[ WP ] Several mysterious murders are happening all over the country and they have nothing in common . The only connection : There is always a pure white cat at the crime scene .

It was well into the sleepy, freefalling part of night when Cal Dodge arrived at the scene, but the moon still shone big and brilliant over Governor ’ s Row. The street was buzzing with cop cars and emergency vehicles, men in uniform, and their attendant wash of multi-colored lights. Because there was nowhere else to park, Cal pulled into an alley and shut off his engine. Among the gravel and shrubbery in front of him he could see a cat, white as the moonlight, darting between the sides of the alleyway and disappearing into a crack in the fence. 
 
 As usual, a somber, prickly mood seemed to hang over the surroundings, nesting in the minds of everyone gathered there. 
 
 “ There ’ s not much I can give you, Cal, ” said Detective Castillo, an old friend. “ I ’ m not supposed to be passing things along to you anymore. ” 
 
 “ I heard it ’ s a pattern killing, ” said Cal. 
 
 “ We think it might be, ah, a serial killer thing, yes. Not necessarily isolated to this area. You know what, here. I do have something I can give you. ” 
 
 Castillo passed over a manila folder. Inside were several photographs of murder scenes in black and white. Similar to each other in some respects, it seemed, though Cal didn ’ t have time to look too closely. Clearly the documents were nothing confidential. Probably pulled off of a web site. 
 
 Cal thanked the detective and moved on. There was no else friendly to him on the scene. Apparently the act had been committed in a shed or garage in back of the house. Cal made it about halfway into the front lawn before somebody held out a hand to stop him. 
 
 “ Sorry, bud, ” the officer said. Cal recognized his face, though only faintly. Perhaps it was just the smug, authoritative look in his eye that seemed familiar. “ Can ’ t have you coming back any farther. Unless you got a badge or somethin ’? ” 
 
 Unsurprised, but dejected nonetheless, Cal walked back to his car and drove off into the night. He ’ d only made it about a block when his headlights again caught the moving flicker of a white cat. It had to be the same one. He watched it glide along McAllister Avenue, and then turn suddenly, acrobatically, entering the dark mouth of an alley. 
 
 Cal decided to follow him. There wasn ’ t much else to do, and he ’ d always liked white cats. The cat moved incredibly quickly. Cal tried his best to keep up, but it was like following a spotlight. Luckily, the cat seemed to be going in the most logical direction, following the alleys for several blocks before finally turning onto a major road. It was almost as if he were letting Cal chase him. 
 
 At the major road, which Cal didn ’ t recognize, the cat leaped across the street and slipped around back of a small diner. The diner ’ s neon signs were still shining, and the place looked welcoming, so Cal decided to stop in. Goodness knew he could use a coffee and a donut. 
 
 The inside of the diner was sleepy and quiet. A radio played thin, ghostly strands of Duke Ellington tunes. Cal knew them well. There was no waitress in sight, but a three-quarter-full pot of coffee beckoned to Cal from its spot on the counter in front of him. Seated two stools down was a man in a large, black overcoat, who cleared his throat loudly, startling Cal. 
 
 “ Please, have some of the coffee, ” he said, in a voice that was surprisingly high-pitched and clear. 
 
 Saying nothing, Cal tentatively pulled a mug from a rack of clean ones near the pot and poured himself a cup. 
 
 “ So. What brings you into a place such as this at a time like this, then, if you don ’ t mind my asking? ” said the man. 
 
 He turned toward Cal. His face was lined and grey, and he smiled a green, toothy smile. 
 
 “ Just a break from my business, I guess, ” Cal said. He paused, considering how much to tell this stranger, then, for some reason he couldn ’ t quite understood, said: “ I followed a cat here, if you must know. ” 
 
 The man let out a short, high whistle of a laugh, then snapped his fingers. Just as he did so, the white cat scuttled out from somewhere in the back of the diner and came to rest at his feet. The man smiled again at Cal. 
 “ Yup, that ’ s the one, ” said Cal. “ Pretty cool little cat, I must say. ” 
 
 “ Yes, he comes in handy now and again, ” said the man. 
 
 Cal finished his coffee and stretched out his arms. He didn ’ t feel he needed the donut anymore, or any food. The coffee had been rejuvenating and was quite enough for him. 
 
 “ So, who do I pay? ” Cal said. 
 
 “ It ’ s on me, ” said the man. 
 
 “ I insist, ” said Cal. 
 
 “ No, I do, ” said the man. 
 
 “ Well, if you say so, ” said Cal. “ I can only turn a man down so many times. Do you own this place? ” 
 
 “ Something like that, ” said the man. 
 
 Cal took another look at his surroundings. The diner was very old, and dimly lit, and they were the only ones inside. The diner had seen better days, he could tell -- several of the lights flickered, and the grout between the tiles was dirty. 
 
 Suddenly he wanted to get out of there. He said a quick goodbye and went to his car. 
 It took him a while to find his way home, unsure of his surroundings as he had been after following the cat, but eventually he found an avenue he recognized and made his way back. He wondered how far adrift he had gone. Back at home, sitting restlessly at his kitchen table, he poured himself a glass of water and looked over the photos that Detective Castillo had given him. 
 
 At first they seemed to bear few similarities. In some you could see clearly the victims, but a few had gunshot wounds, others knife wounds, and one had no visible wounds at all. The black and white shots gave them an eery sameness, but in most ways they were quite different from one another. Cal was beginning to think the photos were useless, that he had been given them as a distraction only ( of course! of course! ) when finally his eye caught something: in the corner of one, a large spot. He checked another, and then another. 
 
 He froze, his lip trembling, a buzzing rocking his body in his little kitchen chair. In every photo there was that same horrible little smudge, the same coloration, white as the moon at midnight, and as lithe and regal as a cat.
