I suppose I should give you some background on the whole affair. You’ve probably heard about it by now. A murder in the world’s most famous museum tends to make headlines. Jean was an overnight security guard in the Salle des États who was found dead on the morning of October 22, 2012. He did not die of natural causes.

I was privy to much of the early investigation. The body had no outward sign of physical trauma, but based on the extreme contortion of Jean’s corpse, the Paris police suspected a homicide. More than one of the attending magistrates remarked they had never seen such a horrified expression and everyone agreed that Jean must have died in tremendous pain. I could have confirmed their suspicions, and told them things about Jean that no one else has ever known. I have a gift for drawing secrets out of a person.

After questioning Jean’s wife, they learned about his marital troubles, about his mounting debt, about his failure as a student and lack of career prospects. They probably read a few of his poems and combed through his journals and emails. They would have seen my name written down, but still, no one thought to ask about my involvement. They were focused on the wife, even though she didn’t care enough anymore to commit murder.

Jean’s death, because of the location and the mysterious circumstances, made national news. As the investigation dragged on and no suspects panned out–even the cause of death was still a mystery–the national police fell under heavy criticism. Dismissal wasn’t an option, but several investigators were moved to lesser departments and it would be years before anyone associated with the affair was promoted.

The museum directors at first pushed for a speedy resolution. They wanted the crime scene opened back up to the public immediately and were pushing for suicide or heart failure as the cause of death. But they soon realized that the sensationalism of the press coverage was driving attendance to record levels. I felt trapped inside a Dan Brown novel.

Time passed, as it always does. By this point, most people have forgotten about Jean. His wife has remarried and his mother has entered senility. He never had any children, and, more tragically, his poetry was never published. You never know which creative works will be cherished by future generations.

I still remember. What I recall most fondly about Jean was the way he looked at me. He’d stare for hours all by himself, as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world. He’d ramble and share his ideas and recite drafts he’d written, but mostly he just stared. It was as if he knew that sometimes, even when you’re surrounded by people all day, it’s still very easy to feel alone.

Richard was famous for his temper. He once scrambled the brains of the cook at his favorite restaurant because his eggs had been undercooked. He was surrounded by yes men and sycophants.

My sinking ship of a career cried out for me to catch the black dot killer, so I conducted the investigation alone.

The police wanted to keep the stories from making it into the press, so as not to tip off the perpetrator. They made sure to silence all the witnesses.

Of course, a reporter got onto the news and he had to be eliminated as well. When it eventually leaked to the paper, it became necessary to kill everyone.

Stephens could find no explanation for the manner of death. The victim was fully dressed in a suit and tie, but had died from several bullet wounds to his heart. His clothes did not have any holes or blood on them. No one reported hearing any gunshots. A note read that despite his death, he refused to leave the neighborhood.

So I took to following cops in the neighborhood with my video camera.

I didn’t last an hour. They must have put in a call to their buddies, because suddenly I was surrounded. They beat me straight into the hospital.

20 year veterans found themselves vomiting in their hats. The nightmares would linger for months.

The otters were not being smuggled to make fur coats or dog food. They were being skinned alive and fed to Russian babies on the adoption market. Apparently, otter flesh gives them a bright sheen that is more attractive to prospective mothers. 70% of the babies die within six months.

“May I come in, Mr. Collins?” he asked.

“Please.”

After a smattering of ill-fitting pleasantries, he got to the point.

“Your 100 words blog, it’s interesting, the most popular tag is murder.”

“Murder fascinates me. In the theoretical sense.”

“And, as you know, six residents in the neighborhood have been murdered in the last three months. All in precisely the same fashion as depicted in your stories.”