Ego

Alicja Voss’s studio apartment was located on the third floor of an old brick tenement building in the Logan Square neighborhood. Forty-two square meters of concrete, a single window overlooking a rusty fire escape, and the smell of dampness that never seemed to go away. On the wall opposite the bed hung a poster reading “Keep Chicago Weird,” which she’d gotten for free at a festival. Beneath it lay a broken-down office chair, on which she usually dried her wet gloves.

It was evening, Wednesday, the twenty-ninth day of her shift.

Alicia sat on the edge of the bed wearing only a black bra and boxer shorts. Her hair—not quite dry yet from her last patrol—stuck to the back of her neck. On her lap, she held a white envelope with the CPD logo. Her fingernails (short, painted black, and bitten) tore the paper open in one swift motion.

Inside was a pay stub and a printout.

For a moment, she stared at the amount, as if expecting the numbers to be wrong.

**$3,847.22 net.**

She calculated it in her head three times.

Then she laughed briefly, dryly, without a trace of joy.

“Well, I’ll be…” she muttered, setting the card down on the comforter. “For a month of walking in the rain, breathing in the stench of the subway, and listening to some moron call me ‘crazy’… almost four thousand. Fuck, Voss, congratulations. You’re rich.”

She stood up, walked over to the small kitchen table, and dumped the entire contents of the envelope onto the countertop. Bills and small coins. She counted them again—aloud, as if she wanted the apartment to hear it too.

– Rent—six hundred eighty.

– Electricity, gas, internet… two hundred.

– Food… well, if I don’t eat anything but ramen and cigarettes… maybe a hundred fifty.

– The rest for… for what? To live on?

She grabbed a pack of Camels, took one out, and lit a Zippo engraved with a compass rose. The smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling.

She stood in silence for a moment, her hip pressed against the countertop. Her bright green eyes narrowed into slits.

– You know what? – she said to the empty apartment, as if talking to someone who had just walked in. – I don’t give a damn.

Her voice was low, a little hoarse from cigarettes and from having barely slept for two weeks.

“I don’t give a damn. Rules, procedures, ‘that’s not how you do it, Voss,’ ‘you have too much to say, Voss.’ Screw it. If I already know who did it before they even have a chance to pull out their notebooks, why should I pretend to be a good little girl from the academy?”

She took a deep drag. She blew the smoke out through her nose.

“I’ll do my thing. I’ll solve their puzzles. And let them think I’m crazy. Screwed up. A nutcase. Whatever. As long as they pay.”

She stubbed out her cigarette in an empty Red Bull can and looked at the card lying on the comforter.

“Four thousand.”

She smiled crookedly—the same smile she’d used at the academy to shatter the egos of half the instructors.

“Well, starting tomorrow… I’m playing by my own rules.”

Just then, someone knocked on the door—three quick, nervous taps.

Alicia didn’t flinch. She just raised an eyebrow.

“Well, well,” she muttered under her breath. “And I was just thinking tonight was going to be boring.”

---

Alicia took her time. She took one last drag on her cigarette, stubbed it out on the edge of a can, and only then walked over to the door. Barefoot, wearing just a bra and boxers, with black gloves still on her hands—because “you never know when you’ll have to touch something disgusting.”

She threw the door wide open.

Standing in the hallway was her partner from the patrol—Officer Derek “Deck” Harlan. In his early thirties, his face looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, and his uniform looked like he’d slept in it the night before. He was holding a police jacket and her badge on a chain.

“Voss, for fuck’s sake, off-duty again?” he sighed, though there wasn’t even a trace of surprise in his voice. After a month with “Jebnięta,” he’d gotten used to everything.

“Deck, honey,” said Alice with a lazy smirk, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. “If you don’t want to see me in my bra, don’t show up uninvited at eleven at night. What’s up?

Harlan ran his hand through his short-cropped hair.

“Headquarters called. A body on the roof of the old factory on North Branch. The patrol’s already there, but the detectives aren’t coming for another twenty minutes. The captain said that if you’re home, you’re to be there five minutes ago. Apparently, you found the previous two this month… and apparently, you ‘know more than you should’ again.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow. Her bright green eyes flashed.

“Well, well. Someone finally noticed that I’m not completely useless.”

She took his jacket, slung it over her shoulders, and without bothering to put on anything else, reached for the holster hanging on the chair. She clipped it on as she ran.

“Are we taking your car or mine?” she asked, already heading down the stairs.

“Mine. Yours stinks of smoke and Red Bull again.”

“You’re the one who stinks of fear and rules, Deck.”

It started raining as they left the apartment building. Heavy, cold raindrops pelted the sidewalk in Logan Square like a thousand tiny needles. Harlan turned on his emergency lights—the blue and red glow reflected off the wet puddles.

Alicia sat down in the passenger seat, pulled another Camel from her jacket pocket, and lit it with her Zippo. Smoke filled the cab.

“So, tell me,” she said, staring ahead at the blurred lights of Chicago. “What do we know?”

“A white man, around forty years old. He’s lying on the roof. No visible wounds from a distance, but apparently there’s a lot of blood. The patrol says it looks like someone… well, took him out at close range.”

Alicia took a deep breath. She smiled that same crooked smile she’d had earlier in the apartment.

– My wife’s brother,– she said quietly, almost to herself.

– What?

– Nothing. Drive faster, Deck. Before the detectives have time to make themselves a cup of coffee and ruin all the fun for me.

Harlan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He’d long since stopped asking how the hell she knew.

The rain was coming down harder and harder. The city lights blurred on the windshield like smudged evidence in a case that Alice Voss had just decided to solve—before anyone else had a chance to think of it.

---

The patrol car screeched to a halt in front of an old brick factory on North Branch. The rain was pouring down in buckets, turning the roof into a vast, black sheet of water reflecting Chicago’s neon lights. The siren on the car’s roof cast blue-and-red flashes onto the wet bricks.

Alicia got out first. Her uniform jacket was unbuttoned, black leather gloves pulled up to her elbows. A new Camel was already smoldering in her mouth. Her long, raven-black hair clung to her face like wet ribbons. Her bright green eyes shone in the darkness.

“Voss, wait for the uniformed officers!” Deck called after her, but she was already heading toward the fire escape, as if she knew the way by heart.

It was quiet on the roof. Only the sound of rain and distant sirens. The patrol from the first car stood a few meters away from the body, shining their flashlights on it. The junior officer nodded at her with a mix of respect and fear.

“Is that you, Jebnięta?” he asked quietly.

“Szurnięta,” Alicja corrected him without a smile. “And yes, it’s me.”

She stepped closer. The body lay face down in a pool of blood diluted by the rain. A white man, around forty, wearing an elegant shirt, though torn to shreds. There were marks of strangulation on his neck and a bruise on his temple from something heavy.

Alicja crouched down beside him. Her black gloves touched the cold, wet skin of the deceased. She was silent for a moment. Only the smoke from her cigarette mingled with the smell of blood and wet concrete.

“Two weeks ago,” she said suddenly, so quietly that Deck had to lean in. “They were at their house. His wife’s brother. He was shaking like jelly. Drugs. A volatile guy. He couldn’t take it. It started with an argument over something stupid. It ended here.”

Deck blinked.

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Because I have eyes and a memory, Deck. And all they have are procedures.”

At that moment, the headlights of a second car appeared on the roof. Detectives from Homicide. Two of them: the older, balding Lieutenant Ramirez and the younger, ambitious Detective Lopez. Both looked as if they’d just been interrupted during dinner.

Ramirez walked over, shining his flashlight on the body.

“Voss. You again?” he grumbled. “What is it this time? ‘You know more than we do’ again?”

Alicia stood up slowly. She flicked the ash from her cigarette straight into a puddle. Rain ran down her face, but she didn’t even blink.

“My wife’s brother,” she said calmly, as if reciting the weather forecast. “His name is…” she narrowed her eyes, as if reading from thin air, “…Kevin. Kevin Harlan. No, wait. Not Harlan. Kevin… something. Two weeks ago he was at the victim’s place with his wife. High. Shaking. Explosive. He killed him in the heat of the moment. Look for him at the motel on I-90. Room 47. He paid cash.

Lopez burst out laughing.

“Seriously? Are you a psychic or something?”

Alicia gave her that House-like look—cold, a little bored.

“No. I’m just good at this. And you’re wasting your time.”

Ramirez sighed heavily.

– Voss, this is just going to turn out to be another one of your fucking conspiracy theories…

– It’s not a theory, she cut him off, taking a drag on her cigarette. – It’s a fact. Check it out. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’ll still get my measly paycheck next month.

She turned on her heel and headed toward the stairs, leaving the detectives standing by the body. Deck caught up with her a moment later, soaking wet.

“Voss… seriously? How do you know all this?”

Alicia smiled crookedly in the darkness. Smoke from her Camel drifted above her head like a small, gray halo.

“Because people are predictable, Deck. And I don’t just give a damn about the job. Puzzles… those are what get me going.”

They went downstairs. The rain hadn’t stopped.

The radio was already crackling:

– …confirmed. The victim’s brother-in-law detained at a motel on I-90. Room 47. He confessed after five minutes.

Alicja just took a deeper drag and said over her shoulder:

“Well, well. Another mystery solved. And I still only have four thousand in my account.”

---

Alicia didn’t stop. She walked on across the wet roof, her black gloves squeaking softly with every step, the smoke from her Camel mingling with the steam of her breath. Behind her, the detectives stood frozen—Ramirez with his mouth agape, Lopez with the phone in his hand, which was ringing as he called headquarters.

“Voss!” Ramirez yelled. “Stop, damn it! How did you know?!”

She didn’t turn around. She just raised her hand in a “fuck off” gesture and called over her shoulder:

“Because I read people, Lieutenant. And you guys only read reports. The difference is, I don’t need two weeks and three teams of techs to tell that the guy reeked of gunpowder from five meters away.”

Deck caught up with her at the fire escape. The rain was pouring straight into his face, but he didn’t even try to wipe his eyes.

— Voss… seriously. This isn’t normal. Did you know him?

— No. — Alice paused for a moment, leaned against the metal railing, and took a deep drag. “But they’re always the same. Wife’s brother. Drugs. Hot temper. Classic. I’ve seen hundreds of them in interventions before I even put on a uniform. People are boring, Deck. Predictable as cheap porn.”

Alicja burst out laughing—a short, sharp laugh, devoid of joy.

“Let them write. Let them call me Crazy. Screwed-up. A boss-whore. I don’t care.” She opened her eyes and looked at him with those pale green, cold eyes. “You know how much I have in my account after the first month? Three thousand eight hundred forty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. For walking around in the rain and saving the ass of this city that doesn’t give a damn about me anyway.”

She stubbed out her cigarette in the car’s ashtray (which had long since been filled with her butts).

“Starting today, I’m playing by my own rules, Deck. I’m solving their puzzles. Fast. Clean. No bullshit about procedures. And let them think whatever they want. As long as they pay me that ridiculous four thousand every month.”

Harlan sighed, but finally pulled away. The rain drummed on the car’s roof like a thousand little accusations.

“You’re a psycho, Voss. You know that?”

“I know,” she replied with a crooked smile, pulling out another Camel. “And that’s exactly why I’m good at it. Now drive. Coffee won’t buy itself.”

The radio crackled again. This time, the dispatcher’s voice sounded almost respectful:

– Unit 47-19, confirm: suspect Kevin McAllister apprehended. Full confession. Good work… Voss.

Alicia just took a deep drag and closed her eyes.

– Well, well,– she muttered. – Even the radio knows who’s in charge of the puzzles around here.

The car drove into the wet streets of Chicago. The rain hadn’t stopped. And Alice Voss—a nineteen-year-old with an ego bigger than the whole city—had just decided that this job would be her private, damn easy, and damn boring way of making a living.

---

The patrol car glided slowly through the wet streets of Logan Square. The rain had turned into a thick drizzle, but Chicago’s lights still flickered like a thousand accusing eyes. Alicja sat with her feet on the dashboard, her black uniform jacket unbuttoned, her gloves removed and tossed onto the back seat. Another Camel smoldered in her mouth—her fourth of the night.

Deck glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“You know you’ve got a hearing tomorrow, right? Ramirez isn’t going to let this go. Lopez is probably already recording ‘non-compliance with procedures’ on his voice recorder.”

Alicia blew smoke straight into the vent.

“Let them record it. Let them write it down. Let them call me in for a dressing-down.” She flashed that lazy, House-like smile of hers. “I’ll tell them the same thing I always do: ‘That’s right, Lieutenant. I broke all the rules again. And I was right again. Anything else?’”

Harlan burst out laughing, but quickly composed himself.

“You’re impossible, Voss. Nineteen years old, and you act like you’ve spent twenty years on the streets.”

“Because I have,” she replied quietly, watching the neon signs flash by. “The orphanage, skipping school, the academy, a month at the CPD… that’s enough to know how the world works. People are simple, Deck. They lie, they cheat, they kill for stupid reasons. And I… I just see it coming sooner.”

They stopped at a red light. Alicja put out her cigarette and took out her phone. The screen still displayed a notification from the bank:

**$3,847.22 – balance after withdrawal.**

For a moment, she stared at the numbers as if they were a joke.

“Do you know how much a pack of Camels costs?” she asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Nine dollars. And I smoke a pack a day.” She looked at him. Her bright green eyes were cold and utterly calm. “So in a month, I spend more on cigarettes than I earn living in this circus. And I’m supposed to pretend I’m excited about it?”

Deck didn’t answer. He knew it wasn’t a question.

Alicia put her phone away and rested her head against the window.

“Starting today, I don’t give a damn, Deck. About all the rest. The rules, the reports, ‘that’s not how you do it.’ I’ll show up for calls, find the bodies, solve their mysteries in five minutes, and go home. And let them think I’m crazy. Screwed up. A boss-hater. I don’t care.”

She took a deep breath—as if, instead of smoke, she were inhaling the decision itself.

“Because, really… only the mysteries are worth my attention. The rest is just noise.”

The car pulled away. Rain drummed gently on the roof.

The radio crackled again—this time the dispatcher didn’t sound surprised:

“Unit 47-19, the captain requests confirmation: Voss hit the bullseye again. Good job, Crazy.”