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I'm a physics professor. I was hired to decode equations left behind at a string of crime scenes. And I'm terrified by what they might mean.
I was sitting back at my desk with my feet up, reading one of my students' three hundred page dissertations, entitled "Ruminations in String Theory", when I heard a knock on my office door.
But before I could even answer, a middle-aged chap donning a baseball cap and a five o'clock shadow, casually let himself in.
"Professor Windsor?" He asked, in a fairly heavy Boston accent, as he closed the door behind him.
"Last time I checked." I replied, in a slightly less heavy British accent, my regal accent contrasting with his… well… less regal accent.
I smiled…
...But he didn't smile back.
That’s when I noticed the golden badge that was dangling from around his neck.
"Detective John O'Brien." He introduced himself with a gruff voice, before continuing, "Hear they flew you all the way out from England, to head the physics program?"
"That they did." I replied.
"Well, Professor… We have reason to believe that there's a serial killer stalking the city... and we need your help."
“My help?” I laughed. “That’s rubbish. I haven’t heard any reports of a serial killer.”
“That’s because for all intents and purposes… there’s nothing to report. The people he kills… are from the outskirts of society. No IDs. No family. And based on how he’s killing them… the department’s decided to… keep it under wraps.”
"How’s he killing them?" I asked, confused by where he was going with it.
That's when he reached into his pocket, removed something, and tossed it onto my desk. "Found this on his last victim."
I put on my spectacles and took a closer look.
It was a photograph of a blood-spattered body, atop of which was placed a handwritten note containing a series of equations…
...Equations that I was all too familiar with.
"Physics." I said, "I see your killer fancies himself something of a science enthusiast."
"We’re fairly confident that these are clues to his next murder. And we were hoping that you might be able to help us... decode them."
“How many have there been?”
“Ten so far. And we think there are only two left.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He wrote us a letter. Apparently each death represents one of the 12 basic laws of physics. And after the 12th, he plans to disappear.”
“Which laws are left?”
“Well, there were 3. The 3 laws of motion. But your buddy here,” He said, pointing to the photograph. “He was the first of the 3… Inertia. The last 2 are-”
“Acceleration and Action-Reaction.” I interrupted, finishing his sentence.
“And that’s exactly why we need your help, professor.”
I laughed. "Despite the stereotype, Detective O’ Brien, I'm afraid this British chap is far from a sleuth. And I really must be getting home. I wish you the best with your investigation-”
"Listen, Professor," He interrupted, "I'm just gonna be straight up with you. This wasn't my idea, getting you involved. But the chief's got it in his head that someone like yourself... an expert in your field… could help us find this guy. So do it or don't do it… either's fine by me. It's my job to find this sicko either way. Just let me know, so I can get back to work."
He had given me an out. An out, which I happily accepted.
"Well then, if it's no skin off your back, Detective. I'll have to regretfully decline." I said decidedly, before throwing on my overcoat, and gesturing to the desk. “As you can see, I have far too many papers to catch up on.”
He started to open his mouth, as if he was about to argue, but stopped himself, before tossing his business card onto my desk and saying, “Call me if you change your mind.”
And with that, he simply shrugged his shoulders and walked out of my office, the door slamming behind him.
—
I honestly didn't think much of the encounter at the time, and, by the next day, I had already forgotten about it, much too preoccupied with what was now a heaping pile of dissertations on my desk.
“Ryan Murphy.” I said aloud rather unapologetically, as I picked up the report at the top of the stack, trying to recall which of my students he was. After all, there were countless students in my classes that year, let alone over the years. How was I ever supposed to remember them all?
After reviewing Ryan’s paper, I marked it with an ‘F,’ before muttering a single word under my breath, “Rubbish.”
I took a deep breath and reached for the next report, but before I could, something caught my eye on my bookshelf.
It was a copy of Sir Isaac Newton's Principia Mathematica, published in 1687, and containing his 3 laws of motion.
The book immediately brought me back to my conversation with the detective. For a moment, I sat there, wrestling with the decision to entertain O’Brien’s invitation, or forget it altogether.
Well fuck me. I thought to myself, as I leaned back in my chair, and let out a conflicted sigh, eventually caving in, and picking up my mobile phone. Fuck it.
RING. RING. RING.
“O’Brien.” He answered, in his thick Boston accent.
“Evening, Detective. It’s Professor Windsor.”
"What happened to regretfully declining?" He replied, with a smug smile on his face, that I couldn't see… but knew was there.
I simply replied, "Send me the equations."
—
Later that night, whilst treating myself to a cheeky drink at the Irish pub that was conveniently located below my flat, I stared down at my mobile phone, desperately trying to make some sense of the killer's puzzle.
They were physics equations for sure. But they didn’t make any sense. The killer was surely familiar with science, but had purposely arranged the symbols in a haphazard way, as if spelling something out with them.
What the fuck could these equations, in combination with one another, possibly mean? I wondered, as I took a sip of my stout. At the time, pubs in the states weren't necessarily known for the quality of their stouts, but this one was a special kind of foul. Nevertheless, I drank it anyway, the closest thing to a taste of home that I was going to find.
"What's that symbol for?" The patron sitting next me interjected, in yet another heavy Boston accent.
Instinctively, I moved to cover my mobile phone, assuming that he saw the clue, but I quickly realised that he was actually pointing to the patch on my sweater.
"Oh this?" I replied, "It's for Tottenham... Where I'm from. Or its team I should say."
"What kind of team?”
“Football.”
“You a Pats fan?” He asked.
“Oh, not that football...” I began, before realising that it wasn’t worth attempting to explain to him that, to the rest of the world, football was actually played with your feet.
"Tottenham’s in England?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Your English accent. It’s pretty subtle.”
“Well, I spent some time in the states as a kid.”
"They got snow like this over there?" He asked, pointing out the window to the falling snow, which had now amounted to about an inch. The first inch… of what was predicted to be one of the worst blizzards on record.
"Not like this." I replied with a smile.
"How long you been here?"
"Just a year now."
"Well fuck… welcome to Boston." He said, before turning to the bartender. "Hey, Danny, get my friend over here a beer on me."
"Cheers, mate."
But despite the friendly gesture, I couldn't help but still feel melancholy, empty, alone. It had been a year since my fateful voyage across the pond, but I still couldn’t help but feel haunted by the life I left behind.
I spent the rest of the night frantically attempting to solve the killer's riddle, eventually passing out on the floor with my mobile phone on my chest, my body unintentionally resembling the photo of his last victim.
—
When I woke up the next morning, it suddenly hit me. Somehow, after a night of banging my head against the wall, the clue suddenly made sense.
“Acceleration.” I said aloud, remembering the theme of the next murder. “And an equation for gas, PV = nRT. That's it! He's gonna strike someone with a vehicle!”
I reached for my mobile phone, which had fallen to the floor beside me over the course of the night, and picked it up, excited to inform Detective O’Brien of my findings. But before I could dial his number, I heard a knock on my apartment door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
CLICK.
I opened it, to find the detective himself simply standing there, with a disapproving look on his face.
"I did it!" I cried out, excitedly.
"Did what?" He asked, with a foul expression on his face.
"I solved it! He's gonna hit his next victim with a car!”
But O’Brien couldn't have been less impressed. Instead, he simply chided me.
"Hit his next victim with a car? Too little, too late, professor."
My jaw dropped.
"Already?"
"He moves fast."
"But you must admit. I was right."
"You were late."
"But the victim. He was hit by a car?”
"Yes."
"So what you're saying is, late or not, I was right."
"Nope."
"Why not?”
"Cause I'm never gonna give you that satisfaction."
"Fair enough. So now what?"
"Let's take a ride."
—
Fifteen minutes later, we were driving through the city on I-93, on our way to Southie, where, from what Detective O’Brien had told me, the killer’s 11th victim had, sure enough, been crushed to death by a vehicle.
For most of the ride, we sat in silence, the only sound to be heard being that of the windscreen wipers swishing back and forth, as they cleared the rapidly falling snow from the windscreen.
Detective O'Brien occasionally sipped away at a styrofoam coffee cup that he'd bought from what I'd deduced… must have been the only coffee chain in the Commonwealth.
"Ever see a dead body?" He asked me at one point, breaking the silence.
"Besides at a wake..." I replied, "...No."
"Just do me a favour. If you gotta puke, just step away. Don't get that shit on me." He joked. But his face betrayed no emotion.
"On your shoes. Got it." I replied with a deadpan look, playing along.
—
By the time we arrived at the scene of the crime, an abandoned alley in Southie, almost a foot of snow had accumulated on the ground.
As I stepped out of the car, I looked at the cobblestone street that led to the accident, which was littered with icy footprints and roped off by yellow caution tape.
"You'd think he would have waited ‘til summer." I pointed out, gesturing to the footprints, "Seems risky, leaving tracks and all."
"It's part of the thrill for him. He clearly gets off on leaving bread crumbs." The detective explained, before leading me down the alleyway and to a deadend, where, sure enough, was…
....A mangled body, face down in the snow, crushed into a dumpster by what must have been the killer’s vehicle. It was a disgusting, horrible, and terrifying sight, and I immediately began to gag. O’Brien simply looked at me and shook his head.
After I had recovered, the detective brought me up to the roof of a nearby building to get an overhead vantage point of the site. He then handed me the newest clue, which had being pulled from the victim. Once again, it contained a new series of physics equations.
"Third time's a charm, Professor." O'Brien said, "This will be the 3rd and last law of motion. And our last chance to catch this guy.”
Rather than look down at the crime scene below, I instead chose to look out into the distance, at the expanse of Boston, its purple-lit bridge and tall downtown buildings dominating its skyline. I knew that out there, somewhere, a killer was lurking, waiting to strike… his last strike. And I needed to work fast.
—
Later that night, when I finally got home, completely knackered, I decided to skip my usual cheeky nightcap at the pub, instead opting to stay in and study the equation.
And after hours of staring at the latest clue, and nearly giving up, my mobile phone started ringing.
RING. RING. RING.
What does he want now? I wondered, assuming it was Detective O'Brien. But when I looked at my mobile phone, I saw that it wasn't him. But rather, an unknown number.
I don't know why, but I answered.
"Hello?"
For a moment, I heard nothing but silence, and was about to hang up, until suddenly…
...The killer spoke… in a hauntingly calm nondescript voice.
"I'm watching you, Professor. Please, by all means, continue your investigation. Remember… ‘No great discovery was ever made without a bold guess.’” He taunted, ending with a quote from Sir Isaac Newton himself.
And then...
CLICK.
…He hung up.
The very thought of such a cryptic encounter caused my stomach to drop, and my mind to begin racing. How did he know about me? I wondered.
I was so terrified by his call, and the thought of ending up like the two victims that I’d seen, in the photograph and the alley respectively, that I nearly decided to give up on decoding the clue until...
...It hit me.
“Action-Reaction.” I said aloud, remembering the theme of the next murder. “The trajectory of a projectile, expressed as \\((x(t)=vcos(\\theta )t,y(t)=vsin(\\theta )t-(1/2)gt)\\), and “The Wright Brothers equation, expressed as L = k \* V\^2 \* A \* Cl. Airport? The trajectory of a bullet. He's going to... shoot someone… at the airport!?”
After double-checking my work, it almost seemed too obvious.
I gathered just enough strength to hobble up to my feet, picked up my mobile phone, and immediately called the detective.
But I found myself hyperventilating so hard… that I could barely get out a word.
"Windsor? You okay?" O’Brien asked, on the other end of the line.
Eventually, I managed to get a few words out. "Airport! We’ve gotta get to the airport!"
—
To his credit, Detective O'Brien didn't ask many questions, and within thirty minutes, we were back in his car, once again racing down the motorway to the airport, red and blue sirens illuminating the falling snow outside.
On the way there, he broke the silence again.
"You got a wife?" He asked.
"Used to." I replied.
"Where's she now?"
"Back home… in England."
"She didn't want to make the trip to exotic Boston?" He joked, gesturing to the blizzard on the other side of the windscreen, his face once again betraying no emotion.
"Something like that." I replied.
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."
"What about you?" I asked, turning the question on him.
"Used to." He replied.
"Where's she now?"
"Moved to the west coast."
"She didn't want to stay in exotic Boston?" I asked, calling back to his joke, as I attempted not to crack a smile.
"Somethin’ like that." He replied, with a solemn look, as the blizzard continued to pound away at the windscreen.
—
It was almost 10pm when we finally arrived at the snowswept airport, and I feared that we may be too late. But I resolved to stay hopeful.
The place was desolate. With every flight in and out of Boston cancelled, what looked like a legion of planes sat grounded on the tarmac, quietly parked, until the imminent weather cleared.
The detective and I decided to take a walk around the outside of the airport, circling its perimeter with the hoods of our jackets up, in an effort to shield our faces from the wind.
But with the blizzard at its peak, there wasn't a soul in sight.
We had almost given up our search, when suddenly, something in the distance caught my eye...
...What I assumed was an airport worker, frantically running over to us, and fast.
Detective O’Brien drew his gun.
"Help! Help!" The panicked chap called out, his face obscured by both the snow, and the hood of his heavy jacket. "Officer, that vehicle over there. I saw a man inside with a gun."
He pointed to an empty car park, about a good distance away, where, sure enough, was a vehicle, its engine idling, its exhaust pouring from its tailpipe, and the silhouette of another chap sitting in its driver's seat.
O'Brien simply turned to me and said, "Stay here."
...Before immediately darting off in the direction of the car.
From a distance, I saw him approach the driver's side window slowly, gun raised. He then stopped at the car and reached inside, before suddenly stumbling back and collapsing into the snow.
Fearing the worst, I gathered all of my courage and ran over to help him, expecting the car to peel off...
...But it never did.
When I finally reached Detective O’Brien, I found him alive and well, sitting in the snow, as flakes fell all around him, a look of shock on his face.
Suddenly, as if realising something, he hopped to his feet.
"Don't look inside." He insisted...
...Before darting off, back in the direction we came from, back towards the chap, who was long gone.
But despite Detective O'Brien's instruction, I couldn't contain my curiosity, and took a few steps closer to the car.
There, before me, still sitting upright in the driver's seat, was the body of the driver, bullet through his head, his blood and brains splattered across its interior like a red Jackson Pollock.
I looked around inside the vehicle to see if there was another clue… another string of equations. But just as O’Brien had warned, I found nothing, proving that this truly was the 12th and last of the killer’s victims.
I took a few steps back and tumbled over into the snow drift, still processing what I had just seen.
Sitting there in silence, flakes falling all around me, I suddenly realised that the chap who had tipped us off to the car, was likely the culprit himself.
I looked down at the snowy ground, straining my eyes to spot the footprints he might have left when he ran away.
But when I finally found them, to my horror, I discovered that they went off in a different direction than where Detective O’Brien had run, circling back towards the car.
Before I could dwell on the thought for too long, I suddenly heard the CLICK of a gun behind me.
“Professor Windsor, funny to see you here.” I heard the killer say, in the same voice that I’d heard on the other end of my mobile phone the night before.
I slowly turned around, to see the same chap who had warned us about the car, his face still shrouded by the hood of his heavy jacket.
“Tell me, Professor.” The killer began, “Does my work look familiar?"
"Sorry?"
"Familiar. Like you've seen it somewhere before?"
"I'm not following you."
"How about my name? Tom Shibley ring a bell?"
I racked my brain for where I might have heard that name before, but no matter how hard I tried, I came up empty handed.
"I'm afraid not."
"You don't remember me?"
"I'm sorry, I... wish I could say I did."
"Fitting, for someone who so recklessly ruins peoples lives. I was your student, Professor. Many years ago."
It didn't make sense. Of all the people who could have committed these crimes, what were the chances it would be my own student? I wondered, before asking, "How is that possible?"
"Oh, Detective O'Brien didn't tell you? In the letter I wrote to him, I specifically requested that he reach out to you for help. Knowing that he'd rope you in, and bring you right to me."
"Right to you? Why?"
"To finish the 12 laws."
I looked over at the dead man in the car, who I had thought was the 12th.
"Oh, you thought it was him? No, he was just collateral damage, to lead you to me."
"Lead me to you?"
"You, Professor, are the 12th law."
"But why?"
"'Cause of what you did to me."
"Did to you?"
"A forgettable moment for you, but an unforgettable one to me. I was supposed to be a scientist. An astrophysicist. But you flunked me. Called my dissertation rubbish."
"Then it probably was. You know, The equations… there were some… problems with them. If you’ll just kindly put the gun down… I’d be happy to sit with you and go over them.” I mumbled, attempting to buy myself time, until O'Brien would hopefully return.
“What did you just say?” He asked, before slugging me in the face with the butt of his gun, sending blood spraying from my mouth and nearly knocking me unconscious, as I fell backwards into the snow drift.
"You ruined my life. Now I ruin yours. 'To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction.'" He said, once again quoting Sir Isaac Newton, before standing over me and pointing his gun in my face, a million flakes of snow whirling against the night sky above him.
In that moment, as I lay there, shaking from both terror, and the bitter cold, I resolved to die right then and there.
But then suddenly... I heard a loud…
…BOOM!...
…As the killer’s gun went off, striking me in the shoulder and causing my red blood to spray all over the white snow, the result of Detective O’Brien tackling him to the ground.
They began grappling in the snowdrift, as O’Brien attempted to disarm the killer.
That’s when I realised… that O’Brien’s own gun had somehow been knocked out of his grip… and was lying in the snow beside me.
In the midst of the struggle, O’Brien noticed, and muttered, “Windsor. Shoot. Him.”
Unsure of what to do, but feeling compelled to save the detective who had become a friend of sorts, I picked up the gun, walked over to where they were standing, and cocked it, my shoulder still throbbing from the wound.
But having never used one… let alone on a person… and shaking from fear… I hesitated.
“Windsor. Do. It.” O’Brien muttered again, a look of frustration in his eyes, before the killer struck him hard, nearly knocking him out, and sending him flying into the snow drift.
Suddenly, the killer turned around, holding a gun of his own.
But before he could point it at me…
…BOOM!...
…I fired, the gun’s recoil causing my shoulder to jerk back in pain, the impact of its bullet in his chest, causing his hood to fly back.
That’s when I saw his face… just a regular looking chap, with features as nondescript as his voice. Sadly, I still didn't recall teaching him, or giving him that 'F' so long ago.
Suddenly, blood began to pour from the killer’s mouth, as he tried to will himself to say something, but before he could do so, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell back into the snow drift, directly beside O’Brien.
I looked down at the detective with wide eyes, unable to comprehend what I had just done, and tried to bring myself to say something… anything… but in the end, the only words I could muster were, “Action-Reaction.”
Detective O’Brien simply looked at me with wide eyes of his own, equally unable to comprehend what I had just done, before looking down at the killer, and removing the gun from his icy grip.
Then O’Brien turned back to me.
"Alright fine, you were right this time." He said, briefly smiling for a moment, the first time I'd ever heard him say or seen him do such a thing respectively, before putting his and the killer’s weapons away and reaching for his radio.
—
The next day, Detective O'Brien visited me at the hospital and took a seat beside my bed, as I recovered from surgery… the bullet that was lodged in my shoulder now removed… my body now wrapped in a heavy bandage.
“Why didn’t you tell me that he was my student?” I asked him.
“You were too close to it.” He explained. “I thought it’d get in the way of your work.”
“Thank you… I guess?” I replied, not knowing what else to say.
O’Brien then went on to tell me that my former student had died of his wounds the previous night, in the same hospital we were currently in… his week-long killing spree finally put to an end, and all record of his crimes decidedly kept from the public by the police.
And so, we did just as we always did, sitting there in silence, as he watched the basketball game and I, well, tried to understand the joy that Americans seemed to find in it, until…
...I suddenly remembered what he had said to me the day before.
"Hey, what was that you said to me at the airport?" I asked playfully.
"Airport? I don't remember an airport." He replied, playing dumb, clearly knowing where I was going with the bit.
"You don't remember? But it was yesterday."
"Sorry. Getting old."
"Oh I remember now. You said… that I was right!"
"Nah, I would have never said that."
"I'm pretty sure you did."
"Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know what you said, mate."
And so we continued on like that for hours, having a good chinwag for the rest of the day, as the heavy snow slowed to flurries… the last remnants of Boston’s passing blizzard, and a week that still haunts my dreams to this day.
Now, whenever I grade a dissertation, I think twice before handing out an ‘F’ so quickly, lest that bad karma come back around to me someday. Call it ‘Action-Reaction.’
#entertainment
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I was sitting back at my desk with my feet up, reading one of my students' three hundred page dissertations, entitled "Ruminations in String Theory", when I heard a knock on my office door.
But before I could even answer, a middle-aged chap donning a baseball cap and a five o'clock shadow, casually let himself in.
"Professor Windsor?" He asked, in a fairly heavy Boston accent, as he closed the door behind him.
"Last time I checked." I replied, in a slightly less heavy British accent, my regal accent contrasting with his… well… less regal accent.
I smiled…
...But he didn't smile back.
That’s when I noticed the golden badge that was dangling from around his neck.
"Detective John O'Brien." He introduced himself with a gruff voice, before continuing, "Hear they flew you all the way out from England, to head the physics program?"
"That they did." I replied.
"Well, Professor… We have reason to believe that there's a serial killer stalking the city... and we need your help."
“My help?” I laughed. “That’s rubbish. I haven’t heard any reports of a serial killer.”
“That’s because for all intents and purposes… there’s nothing to report. The people he kills… are from the outskirts of society. No IDs. No family. And based on how he’s killing them… the department’s decided to… keep it under wraps.”
"How’s he killing them?" I asked, confused by where he was going with it.
That's when he reached into his pocket, removed something, and tossed it onto my desk. "Found this on his last victim."
I put on my spectacles and took a closer look.
It was a photograph of a blood-spattered body, atop of which was placed a handwritten note containing a series of equations…
...Equations that I was all too familiar with.
"Physics." I said, "I see your killer fancies himself something of a science enthusiast."
"We’re fairly confident that these are clues to his next murder. And we were hoping that you might be able to help us... decode them."
“How many have there been?”
“Ten so far. And we think there are only two left.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He wrote us a letter. Apparently each death represents one of the 12 basic laws of physics. And after the 12th, he plans to disappear.”
“Which laws are left?”
“Well, there were 3. The 3 laws of motion. But your buddy here,” He said, pointing to the photograph. “He was the first of the 3… Inertia. The last 2 are-”
“Acceleration and Action-Reaction.” I interrupted, finishing his sentence.
“And that’s exactly why we need your help, professor.”
I laughed. "Despite the stereotype, Detective O’ Brien, I'm afraid this British chap is far from a sleuth. And I really must be getting home. I wish you the best with your investigation-”
"Listen, Professor," He interrupted, "I'm just gonna be straight up with you. This wasn't my idea, getting you involved. But the chief's got it in his head that someone like yourself... an expert in your field… could help us find this guy. So do it or don't do it… either's fine by me. It's my job to find this sicko either way. Just let me know, so I can get back to work."
He had given me an out. An out, which I happily accepted.
"Well then, if it's no skin off your back, Detective. I'll have to regretfully decline." I said decidedly, before throwing on my overcoat, and gesturing to the desk. “As you can see, I have far too many papers to catch up on.”
He started to open his mouth, as if he was about to argue, but stopped himself, before tossing his business card onto my desk and saying, “Call me if you change your mind.”
And with that, he simply shrugged his shoulders and walked out of my office, the door slamming behind him.
—
I honestly didn't think much of the encounter at the time, and, by the next day, I had already forgotten about it, much too preoccupied with what was now a heaping pile of dissertations on my desk.
“Ryan Murphy.” I said aloud rather unapologetically, as I picked up the report at the top of the stack, trying to recall which of my students he was. After all, there were countless students in my classes that year, let alone over the years. How was I ever supposed to remember them all?
After reviewing Ryan’s paper, I marked it with an ‘F,’ before muttering a single word under my breath, “Rubbish.”
I took a deep breath and reached for the next report, but before I could, something caught my eye on my bookshelf.
It was a copy of Sir Isaac Newton's Principia Mathematica, published in 1687, and containing his 3 laws of motion.
The book immediately brought me back to my conversation with the detective. For a moment, I sat there, wrestling with the decision to entertain O’Brien’s invitation, or forget it altogether.
Well fuck me. I thought to myself, as I leaned back in my chair, and let out a conflicted sigh, eventually caving in, and picking up my mobile phone. Fuck it.
RING. RING. RING.
“O’Brien.” He answered, in his thick Boston accent.
“Evening, Detective. It’s Professor Windsor.”
"What happened to regretfully declining?" He replied, with a smug smile on his face, that I couldn't see… but knew was there.
I simply replied, "Send me the equations."
—
Later that night, whilst treating myself to a cheeky drink at the Irish pub that was conveniently located below my flat, I stared down at my mobile phone, desperately trying to make some sense of the killer's puzzle.
They were physics equations for sure. But they didn’t make any sense. The killer was surely familiar with science, but had purposely arranged the symbols in a haphazard way, as if spelling something out with them.
What the fuck could these equations, in combination with one another, possibly mean? I wondered, as I took a sip of my stout. At the time, pubs in the states weren't necessarily known for the quality of their stouts, but this one was a special kind of foul. Nevertheless, I drank it anyway, the closest thing to a taste of home that I was going to find.
"What's that symbol for?" The patron sitting next me interjected, in yet another heavy Boston accent.
Instinctively, I moved to cover my mobile phone, assuming that he saw the clue, but I quickly realised that he was actually pointing to the patch on my sweater.
"Oh this?" I replied, "It's for Tottenham... Where I'm from. Or its team I should say."
"What kind of team?”
“Football.”
“You a Pats fan?” He asked.
“Oh, not that football...” I began, before realising that it wasn’t worth attempting to explain to him that, to the rest of the world, football was actually played with your feet.
"Tottenham’s in England?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Your English accent. It’s pretty subtle.”
“Well, I spent some time in the states as a kid.”
"They got snow like this over there?" He asked, pointing out the window to the falling snow, which had now amounted to about an inch. The first inch… of what was predicted to be one of the worst blizzards on record.
"Not like this." I replied with a smile.
"How long you been here?"
"Just a year now."
"Well fuck… welcome to Boston." He said, before turning to the bartender. "Hey, Danny, get my friend over here a beer on me."
"Cheers, mate."
But despite the friendly gesture, I couldn't help but still feel melancholy, empty, alone. It had been a year since my fateful voyage across the pond, but I still couldn’t help but feel haunted by the life I left behind.
I spent the rest of the night frantically attempting to solve the killer's riddle, eventually passing out on the floor with my mobile phone on my chest, my body unintentionally resembling the photo of his last victim.
—
When I woke up the next morning, it suddenly hit me. Somehow, after a night of banging my head against the wall, the clue suddenly made sense.
“Acceleration.” I said aloud, remembering the theme of the next murder. “And an equation for gas, PV = nRT. That's it! He's gonna strike someone with a vehicle!”
I reached for my mobile phone, which had fallen to the floor beside me over the course of the night, and picked it up, excited to inform Detective O’Brien of my findings. But before I could dial his number, I heard a knock on my apartment door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
CLICK.
I opened it, to find the detective himself simply standing there, with a disapproving look on his face.
"I did it!" I cried out, excitedly.
"Did what?" He asked, with a foul expression on his face.
"I solved it! He's gonna hit his next victim with a car!”
But O’Brien couldn't have been less impressed. Instead, he simply chided me.
"Hit his next victim with a car? Too little, too late, professor."
My jaw dropped.
"Already?"
"He moves fast."
"But you must admit. I was right."
"You were late."
"But the victim. He was hit by a car?”
"Yes."
"So what you're saying is, late or not, I was right."
"Nope."
"Why not?”
"Cause I'm never gonna give you that satisfaction."
"Fair enough. So now what?"
"Let's take a ride."
—
Fifteen minutes later, we were driving through the city on I-93, on our way to Southie, where, from what Detective O’Brien had told me, the killer’s 11th victim had, sure enough, been crushed to death by a vehicle.
For most of the ride, we sat in silence, the only sound to be heard being that of the windscreen wipers swishing back and forth, as they cleared the rapidly falling snow from the windscreen.
Detective O'Brien occasionally sipped away at a styrofoam coffee cup that he'd bought from what I'd deduced… must have been the only coffee chain in the Commonwealth.
"Ever see a dead body?" He asked me at one point, breaking the silence.
"Besides at a wake..." I replied, "...No."
"Just do me a favour. If you gotta puke, just step away. Don't get that shit on me." He joked. But his face betrayed no emotion.
"On your shoes. Got it." I replied with a deadpan look, playing along.
—
By the time we arrived at the scene of the crime, an abandoned alley in Southie, almost a foot of snow had accumulated on the ground.
As I stepped out of the car, I looked at the cobblestone street that led to the accident, which was littered with icy footprints and roped off by yellow caution tape.
"You'd think he would have waited ‘til summer." I pointed out, gesturing to the footprints, "Seems risky, leaving tracks and all."
"It's part of the thrill for him. He clearly gets off on leaving bread crumbs." The detective explained, before leading me down the alleyway and to a deadend, where, sure enough, was…
....A mangled body, face down in the snow, crushed into a dumpster by what must have been the killer’s vehicle. It was a disgusting, horrible, and terrifying sight, and I immediately began to gag. O’Brien simply looked at me and shook his head.
After I had recovered, the detective brought me up to the roof of a nearby building to get an overhead vantage point of the site. He then handed me the newest clue, which had being pulled from the victim. Once again, it contained a new series of physics equations.
"Third time's a charm, Professor." O'Brien said, "This will be the 3rd and last law of motion. And our last chance to catch this guy.”
Rather than look down at the crime scene below, I instead chose to look out into the distance, at the expanse of Boston, its purple-lit bridge and tall downtown buildings dominating its skyline. I knew that out there, somewhere, a killer was lurking, waiting to strike… his last strike. And I needed to work fast.
—
Later that night, when I finally got home, completely knackered, I decided to skip my usual cheeky nightcap at the pub, instead opting to stay in and study the equation.
And after hours of staring at the latest clue, and nearly giving up, my mobile phone started ringing.
RING. RING. RING.
What does he want now? I wondered, assuming it was Detective O'Brien. But when I looked at my mobile phone, I saw that it wasn't him. But rather, an unknown number.
I don't know why, but I answered.
"Hello?"
For a moment, I heard nothing but silence, and was about to hang up, until suddenly…
...The killer spoke… in a hauntingly calm nondescript voice.
"I'm watching you, Professor. Please, by all means, continue your investigation. Remember… ‘No great discovery was ever made without a bold guess.’” He taunted, ending with a quote from Sir Isaac Newton himself.
And then...
CLICK.
…He hung up.
The very thought of such a cryptic encounter caused my stomach to drop, and my mind to begin racing. How did he know about me? I wondered.
I was so terrified by his call, and the thought of ending up like the two victims that I’d seen, in the photograph and the alley respectively, that I nearly decided to give up on decoding the clue until...
...It hit me.
“Action-Reaction.” I said aloud, remembering the theme of the next murder. “The trajectory of a projectile, expressed as \\((x(t)=vcos(\\theta )t,y(t)=vsin(\\theta )t-(1/2)gt)\\), and “The Wright Brothers equation, expressed as L = k \* V\^2 \* A \* Cl. Airport? The trajectory of a bullet. He's going to... shoot someone… at the airport!?”
After double-checking my work, it almost seemed too obvious.
I gathered just enough strength to hobble up to my feet, picked up my mobile phone, and immediately called the detective.
But I found myself hyperventilating so hard… that I could barely get out a word.
"Windsor? You okay?" O’Brien asked, on the other end of the line.
Eventually, I managed to get a few words out. "Airport! We’ve gotta get to the airport!"
—
To his credit, Detective O'Brien didn't ask many questions, and within thirty minutes, we were back in his car, once again racing down the motorway to the airport, red and blue sirens illuminating the falling snow outside.
On the way there, he broke the silence again.
"You got a wife?" He asked.
"Used to." I replied.
"Where's she now?"
"Back home… in England."
"She didn't want to make the trip to exotic Boston?" He joked, gesturing to the blizzard on the other side of the windscreen, his face once again betraying no emotion.
"Something like that." I replied.
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."
"What about you?" I asked, turning the question on him.
"Used to." He replied.
"Where's she now?"
"Moved to the west coast."
"She didn't want to stay in exotic Boston?" I asked, calling back to his joke, as I attempted not to crack a smile.
"Somethin’ like that." He replied, with a solemn look, as the blizzard continued to pound away at the windscreen.
—
It was almost 10pm when we finally arrived at the snowswept airport, and I feared that we may be too late. But I resolved to stay hopeful.
The place was desolate. With every flight in and out of Boston cancelled, what looked like a legion of planes sat grounded on the tarmac, quietly parked, until the imminent weather cleared.
The detective and I decided to take a walk around the outside of the airport, circling its perimeter with the hoods of our jackets up, in an effort to shield our faces from the wind.
But with the blizzard at its peak, there wasn't a soul in sight.
We had almost given up our search, when suddenly, something in the distance caught my eye...
...What I assumed was an airport worker, frantically running over to us, and fast.
Detective O’Brien drew his gun.
"Help! Help!" The panicked chap called out, his face obscured by both the snow, and the hood of his heavy jacket. "Officer, that vehicle over there. I saw a man inside with a gun."
He pointed to an empty car park, about a good distance away, where, sure enough, was a vehicle, its engine idling, its exhaust pouring from its tailpipe, and the silhouette of another chap sitting in its driver's seat.
O'Brien simply turned to me and said, "Stay here."
...Before immediately darting off in the direction of the car.
From a distance, I saw him approach the driver's side window slowly, gun raised. He then stopped at the car and reached inside, before suddenly stumbling back and collapsing into the snow.
Fearing the worst, I gathered all of my courage and ran over to help him, expecting the car to peel off...
...But it never did.
When I finally reached Detective O’Brien, I found him alive and well, sitting in the snow, as flakes fell all around him, a look of shock on his face.
Suddenly, as if realising something, he hopped to his feet.
"Don't look inside." He insisted...
...Before darting off, back in the direction we came from, back towards the chap, who was long gone.
But despite Detective O'Brien's instruction, I couldn't contain my curiosity, and took a few steps closer to the car.
There, before me, still sitting upright in the driver's seat, was the body of the driver, bullet through his head, his blood and brains splattered across its interior like a red Jackson Pollock.
I looked around inside the vehicle to see if there was another clue… another string of equations. But just as O’Brien had warned, I found nothing, proving that this truly was the 12th and last of the killer’s victims.
I took a few steps back and tumbled over into the snow drift, still processing what I had just seen.
Sitting there in silence, flakes falling all around me, I suddenly realised that the chap who had tipped us off to the car, was likely the culprit himself.
I looked down at the snowy ground, straining my eyes to spot the footprints he might have left when he ran away.
But when I finally found them, to my horror, I discovered that they went off in a different direction than where Detective O’Brien had run, circling back towards the car.
Before I could dwell on the thought for too long, I suddenly heard the CLICK of a gun behind me.
“Professor Windsor, funny to see you here.” I heard the killer say, in the same voice that I’d heard on the other end of my mobile phone the night before.
I slowly turned around, to see the same chap who had warned us about the car, his face still shrouded by the hood of his heavy jacket.
“Tell me, Professor.” The killer began, “Does my work look familiar?"
"Sorry?"
"Familiar. Like you've seen it somewhere before?"
"I'm not following you."
"How about my name? Tom Shibley ring a bell?"
I racked my brain for where I might have heard that name before, but no matter how hard I tried, I came up empty handed.
"I'm afraid not."
"You don't remember me?"
"I'm sorry, I... wish I could say I did."
"Fitting, for someone who so recklessly ruins peoples lives. I was your student, Professor. Many years ago."
It didn't make sense. Of all the people who could have committed these crimes, what were the chances it would be my own student? I wondered, before asking, "How is that possible?"
"Oh, Detective O'Brien didn't tell you? In the letter I wrote to him, I specifically requested that he reach out to you for help. Knowing that he'd rope you in, and bring you right to me."
"Right to you? Why?"
"To finish the 12 laws."
I looked over at the dead man in the car, who I had thought was the 12th.
"Oh, you thought it was him? No, he was just collateral damage, to lead you to me."
"Lead me to you?"
"You, Professor, are the 12th law."
"But why?"
"'Cause of what you did to me."
"Did to you?"
"A forgettable moment for you, but an unforgettable one to me. I was supposed to be a scientist. An astrophysicist. But you flunked me. Called my dissertation rubbish."
"Then it probably was. You know, The equations… there were some… problems with them. If you’ll just kindly put the gun down… I’d be happy to sit with you and go over them.” I mumbled, attempting to buy myself time, until O'Brien would hopefully return.
“What did you just say?” He asked, before slugging me in the face with the butt of his gun, sending blood spraying from my mouth and nearly knocking me unconscious, as I fell backwards into the snow drift.
"You ruined my life. Now I ruin yours. 'To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction.'" He said, once again quoting Sir Isaac Newton, before standing over me and pointing his gun in my face, a million flakes of snow whirling against the night sky above him.
In that moment, as I lay there, shaking from both terror, and the bitter cold, I resolved to die right then and there.
But then suddenly... I heard a loud…
…BOOM!...
…As the killer’s gun went off, striking me in the shoulder and causing my red blood to spray all over the white snow, the result of Detective O’Brien tackling him to the ground.
They began grappling in the snowdrift, as O’Brien attempted to disarm the killer.
That’s when I realised… that O’Brien’s own gun had somehow been knocked out of his grip… and was lying in the snow beside me.
In the midst of the struggle, O’Brien noticed, and muttered, “Windsor. Shoot. Him.”
Unsure of what to do, but feeling compelled to save the detective who had become a friend of sorts, I picked up the gun, walked over to where they were standing, and cocked it, my shoulder still throbbing from the wound.
But having never used one… let alone on a person… and shaking from fear… I hesitated.
“Windsor. Do. It.” O’Brien muttered again, a look of frustration in his eyes, before the killer struck him hard, nearly knocking him out, and sending him flying into the snow drift.
Suddenly, the killer turned around, holding a gun of his own.
But before he could point it at me…
…BOOM!...
…I fired, the gun’s recoil causing my shoulder to jerk back in pain, the impact of its bullet in his chest, causing his hood to fly back.
That’s when I saw his face… just a regular looking chap, with features as nondescript as his voice. Sadly, I still didn't recall teaching him, or giving him that 'F' so long ago.
Suddenly, blood began to pour from the killer’s mouth, as he tried to will himself to say something, but before he could do so, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell back into the snow drift, directly beside O’Brien.
I looked down at the detective with wide eyes, unable to comprehend what I had just done, and tried to bring myself to say something… anything… but in the end, the only words I could muster were, “Action-Reaction.”
Detective O’Brien simply looked at me with wide eyes of his own, equally unable to comprehend what I had just done, before looking down at the killer, and removing the gun from his icy grip.
Then O’Brien turned back to me.
"Alright fine, you were right this time." He said, briefly smiling for a moment, the first time I'd ever heard him say or seen him do such a thing respectively, before putting his and the killer’s weapons away and reaching for his radio.
—
The next day, Detective O'Brien visited me at the hospital and took a seat beside my bed, as I recovered from surgery… the bullet that was lodged in my shoulder now removed… my body now wrapped in a heavy bandage.
“Why didn’t you tell me that he was my student?” I asked him.
“You were too close to it.” He explained. “I thought it’d get in the way of your work.”
“Thank you… I guess?” I replied, not knowing what else to say.
O’Brien then went on to tell me that my former student had died of his wounds the previous night, in the same hospital we were currently in… his week-long killing spree finally put to an end, and all record of his crimes decidedly kept from the public by the police.
And so, we did just as we always did, sitting there in silence, as he watched the basketball game and I, well, tried to understand the joy that Americans seemed to find in it, until…
...I suddenly remembered what he had said to me the day before.
"Hey, what was that you said to me at the airport?" I asked playfully.
"Airport? I don't remember an airport." He replied, playing dumb, clearly knowing where I was going with the bit.
"You don't remember? But it was yesterday."
"Sorry. Getting old."
"Oh I remember now. You said… that I was right!"
"Nah, I would have never said that."
"I'm pretty sure you did."
"Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know what you said, mate."
And so we continued on like that for hours, having a good chinwag for the rest of the day, as the heavy snow slowed to flurries… the last remnants of Boston’s passing blizzard, and a week that still haunts my dreams to this day.
Now, whenever I grade a dissertation, I think twice before handing out an ‘F’ so quickly, lest that bad karma come back around to me someday. Call it ‘Action-Reaction.’
#entertainment
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