The formidable case revealed itself to Ed on a day that began just as graciously as the last. It was March 17, year 2011, as beautiful a day as they come in Johnsville. The birds were singing the sounds of love, the sky a perpetual turquoise, one of those days that would permit a view of San Diego had the line of sight not been obstructed by hills.

     Ed Wallace was 30 years young, 6 feet and some change tall, he sported semi-long, wavy jet black hair, penetrating green eyes, and a goatee to fit the bill. He wasn't the brawniest man physically--he spent most of his leisure hours reading Tom Clancy and Dean Koontz novels and trying his hand at writing--but he was mentally strong, and he was a firm believer that brains and confidence were all he needed. He didn't have a problem standing firm to one of those douche-bag-muscle-oiling cops that he worked with. 

     He went through the same routine as every other morning: slinked out of bed, poured himself a cup of joe to focus his bleary eyes, fingered through the science, world, and local news leafs of the Press Enterprise, had himself two fried eggs and a pair of toasties, washed off the remnants of the previous day in the shower, brushed his teeth, then clad himself in a cozy black and red flannel, well-worn 501 Levi's, and a pair of black leather steel-toe boots. 

     Ed was a detective, he wasn't required to wear a uniform and he preferred it that way anyway, to him the damn things were nothing more than symbolic signs that shouted "hate me." The cops in Johnsville were known for giving petty tickets, frequently lurking in occult spots, and feigning stern attitudes when pulling people over for going 50 miles an hour in a 45. As long as he wasn't rocking one of those "hate me" uniforms, he was a happy camper. 

     Ed lit a cigarette (Marlboro Red), walked into his garage, straddled his black Harley Davidson Sportster and fired her up, let her purr like a menacing jaguar until she was warm, then took off out of the garage with a screech. The ride to the station on his Harley was indeed the most meditative part of his average work day; it was time for him to muse over the workweek and to place his mind into the on-duty Ed Wallace mode--the baddest, slyest detective in Riverside County, the iron fist that was gonna place every criminal that crossed his desk in the can. 

     He pulled up to the station, killed his Harley, and walked through the ceiling-high glass double doors of the station foyer. The receptionist Martha, a smartly dressed, pretty little blonde haired gal was sitting behind the foyer desk. 

      "Top of the morning Martha," Ed said as he passed through the foyer, "striking day ain't it." 

      "Good Morning Ed. Yes, it's just gorgeous, another day in paradise ay?" Said Martha.

      "Well, I don't know if I'd take it that far," Ed chuckled, "But indeed a notable day."

      "Yeah, I guess you're right, you have a good day Ed." 

      "Right back atcha baby," Ed said and winked at her.

       Martha offered a faint laugh and blushed a little.

       Ed liked Martha, she was cute, cordial, easy to talk to, and he detected a little freak somewhere under that innocent face of hers. Everything was an act of detection for Ed. He thrived in his Sherlock Holmes meets Jesse James persona. 

     He walked through the corridor, glowering at the walls stamped with memorials of stereotypical retired cops. He opened the door to his office, stood in the doorway momentarily with his palms in front of him, took an indulgent inhale through his nostrils as if to extol his accomplishments that had brought him to having his own office, then sat down at his desk. His office had the most character of all the offices in the station. On the walls he had framed posters of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, H.P. Lovecraft, MLK, the Kennedy brothers, Marisa Miller, and Marilyn Monroe. He had a miniature book shelf in the corner that he would pull from during breaks and down time. 

    Lying in his "in" basket were half a dozen new case files. He began thumbing through them one by one, revealing their contents. Three of them were outstanding warrant cases (guys and gals who owed the government thousands of dollars for unpaid cases, mostly misdemeanors and infractions that had accumulated). With those cases Ed's job was to glean information from the files and then call around, or snoop around, and get the debtors with their backs up against the wall so that they would either pay the outlay or serve some time in the can. One of the files regarded a stolen refrigerator and a television from the local Best Buy, and had three suspects pictures paperclipped to it. Another file was a case that involved a suspected prominent marijuana dealer. All of these files were standard business, nothing for Ed to get a bee in his bonnet over.

     The last file to examine gave Ed an eery feeling for some reason, he couldn't put his finger on exactly why. A good detective can just sense a dirty file when he comes across it, in the same way that a good mother can just detect when her children are in danger. It's intuition or something like that. He opened it up, slowly and warily. On the front page the chief cop, Henry Halslinger, had written in black pen:

    This case is gonna either make you drool at the mouth, or cry like a baby Eddy. I'd imagine it'll be the former. This @#*% just doesn't happen in good old suburban Johnsville, there's a freak out there buddy. A freak. You're the only detective that we've got that I'd feel comfortable handling this. Let's get em buddy, we're in this together.

     Ed was yet to view the contents of the case, but Henry was right, he was already metaphorically drooling at the mouth.

    He continued to the following pages, the good %&^!. He goggled and gaped almost instantaneously, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Paperclipped to the second page was a picture of a beaten and battered girl no more than 18 years young. She was lying limp on the floor with her shorts and underwear pulled down to her ankles and her shirt and bra pulled above her hefty bosom. There was semen on her stomach. The aftermath of a strangling on her neck. She was dead as a doorknob. Tacked to her forehead was a piece of paper with a missive scrawled on it in a ghastly hand:

   She was good, she was hot, we smoked a bowl of pot

   I took her, I loved her, I gave her a glass of scotch

  We got crazy, so crazy, $@*& got out of hand,

  I didn't intend this, but it happened, and now I'm 

  hooked. 

    Ed was enveloped in a multitude of the grisliest emotions possible. They had a real freak on the loose in good old darn-tootin Johnsville, California, and the most hellacious part of it all: he was hooked. This just didn't happen, never. There had never been a serial killer in high-middle class Johnsville. The schools were top notch, the neighborhoods civil. This was heinous and horrible, and he didn't know what to think of it. He sat there rubbing his temples, processing what was before his eyes. 

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