The words ticked in Ewan’s mind. Every single one was like a beat to which his mind resonated with a wave of possible explanations. What? A home genocide, political statement, diversion from something else? Where? Ewan’s intuition told him the murder did not take place here, too vibrant, too colorful of a place…  The place’s a clue. He knows it, he feels it. Still the solution is not in his grasp, it annoys him, enrages him. When? A quarter to three – cold enough in November for the body to freeze fast, quiet enough to not allow himself to hope there were any witnesses. No. Witnesses are unreliable, the perceptive, clever and thinking are never witnesses, always the attackers. And witnesses make mistakes. Ewan doesn’t.

   Everything gets down to “why?” – why commit a murder, why there, why then. Ewan straightened his back and allowed himself to sink into the rhythm of ever beating “what?”, “when?” and “where?” – Ewan will get into murderer’s shoes. He always does.

  Ewan always wins.