He was a murderer. Scum of the earth, the worst kind of man (or woman), you would ever meet. He tormented his wife, made her fear for her life every moment of every day, until there were no moments left. He killed her, that much I’m certain about it. But he was clever, more clever than I gave him credit for. Every track, neatly covered, every piece of evidence somehow pointing to nowhere and no one.

I knew he did, I could smell the death on him. Like an invisible scarlet letter, but representing something much darker than a woman’s supposive promiscuity, that few of us could see. But, I saw it. So did my partner. After years working Homicide, we knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would walk. I made a decision, in a moment of weakness, or maybe a deep seething regret for her, the one I couldn’t protect; the one who’s life was ripped away, because we let that son of a bitch go free.

We knew he killed that other girl, but the DA said the charges wouldn’t stick, and refused to prosecute. A week later, he hunted her down, like lion to prey. I still see her helpless, lifeless eyes, staring at me when I sleep. Golden brown, warm like autumn. They haunt my dreams. I hear her voice, or the voice I imagine she would have, asking me why I didn’t stop him, why did I fail her? It was those golden brown eyes I saw when I closed my eyes for a moment, to process the news that this shit head would walk too, when I made a choice that would alter the course of my life. It was that moment I decided, I would have to become a criminal, to catch a criminal. I wouldn’t let another woman die in vein because I couldn’t stop another monster.