Detective by the Wayside Part 3

Chapter Twenty-Five
“Some monsters don’t die. They just become legends—and find apprentices.”

He returned to the precinct three weeks later. No report. No statement. Just sat down in his office, closed the door, and stared silently at the gray wall where the investigation board used to hang. Now—emptiness.

Quinn. Broken. Exhausted. No badge. No gun. Just one question burning in his eyes: why are we still alive if it was supposed to be over?

“He’s not talking,” Tammy said, leaning against the doorframe.

“And you?” Horn asked.

“I... I’m not sure I want to. I keep seeing those mannequins. That shot. That voice. He’s dead—I know that. But sometimes, I swear I hear him whispering when I fall asleep.”

“Your brain just won’t shut down. Happens to all of us after a war.”

“We’re not at war, Horn.”

“The hell we’re not.”

Meanwhile, in the department’s archive, old folders gathered dust. Some had never been opened since 1975. Among them, between files on the Yonge Street gangs and a Chinatown homicide, sat a thin yellow folder labeled in shaky handwriting: “Case #109-L. Lost. Do not open.”

A young archivist named Andrew Breen found it by accident. And despite the warning, he opened it. Inside—photographs. A handwriting style eerily similar to the one the city had come to fear. But this case was dated 1972. Five years before Redford’s first “official” killing.

One photo showed a girl. Her face had been cut out. A pencil note beneath: “Martha L. — rough draft.”

Andrew didn’t know what to do. He showed the file to only one person—his friend. That friend had always been obsessed with such cases. He dreamed of being a filmmaker. He had a dark corner in his basement and an old film projector. He often said, “Bad films are forgotten. Real ones live in your head.”

Quinn sat by the window. He could feel it—something breathing again in the darkness. Not supernatural. Just familiar. A rhythm. A signature. A taste. And that taste was coming back.

Tammy brought an envelope. No stamp. Inside—postcard from Argentina. A child’s drawing. The sun. A girl with long hair and a boy. The caption: “Thank you, detective. I’m alive now. I remember.”

“She’s the one,” Tammy whispered. “The girl we saved. She made it out.”

Quinn took the card. Smiled. Almost.
But when he turned it over—his face went pale. On the back, scribbled in pencil:

“Are you sure you saved all of them?”

Signed: U2—the same signature found on Redford’s earliest reels.

He stood up. Slowly. As if his body had forgotten how to move.

“We’re back in the game,” he said. “He’s returning. Or someone who wants to become him.”

Tammy didn’t reply. She was already looking out the window. Somewhere in the city, someone was setting up a camera. An old one. With film.

Unmistakable.

Chapter Twenty-Six
“Some apprentices don’t want to imitate. They want to surpass.”

Andrew Breen vanished on the third day. Left home in the morning, boarded a bus—and disappeared. His parents filed a report. His friends were baffled. He didn’t drink. Didn’t use. Never fought. Studied moderately, worked in the police archives—quiet as wallpaper.

Quinn sat in his kitchen, a cup of black coffee gone cold before him. On the table lay a copy of that forbidden folder—the one marked “Do not open.” The paper smelled of mold. That odor of the past you can never quite scrub off.

Tammy flipped through his file. Everything about him checked out. Too perfectly. And that was the most alarming part.

“He showed the file to a friend,” she said. “Weird guy. Into theater. Shot short films. Collected posters from old productions. We’ll find him.”

“We’re already looking. But he left town two days ago. No listed destination. Paid in cash. Just like they teach. No cameras. No trail. Not a single breadcrumb. And that’s what scares me.”

“This guy... he’s not just a student. He’s a copy. New. Younger. Meaner. No hesitation. No conscience.”

Quinn stayed silent. Staring at a point only he could see. Then said:

“They don’t come out of thin air. They grow inside us. In the police. In the files. In the forgotten cases. We create them. Through apathy. We forget. They remember. And they learn. Better than us.”

At Scarborough Hospital—a new victim. A nurse. Again. Taken from the locker room mid-shift. Found in a park under a bridge late at night. No shoes. Her face painted with theater makeup—white base, red blotches, drawn-on tears. A message scrawled on her forehead:

“Act I. Audition take.”

On her chest—an old Minolta film camera. Inside, one frame. A portrait of Quinn. Not from the archives. Fresh. From behind. At a caf;. Last Friday.

He stared into his coffee. The camera had been across the street. Someone had waited.

“He’s watching,” Tammy said. “Close now.”

“He wants us to know it,” Quinn nodded. “He’s retracing our steps—to crush our failures. And he’s craving a stage. An audience. A finale his mentor never lived to see.”





Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Some finales begin at the start.”

The next morning, a box was found on the precinct’s front steps. Wooden. Worn. Smelling of mildew, of rot—like something dragged up from the depths of a forgotten basement.

Inside was a doll. Female. Dressed in a nurse’s outfit. Hair cut to match the victim found in the park. Eyes taped shut. Beside her lay a note:

“That was just rehearsal. Your premiere is next. Don’t be late.”

Quinn held the doll in his hands and felt the old tremors return to his fingers. He’d been here before. But this time—it was crueler. Bolder. As if the one behind it all didn’t fear being stopped. Or knew no one really would.

Tammy turned away. Inhaled. Didn’t exhale.

“He’s outplaying the original,” she whispered. “This is a challenge. He wants to become a legend.”

“He wants to rewrite the script. To do what his mentor couldn’t. Not just terrify—but annihilate. Onstage. In front of everyone.”

Horn entered, soaked from the rain, holding a crumpled newspaper.
In his other hand—a folded sheet slipped into the classifieds.
No one had noticed it.

An old photograph. A theater. The fire of 1968. In the center—a boy, wearing a backpack. Inside it—film reels. In the corner, someone had scribbled:
“U/68. The beginning of the plan.”

Quinn understood instantly.

“This isn’t just a follower. He’s the boy from the ’68 case. One of the survivors. One of the forgotten. One of the ones we didn’t protect.”

“And now—a director. Or the god of his own tragedy.”

Silence blanketed the room. Thick and immovable. Like the hush before the first death. No words. No movement. Even the lights didn’t buzz.

And the film was rolling again.

Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Some scenes are written in blood. The rest is editing.”

Through the rain, the city’s noise, and bone-deep exhaustion, Quinn could feel it—something vast and uncontrollable was approaching. He knew that if once they had led the investigation, now the investigation was leading them.

Horn sat on the windowsill, trying to dry a cigarette over a desk lamp.

“I feel like we’re extras,” he muttered. “Waiting to be cut from the frame.”

“No,” Quinn said. “We’ll be kept in frame. Right to the end.”

On the desk lay a map of the city. Marked with dots—crime scenes, abductions, old theaters, abandoned schools, collapsed cinemas. At the center—a circle. Seven-kilometer radius. Inside it—a potential lair.

Tammy walked in with the latest forensics.

“They found hair on the last body. Doesn’t match the victim. Doesn’t match Breen. Third party. Unknown.”

“He’s not alone,” Horn exhaled. “He’s not working solo.”

“Or someone’s helping him unknowingly. Subconsciously. Like a fan.”

“No,” Quinn said. “A student. A student of a student. Legacy, damn it. Murder as a continuation of vision. He’s not just being copied—he’s being multiplied.”

In an alley off Bay Street, they found a new victim. Male. A repeat offender. Missing for a week. His entire body was wrapped in film. Blood had seeped through the lens of an old camera pressed into his chest. On his forehead—a theater mask, drawn in black ink.

The note read:

“Even an extra should die beautifully.”

Tammy exhaled:

“He’s stepped out of the shadows. He’s no longer just killing—he’s directing. Confident the applause is coming.”

Quinn rose in silence. He looked across the street at the old cinema building. The doors were boarded up. But there were fresh tracks. Strips of film on the ground.

He recognized the smell.

“The stage is set,” he said. “They’re waiting for us.”




Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Some mirrors reflect too clearly.”

Toward evening, the three of them stepped into the old Fox Theater. It had been shuttered since 1974. The faded marquee still bore the ghost of a title:
“The Man Who Watched Too Much.”

“Fitting,” Horn muttered. “Might as well be about us.”

Inside, the air reeked of dust, rats, and overcooked time. The screen loomed ahead—blank, empty. But behind the curtain—movement. They stepped backstage. And saw.

Dolls. Dozens. Life-sized. Dressed in police uniforms, lab coats, children’s clothing. Each had a number pinned to its chest. No names. Just labels:
“You.”
“You.”
“You.”

In the center stood a doll that looked exactly like Tammy. Down to the earrings. On its forehead—written in marker:
“Final Act.”

“This isn’t a theater,” she whispered. “It’s anatomical theater.”

“It’s a storyboard,” Quinn said. “The final sequence. And every role is already cast.”

The ceiling-mounted screen dropped down. And a film began. On the reel—them. The precinct. Quinn’s house. Horn’s mother. Footage shot without their knowledge. Edited. Sequenced. Polished.

“There are no more boundaries,” Quinn said. “He’s not just watching. He’s inside us now.”

The final frame showed the same boy from the 1968 photo—only now a grown man. His face half-burned. His mouth sewn shut with black thread. And a voice-over said:

“The finale is near. The lines are written. Only the blood remains.”

Silence fell like a director’s command.

And no one knew who would leave the stage alive.

Chapter Thirty
“Some scenes are shot without a script. Just improvisation—and corpses.”

They left the Fox Theater in silence. No one said “let’s go,” or “it’s done.” They simply walked through the puddles like wading through blood-washed celluloid.

The station was just as still. Even the phones weren’t ringing. As if the city knew: now was not the time to disturb those wearing the scars of an invisible war.

Quinn sat down in front of the evidence board. All the photos were there—victims, clues, scenes. In the center, a burned-out frame from the reel: the face of the boy who’d grown up into the director of fear.

Horn was the first to speak.

“We need to get ahead of him. He’s already one step in front, but we know where he strikes—symbols, memory, the system.”

“History,” added Tammy. “He’s attacking like he wants to erase the very idea of what came before him.”

Quinn stood. Slowly. Turned to them. His face pale, but steady.

“He’s not just copying. He wants to rewrite the timeline. Burn the footage. Re-edit everything to fit his story. And maybe… maybe he’s right. We stayed silent—and he grew. And now—he’s filming.”

That night, lights flickered on inside the old hospital on the outskirts of the city. It had been closed since 1971. No one had lived there. But the windows glowed. Someone had installed lamps. And cameras.

By the time a patrol arrived, it was empty. But taped to the front door was a note:

“Act II. Audience ready. Intermission is over.”




Chapter Thirty-One
“The finale isn’t always loud. Sometimes it comes in silence—and stays there.”

At dawn, a photo appeared on Quinn’s work phone. No sender. Just the image.

An archive room. Yellowed case files. One shelf engulfed in flames—black smoke blooming like chemical developer. In the foreground: a doll in a police uniform. Beside it, scrawled in ink:

“Case closed. Lights out.”

Quinn stood up, grabbed his coat.

“Archives. Now.”

Tammy went with him. Horn stayed behind, crossing addresses off the map. Someone had to guard the rear.

The archives were shrouded in darkness. One guard. Asleep. No sign of fire. But the shelf in question—empty. Gone were the 1968 reels, Redford’s files, survivor statements. Erased. As if they had never existed.

“He’s cleaning up after himself,” Tammy whispered.

Quinn lifted a charred folder. Only one item inside: a photograph. His face. In a mirror. But in the reflection—another face. Smiling.

On the back, a message:

“If you want to preserve history—become it.”

And Quinn understood: the next murder wouldn’t be of the body. It would cut through memory. And maybe that was even more terrifying.

Chapter Thirty-Two
“Some murders keep us alive. Others erase us from the inside out.”

They returned to the station wordlessly. Every step echoed through their bones. There were no screams. No clarifications. Only the hum—like a tight wire ready to snap.

Quinn opened a drawer. Inside, his old notebook. He flipped it open and began to write—not a report, not an affidavit. A record for himself. To remember. To remain.

“He doesn’t kill people. He kills chronology. He carves out dates, names, files. Like a director editing a film to cut the lead actors from the credits.”

A new envelope landed on the desk. No stamp. No label. Just there, like it had fallen from the ceiling.

Inside—a movie ticket. Vintage. 1971. Title: “Real-Time Murder.” On the back—an address.

“He’s inviting us,” Quinn said. “To the premiere.”

The address led them to an old warehouse. Once a film distributor’s hub. Then a storage site. Now—dead silent. But inside, it smelled of iron, dust… and film stock.

In the center: a massive screen. Properly mounted. Stretched like skin before surgery. A lone audience member: a doll. Dressed in police blues. A placard on its chest:

“Quinn.”

“He’s already written the whole thing,” Tammy said. “We’re just following marks on the floor.”

“Then it’s time we move off the script,” Quinn answered. “For the first time.”

He stepped up to the projector. Off to the side. Cassette already loaded. He pressed play.

The screen lit up—memories. Theirs. Everything they had lived through. The investigation. The screams. The silences. The victims’ faces. Quinn’s failures. Tammy’s tears. Their journey. Then—blackness.

And then: Quinn. Alive. Sitting in that very room. The reel was showing him. Right now. But there was no camera.

“This isn’t cinema. It’s a trap,” Tammy breathed.

“No,” said Quinn. “It’s mirrored editing. He erased everyone else—left only us. So we’d become the next victims.”




Chapter Thirty-Three
“Some frames can be deleted. Others delete you.”

The scene unfolded like a stage without actors—only echoes, only illusions.

Quinn stood frozen, as if under hypnosis. He sensed his life no longer belonged to him. It had become part of someone else’s script.

Then—a blast. Behind the screen. Horn burst in, bleeding, pistol drawn.
“He’s here! Alive! With a camera!”

A shadow darted backstage. The chase was on—through dust-choked corridors, among props, through doorways that led nowhere.

The target: a masked figure. A face covered in what looked like burned skin. He didn’t shoot. He ran. And laughed—silently.

Quinn caught him first. Tackled him. The mask fell away. A young face stared up at him. Familiar. Horribly familiar. Like a younger version of himself.

“I just wanted to be seen,” the man whispered. “To be part of something.”

“You became a shadow,” Quinn said. “And we’re the mirror. And we will shatter you.”

A single shot. Close range.

Tammy approached, laying a hand on Quinn’s shoulder.

“Is it over?”

“No,” he said. “Now it’s just beginning.”

Chapter Thirty-Four
“Some voices don’t die. They just become background noise.”

The body lay still. But the shadow still trembled—on the walls, on the floor, in Tammy’s eyes. Quinn sat breathless. Not from grief, but from the weight of understanding: this wasn’t the end. It was only a curtain.

He had killed a man—but left behind an idea. A camera. A void.

“Did you see his face?” she asked.

“Yes. But it wasn’t the first time.”

He stood. Walked through the dust-filled hall like through strips of film. With each step, it felt like they had not defeated a person—but lost to time itself. Everything had been too precise. Too orchestrated. This killer hadn’t improvised. He had followed someone else’s pain.

By the door stood a projector. Unused. Inside—a final reel. He pressed play. The quiet hum, the flicker of light.

On screen—himself. In various places. Over the years. Someone had filmed him the whole time. Lived his gestures. Studied his voice. Mirrored his pain. It wasn’t just a record. It was a replica. A parody. A plea.

“He learned from us,” Tammy whispered. “And maybe he wasn’t alone.”

“They’ve been recording us,” Quinn said. “Like we were roles. Not detectives. Just characters.”

The final frame: a window. A street beyond. And in that window—a boy, holding a camera. New. Young. But with that same gaze. The one Redford had. The one Quinn once had—before the blood, before the grief.

He shut off the projector. The shadows vanished. The light remained—but colder.

“This isn’t the end,” he said. “It’s a bloodline.”

Back at the precinct, Quinn pulled out an old box. Personal. Inside—clippings, fingerprints, photos no one had asked him to keep. But he did. Because memory doesn’t live in case files. It lives in the things we’re afraid to forget.

Tammy sat across from him. On the desk—a dusty reel. She said nothing. Just waited for him to say “it’s over.” But he didn’t.

“We still don’t know where he is, do we?” she asked.

“We do,” Quinn replied. “He’s in anyone who’s been left behind. He’s in the silence. He’s in the recording.”

A siren howled. Far away. Or maybe too close. Or maybe… just part of the background.



Chapter Thirty-Five
“Some stories have no credits. They just keep playing in others.”

The letter arrived on the third day. No return address. Inside—a postcard. A photo of the “Fox” Theatre. Next to it—a fresh grave. Flowers. The headstone had only one inscription:

1971 — ;

On the back, a message:

“The film continues. You’re in the next episode.”

Quinn didn’t scream. Didn’t smash the wall. He just stood there. A bead of sweat on his brow. A slow understanding down his spine: someone had always been watching them. Silently. Filming.

Tammy stepped closer.
“What now?”

“We live. We observe. We don’t let it happen again. Even if it means becoming the director of our own guilt.”

He took out a fresh board. Blank. A single nail in the center. He pinned the postcard to it. No arrows. No notes. Just as a memory. A beacon not meant to save—but to search.

On the postcard—blood. Real. Not paint. Not cinema.

Elsewhere in the city, a child disappeared.
But not from the streets.
From the archive.
From the registry.
The name—erased.
The photo—gone.

And the camera whirred again.

But now, it wasn’t in anyone’s hands.
It was in their memory.

Chapter Thirty-Six
“Some endings don’t happen in the finale. They happen in the mirror.”

They found the boy in the basement of an abandoned pool. No blood. No signs of trauma. He sat quietly in the corner, eyes wide open. But there was no fear in them. Not even a flicker.

Before him stood a camera. Switched on. Running. But the lens wasn’t aimed at the child. It was pointed at a mirror. And in the mirror—they saw themselves.

Quinn crouched down. Gently switched it off. Removed the reel. Slipped it into his coat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make sense of it. He simply understood:

This wasn’t a boy.
This was a transmission.
A spark passed from one fire to another.

“What’s your name?” Tammy asked gently.

“I… am the edit,” the child whispered.

Nothing else. Not a word more.

The next day, the archive reported recovered files. But each had been altered. As if spliced. In old victim cases—new photos appeared. Images that couldn’t have existed. New names. New scenes.

“He didn’t just teach,” Horn said. “He digitized his legacy. He cut us into forever.”

“Then we can’t close the case,” Quinn replied. “All we can do is continue.”

A week later, rain swept through the city. Dirty, dragging, washing away litter—but not memory.

Quinn walked along the waterfront, scanning faces. He no longer looked for the killer. He looked for those who hadn’t yet become a scene. He knew the camera could be anywhere now. In someone's hands. In their eyes. In their thoughts.

He understood now:
Part Three was complete.
But he didn’t believe in “The End.”

Because he had become all three—
Actor.
Director.
Audience.

And in real cinema, the finale only comes with the credits.
If anyone reads them.

And this time—
There would be no credits.

End of Part Three