The divisional commissioner's breathing down my neck. "Get this thing solved!" he yelled at me today. Sure, I'll get right on it. There are only about two million people to sort through. Ten million if you count the suburbs. It took ten years to catch the last serial killer. Do they expect me to do it in a day? I guess they do. Maybe I should be flattered they think I can.
I've been waiting for a case like this my whole career—a chance to shine, to make a mark. But there's something I didn't count on: failure is built into the DNA of a serial killing case. Every new body that turns up cries failure. Think about it: it wouldn't even be a serial killing if I'd caught him after the first one. And if I can't catch him before he strikes again? Failure. Again.
My job has always been about solving murders, not preventing them, yet that's just what I'm expected to do. I'm playing a losing game. When I finally catch him—and I will catch him—will I be the hero, or will it be too little, too late?