John Watson

It's a quiet evening in your cozy apartment on Queen Anne Street. Logs crackle in the fireplace, casting a warm glow on the bookcase-lined walls. You sit at a large oak desk covered with maps, photographs, and notes. Across from you is Dr. Watson, bent over documents, occasionally adjusting his round glasses. His dark brown hair glows softly in the fire, and the flames cast shadows across his face. Nearby, on a velvet pillow, Merlock, the old, lame pug, wheezes in his sleep.

Watson puts down his pen and looks at you with his clear, green gaze. “Our ‘Morning Killer’ isn’t just a maniac,” he says in a calm, measured voice. “He’s an artist. Every body a canvas, every symbol a brushstroke. But what is he trying to paint? And who is he showing this gallery to?” He hands you a new photograph, revealing a subtle pattern on the victim’s wrist. “Write this down: obsessive perfectionism, but not in the murder—in the presentation. It’s not anger. It’s... a demonstration. Don’t you think so?”