Seriously, if you don't know who the Origami Killer is, just stop. Stop now. You're an idiot for not heeding the warning.

For everyone else, here's a prequel. The narrative uses names in a lot of confusing ways - who is who at different junctures. That's intentional. The bulk of the narrative in which Scott appears is meant to be filtered through his consciousness. In my version, he's not always clear on what's going on, so the story isn't, either. I've been trying to write it so it's understandable that Scott's world keeps shifting around him and he's trying to work his way through those shifts. Let me know if there are any points where I've crossed the line between "confused" and "confusing."

Well, at least he'd gained most of the weight on his frame before he left the force, Scott thought ruefully, squirming uncomfortably in the driver's seat as he retucked his shirt for the umpteenth time. If he didn't watch out, though, he was going to have go get more alterations in his old uniform, and that was a royal pain. The only place in town he still felt comfortable taking it to was Florence's, because he knew she'd never ask any questions about why he was still wearing it. Poor sweet Florence, I don't think she even knows I retired. Or, he hated to admit, on one of her bad days, what my name is.

Hopefully, he'd be able to take it off soon. He'd put the wheels in motion already – even now, he was chanting through the steps to make sure he'd remembered all the thousand small details that were necessary – and was ready to drop the envelope in the mail as soon as he knew it was a sure thing. If Ben was a sure thing.

Shirt secured, he slunk back down into the seat, gazing through the drizzle along the sidewalk where he expected Ben to appear shortly. Ben Carver-eleven-sixth grade East Middle School-127 Ashley St.-latchkey kid. A little small for his age, a little bit of a bad boy. On Tuesdays, like today, Ben usually stopped by the drugstore with his friends to check on the new comic books, and when Scott had watched them in there one day, he thought he'd seen the kid lift a pack of gum. After the drugstore, Ben always peeled off from the rest of the pack to wend his way down Ashley. Scott thought he probably knew why Ben never went home with any of his friends; he'd been close enough to catch the phrase "white trash" drift from their mothers' mouths through his open car window or past the collar of his overcoat and into his ear. There was no mistaking those words, once you'd heard them often enough. He had notebooks upon notebooks filled with these details about Ben Carver's movements, squirreled away in his private, sacred space; now, as he waited, he could feel a certainty deep in his chest that this was going to work.

Still, his heart skipped a beat when Ben hopped into view, the boy staring at the toes of his battered sneakers. Ben was hunched over, his face partially obscured by his hooded windbreaker, but Scott knew it was him, would know his walk anywhere by now. Scott was suddenly fearful, and he felt his chest begin to hitch nervously. Hey, settle down, he told himself. It's all right, fella. He didn't want to work himself into an asthma attack now; he was already having enough trouble breathing with the humidity. Instead, he took slow steady breaths, puzzling over Ben's oddly syncopated progress down the sidewalk. Is he limping? Oh, no, of course, he realized with a incredulous grin that pushed away his anxiety, John's just not stepping on the cracks. I mean, Ben. Ben's trying not to break his mamma's back.

Scott looked down to check his uniform a final time, eased his door open, and slid out into the light rain. Wish I'd kept one of those official-looking raincoats, too. He squinted against it, and sidled his way under the available cover – trees and the occasional awning – along a route that would take him directly into Ben's path. Intent on the sidewalk, the boy hadn't even noticed him by the time they'd gotten almost close enough to touch.

"Hey, there," he said. "You Ben Carver?" The poor kid's head snapped upwards, and his face instantly twisted into panic at the sight of Scott's uniform. Pocket a candy bar today, did we, kiddo? "I guess that's a yes, then. Hey, no, don't run. You didn't do anything wrong." He tried not to lie to them, when he could. He gave the kid a conspiratorial wink: "Don't you think I know where you live, anyway?"

Ben returned a small, frightened smile. "I guess so."

"I just need to talk to you. I'm not going to try to get you in trouble, or get any of your friends in trouble. I'm not going to arrest anyone."

Ben john visibly relaxed. He still looked nervous, but not fight-or-flight nervous. "What do you want, then?"

Scott made a show of pursing his lips and looking awkwardly around. "I think maybe it'd be better if we had a little more privacy than this. And if I weren't standing here, getting wetter by the second. Come on, we can talk in my car for a minute." He made his face smile comfortingly and jerked his head in the appropriate direction.

"Okay," Ben john said cautiously, and fell into step behind Scott as he trod down the street and into the alley where he'd parked his elderly sedan. "This is your car? This doesn't look like a cop car."

Smart kid. Scott's smile became genuine again. "It's a cop car because I'm driving it and I'm a cop, right? Here, just get in for a minute and we'll get things sorted out." Ben john hesitated a moment, but obediently squeezed through the barely-open passenger side door that Scott had opened, and slung his backpack to the floorboards. Scott himself walked around to the driver's side. The kid let out a little snicker as Scott got in behind the wheel and his weight made the car settle slightly to the left. "Yeah, I know, I'm fat. It's okay to laugh; I think it's pretty funny, too."

Ben john eyed Scott curiously as the big man reached awkwardly into the back seat for what he needed. "Mister, is my family okay? What's going on?"

"One second. Don't worry, your folks are fine." So far. He got his thick fingers successfully around the neck of the dark brown bottle and pulled it up front; the handkerchief it was wrapped in made it easier to grab.

"What's that?"

"This'll just make things a go a little quicker. Here, I'll show you." Scott held his breath as he quickly sopped the handkerchief with chloroform and screwed the bottle back closed.

"Man, it smells awful," said Ben john, wrinkling up his nose. "Make what qui– " and then the cloth was over his face.

It didn't take long. Ben was a skinny kid, and Scott always erred on the side of caution, pulling the stinking drug away as soon as possible and tossing the handkerchief in the glove compartment to try to get as little of it as he could into his own lungs. He didn't want to accidentally kill one of the boys by suffocating him to death. It wouldn't be a painful death, but it wouldn't be fair. It would be meaningless and stupid and wasteful. It would be a betrayal of John's memory, and then they'd never get to talk to each other. But Scott knew he'd done this one right; the still white face of the body beside him was already familiar, loved, comforting.

No time to lose if you want it to keep going right, Scott. Better get out of here. He hesitated over how to position John's unconscious body. I should really put a seat belt on him, for safety. But what if someone saw him through the windshield and remembered? Ultimately, he slid the kid down to be curled up in the passenger seat. John looked so vulnerable in that position that Scott couldn't help himself – he reached down and lightly knuckled John's back fondly, a gesture that seemed strange to him because it was so parental, rather than fraternal.

"Sorry, kiddo," he said. "I'm working on it." He knew John would know what he meant. He eased the car into gear, and the car purred out of the alley, heading towards the warehouse.