1954, Chicago, USA

Robert Schwartz was easily the best in the homicide division. Tall, slender, dark eyes that seemed to bear into your soul. He easily was a walking stereotype, including the stressed out demeanour and mysterious past. And here he was, in a dark room, just him and a murder suspect. One body, no murder weapon, no leads, just this person. His eyes narrowed as the silence dragged out, taking a single drag of his cigarette.

"I'm gonna need your name, age and occupation." He knew those things, of course, but it didn't hurt to check if any details were wrong in the file. He was tired, tired of everything. Outside it was pouring, he could only imagine the pain it would be to drive home. He would probably sleep in the station again, as usual, obsessing over details.

He himself was a walking mystery he hadn't yet deciphered, why he did the things that he did. Somehow always managed to choose the option that would harm him the most. Why his diet consisted of Martinis and cigarettes. Nonetheless, none of that mattered, not with an unsolved murder.