The Collector of Truths

Detective Claire Mendez was no stranger to murder. After ten years in homicide, she had seen evil in many forms—calculated, spontaneous, fueled by greed or love or hatred. But the man who called himself The Collector of Truths was something else entirely.

The first call came on a Monday morning.

“Detective,” the voice said, calm and smooth. “I’m sending you a puzzle. Solve it before the next truth is buried.”

Before she could respond, the line went dead. Moments later, a fax machine at the station whirred to life. A single sheet printed out. It read:

> I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?

Claire read it three times before whispering, “An echo.”

It felt like a joke until dispatch radioed in. A hiker had found a shallow grave on the outskirts of the city. When Claire arrived at the scene, the echo of her own breath was all she could hear in the pine forest.

The body was of a man in his forties. A construction worker, according to his ID. But it was the words carved across his chest that chilled her: "I never hit my wife."

The autopsy later confirmed bruises and fractures from old abuse. His widow admitted he had a temper, but always denied hurting her. Now the truth was literally carved into his skin.

The second call came two days later.

“You were slow, detective. Let’s do better.”

Another riddle followed. Each one led to another grave, another victim, another lie turned inside out.

“I’m not addicted.”
“I never cheated.”
“I love my daughter.”
Each statement carefully cut into the flesh of the dead.

Forensics could find no clear pattern in the victims. Different ages, races, backgrounds. But every one of them had a lie they had told—to police, to family, to the public. Some were documented in old case files, some hidden behind sealed records. The killer was not guessing. He had information. Possibly from inside.

Claire didn’t sleep much. The city buzzed with fear, the media latched onto the name “The Collector of Truths” like a badge of honor. But to Claire, it wasn’t a game. It was a countdown.

She built a board in her office. Photos, maps, timelines. She noticed one odd detail—the killer never repeated a riddle style. One was a poem, another a mathematical logic puzzle, another a child’s rhyme. It was like he was proving how clever he was.

The breakthrough came on the sixth body. A woman buried in a cemetery under a fake name. The inscription on her arm read, "I never lied on the stand." She was a key witness in a trial from 2010. The man she testified against was sentenced to life.

Claire pulled the court transcripts. As she read them, one quote stood out. “He whispered it into my left ear,” the witness had said.

But in a previous interview, she'd claimed he was seated on her right.

It was minor. Easy to dismiss. But it was a lie. A small one, maybe. Still, it was enough.

Claire requested access to the prison records. She wanted to speak with the man who’d been convicted in that case.

His name was Joel Harris. He had been inside for fifteen years. When Claire met him, he looked tired, older than his 50 years.

“She lied,” he said, without emotion. “But I was no angel. I did bad things. Just not that.”

When she asked if he knew anyone who might want revenge, he hesitated. Then he whispered, “There was this guy, inside with me for a while. Smart. Too smart. Read everything. Always talking about justice like it was math. You know, like it could be calculated. We called him Preacher.”

Claire dug up old inmate records. Preacher's real name was Alan Mercer. No address. No job history since his parole two years ago. But there was a curious note: Mercer had volunteered in the prison library—and in the legal aid office.

He had access to case files. Including those of every victim so far.

The next call came the following morning.

“Only two lies remain,” the voice said. “One of them is yours.”

Claire’s blood turned cold.

The riddle that followed was different. No poem, no clever twist.

> "In the dark you made a deal. He walked free. Now truth comes home."

Claire stared at it, her mind racing. Years ago, early in her career, she had made a judgment call. Let a suspect walk in exchange for information. That deal had helped save a girl’s life—but she had falsified her report to hide it.

Only two people knew. One was her former partner. The other, the man she had made the deal with—who died in a gang shootout last year.

Only someone with access to sealed internal files could know that. Mercer must have dug deep.

Claire traced the only lead she had—an abandoned church where Mercer had once preached during his prison days. It was quiet when she entered. Dusty pews. A cracked cross on the altar.

Then a voice from the shadows: “You kept your lie quiet, detective. But God saw it.”

She turned, gun raised. Alan Mercer stood in a white shirt, hands lifted, smiling.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said. “I want you to admit it.”

“And then what?” she asked.

“Then we both go to jail.”

He stepped closer. Claire hesitated, then slowly lowered her weapon.

“I falsified a report,” she said. “To save a life. It was wrong.”

Mercer nodded. “Truth. That’s all it takes.”

The police arrived minutes later.

Alan Mercer didn’t resist. He confessed to everything.

But in his cell, they found dozens more riddles. Some crossed out. Some half-written. And one with her name still on it.

Claire never forgot the last thing he said.

“Truth is heavier than guilt. Most people just don’t know how to carry it.”