In my visit to the pharmaceuticals factory, I discovered that there was no black dot serial killer. The black dots themselves were the murderer. It was a virus that was being manufactured as a biological weapon and it had somehow leaked out of one of the containment units.

In the end, I died alone.

No one could remember what the pharmaceuticals factory was built for, other than to pollute the entire city with noxious fumes and wastewater. It was owned by Rufus T. Dowling, the reclusive textiles baron who at one time controlled more than a third of the city’s real estate.

Once I had learned the truth about the black dot killings, the first question I wanted answered was whether Dowling knew about the plot. That’s why I drove to his mansion on Pine Hill.

The pharmaceuticals factory was something of a dinosaur, antiquated and larger-than-life at the same time. It loomed so ominously over the lake district that only the most desperate dared to visit. If there was a serial killer operating in its shadow, some of the more authoritarian city elders might have deemed it good for social welfare.

Turns out I was right about the pharmaceuticals factory but wrong about the killer. The reality was even worse than I’d imagined.

Every victim of the past month had been found with the same black dot tattooed to his or her forehead. We reported it to all the usual departments, thinking we must have a serial killer or cult on our hands. But each of the deaths appeared random, with a variety of causes and nothing linking them together.

The captain was mad at me so I was assigned the desk, going through all the case files. I was the one who discovered the connection, that all the victims had visited a certain pharmaceuticals factory on the east side before their deaths.

For Stephen Samenlego, even the simple act of walking across the street was a chore. He prepared for the ordeal with a regimen of ointments and black market pharmaceuticals that he applied to his most delicate areas. His biggest fear was someone would notice his discomfit and so he plastered over his features to look as resplendent as on celluloid.

His passings always attracted enormous attention. Samenlego often thought the crowds mocked him, that they considered he was somehow undeserving of his unrivaled celebrity. Being the world’s greatest film star has the effect of isolating you from your fellow humanity.