In your hand, you hold four-fifths of "Dick Mullen and the Mistaken Identity."

Fleeing a crime scene, destroying evidence... Even if Detective Mullen didn't commit the murder, he should be facing years behind bars.

Dick Mullen won't be sent to the clink for the sake of some legal niceties!

The heat is on! If Dick Mullen can't solve both murders before the cops catch up to him, he's going away for life...

And you'll never know what happens! Because the rest of the book is gone.

Guess that's it, then. (Close the book.)

I can surmise, can't I? If Mullen goes to jail there wouldn't be like fifty more of these books.

What makes you think this isn't the final Dick Mullen case?

Okay, whatever, this is getting ridiculous. (Close the book.)

Isn't there already a book called "Dick Mullen and the Final Case" or something?

How do you know this isn't the final final case?

This could go on forever. End it now.

Can you solve the case before the cops close in?

Wait -- I've got some questions first.

What is it, detective?

Why did Dick Mullen become a detective in the first place?

There was never a time when he wasn't a detective. He was born a detective.

Was I not born to be a detective?

For a moment, you cease to read the story on the page and see the book for what it is, a collection of brittle, cheaply printed pages, held together by glue made from the hooves of horses...

From nowhere, you hear the screech of sneakers on a waxed floor, and you feel the burn of rope against your hands. Are these figments of some other life?

You won't find the answers you're looking for here, in other words.

But why is he like that?

Dick Mullen was made to crack skulls and solve cases. It's who he is. He could no more stop being a detective than a tiger could cease to be a predator in the night.

You're no tiger, though, Harry. You're a man. It's your curse to have to choose.

You're no tiger, though, detective. You're a man. It's your curse to have to choose.

I don't have any more questions. I've figured it all out.

So who did it, detective? Who killed Charlie Spillane and Deanna Deneuve?

You know what? I don't even care. (Close the book.)

Communism killed them.

What? That doesn't even make sense. There's never a straight answer with you, is there? You just get hooked on random stupid notions and then repeat them every chance you get.

Now go on, find out who really did it.

Finish the book.

You begin furiously flipping through pages. Even as you know these books follow a series of well-worn tropes, you find yourself completely engrossed. You're turning pages so fast you don't even notice the ancient spine coming unglued...

You try to grab the pages as they come loose but your fingers aren't quick enough... they're gone.

Dozens of pages scatter across the ground. The last fifth or so of the book seems to have been lost. It's possible that you could gather and reassemble the pages, but it would take way too long.

"Gah! Now I'll never know!"

"Too bad, detective. If it's any consolation, the resolution is almost never very satisfying..."

"And on that note, perhaps we should get back to making sense of our own case?"

Last year, more than 71% of murders in Revachol went unsolved. In Revachol West, that number was closer to 85%.

That's right. You never will. But then, isn't that how it is in real life, detective?

"Stupid old horse glue."

"Ah, yes. The problem with mass market paperbacks... They're not made to last..."

"Perhaps this is a sign that you should get back to solving your own murder, eh, detective?"

Don't forget, it could have been the delirium tremens.

Yes, blame a dead horse for your fat, clumsy fingers.

Dozens of pages scatter across the floor. The last fifth or so of the book seems to have been lost. It's possible that you could gather and reassemble the pages, but it would take way too long.

The politician's twat son?

Could be. Who knows? Only one way to find out.

The dirty police captain?

Uh... Dick Mullen?

Have you been paying attention at all? It wasn't Mullen! It. Was. An. Imposter. Now go on, find out who really did it.

The junkie art collector?

Love did them in.

Why bother solving crimes when the world is so evil?

Is it really so evil, detective?

Yep, it's pretty fucking evil.

Then why are you still here?

Because I need to solve this case. Not for anyone else's sake. For me.

What are you trying to prove, exactly? And what will change if you do manage to prove it?

But then what does this book know? It's just a poorly made piece of pulp garbage, made to be consumed and discarded.

Because I'm too chickenshit to do anything about it.