***

Elijah stared at the opened report files of the two victims on his home work desk that was barren of anything remotely existing just to serve an aesthetic purpose- not even a photo-frame- to give it the impression of "homeliness." Elijah’s eyes had no penchant for beauty. No. He needed nothing that was profoundly superficial.

Organized and clean, his desk only presented what he needed to his sight. Even then, he was uncertain about the sparse details staring almost apologetically back at him. He only had vague suspicions that could not be honored as deductions or even assumptions. Very deliberately, he flipped the pages of the two reports, scrutinizing each word, trying to find something that Stern had perhaps subconsciously thought of and typed out but not recognize. He had been going through this motion for the third time. Abruptly, he stopped and went back to his original position. His back was once against straight, rigid-instead of hunched over from trying to read the report on the desk that was a notch too low. Dimming the table lamp, he went back to staring at the reports but not seeing them. His mind was running; racing.

His eyes were scourging his thoughts.

The table lamp was an unnecessary helper in the morning for most as the sun was already bursting forth with in its luminous glory. Sharp orange rays illuminated the busy city life of Manhattan, cutting into everyone’s path but never hindering them in anyway- besides the need to put on shades against the harmful ultraviolet rays that came with the warmth and the light.

In his little, detached apartment, which would make minimalists appear to be flamboyant- the sun rays had no place. It was not welcomed, rendering the apartment to always exist in murkiness and deadness. The only spirited display had to be those impenetrable, heavy curtains of various shades of deep, rich colors. But they were dark spirits and only made his apartment seemed even more stark and unfeeling with a touch of cynicism. He had drawn them over the windows and it was cool in his abode, albeit a little stuffy. But he was used to it. Stale air, night morphing into day without much of a difference- he was used to it.

To him, time was just time. Dates and days were just ways of dividing out its infinite vastness so Mankind could deal with it in neat little parcels. Night and day were no difference if one was determine to keep out the sun because the eyes tear too much when looking into the stinging light.

Like a jigsaw puzzle maker, he was now spreading out the individual jagged pieces onto the workspace that was in his mind, intently analyzing each one to fit some together. Yet, unlike a jigsaw set bought from the shop-with all the pieces collected completely in a box-, he had to search for the pieces himself and all he had now were but a few, miserable ones with none that could set the rest in their places, and sift out those that did not belong.

At these moments when his mind-which could churn out brilliant assumptions and deductions by cool logic- failed him, he screamed inwardly while his mien remained unfathomable. Yes. He would admit that feelings did briefly sojourned in him but he did not have to be hospitable to them. He did not have to like them. Are feelings needed before one could become a human being? He concluded that feelings hindered objectivity. Feelings could cut deep into the heart. Passions could burn the soul until all that was left was amber ashes.

Feelings could betray, disappoint and from there, hatred would formed. He sighed as once again, he was forced to grapple with the barely bearable guests. He believed that indifference was better than hatred towards anyone whom he recalled Lijah had once loved so guilelessly and trusted so unwaveringly. He would honor Lijah’s memory by not resenting them.

He would even honor his own memories by not letting bitter anguish at the past to surface.

Having no idea why his train of thoughts would suddenly derail to a station that he had intended to deactivate for as long as he breathed, he willed his increasingly disobedient mind to focus on the matter at hands with eyes squeezed tightly shut. It was important to solve the case. Important because. Just because.

And he did not like not knowing. Shaking his head to clear it of those futile questions of his own psyche, he reached for the cup of tea that had gone cold in a lonely corner of his desk. It did not matter. It was already tasteless, the unfavorable temperature of it would not matter. What was there to enjoy about a cup of tea? Enjoyment would pass. To know happiness would be to know sorrow.

He once knew sorrow. The converse might not be true.

He was already connected to the Internet- the popular search engine page stared back at him with its bright, yellow layout. But he had no words to search. Furrowing his brows in deep concentration, he decided to just take a shot. Sometimes, it was with wild ventures that one found valuable gains. He placed his fingers on the keyboard and typed.

A few seconds later, the results were out. Sifting through the useless gunk, Elijah scrolled down quickly for that one website that could elucidate the shadowy corners of the case, revealing something that he could work with.

He found two. One linked to a page in Eaeshore College Intranet, something about a module titled Personalities, War and Philosophies, an Third Year module.

Another linked him to a student’s thesis on Hitler, the man himself. The academic paper was titled, "The Cult of Hitler."

Both links were not broken. Elijah was more interested in the thesis though. He had read Mein Kampf before and the thesis was centered heavily on the dark book of warped ideas dictated by Hitler to an inmate during his time in prison. Some argued Mein Kampf might not be pure-unadulterated Hitler’s original thoughts- that the writer might had weaved in some interpretations of his own as well.

It did not matter to Elijah. What had transpired in World War II was already foreshadowed in Mein Kampf.

Elijah read the quote found in the thesis which had a section that tried to explain the hypnotic charm and power of Hitler. Not so much of Hitler, the leader of the Nazis, but Hitler, the man. His mind very steadily analyzed whatever information he had, scarce as they were, trying to seek that one deduction which would sound true. Closing his eyes, thoughts swam in his mind.

Like a sneaky child, Sympathy crept in. He thought of those who had perished under the Nazi’s cruel regime and something regretful tugged at his heart. He even pitied Hitler. Had he not been Fuhrer, he would not even be respected or liked.

And he caught himself. Reminding himself yet again that emotions were failings, he stilled his heart and rebuked his mind. As he continued to peruse the thesis, he found what could possibly be a pattern- if he was not clutching blindly at straws.

The man with the lightest shade of blond hair- before it could be called ‘striking white’- leaned back against his faux leather armchair. He could not confirm his guesses- his deductions.

The thesis was put online a little more than three months before the murders occurred. Taking down the name of the author, Elijah’s mind raced with a list of things to do.

He straightened himself up and typed furiously, wasting no time as a new path was revealed to him, after his short interlude with the dense forest in his mind. Typing out an encrypted email, he sent it to his old partner in the FBI who was probably only too glad to see Elijah leave. Throughout Elijah’s partnership with Emil Dunks, poor Emil had been so uncomfortable and tense-up. Elijah acknowledged the fact that he was unlikable. But he could hardly be vexed over it. There was no time to dwell on his popularity or notoriety when he did not care for any of the people that once walked along his path.

Did not care enough to feel hurt.

Or maybe not. Elijah refused to put words to those feelings that would accompany flitting images of some people. Refused to acknowledge them. He was determined to just let those feelings be silent. Those brief specters interrupted his train of thoughts and he curled his lips in annoyance.

He saved the thesis and programmed the printer settings. Leaning back against his armchair, he watched as the machine woke to a fleeting life. It buzzed away mechanically, translating the thesis to physical form.

As he waited, a familiar lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it down, like how he swallowed though his history. Many would call his life shameful; disgusting. Some might actually empathize and call it wretched. What was the use of sympathy? Nothing could be changed. So he took it and swallowed it whole.

Bygones were bygones. All that he did, he committed willfully to survive. All that he did, he fully consented. He felt he had to at those times. In retrospect, a less deviant path could have been chosen but at those times, with whatever maturity and mentality he had acquired, the paths he took were the only paths he saw in his solitary journey.

Images continued to speed through his memory cells. Images of experiences that made Elijah- Elijah.

Suddenly, he felt so heavy, some weight landed in his being, like a ton of sand was poured into his soul- each grain scratching as it settled against the layers of epidermis. Discomfort. Breathlessness.

He clutched his sides. He closed his eyes.

The feeling passed. But he was still heavy-laden.

***

Two hours later, after Elijah had fixed a bland ‘brunch’ for himself- once again seeing food as merely sustenance to keep his body working- a reply came back.

He never finished. He shot himself before anyone could approach him.

Elijah scanned through the email twice, his ex-partner’s good wishes were lost on him as a solo question repeated itself over and over in his mind, like a circular gust of air, gradually picking up speed and strength, revolving faster and faster into a cyclone.

***