The phone rang, stirring me from sleep. One glance at the clock told me exactly who it was. Only one person called at 3 AM. I picked up the receiver and pressed it against the side of me face.

"What, Moore?"

I knew precisely what he was going to say. Well before he actually got around to saying it.

"I think you should come down here and take a look at this."

"Right. Where are you?"

I jotted an address down on a napkin I had sitting beside my bed, knocking over a trio of empty prescription bottles upon the napkin's removal from underneath them, though it wasn't really necessary, considering I knew exactly where I was going. It was an established drug house, one we've had tagged for several weeks now. Good, it fit the pattern. When murders fit the pattern, all is well. Otherwise, I have to think. And I don't like thinking. This makes this the third time he's struck, all three times have been somewhere we've flagged as containing illegal activity.

It was certainly starting to seem like someone inside the police. Not to mention the fact that all the murders were done with a police issue .45. Over the past week or so, some psychopath had been bumping off the worst our not-so-fair city had to offer. He'd hit a whorehouse, a mafia hideout, and now, a drug house. The only thing that all the murders had in common, other than the fact that all the victims were scum, was the killer's calling card. Literally. At every scene we found different copies of the same Tarot card. Justice. It all made sense really, and, honestly, I'm not even sure why we were going after this guy, I mean, he was just making our lives and jobs easier, right?

I pulled on some black jeans and laced up my boots. I hadn't taken my gun from my side before I laid down, even, and I didn't bother putting a shirt on over my black undershirt, rather, I just pulled on my black leather jacket. I placed a cigarette between my lips and locked my door as I passed through it, stepping into the hallway of my apartment complex, striking my silver Zippo and lighting my cigarette as I did. I lived on the eighth floor, and of course, the elevator never worked.

My cigarette was half spent by the time I reached my beat up black car. I started it, closed the door and leaned back in the seat, turning on the heater and allowing it to warm up. I stamped my cigarette out with a yawn, put my car in gear, and sped off across town.

Moore was right for once. This was something I was glad to get called out of bed at 3 AM for. The last time, there was only four victims, the time before that, two, he'd let the actual prostitutes live, and just killed the pimps, when he'd done the whorehouse. This time, though, I stepped over six on my way to my partner. The main dealer's body, a guy I'd arrested more than once in my days as a beat cop, had a Justice card on his chest, and a forty-five caliber bullet hole in the back of his head. He also, I noticed with a start a sharp intake of breath, had a bloodied knife in his hand. Had he-pardon the pun-gotten a stab at his killer?

"Moore," I commanded, "Bag this. Get the blood tested."

Moore nodded, moving to place the knife in a sterile bag for delivery to the crime scene investigator's lab. After he bagged the knife, I spoke again.

"Moore. How many bodies?"

"Eleven, sir."

"Eleven? Damn. That makes this the…"

"Largest murder in our cities history, I know, and so does the press, boss."

"The press? You let them in here? You're a damned fool, Moore. Call the papers, and the news stations, have them put a hold on this until we figure a few things house"

Moore started to object, but I cut him off.

"BUT, before you do, check the card for prints."

"You know there won't be any, boss."

"No, Moore, I don't think there will be any. Besides, the one time we don't dust for them, will be the only time they're there."

I picked up the card, and examined it for a half a moment, before I handed it to him for him to take back to the station, and dust. He took it, then spoke, with a lopsided smirk not unlike the one I often donned.

"So, maybe we shouldn't dust for prints, then?"

"Shut up, wise ass."

"You'd've said it, if I hadn't, boss."

"I know. But I can't very well yell at myself, now can I?"

"You do a pretty good job of it, sometimes, captain."

"Shut up, Moore."

I still couldn't help laughing as I turned to walk away from Moore, and the crime scene.

"I'm going back home, Moore, call me when you get something back on that blood."

I walked out of the house, the thought of the blood putting a smile on my face, even as I lit another of my cheap cigarettes. It was only a matter of time, now, before we had him. I was honestly surprised that the killer let the knife remain at the scene, but I wasn't complaining. Upon reaching my apartment once more, I quickly removed my jacket and fell onto my bed.

Even before Moore had called, I hadn't slept much. I was out somewhere, though I didn't remember where. Nowhere important, I'm sure. I'd always been absent-minded, but I think my job actually managed to make it worse. You could always ask me anything about my work, what cases I was on, who I'd brought in that week, and I could tell you anything you wanted to know. But there were some mornings I had to think about how to tie my shoes. Sleep took a long time to come. My mind was reeling with thoughts of this killer. I almost had to admire him, really. He was doing what every cop wanted to do, but couldn't. It was a damn shame his streak hand to end so soon. My dreams weren't much better than my thoughts, that night. They were filled with pulsating images of the god-forsaken Justice Tarot card, and a blood covered knife.

I woke up well past noon, and wondered why my alarm hadn't gone off, moving rapidly to get dressed for work, before I realized it was Saturday. I sighed, in relief, rather than thought, and laid back down upon my bed, lighting a cigarette and watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. The phone rang. I knew who it was. Moore was the only one who called me anymore, be it three AM or noon.

"Yeah?"

"I got the results on the blood back, boss."

"Wow. This soon?"

"Yeah, but you won't like it."

"Why? What is it?"

"Ammonia, sir."

"What?"

"He sprayed ammonia on the blood, boss."

"Damn. Damn it all. That clever bastard."

"That's kind of what I thought, sir."

"Of course it is, Moore. Now, what about the card? Did you check it for prints?"

"Yes, sir."

"Were there any?"

"Yes, sir."

"What? There were?"

"Yes, sir. Yours. Wear your gloves next time."

"Ah, go to hell, Moore."

Moore was still laughing when I hung up the phone.

The phone rang, just a bit after six that evening. I could hear it from the outside of my apartment, as I argued with my lock, which seemed a tad reluctant in letting me though my door. Impish little bastards, locks. I moved inside after finally getting the damn door open, and sat my groceries down on my bed, and managed to get the phone about half a second after it stopped ringing. Of course. I called Moore back.

"What did you want?"

"We've got another one, boss."

"Damn it Moore, it's my day off."

"I know, sir, I just figured you'd want to know what was happening."

"I do. I just needed something to yell at."

"I figured that was the case, boss."

"Where are you?"

"That meth lab we started scouting last week."

"We started scouting a meth lab last week?"

"Yeah. You gave the orders, sir."

"Oh. I knew that."

"Sure you did, boss."

"Shut up. I'm on my way."

I still had my gun on. Imagine that. But, at least I had a shirt on today, so I only needed to grab my jacket and my new pack of smokes from the grocery sack on my way out. I climbed into my car, and drove towards the docks, a cigarette smoking in between the middle and index fingers of my right hand. It wasn't long before I arrived at the scene and got out of my car, walking into the building, once again stepping over bodies on my way through the door.

"Moore. Where's the card?"

He pointed, and I moved quickly to follow his outstretched finger. I reached the body of the main target and knelt next to it, careful not to touch the card, throwing my cigarette down and stamping it out with my hand, grimacing against the burn.

"Moore. Bag the card."

"And test it?"

"Nah. Don't bother."

"You're the boss, boss."

"I know that Moore."

"And I know you know that, sir. Hey. What about these cigarette butts?"

I turned quickly, the potential for more DNA evidence causing me to grow more than a bit exited.

"Wait. Sir. They're your brand."

"Shit. Yeah, they're mine. Leave them."

Sleep came quickly that night, and I slept rather well, save for Moore calling at about four in the morning. I don't know what it was about, I didn't answer. I ignored it, I think, and went back to sleep. And so, when the phone rang at 9 AM, I was more than a bit agitated as I picked up the receiver.

"What?"

"Captain Graicee?"

I'll be damned. It wasn't Moore. I was beginning to think no one else remembered that I actually had a phone.

"Yeah?"

"This is Detective Rosie Reid, sir. Moore's dead. You'd better get down here."

I wasn't thinking as I wrote the location down. I could think of only one thing. This man, whom I had worked with for nearly eight years. Dead. And why? Did it have to do with this killer? My thoughts returned to the phone call of the night previously. I remembered, now, that I did answer it. I had just been half asleep at the time. But still, I couldn't remember what Moore had said. He seemed angry. I then analyzed the evidence we had. The cards. The…well. The cards. That was all we had, except for…

And that's when everything clicked into place.

That wasn't the only thing that clicked. Detective Reid pressed the stop button on the tape recorder before me. She had been listening to the whole story.

"So, Graicee, you're convinced that you did this?"

"Entirely."

"And you want to turn yourself in?"

"Yes. I do."

"And you still don't remember what Moore said in that last phone call?"

"Oh, yes, I remember now. Start the recorder again."

She did so.

I don't remember what I was dreaming about, but I liked it, and I was annoyed when the phone awoke me from it.

"What the hell do you want, Moore?"

"Sir. Prints on the card, sir."

"Really? Any matches?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who?"

"You, sir."

"DAMN IT. I can't believe that I…"

I fell silent, knowing Moore had no doubt realized quite some time ago, what I just noticed.

"You never touched this one, sir. Not at any time after the murder, I was watching you."

"Stay where you are, Moore. I'm sure there's an explanation for this."

"Yes, sir. There is, you're under arrest."

The recorder clicked again, as I waved my hand at Detective Reid.

"What happened, then?"

"I killed him."

"How?"

"I don't remember?"

"How can you not remember?"

"I'm schizophrenic, Detective."

"What?"

"I've been off my medication for about eight years."

"Why'd you quit taking them?"

"I don't remember, really."

I laughed a bit, thinking back to the blank spots in my memory, each of them now filled with various moments of brutality, which I must admit, I enjoyed. Even with the disposal of Moore. I enjoyed the blood. I enjoyed it all. I always had. Most of all, though. I enjoyed destroying evil. Why did I kill Moore, then, you ask? He reminded me too much of myself. My evil can't be denied.

"I suppose you'll be arresting me now?"

"Yes. That's what we do with murderers."

One wise-ass dead, one more to go.

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it murder, really."

"Oh? And what would you call it."

I laughed then, a long, drawn out, maniac cackle that I wouldn't've believed came from my mouth. I thought it was rather stupid of her to ask, but, still, I regained myself, and gave one of my crooked, wicked smirks.

"I call it. Justice."