This is a story i wrote in high school that i recently re-edited. By far my favorite short story i have ever written... I believe the assignment was to write a mystery. I really had fun writing it. Hope you enjoy reading it! Please leave feedback... it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside =3

In the middle of a busy department store a man in his early twenties hiked up his pants a bit more and adjusted his bag on his shoulder as he surveyed the crowd: mostly teenagers, a few parents, no employees. This should be easy enough.

A smile quirked his lips as he strutted over the the compact disc display and fingered through the selection. Feigning browsing, he picked out his targets. Yes, they would do nicely. Headbanger music, just what his ensemble suggested. He casually leaned back with one of his hands shoved in his front jean pocket and the other thumb hooked under his backpack strap. Discreetly, the backpack slid off his shoulder and fell around front, its mouth gaping to be fed.

He obliged it, tossing in four or five hard rock CDs. He glanced about then snatched a few more to contribute to the theme. Just as the last one slid into the void he heard a pair of heels hurriedly clicking his way. When they sounded close he spun about suddenly. She collided against his chest and stumbled for a moment, stunned.

“Watch where you're going,” he snapped.

“I...I'm sorry. You just turned so suddenly,” she stuttered. She nervously adjusted her purse, flipping it behind her arm, further away from him. She wet her lips then warbled in a flustered tone, “Well, um, if you'll excuse me.”

“Che, whatever.” He made a show of jerking his backpack shut. He relieved his head of his hat, ran his fingers through his black wavy hair then tugged his cap back on as the woman skittered away. A silvery piece of paper landed softly on the floor, moving slightly in the breeze created by his exit.

“Detective Johnson, the Wall-n-mart has been hit again.”

Detective Johnson rolled his head across the back of his chair and turned sighing eyes towards the other officer. Right on schedule, someone always disturbed him just as he had sunken deep into his leather chair, gotten lost in the skies outside and gotten five minutes to himself. January was shaping up to be a beautiful month he mused before taking his feet down off of his desk and turning his attention to his partner.

“What happened now, Gabriel” he asked. His chair groaned its agreement as he moved forward to fold his hands and rest his arms on the table.

“Someone stole 12 CDs right out from under them,”he stated then went out say, “how does someone steal 12 CDs, in the middle of the day, and no one notice? I mean really...”

“What else do we know about the incident?” Johnson interrupted again, remembering the young man’s tendency to ramble. “What CDs were stolen?”

“Metallica and…” The younger man glanced at a pad of paper in his palm with scribbles at odd angles on it. “Riot. Some others sir but I’ll let you read them.” He surrendered the pad and waited. Eyes scanning, Johnson tried to find a pattern.

“They’re all hard rock, maybe heavy metal CDs,” he said after a moment. “What’s this note to the side…” The pad tipped to an angle as he tried to discern the words. Gabriel looked on over his shoulder now.

“Oh, that says poem. There was a couplet printed on a bubblegum wrapper at the scene.”

“A couplet?”

His assistant nodded as he flipped a few pages then beamed and surrendered the pad to Johnson again. Johnson read on aloud, puzzlement in his tone.

“’A noisy racket from up the stairs. When ceases to be, nobody cares.’ Curious ditty. Anything else peculiar?” His lips in a thoughtful line, Gabriel shook his head. Johnson stared at the lines, his fingers rubbing his chin.

“Well, Gabriel, I’d say we’ve got an interesting one this time. Let the games begin.”

On the eleventh of February Gabriel entered his office again, baring news that they were to report to a music shop for a robbery. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he heard the goods stolen and the mysterious note that had been left behind. Eleven pipes, missing in their cases, had been replaced by another of the thief’s curious poems.

This time the message was on a piece of sheet music, copied out of a book of Mozart's famous symphonies. Between the title and the first string of notes was printed what Johnson now read aloud for the benefit of the store owner and Gabriel.

“’Windy music floats on by; Instruments gone, musicians cry.’”

“Somebody is going to be crying.” The old man huffed, his voice taught as a guitar string. His curled mustache twitched on his upper lip, dancing about his strangely cut beard. He was the owner of this fine establishment. “Those were 11 of our most expensive pipes. Why did he take the pipes? They are the things I sell the least of.” The owner sighed again, for perhaps the hundredth time since they had arrived. “Alas, nothing is to be done. I shall close shop for the day if you need me to. Please, resume your work gentlemen.”

Chin in his hand, he tapped his pen over the couple words he had scratched onto the paper before him. He needed to decide where he was stealing from but first he needed to decide what he was stealing. The next thing on his list had him absolutely perplexed but if he was going to keep to his dates he's have to figure this out by tomorrow night, the tenth of March.

He glanced outside the window and smiled. Now that the weather was easing up it did free up some more options. If only he wasn't having such a writer's block this would be the prime time for action. Unfortunately this rise in temperature seemed to have drained him of all his creativity.

This was becoming boring already an he hadn't even... his eyes watched a leaf bounce across the ground and that was when the idea struck him. Giddily, his pen danced once again across the paper as he worked out the details of his plan.

Pogo sticks were just what the doctor had ordered: a little fun for him and an interesting twist to keep the detectives guessing. Who would place noblemen on a child's toy? He whistled happily as he wrote. Blurring the lines of the old tune with conventionality was a grand idea.

“Pogo sticks?” Johnson questioned Gabriel who was leaning against his doorway. “Pogo sticks?”

“Yes sir. Ten of them.” What was this guy’s game! Hard rock modern then old time classical with the pipes and now…pogo sticks. Was the stress getting to him too? Were they dealing with some man who was wrapped up in the throws of insanity? Was he just a little eccentric? Bored?

“What poem did he leave for us this time, Gabriel?” his partner noisily flipped through his notes then grinned and came to stand in front of Johnson’s desk, pad of paper extended.

“You read it, Sean. This case is giving me a migraine.”

“Very well sir. ‘Noble men jumping here and there. On pogo sticks, go everywhere’ curious fellow indeed. I look forward to meeting him.” Johnson rubbed his eyebrows, his elbows on his desk.

“We can only meet him if we can catch him. We can only catch him if we can think like him. Personally Gabriel, I do not wish to think like him.” Gabriel smiled and said with a chuckle in his voice.

“Therein lies the problem. I think it would be kinda fun to think like him.”

April 9th was a hard day for Johnson and Gabriel. The robber struck again by night on the eighth, leaving a whole company of ballerina’s without their most prized possession: their wooden tipped shoes. Regrettably, the suspect had chosen the night before their début performance. Now, with females weeping in the background and men bustling about to his side the detective tried to hold a conversation with the manager. “So how many pairs of ballet slippers are missing?”

“Nine.” The woman replied with a scowl, her auburn brows coming together as if they were magnetic. Her foot tapped impatiently. It was obvious this woman was angry but who wouldn’t be?

“This may sound odd, ma’am, but was there by any chance a slip of paper with a poem on it?” The woman snorted but shook her head.

“None that any of my performers have reported.” Johnson frowned. The poem seemed to be this thief’s trademark; if it wasn’t present, perhaps this had only been a crime of coincidence.

“You will let me know immediately if one is discovered?” The woman nodded then turned back to the other people who were gradually cooling down their tempers and drying up their tears. Whispers trickled through the crowd of people until they reached the lady they were talking to. Apparently someone had managed to find nine pairs of ballet shoes at another theater. The show would go on after all as soon as they arrived.

Upon returning to the station, Gabriel jovially tipped a spectacularly decorated slip of paper in his face.
“The performers’ autographs.” He bragged as he beamed. Johnson nearly tore the program guide from his partner’s fingers. Happily scrawled around the producer’s emblem was art of another kind.

“’Feet move to beat and women sway. Dressed real fancy, dance away’”

“Another poem?”

“Another poem.”

The thief’s next target was less traumatizing for all parties involved. A small feed and farm store reported in that seven cowbells were missing from its shelves. At first the number seemed out of pattern then the owner reported, with horror in his voice, that the cowbell off his store mascot, Dairy Mary, was gone as well. Johnson smiled; eight items on the eighth day of May. He had to admit this guy was meticulous with his dates even if his targets appeared to be at random. However surely there was some method to his madness. Some forethought the his crimes. When inquired upon about a poem the old farmer stumbled through the ingenious couplet.

“‘Female workers, something to drink. Lands in pail with a clink,’” he read then added, “why I never did think someone would steal ole Mary's bell. She's a landmark round these parts. Why everybody likes Mary.”

“Was anything else stolen from your store?” Johnson asked, steering conversation away his old wooden cow as a tear bubbled in the old man's eyes.

“I’ve got my wife a’checkin on it officer. Far as I can tell ain’t nothing else missin’.”

“Count your blessings Mr. Throubough if nothing else was stolen.” In any normal case perhaps that may have been true but Johnson knew the man they were chasing was no ordinary case.

“Yes officer. Me and the wife are doin’ just that.” As they left Gabriel said he was pretty sure the old man was glad they didn't take ole Mary too.

In a small penthouse apartment a pencil taps on firmly pursed lips. He needed to get a head start on this crime. The past few crimes had taken more time to plan and execute than he anticipated. This script was becoming challenging. He wished he had put more thought into what a performance like this going to take before casting himself in the lead role so quickly. Alas there was nothing to be done about it. He was already past the intermission.

He hummed a tune again under his breath then sighed and dropped his pencil in surrender. Was this to be the end? No, it couldn't be. He must press on. He didn't ruin his favorite coat on the stupid cow's ear for nothing.

To alleviate his writer’s block and cabin fever, he decided to go for a walk by the lake nearby. He’d see no swans there but perhaps something might jog his idea starter. Well something did or rather someone; the old one sitting next to her lovely granddaughter struck up in his head, an idea and he hurried home before he forgot it. His ice blue eyes bored into the paper as naturally blonde hair curled at his temples.

“Madam Starion’s Antiques,” Johnson read as he pressed his palm over the letters and entered the small but tastefully decorated antique dealer’s. The owner, Madam Starion, was a squat, sort of roundish older woman who had detective Johnson questioning what remained of her sanity. Her arms flailed about wildly as the detectives tried to determine what events had transpired. Gabriel spoke in a soothing tone, reassuring her that they would recover her prized possession that had been stolen from her window display.

“I don't have insurance,” she fretted aloud, as she was wringing her hands.

“We'll get it back for you, Madam,”Gabriel reassured her.

“What exactly was stolen?” asked agent Johnson as Gabriel calmed the woman. She sat down in one of her aged chairs, took a deep breathe, and answered him in a flustered tone.

“An antique music box,” she sputtered, “it's my favorite and one of my most expensive pieces. All that's left behind is this old scrap of paper.”

The tatter-edged slip looked right at home in its surroundings. Blackened edges also suggested great care had gone into it’s over all appearance. Johnson read it aloud.

“’ Graceful birds glide on the lake. Their song does cease, when it I take.’ This makes no sense. What does it mean?”
The men looked to Madam Starion for an explanation.

“Is there anything you have left out in your description of this box? You told us it was rare. How so?” The elder woman’s cheeks tinged pink.

“How did I ever forget? When opened, the music played and swans bobbed along the rim of a mirror inside. It looked very much like they were swimming as they went about. It was quite breath-taking a box.” She sighed. “So sad I am to have lost it.”

“Indeed. Allow us the pleasure of returning it to you soon,” Johnson told her as he and his partner made their way out.

“Another case involving our poet I presume?” Johnson asked when the door creaked open. Gabriel nodded as he let himself fully into Johnson’s office. Today was July 6th 2005.

“’One bird as good as the next. When it comes to eggs in nest.’” His assistant read off almost as if on autopilot.
Johnson had to admit the signature was losing its allure. He kept questioning how long this would keep going on. He had other cases that need his attention. Luckily the thief was on a predictable schedule. He set aside every day descending in number from this month on to the end of his calendar.

Tired of being left in the dark, Johnson swore to crack down on this assignment. He had to find the criminal’s angle, system, anything. Surely there was some reason why he had chosen the dates he did and the items he chose. What key was he missing? Johnson pondered.

“He stole chicken eggs this time from local grocer mart and wrote ‘goose’ on top of all the other top cartons with a sharpie.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Johnson mumbled as he spread the reports from all the poem robberies across his desk and looked from one to the next. There had to be some sort of link. This guy was too organized, too precise not to be going on a system.

Tread-less, ebony shoes with raised soles slid over dark socks and met up with black cuffs to pitch black pants. When black-gloved hands adjusted a midnight belt they had to push aside a inky shirt. The black face paint tickled as it dried but our suspect had other things on his mind.

This was probably going to be the most difficult of all the robberies he’d attempted so far. Jewelry was always hard to get your paws on, but in this part of Florida, this was the most run down store he could find. It didn’t have a state-of-the-art system but it was good. Grabbing a small pouch, he tied it about his wrist and started out. Five rings was his goal.

Johnson let his eyes scan over the open file in his hand. This time he’d really outdone himself. The little bag Johnson held between his thumb and forefinger thwacked when he hit its clear plastic with his remaining fingers. The thief had gotten five diamond rings but left a piece of leather behind. At first no one could determine what the odd shaped piece of tanned animal hide was. Then after being held at a different angle it was determined to be a fingertip to a glove. The only way it could be figured it ripped off was on the edge of the broken glass. How his blood wasn’t anywhere to be detected had everyone baffled.

It was a general consensus that it had to be luck; the guy seemed to have an abundance of that commodity. Whoever was doing this was getting sloppy though, Johnson pondered as he gently moved the hand that dangled the bag. A few more of these slip-ups and they might be able to bag him, tight.

The poem found was a bit more sentimental than the rest but fitting for the item. ‘Glittering gold round finger worn. Reminder of a promise sworn.’ Johnson began thinking upon what type of family the thief had. Had he sworn that promise yet? How old was he? A myriad of other questions swirled in his mind, unanswered. His other case files sat on the corner of his desk, ignored.

The glow of the TV reflected onto his grinning face as the volume button clicked, heightening the newscaster’s voice.

“…Orlando’s police department has decided to issue a warning to all business owners. There has been a rash of robberies with no specific target obvious. Detective Al Johnson, the officer in charge of this case, had observed a couple of things however…” The newscaster's voice faded away as a tall man with short pepper colored hair and deep gray eyes popped on screen, people bustling about behind him. The new man dressed in uniform took over.

“The thief normally commits his crimes at night; however, there has been at least one incident of him robbing during the daylight hours. He strikes every month on one day less than he did the last time. Since this is now September we expect him to attempt again on the fourth. If the thief comes to visit your store he shall leave his signature behind: a simple two-line poem, a couplet. Once again we’d like for you to…”

There was the sound of diffusing static as the TV went dark. Setting the remote down he picked up the closest newspaper to him and flipped in a few pages. He gave a celebratory squeal; he was famous again.

Dumping the contents out of the bag from Pet-store yesterday, he shoved the crinkling plastic in his jeans’ pocket and grabbed his t-shirt that had the appearance of dog fur on it. He flipped open a pair of sunglasses and perched them on his nose. After ruffling his blonde hair up, and checked for mud stains on his pants. No denying they’d seen better days. Good. Stuffing the last bit of bag in his pocket, he strolled confidently towards the door. He was getting good at this and with only three crimes left to commit he knew he’d get away with it too. He was on fire and no one was putting him out.

Upon arriving at the pet store, he made his way up and down the aisles seeking what he’d discovered earlier when picking up a few things for his elderly neighbor’s company of cats. It certainly wasn’t his best idea but it was, presently, his only idea and today was the fourth. Plucking four stuffed birds that squeaked off the shelf, he tucked them under his arms, dropping his earlier receipt on the shelf, and headed for a secluded place.

After tugging off any and all tags that might set of an alarm, he shoved the protesting birds in the bag from his pocket and made nonchalantly for the door. As he went to exit the store, he slid his shades down and winked at the female clerk at the cash register. She blushed and ducked her head and he slipped out otherwise unnoticed.

In October on the 2nd, so the crime would be discovered on the third, our now infamous thief snuck into ole Sunny’s chicken coop and stole three of his best looking hens, leaving his poem in French this time.

When Johnson arrived, he picked the slip of paper up in pure bafflement. The thief just got trickier with each of his new crimes. He’d have to take it back to the department to get it translated, not being fluent in French. Gabriel delivered it to the translator’s and soon they had ‘Chassez-toujours les autour de la basse-cour. Rattrapez-les et mangez votre suffisance’ translated into ‘Chase them round the barnyard still. Catch them up and eat your fill’.

Still despite all the crimes known to belong to him, this suspect eluded them. Perhaps it was because each time he committed another it just added to the confusion. None of them appeared to be linked together in anyway besides the few that had to do with birds. Others were childish and yet others pointed towards refined taste. Johnson was about to toss up his hands in defeat when Gabriel walked in and saw his wrinkled brow and pursed lips.

“Don’t even tell me there’s another,” Johnson growled.

“No sir, not another. I was just coming to help you think.” Johnson elbowed the table in frustration and rubbed his temples.

“How about you do all the thinking from now on? I’m beat.”

“Don’t be so glum, sir. He’s running out of days to descend into. He only has November 2nd and December 1st left to go,” Gabriel reminded him cheerfully. This gave Johnson little comfort. He’d been lead around enough already and all this bumping along was doing was giving him migraines.

“If he continues after December I’m turning the case over to someone else and signing up for the special care funny house suite.”

“Don’t let him get to you, sir. We'll catch him.” Easier said than done.

Once again fate turned against him and he was forced to improvise. Not being able to come up with a suitable disguise that one could walk into an art store with and walk out carrying something from the store in without looking suspicious, he opted to be dangerous and just wear a hooded-sweatshirt and well-styled jeans.

He got in without too much trouble, got a few stares but explained his presence away as seeking a gift for his girlfriend. At twenty-two he believed he pulled off the nervous boyfriend pretty well. For this endeavor he’d gelled his hair back and dyed it red, leaving the hood down. He’d changed a lot since his face was last on the screen when he was a child. Surely no one could recognize him now. It was a bold move but one he felt confident in making.

Finding the object of his desire he discreetly slid the statue of two doves, the kind he didn’t know, into his large front pocket. From underneath the statue he drew out his latest poem which read ‘Two birds in bush, better one in hand. Where they were no longer stand’. After dropping the slip of paper in its place, he headed for the door. One of the women he’d talked briefly to earlier approached him as he went to exit.

“Find anything for that girl of yours?” He smiled at her and sighed as he shrugged.

“Nothing good enough for her here. I shall have to move on again.”

“Only the best huh? What a sweet young man. How long have you been looking for her perfect gift?”

“Months. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go search some more stores. Her birthday is just around the corner.”

The older woman smiled and stepped aside again praising how sweet he was under her breath. As his foot touched the cement outside, the store alarms rang out nearly deafening him. He looked about for a moment then darted off towards his car, hands in his pockets so the statue didn’t bounce out. Behind him shouts arose and footwear clattered but he noticed nothing as he dove into his car and hit the gas. Squealing out of the parking lot, he nearly hit a woman.

“2CL2COM, a custom plate for sure.” Johnson handed the pad of paper back to Gabriel and sat, grinning, back in his chair. “Our suspect really messed up this time. There were at least ten witnesses that say they saw what he looked like and three or four of their statements agreed on the plate. I think this has all finally gone to his head and his perception of actual reality has been blurred by his pride.” Gabriel nodded.

“Happens quite often with the young ones especially. Either that or he’s gotten bored with his own game. I think I would have by this point if I were him.”

“No, he’d just stop if he was bored. Up until this point we had no one to pin it on. This is a matter of sloppiness, overconfidence. He should come down pretty easily now. Run the license plate through the computer and see if anything comes up.”

The license plate was run through but turned out to be a dead end. 2CL2COM was a registered to a car a 16-year-old had totaled six months ago. The car had been sent to the junkyard where the thief must have later plucked the plate from its bumper. Maybe the thief hadn’t been so careless after all.

A real license plate back on his car again the thief could rest easy until his last and final crime. Malls were always full of people. It would be easy to get lost in the holiday crowd and sneak off with whatever he desired. He’d just write the poem up before he left and he’d be home free. Whistling a tune, he waltzed indoors and kicked the door shut with flourish.

The biggest break in the case came from a most unlikely source. While driving home from work one night Al Johnson, always a merry Christmas man, began singing along to the songs that popped on the radio. As was his custom every year, a month to the date of Christmas, he always switched over to a station that played only Christmas tunes. He was on the highway when it started and in the grass when it ended. It was a delightful tune he hadn’t heard all year, which was probably why the thief had picked it for his pattern. He listened closely, stuck in his ditch, while the words played.

“…four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…”

Johnson hit the center of his steering wheel with glee, causing the person turning onto the ramp he had careened off moments ago to honk back with displeasure. He hardly heard, so elated his discovery had made him.

When December 1st rolled around, Johnson and Gabriel were perched by the phone, eagerly awaiting the call that would tell them their thief had struck again. It came just before the mall doors were supposed to open. They’d found a poem placed exactly where the partridge in a pear tree was supposed to be in their ornament set. Johnson, who had picked up the phone, quickly inquired about the poem. He listened as it was read, anticipation making him jittery. “’Bird on limb and limb on tree. Yet no call, where could they be?’”

“We’ll be right there,” he informed the girl on the other side of the line as soon as she had read it.

They arrived just as the mall opened, a mere absence of a bird and its tree not keeping its doors from opening wide. They talked to the lady who had called it in and in a moment then began walking the store idly. The chance the thief had hung around was minor but all security was on alert to find him. About ten, an hour after the mall had opened, Johnson spotted him, looking through a pile of books with one hand as he twirled the ornament around the finger of the other. He didn’t seem to panic when approached so Johnson walked up beside him and began sorting through the books as well. Sensing the young man wasn’t the violent type once he announced his intentions in a right to remain silent.

“Any good books?” What appeared to be strawberry blonde hair shook with his head.

“Not so far.” Johnson began perusing him, determining he could probably take him down if he had to; keeping him down was another matter. He wasn’t overly tall or short, only of normal-to-good build with handsome features. As he kept looking, company ignored, the ornament continued to swirl about his finger.

“Where’d you get that beautiful ornament? My wife would love to have one just like it.”

“Hallmark,” he replied without missing a beat, “third store from the end of this row.”

He raised the finger with the ornament still hanging off it to point to Johnson’s left. Gently but firmly Johnson clasped the handcuff on his wrist.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” The young man beamed looking years younger.

“You’ve finally caught me huh? Figured out my pattern? Ingenious wasn’t it?” Johnson blinked at him as he held out his other arm. “Good game while it lasted was it not?” Was this man for real? Was he happy to be getting hauled to the police station? “Best acting I’ve ever done in my career. I suppose you’ll want to know where the stuff is hum? I’ll tell you. The eggs are a little bold and the chickens have all but run their heads off but everything else is in its respective box, carton, or wrapper.”

Johnson quirked his eyebrow at him. Was he telling the truth? It was in fact the truth, and with no strings attached, just as Jason “the Grinch” Keywal, had promised.