Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair by the fire playing his violin. It was a cold and dreary night, and a storm was on its way. "Watson, my good fellow, bring me my pipe, will you?" Watson, a slightly stocky man came into the living room with tea, the newspaper, and Holmes' pipe. "Thank- you Watson. Let's see, what's in the news. My word!" "What is it Sir?" Came Watson's startled cry. "It seems that there's been a murder! My word, look at this! Strangled, knife-marks on her body, a Miss Shelly Placard. Watson! I believe we have a case!" "Are you certain, Sir, after all, the police might be on it." "Come, now, Watson, this is a perfect case! One more criminal brought to justice by the Famous Sherlock Holmes and Watson." "Right, Sir. I'll get our coats." As Holmes and Watson left the house, a scream erupted down the street, a woman's scream. "Watson! Down there!" Holmes and Watson, as fast as they could go, ran straight down the street, to meet a grisly sight. A girl, no more than 17, lay in a puddle of water, face down, and clothes half-off. She was dead, strangled, it seemed, and had bruises and knife-marks littering her beautiful form. Watson removed his cap, and said a prayer for the lost child. Holmes, being the inquisitive man he is, looked closer at her marks. "Watson! These are the same marks as on the photograph in the newspaper!" "What does this mean, Sir?" "Well, Watson, it seems that we have ourselves a murderer, and either this murderer is serial, or we have copycats. Either one is dangerous. Right. Watson, go home and bring me a blanket, will you chap?" "Yes Sir." As Watson disappeared around the corner, Holmes couldn't help but run his mind over the article he just read. The first victim was also strangled, with the same knife-marks as on this girl. The murder happened two days ago, and was found by a Mr. Mike Placard. What else was there? The victim was also 17 years old. If this was a serial murderer, young women were not safe. If this was a copycat, everyone was in danger. Watson came back, panting. "Thank you my boy." Holmes said while placing the blanket over the body. "Something on your mind, my boy?" Watson was obviously worried about something, he was fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and seemed to be avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "What is it, Watson?" "Sir, there's been another murder." "Watson, I believe we have a serial murderer."