Baked Tilapia en Popillote

The Sergeant sat wearily at the table with his brim pulled way down low. Across the table the wiry man sat with his hands in his lap, quietly, patiently, completely at ease.

In the apartment a faint, distant, rattling sound was barely audible, likely emanating from the ceiling pipes. Rap tap tap tap.

The Sergeant focused on the wiry man.

The wiry man was well manicured, tidy, and polished, with his face clean shaven and his hair gelled down to one side. His bright blue eyes would seem to the layman, as friendly and gentle, yet to the detective, his perspective molded by years of solving the grizzliest murders- they were the eyes of a monster.

Rap rap rap. The faint rattling continued in the background.

The Sergeant’s infamy was well known across the region. Hundreds of solved cases, brilliant deductions, and resurrected cold leads brought him much revere in newspapers and local news.

Rap rap rap.

Sitting at the table he very much wished he had stayed retired. His days waking up early to spend the morning sailing in the sun were truly paradise, and a welcome end to a punishing career. He could finally rest his weary bones and slow the endless clanking of gears turning in his head. Though with a heavy heart he had to refuse dozens of new cases each month, he was at peace, he had done his part.

Rap tap rap.

Until he saw the picture. Even as the mother, with tears running down her face, pleaded with him to take the case, he offered the same apology and condolences as he had done countless times. And if she hadn't thrust the picture into his hands, and he hadn't seen those deep, dark, green eyes, he would have slept just fine that night. But he didn't. Those deep, dark, green eyes that stared at him reminded him so very much of his own daughter, that he didn't sleep a wink. Not even when he called the mother to let her know he would take the case. Not even the night after. Not even last night.

Rap tap rap tap.

The deep, dark, green eyes belonged to an artist in her late twenties. Growing up in Chicago, close to the lake, she had always admired the museums and rich history of the city. After college, the crushing soul-searching years of the early twenties lead her to the military, where she spent five years overseas. After her service she lived in Italy, working as a cook while she reveled in the culture and focused on her art. A few years later she moved to a small town in Eastern France to work at a local bistro while she continued to paint. A stroke of luck led to an unexpected opportunity and she moved back to Chicago, much to her mothers joy, once she found a gallery that was looking for young talent. The gears of her dating life were just beginning to turn, and that's where it all began. That's when she made this date... the first date... with the wiry man.

Tap rap tap tap tap.

She ran into him at a local tool store. He was buying lumber for a woodworking project and she needed brushes for her latest piece, an oil painting of St. Mary's Basilica. She invited him to her apartment so she could cook her favorite French dish, a Tilapia Baked en Pollito, served with wine. With the table elegantly set, the wine poured, and the candles burning, she asked him to get comfortable, as she needed to step out for a minute to pick up some butter.

And then she was gone. Everything from there was a dead end. The wiry man stated he simply waited a while, then went home thinking he was stood up. Everything checked out. Her phone was picked up by cell towers leaving at that time, neighbors saw the wiry man leaving alone, there was no evidence of foul play, the forensics were unremarkable. It was unthinkable that he would have anything to do with the disappearance, after all, he was the last one there, and why would a prime suspect put himself directly in the crosshairs? However, the Sergeant knew better.

Tap rap tap tap tap.

Yet, there was nothing he could do. Meticulous and cunning, every answer the wiry man provided was flawless. The case was dead.

Slowly the detective rose to his feet. The wiry man calmly looked up and their gaze met. There was a short silence and the detective thanked him.

"Anytime Sergeant," the wiry man replied, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

He was gloating.

The Sergeant placed his card down on the table. "If you recall anything else this is how you reach me."

"Of course," replied the wiry man, rising to his feet, "she was such a kind girl, and a wonderful artist. I was really looking forward to the date, "he said, shaking his head.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

The Sergeant gave a slight nod, and headed towards the door.

"And such a fantastic cook," chimed the wiry man, standing upright, talking at The Sergeants back, "cooked an entire dinner and we were never able to share it."

The Sergeant reached for the doorknob, "you have a good night now."

"Never even touched her glass of merlot," continued the wiry man.

The Sergeant froze.

His hand outstretched, grasping the doorknob, his back to the wiry man. Every hair on the back of his neck slowly stood straight up, as a cold chill crept down his spine.

Tap tap rap tap.

The wiry man was silent.

The Sergeant slowly turned around. "I'm sorry?"

That's when he saw it. For the first time, the very first time all night, he saw it. Just above the wiry man's right eye, the tiniest furrow of his brow, the first glint of uncertainty he had seen the entire interrogation.

He had made a mistake. And he knew it.

"Oh, I was just saying we never even got to have dinner," replied the wiry man quickly, too quickly, trying to backpedal.

"Right, you mentioned that," said The Sergeant now turning back towards the wiry man, “but what was that about a glass of merlot?”

"You know what-I don't even remember what kind of wine it was," the wiry man retorted "the whole night was such a blur," he said taking a small half-step backwards.

The Sergeant carefully shifted his weight. He could feel the cold steel of his revolver against his hip.

Rap tap tap. The light rattling was getting harder to ignore.

"I don't drink very often," the wiry man confessed, taking another half-step back into his kitchen.

The Sergeant assessed the angle of his seemingly innocent, but in fact, carefully calculated steps backward. Away from the refrigerator, but closer to the stove. Almost certainly the knife drawer, although it was possible he had a gun in there as well for impromptu visits such as this. But this was doubtful. The Sergeant was rarely wrong, and he could tell, especially from the glare of those cold blue eyes-the wiry man was certainly a knife guy.

"But you did mention it was a glass of Merlot, correct?" inquired the Sergeant, shifting his stance which made just enough noise rustling his jacket to conceal the soft snap of him unlatching his revolver holster with the inside of his forearm.

Rap tap tap tap.

"I guess I could have said that," the wiry man replied. His eyes calm and starring ahead, but the subtle facial cues told a different story. In his head the wiry man was retracing the entire conversation, to see where, to see how, he could have possibly slipped up. Another short half-step back brought his rear end almost completely against the stove. His left hand just inches from the drawer.

"A glass of merlot," The Sergeant repeated, now facing the wiry man, knees at a slight bend, his right hand at the ready, his revolver unclipped.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

"Odd," The Sergeant calmly inquired, "that a French culinarian would ruin a light tilapia baked en papillote by pairing it with the tannic bitterness of a glass a merlot."

There was silence. Deafening silence.

All of a sudden the wiry man changed. Not really, not physically, not even his expression, but his eyes. Slowly a metamorphosis revealed his true self. All of his fabricated humanity, his charade of normalcy, his mask that he wore everyday as he went outside, melted off completely, yet only visible in his eyes.

Tap tap rap tap. The noise continued almost cyclically, repetitively, as if played on a loop.

That's when it clicked. The "rap tap tap" suddenly was no longer random, but rather a rhythmic pattern and he knew immediately what it was.

“Of course!” he thought in his head. The “taps” and “raps” were the dots and dashes of Morse code.

The girl was a military vet.

He carefully peered up at the ceiling, where the faint sound emanating from the pipes played a song for The Sergeant. He just had to spell it out.

Rap tap tap tap.

He slowly put the letters together "B-E-H-I-".

The noise continued as he and the wiry man looked on, neither moving, neither budging, completely still.

"N-D-B-O-O" he continued spelling the letters.

Rap tap rap.

The wiry man slowly raised his gaze, his brow furrowed, as he realized the sound was not in fact, noisy pipes, but his worst case scenario coming to life.

The Sergeant frantically pieced the letters together as the message finally revealed itself "K-C-A-S-E-". Behind bookcase!

He slowly shifted his gaze to the living room. A tall mahogany bookcase rested nestled in the corner.

The wiry man lunged at the drawer.

The Sergeant moved in a flash. Left hand at the ready, right hand flying at the handle of his revolver.

Just as fast, the wiry man already had a paring knife in his left hand, cocking back his arm above his head ready to heave. His thumb and pointer expertly gripping the tip of the blade, his form flawless, and his speed, almost inhuman. The Sergeant knew he was right-the wiry man was indeed a knife guy.

The Sergeant yanked the revolver out of the holster, his hands meeting at the handle, as he raised both arms aiming forward, his trigger finger already applying pressure.

The blade came so fast the Sergeant barely saw it. It struck him just left of the sternum, below the fourth rib, piercing his breast. It landed with such force the blade sank into his chest up to the handle.

A heavy grunt escaped the Sergeant's lips as he squeezed the trigger, falling backwards against the wall, firing off a single round.

The bullet struck the wiry man directly between the eyebrows, exiting out the back of the skull.

They both hit the ground at the same time.

The Sergeant tried to draw a deep breath but pain jolted though his chest, and his breath halted before he could finish. Slowly his peripherals grew dark. His head was pounding.

The wiry man lay on his back near the kitchen. His head turned to the side, his cold blue eyes staring blankly, yet even in death, just as icy as they were in life.

The Sergeant’s vision blurred. His labored breaths slowed. Across the room, a single bullet hole next to the bookcase, revealed a faint gleam of light.

In the background he heard sirens.

The Sergeant drew a slow deep breath. His hands grew numb. A wave of calm slowly washed over him. He felt peaceful.

He saw a shadow move behind the hole. Suddenly, something blocked the light.

His vision focused and he saw it, peering back at him, through the hole in the wall, next to the mahogany bookcase. A dark, deep green eye.

The Sergeant closed his eyes.