curiously had a carton of unopened Drake cigarettes on his bed. When I smoked, that was my brand. My mind slips to my bartending days, a professional partier without a care. &#x200B; Coffee and clues, I need both. Fred's Café has assisted me before. The back-booth’s leather seats feel custom for deliberation or using coffee to drown inebriation, I've done both. The low lampshade swings over the table in response to any bustle in the cafe. The light dances small spotlights over the table. &#x200B; >I spread everything on the table. '*beginning is my end'* haunts me. It means something and feels like I should know. &#x200B; Ding. The door rings as a lady walks in shaking tears of rain off her umbrella. The shade sways across the photos. A smartly dressed man whisks to the washroom. The shade changes direction, swishing over the photos. The note blows off the table and lands with the casino logo staring up at me. &#x200B; The colour reminds me of Gloria's hair. She chose with her heart; I was too young and high, I chose to stay away. Those days were not my best, foggy nights, heavy mornings, bags of regrets. &#x200B; The light bobs over Ian Austin's photo. The Lucky Gin logo glows beside him, funny, that was my gin. The light swishes, a green bottle of Jimmy’s Irish Whiskey shimmers on Mark Young's desk. I used to drink that too. According to friends, these lads didn't drink. &#x200B; Ron Smith, cocaine lines on his dresser, although, toxicology says he‘s clean.