The Last Clue
February 11, 2025
The library was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Detective Daniel Mercer stood over the mahogany desk, his eyes locked on the dead man slumped in his chair. Blood soaked into the crisp pages of an open book, pooling around a fountain pen that had rolled from the victim’s stiff fingers.
Lisa Monroe, his partner, pulled on a pair of gloves and examined the body. “Single shot to the temple. No sign of a struggle.” She picked up the book carefully. The Count of Monte Cristo. A classic tale of revenge.
Daniel frowned. “He was reading when he was shot?”
Lisa shook her head. “Doubtful. The blood splatter suggests the book was placed there after.”
Daniel scanned the room. Franklin DeWitt, a retired judge, had lived alone in this upscale apartment. No forced entry. No security footage. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing.
His gaze fell on the papers beside the book. Letters. Dozens of them, neatly stacked, all signed with the same initials: J.S.
Lisa picked up one. “Looks like our judge had a secret correspondent.” She scanned the page. “‘You think time has erased what you did, but justice has a long memory.’” She looked up. “Sounds personal.”
Daniel exhaled. “We need to find out who J.S. is.”
Lisa turned as an officer entered. “Detectives, we found something in the hallway.”
They followed him outside, where a single white envelope lay on the polished wooden floor. No postage. No address.
Daniel picked it up and opened it. One piece of paper, one line of text:
“You were too late.”
Lisa’s face darkened. “They’re taunting us.”
Daniel folded the letter. “No. They’re telling us this isn’t over.”
The next morning, Daniel sat at his desk, sifting through old case files.
Lisa set a coffee cup beside him. “You think J.S. is someone from one of his trials?”
Daniel nodded. “DeWitt was a judge for thirty years. That’s a lot of convictions.”
Lisa took a seat. “I ran a search on people with those initials who had cases in his courtroom. Came up with six possible names.” She slid over a file. “One stands out—Jonathan Sloane. Convicted of embezzlement fifteen years ago. DeWitt was the judge who handed him a fifteen-year sentence. He was released six months ago.”
Daniel sat up. “Motive?”
Lisa shrugged. “Maybe he wanted payback.”
Daniel stood, grabbing his coat. “Let’s pay him a visit.”
Sloane’s house was small, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. They knocked, but no one answered.
Lisa tried the doorknob. Unlocked.
Daniel drew his gun. “Stay behind me.”
They stepped inside. The place was neat, almost too neat—except for the envelope sitting on the coffee table. Another white envelope, just like the one found outside DeWitt’s apartment.
Daniel picked it up and opened it.
“You’re still too late.”
Lisa inhaled sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”
Then they heard it—a faint beep from the kitchen.
Daniel’s heart stopped. “Get down!”
A second later, the explosion ripped through the house.
Hours later, Daniel sat in the back of an ambulance, a bandage on his forehead. Lisa sat beside him, looking just as shaken.
“This wasn’t about DeWitt,” she murmured. “This was about us.”
Daniel clenched his jaw. Whoever J.S. was, they weren’t done playing games.
And the next move was theirs.