Billie POV.

'This business is done for our thrill, our passion.' I repeat Frey's words in my head again and again. 'we dont owe anything to the government. We do the cases that the yards decline. That nobody wants to do because nobody cares' I always considered Frey a genius- he did solve several murder mysteries that surprisingly went well for our country- although they weren't supposed to.

Everything here is done to feed our itching curiosities.

I am not curious however- it is not because of my lack of interest but rather because of my lack of anything interesting. I joined the Armer's organization 4 months ago and so far the only mystery I solved is the reason behind the fowl smell behind Jim's office- a dead cat. Would have been better if it were a person, but unfortunately there are lesser people who care about dead street cats.

I hate cats so thats another thing.

My head throbs with the dooming reality. I have nothing to do, no where to go to and it's 8PM on a Friday. I spend most of my morning in the office working as an extra assistant to Frey. I sometimes stay late at night to give my seniors some company while they bust their brains out searching for clues. I, I simply envy them at a corner.

I dont have a home- unless you call my sisters basement home, I really dont. My mother thinks I am a proper detective like the ones she used to read to me in excerpts from Sherlock Holmes when truly Im even more jobless that her.

She runs an old age home- you dont even do that.

My life is pathetic and depressing and there is not even a single thing that truly inspires me. My boss Frey is happy that I dont have many responsibilities while his boss- Jim, is always severely disappointed at my lack of passion. The thing is- I am passionate. I really do want to sit down and solve a good old case, but nothing reaches me before the better, more experienced members have a go.

My current case is to visit a stadium. I am driving up to the site with my satchel on my lap. I use my sisters old mini- van-the one she used before her divorce, before her family wrecked into two halves.

I take a sip from my coffee, roll my sunglasses down as I stop my car near the entrance.

This should be it.

It is the 12th of April. A few hours ago Jim called me in his office. My heart raced with such joy- maybe finally my itching hands would fall on a worthy case. Just maybe.

Jim brutally burst my bubble when he said, and I quote "a dead body was found in a stadium we need someone to assist the site investigation. Billie, you are not leading or part of this case. We just need someone to overlook the investigation, make sure everything's okay. I would send someone else but everybody is busy- you are not."

Sigh.

Did I mention I hate my life?

I step out of the grey minivan and straighten my satchel. Let us go.

I show my ID and documents and in a few minutes I am let inside the stadium, through the halls and through a large mirror door.

I look unbothered. My thick red hair is tied in a painful pony, my satchel sticks to my abdomen. My brown clothes remind me of my lack of money. Ah. And probably fashion sense because what was I thinking wearing a brown skirt and a brown shirt- with bright green socks. My face seems tired- how funny when I have been nothing but unproductive the past month. My freckles are prominent- more prominent than my deep green eyes- eyes I once considered beautiful but now are the distracting element from my dark circles.

Ugh.

I step into the glass box that was probably made for people who can afford stuff like horse riding and wine tasting. The entire room is crowded. It is full of men with cameras and investigating tools.

The drenching smell of blood, alcohol, phenol and rotten corpse hits my nostrils hard- real real hard. I wince at the sudden intrusion and calmly look around. My papers tell me the body was shot at, from probably the other side of the stadium.

Must be a trained shooter.

My eyes narrow down at the large ugly body limping on the red plastic chair. 12D. I open my notes app and start taking notes. I know I know this is not my case- but hell I need something. And I will take everything I get - even if it is a dead corpse of a 65 year old man.

He smells awful- like really really awful. My sisters fridge smells better. And that says something cause her fridge is stalked with month old cheese, some even from before her divorce. Sheesh.

I surpass the neon yellow banners with police written on them aggressively. There are 3 people assisting the body alone - muffles and grunts can be heard throughout. I walk away.

I walk towards the thick transparent glass and stair at the opposite arena- the shooter must have shot from there. The broken spectacle of glass shards beneath me prove me somewhat right. Huh.

"Miss- Im sorry is it just Billie?" one of the assistants asks from behind me.

"Ya it's just Billie."

-.-

You know how some stories were always meant to be left on a clIffhanger- how some stories were always left for the readers interpretation? Thats what I like to treat cases like. Unfinished books. Books I get to live vicariously through, stories I get to interpret on my own. A good detective should have a good interpretation of the story- or more so a legitimate one.

The story of the old dead man is now mine, Im left at its cliffhanger - but I am also left with the entire story before this very second that I find him. He looks ugly. I dreadfully remove the white cloth that was placed on his still body. The latex gloves itch more than that curiosity-thing Frey told me about. His eyes are green- just like mine, but they dont have life in them just like mine.

They are poetic perhaps, but at this moment the only thing I can think about is how deep the bullet hit. How strategic. How manipulative. How many years did it take to plot his death? Who did this? What is his name? What is this old mans name?

"What do we know so far?" I look away from the filthy corpse and straight into the assistant's eyes- the same assistant who asked me my name.

"He is a man. He was shot clearly on the forehead. Time of death is estimated to be 11:11PM last night. The man's age should be around 65. We do not have a name. His face is not recognizable due to the bullet holes around his forehead, cheeks and mouth. He has no wallet or phone or anything on him other than his clothes. Thats all we know so far Ms Billie. The doctor suspects drugs, so his blood has gone for testing"

I nod my head.

I know more.

He was hit from a distance which means this seat was strategically allot to him. Perhaps he was brought here, but his body does not have any bruises or even fingerprints. Interesting. The seat he was allotted- or chose to sit on, is not at all ideal for sports viewing - in fact it is only ideal to view the scores- that is the big black screen right in front of his line of vision. I look down. My eyes fix at the bundle of cables that scatter along the white dirty floor. The wires intertwine and eventually lead to their source- a big black screen. Bingo. There was no game last night yet the old man was here. Alone. Perhaps he watched something on the TV or perhaps he was instructed by someone who hacked the TV- either way his body faces the screen. Perhaps maybe the screen, or whatever that was on the screen- was the last thing he saw?.My body takes me towards it.

I touch the big black screen. It is warm. Which pushes me more towards my theory- or several of them.

The screen was definitely used. I ask one of the assistants to mark the temperature of the screen. I take notes while he reads the screen's readings.

After a few minutes a technician comes and after a thorough inspection he declares that the screen seems broken.

"Its been broken for weeks now. I dont understand why it is warm." the technician grunts. Before he leaves I inspect the large screen again- there must be a clue. A single clue.

I see you.

I walk to the other end- towards the seats of the 12th row. I need a clue. Just one clue. And it is as if the lord himself heard my internal prayers.

I find a single sheet of paper tucked between two seats.

The paper is fresh and new- it does not seem old. It seems to have a purpose.

The paper is whiter than the dirty marble floors.

Grateful that I am wearing latex gloves- I pick up the page. I open the folded note and my eyes dig into the words.

I almost fall to the ground with the thick red ink literally bleeding out of the paper. I gasp- just a little, just a little.

The entire investigation team looks at me with confused eyes. I dont mind them. I read the words embedded on the paper again and again and again and again- hoping something clicks inside my head- anything. Anything.

"Billie." a stern voice startles me from beside me.

An arm wraps around my wrist and pulls me to face the tall guy in front of me- Jim.

Jim stands tall and lifts one eyebrow as he looks down at me.

"What is it Billie?" he asks- almost punishingly.

"A n-note." I squeak.

"Give it to me. You are not part of this case."

I look down and wince. I did not need that reminder. But you know what? I deserve this case. I really do. My mind has been going a mile a minute since I reached here- since my eyes fell on the dead body and the crime scene. I can solve this. I can. I can. I can.

I look up and shake my head.

"Jim. I discovered this note. I got the lead for the black screen and... and I I really think I can solve this."

"What.?" Jim hisses at me. His eyes roam to my clutched hands. I am gripping on the paper real hard at this point.

"Give. It. To. Me. ?" He scowls.

Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I hate Frey too but Jim is just too much sometimes. Always you mean?

"No. Jim. First you will give me a role in this investigation."

Jim sighs and closes his eyes- perhaps calculating the pros and cons.

"Fine." He says letting go. I step back and take a deep breathe.

"What does it say? dont make me ask you again Billie" Jim threatens me.

"It says, 'He blinked'." I pause letting the enormity somewhat sink in "'he died'."