Four people over the course of six months disappeared from the town of Whitechapel. My team was tasked with the investigation. We tried every trick in the book and outside the book, bending a few rules and pushing a few boundaries, but there was little evidence that pointed to anyone or anything. In fact, there was not much evidence for us to even figure out what kind of case we were working on exactly. It was exhausting. Yet four missing people in a town with barely over three thousand residents was a lot, and we had to keep pushing forward although we felt more and more powerless day by day. So far, the perpetrator had been committing his or her crimes overnight, targeting people who were likely alone since there were no witnesses.

While we had no leads, we did have theories. Oh, theories! We were lost in them. Some thought it was a serial killer, given that one of the crime scenes had a bloody knife and a mysterious smiley face on a nearby wall. There were no prints on the knife and we were unsure if the smiley face had any connection to the murders. There were mixed accounts. Some stated that the smiley faces were new while others claimed they had been there for a while. Another theory suggested by my colleagues was that the victims simply ran away, but that didn’t make sense since the disappearances were sudden and the victims didn’t pack any bags. More extreme colleagues speculated it was the actions of some cult or a secret society, but they were quickly brushed aside.

 The last person who went missing was Jane Kelley, my childhood friend. I was particularly concerned for her, given that we had met as friends in elementary school and we had been regularly in contact. Over time, I began to develop feelings for Jane and I was planning on asking her out, but suddenly, one day she stopped responding to my texts. The next day she was announced missing by her friends, who were her neighbors. 

On Saturdays, I usually headed over to the inmate rehabilitation center where I ran the jazz class. It made me so proud and excited that Dan, one of the inmates in my class, recently mastered the basics of reading music and counting beats. Moments like that one, when the intricate rhythm of jazz and elaborate improvisation are clear and beautiful, are what make this experience worthwhile. In fact, if I had not become a police officer, I would have become a jazz teacher. I had formed a small band and we performed every Saturday, at least before the Afghan war. Before going into action, I would always make sure to listen to some jazz to help clear out the other noises in my head. I hoped my class did the same to help my students find their own moments of sanctuary. 

But one Saturday, I found myself driving past the town proper, into the woods. I had agreed to help an old friend clear out some old furniture. James and I grew up together but drifted apart over the years. I remember the fun pranks we pulled during our elementary years. One time, we poured water on all of the classroom seats. Of course, I would be the only one to get in trouble given that James’s father was the town’s mayor and one of the school’s major donors, but that didn’t stop me from joining him in his plans and jokes. Eventually, his pranks became more and more extreme, turning from simple inconveniences to dangerous hazards. One time, he brought a butterfly knife to the middle school cafeteria in his backpack and showed it off to his friends during lunch break. I started drifting away from him after he convinced me to pull the fire alarm three times in one day. Last I heard of him was at the end of high school. He was building a mansion out in the woods with his father’s money and I never heard about him again for a long time, but I ran into him a few months ago at a local diner. We hung out a few times and had lunch to reconnect and catch up with one another. It was overall a great time. 

James's four-story mansion looked old. It was drab in color and its walls were covered with overgrown vines and patches of overgrown moss. As I stared at it, my head spun with questions. How could a house so big look so flimsy? Why would anyone ever choose to live here? Was it even safe to live in?

Suddenly, I heard a gunshot. Something fell down from a tree near the window. It was a small bird. Its left wing was completely mangled. I stared at it helplessly, not knowing what to do, confused and a little bit unsettled. I reached out to the dying bird. It convulsed. 

James came out from the mansion at that moment, holding a smoking revolver. He had a strange smile on his face. His skin was pale, almost cadaverously so.  He walked towards me, his blue eyes set on the bird. He snatched the bird and flung it away. Then he summoned a handkerchief and wiped his hands.  

“What’s going on?” I asked. 

James just shrugged.

“James?” I pressed. 

He shrugged again. “What are you talking about?”

“You killed a bird. Why would you ever do that?”

James barked out a laugh. “I did it because the sky was cloudy. Because the wind was blowing. Because the tree was green. Whatever you want, whatever you get.”

With that, he turned back and strode into the mansion. I chased after him, half frustrated and half concerned. This moment reminded me of the “old” James. Maybe he had never changed. Maybe the “old” him was still there, under his facade of maturity. 

The moment I stepped inside the mansion, I was overwhelmed. I had never been inside his house before, despite knowing James for over twenty years. The inside of the mansion was clean but grandiose, full of lavish, antique furniture, well-lit lamps, and a large TV screen in the living room. One corner of the house, however, was quite messy, full of boxes, containers, full trash bags, and odd pieces of furniture that were all piled up against the walls. 

“Pick up that wooden chair,” said James. 

I picked up a wooden chair, which was blocking the way, and carried it outside. Then I went back in and ventured further in, making a few more trips back and forth to clear out the messy corner, while James helped alongside me and told me which items to move. 

Crumpled rags littered the floor, all the way from the hallway to the kitchen. They had bloody stains on them, some of them not too old. I frowned: I knew James loved hunting his own game, but the hunting season had been over for a while. Maybe I needed to warn him about how poaching was a serious crime. 

There was an odd rotting smell coming from the locked basement door. I was about to holler at James to tell him that his meat freezer must be broken, but he had disappeared to the second floor. The smell coming from the basement was so much like that of dead bodies, and I did not like it at all. That was when I saw something sparkly stuck between the floorboards. 

It was Jane Kelley’s earring. I remember giving it and the other one to her five years ago. 

Dread is a strange emotion. It starts near the toes and slowly builds up to the stomach, where it lingers and makes you sick. Then it shoots up to the head and makes your head spin. I stood there, nauseous, everything seemingly spinning around the tiny stud buried in the floor as I thought about the bloody rags I passed by earlier. Were they stained with Jane’s blood? I thought about James’ odd childhood, and how even now he was so estranged from everyone else in our town. Less than an hour ago he shot a bird just to feel good. 

The clues were all there. Now that I was in his house, I was able to put together the puzzle pieces. The shooting. The earring. The house in the middle of nowhere. I thought about Jane, and thinking about my love for her, I felt, with conviction, that I should be the one to take down James.  

I spent the rest of the afternoon helping James declutter, as promised. He asked if I wanted some beer but I declined. After leaving the house, I drove a mile out and parked my car behind the trees. I waited for nightfall. I grabbed my pistol in the glove box compartment and headed out for the mansion. 

The walk was oddly calming. The tight grip around my pistol loosened as I continued forward and began to focus on the trees. The moon was full that night, but the tree branches broke and scattered the moonlight into different areas. It would have been the perfect place to take an afternoon picnic and listen to some jazz music. Maybe even some classical music. I realized that I had distracted myself with the beautiful sight, and remembering the task at hand, I moved on with a grim look on my face. I finally saw the house in sight. As I stepped on the creaking and cracking steps of that house, my now clearer mind allowed the doubts to sneak in. 

Is this the right course of action? Of course. James killed my friend and now he will pay. You can just call the station and let the team handle it properly. You have evidence. This is revenge, not justice. But where does one draw the line between justice and revenge? Is this even considered revenge? I’m just simply righting my wrong. It's not your personal responsibility to do this. In fact, the death of Jane wasn’t your fault, but the fault of all of the police. Oh, how comforting. What am I supposed to do, just wait for the justice system? That in itself could lead to injustice. How so? Justice can only be administered by the court, where everything is objective and fair. If you do something wrong, you get punished. Of course, the court should be objective and fair, but that’s hardly the case especially when it's run by people, who have their own internal motivations and thoughts. It’s able to be manipulated or incorrectly applied. Innocent people are convicted, while some who are guilty are free to roam. Furthermore, blind justice only applies to common people. The law doesn’t apply to the rich like James. Any trouble with the law can be smoothed out with enough attorneys. Hell, if the price is right, you can even change the law. As a result, it is my duty to be the judge–no, it’s not! If I had sent him to the justice system, he would never be convicted. It’s now my responsibility to bring him to justice. 

With a trembling hand, I opened the door to James’s bedroom. I tried to steady myself as I slipped in. My inner voice grew louder and louder as I stepped forward. 

Justice is not revenge. Justice is rational. Revenge is emotional. Justice is impartial. Revenge is personal. Justice is closure. Revenge is cyclic. As an officer of the law, you are supposed to uphold justice, not get revenge. Morality is inherently objective, yet you have infected yours with your human emotion! Yet, is justice not a form of revenge? If you strip justice to its core elements, it is simply revenge in disguise. Consider the famous Hammurabi’s Code, the oldest principle of justice: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.” Is that not the premise of every vengeance? Revenge and justice stem from the same root and are always intertwined, like vines in a vineyard. 

I tried holding the gun at him, but couldn’t make myself pull the trigger. I started to breathe more heavily 

Looking around the room, I tried for one last time to look for evidence, this time begging that there was no evidence this time. I quietly opened different drawers, praying that there was nothing in the room. As I opened one bedside drawer, I saw a pair of ID cards and different wallets of the different missing people, most likely trophies of his past victims. My heart began to sink. I knew that my decision was final. It would have to happen.

I put my hand on the trigger. My head began to spin and blood rushed to my brain as I began to feel lightheaded. As I became dizzier, I began to have trouble seeing in front of me and the gun began to shake. I put my other hand on the gun, but it did little to stabilize the gun. I wrapped my finger around the trigger around the gun and tried to pull it, but my finger felt locked in place and I couldn’t push it any further. It felt like moving a boulder, but then suddenly there was a loud bang and a silence. James didn’t move anymore and a slow pool of blood was piling on the bed sheets. 

The ride back home was a blur. I remembered blasting some jazz music on the car radio, but otherwise, most details remained unclear. My head felt like it was spinning and I couldn’t see properly. 

 Back home, I took a long shower. I tried not to think about the death of James, but the eerie bang followed by silence haunted me throughout the ride home. After putting on dry clothes, I then put on Louis Armstrong’s A Wonderful World. I sat down on the couch, resting my head and arms against the chairs while listening to the smooth piano and crisp trumpet notes. I closed my eyes, feeling the music drown out my headaches and other worries as I slowly drifted into sleep, dreaming about vines in a vineyard.