Loops

He didn’t hold with the idea of a tiny flaw in space-time embedded in his brain, or with conversing with his AI as he would a friend. A human-sounding voice would be easy enough to obtain, but he preferred a touch of Frankenstein’s monster. It always reminded him whom (what) he was speaking with.

A dry, humorless voice cut into his reverie. "Mr. Rieger, we’d appreciate it if you came to our Saturn office. For this particular terminus, the number is 141-5926-535-89793238. A crime has been committed. Thank you for your time."

"Wait, what crime? I keep telling you people, I don’t investigate petty thefts."

"We have no leads, no evidence, and no motive. The crime, Mr. Rieger, is murder in the first degree."

A macabre scene greeted Rieger upon translation to the otherwise humdrum office. The late Ezra Wertzle slumped over his desk, seemingly collapsed while working. The papers beneath his head were stained dark red. Every single civilized instinct in Rieger screamed with revulsion, but he leaned closer, fascinated. There hadn’t been a murder in decades. The psychs claimed they could spot and cure any individual unbalanced enough to even consider it. Obviously, they were wrong. The only thing to do was to look for a calling card.

The last time a murder had been committed, it had been 75 years ago. Rieger remembered reading about the trial in the news. A man had caught his wife cheating with another man, and had killed both in a moment of passion. A classic story, told throughout human history. The man was ruled too dangerous to rejoin society. He was quickly and painlessly executed. It was called the ‘trial of the century’. Fatty Arbuckle, eat your heart out.

But this was different. It was cold, calculated, and premeditated. For something like this, the killer had to leave some kind of trace, some clue. They always did. They were the great, the all-knowing. They felt omniscient, and taunted you. Tricked you, tried to give away some, but not the important all. The calling card was more than just a metaphorical expression. The last premeditated murder had been 143 years ago, by a man who had read a few too many sleazy detective novels. He had left an actual card at the scene, detailing how he had disposed of the evidence, by incineration, as a juvenile taunt to the ‘pigs’, as he called them. Handwriting analysis fingered the man within days.

An hour later, nothing had been turned up. Not a single shred of physical evidence was around the scene. Nothing to do for it but to go home and sleep for a bit. He had been up late the previous night working on a complex fraud case. Not that night meant anything anymore. He had no idea what time it was on the station. But he was beat, and he needed to sleep.