Gumshoe

3 AM. The snow is heavier than predicted, collecting in heaps on the icy roads outside the apartment building. Freezing puddles form in the recesses of the street, splashing onto passerby with each passing car. The smoke drifts from my mouth as I blow out the last puff of my cigarette. The bitter taste of nicotine burns at the back of my throat and reminds me of everything I've seen tonight. Everything that has led me back to my place and has me standing where I am now, pulling my long coat closer to my body as a cold wind sends a shiver coursing through my limbs; or is it the adrenaline? Regardless, I reach into my pocket and pull out the .45 and my final clip, load the chamber and cock back the hammer. This M1911 and I have spilled a lot of blood tonight in search of answers, each victim whispering a name before I painted their walls with crimson. With every dead body there was a new person to find, leading me onward like a bloodhound with its nose to the ground, catching the scent of my prey. Hard to believe this is how it's all going to end. My right hand opens the door and I start to climb the stairs, quietly tiptoeing up each step. On the second floor, I turn down the hallway and read the numbers on the doors; 204, 206, 208. Finally, I hold my breath and stare at the door to apartment 214. Voices inside, three or four, all men yelling and laughing with one another. The stench of cigars and whiskey and sweat creep under the door while music plays in the background. I shake off the nerves and knock; instantly the music stops and the voices drop to whispers. The scuffing sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floorboards seem to echo throughout the entire building as footsteps approach the door. "Who's there," a deep voice asks; the distinct sound of a handgun being cocked follows the silence. Once I see the shadow of his feet, I lift my leg and kick down the door...