Disclaimer: If it seems familiar; it's not mine!

Chapter Two

Castle appraised her, and nodded. "Thank you for coming in, Ms. Beckett. I'm Detective Richard Castle, and I would like to ask you a few questions about a murder that occurred."

Kate's calm exterior became ruffled with alarm. "Who was murdered?" she replied, her voice uneven.

"We're not exactly sure, Ms. Beckett," he answered quietly. Then, suddenly understanding her concern, he added, "However the victim isn't necessarily of any relation or acquaintance to you."

Her tense posture relaxed, barely visibly, but Kate appeared to have regained her signature confidence. "Well then, I don't want to be rude," she smiled, "but why did you call me here?"

And now for the strange part, Castle thought to himself. "We found a page which we suspect came from a novel of yours at the crime scene. It's currently in the lab being tested for anything we can find as to the assailant's identity, but we have reason to believe that-"

"It is more than just a coincidence," Kate completed Castle's sentence, nodding. "What do you mean; 'you don't know who was killed?'"

Castle appraised her once more, assessing her reactions. Not that he could really judge, but this woman didn't really strike him as the homicidal maniac or enraged author type, and her eyes were bright with attentiveness, despite her slightly rattled state mere minutes ago. Wordlessly, he slid a manila folder of photographs across the table to Kate. Equally silent, her brow furrowed as she let the pictures show themselves to her.

"Is he… mummified?"

"Do you want the short version or the long version?" Castle flashed her a weary grin.

"I want the truth," Kate responded simply.

"He technically was not mummified, because whoever killed the victim failed to remove his or her organs and bodily fluids prior to wrapping the corpse up."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Bodily fluids?"

"Namely blood," he tried to speak sternly, but there was a silent glint of teasing hiding in his dark blue eyes. "So no, he isn't a mummy, but as you can see, the killer gave it their best shot. However, what I really want to know right now is why we found a page from your book at the scene of the crime."

His tone wasn't accusatory, and subsequently hers wasn't guilty. "I don't know. Which book was it?"

"Thunderstruck."

Kate pulled a face. "Really? Not one of my proudest achievements in literature. But I'm sorry; I really can't tell you why someone would leave a page from a book of mine next to the body they just dumped." Sincerity was laced through her softened voice.

"I understand. Thank you for your time, Ms. Beckett," Castle concluded, holding open the interrogation room door and gesturing for Kate to go forward beneath is arm.

"It makes you wonder though, doesn't it? Oh, and it's Kate." And with that, Detective Richard Castle watched her lean silhouette drift out of the Precinct, hips swinging but without a backward glance.


Four hours later, and despite the close proximity of the clock hands to the big one-two, Castle was still sat, engrossed in papers, on his desk. His paling brown hair drooped across his face, which too had taken on a chalky mask. Face buried in the file clutched in his large hands, he wondered helplessly; desperately to himself. He wanted answers; needed an ending, but everything had come to nothing. Dr. Parish had informed him that the victim was 37 year-old-unemployed Marcus Albicca, but Albicca had no enemies; no one that might possibly benefit from his death; really, he had no one at all. The guy kept to himself, though Castle and his team were still stumped as to how he ended up in Sarah Bench's apartment. Sure, they lived in the same building, but no one could even confirm that they knew each other, let alone had any sort of relationship beyond that.

Castle wanted leads, but all he got were dead ends.


As the sun rose the next morning, so did the work ethic of three NYPD detectives. It was a gloomy sort of day; thanks to the heavy cloud of pollution settling in the sky, New York City was lit, quite literally, in varying shades of grey, and the vacant faces, and debatably equally vacant brains, of passersby reflected the sky's bitterness.

But it was a new day all the same, and a new day meant new information – hopefully. Following the obligations of the non-existent yet mandatory rulebook of investigation, Ryan and Esposito were making their way to the apartment building where Albicca lived and died in the hope that security footage might reveal who killed him. It was blaringly obvious, but it was entirely possible that the murderer had been caught on tape.

Upon their arrival, the detectives found the small apartment lobby empty; not exactly unusual given the rather ungodly hour at which they arrived. However, after the drowsy-looking building manager, roused from sleep by the dulcet tones of Ryan's loud knocking on her door, came to meet them, it became apparent that the murderer had gotten lucky.

"I'm sorry," the woman began, attempting to cover her yawning with one hand, "but maintenance came and told me a week or so ago that the security cameras on that floor had stopped working."

Ryan and Esposito shared a silent but loaded glance. "Are you sure Ms. Preston? That footage could be key evidence in our investigation."

Hattie Preston adopted a distant air of discomfort, but shook her head nevertheless. "I'm certain. The cameras on the fourth floor stopped working about a week ago, and I hadn't gotten around to having them fixed yet. Not enough hours in the day, you know? It's horrible timing though," she finished lamely, shrugging her shoulders.

"Thank you for your time, ma'am," Esposito concluded.


Back at the Precinct, three weary but obstinate detectives sat crowded around a less than pleasingly full murder board. "So the building manager," Castle started to speak, and paused to search for a name on the board, "Hattie Preston, said that the cameras had stopped working last week."

Esposito nodded. "That's what she said. But get this, only the cameras on the floor where our vic was murdered stopped working. Look suspicious to you?" Ryan added, raising his eyebrows.

"So maybe someone gave the cameras a little help to stop working." Castle agreed, "And I'll bet that help was generously donated by our killer."