Monsieur Voisard gazed coolly at the blazing fire pictured on his screen as if his stare alone could extinguish the flames. Flames leaped around a gorgeous home, which unfortunately employed quite a bit of wood in its construction. Within minutes, the house had crumbled to pieces.

“This fire was no accident. Homeowners Tim and Joan Frappell were in the home and killed by a large piece of wood which fell on top of them. No one else was at the scene, according to first responders. The house had dozens of large windows, yet the homeowners clearly did not see anyone.”

M. Voisard averted his gaze from the computer screen and glanced at the Chief Inspector through the corner of his eye. “Bien. Proceed.”

The Chief Inspector pressed a button on the computer and another burning home appeared on the screen. “The owner of this house was single and incredibly rich. Neighbors watched him head home and lock his door behind him. But found at the scene? Tanks of gasoline. On the inside. Who would light a fire on the inside but the person themselves? Who else could get into the home? We assumed they were some sort of suicides-.”

“Idiot! Tu ananas! They are clearly not suicides!” Voisard exploded, interrupting the Chief Inspector.

Temper aroused, the Chief Inspector challenged him. “Oh, and how are you so sure? We had our best men on these cases, and we determined they were both suicides. So how can you tear down that idea within merely looking at images?”

Voisard turned his head and glared. “Two families. With extensive homes, clearly costing hundreds of thousands of euros, would kill themselves. A couple. A young single man. Would kill themselves the exact same way, probably one of the most painful ways, and definitely not the quickest.”

The Inspector, humbled, shared more information. “Well, you are right. The same thing happened once again, except the man managed to run out of his house. We got a very… interesting report from him.” He pressed another button on the computer. Some dialogue began to play.

A deep, ragged voice emanated from the computer. “I was lying in my bed, tinkering with a circuit board. I’m an electrical engineer, you see. Well, anyway, I was working on that, home alone - or so I thought. I had locked every door and window and pulled every shutter.”

Another voice broke in, this one as deep but clearer and stronger. “Why did you feel the need to do that?”

The voice came back on. “Well, it was sort of a top secret thing. But anyway, I was tinkering on that, and then I sort of felt something behind me. It was like a cool, refreshing, rushing breeze came through the room. Then I began to smell smoke. I figured someone was after my circuit board, and I had no idea how they could have gotten in. Then I saw it. It was like some kind of- some kind of… I don’t know. It floated inches above the ground, gliding from room to room as if it were searching for me. Whenever it passed, I felt the breeze again. Then I lost it. I ran out of the house, screaming. I promise you, that thing started chasing me, going incredibly fast. But I made it out the door, and it stopped pursuing me.”

The Chief Inspector scoffed. “Another hallucination. Ignore it. Some buffoon eats some stale cheese and starts seeing zombies rise from their graves.”

“Ah, but is it une hallucination? There, I believe, you are mistaken.” Voisard said, fiddling with his luxurious mustache.

“Surely, Monsieur, you don’t believe in some supernatural force?”

“Certainly not. All I say is, maybe this man, he is not hallucinating.”

The Chief Inspector shook his head. “That is all I have, Monsieur. Good-bye!” He strode out of the door, as Voisard steepled his fingers and began to think.

Two deaths. Three fires. One man survived. One couple. Two single men. One man working on a top-secret project. All have gorgeous homes. All deaths were caused by a gasoline-induced fire.

“AAAH!” Voisard exclaimed aloud in frustration. “Not enough!” He grabbed his coat and hat and strode quickly out the door. A tall, handsome Frenchman of only 28, he had proved his mettle with the Police Department on numerous occasions. He was known for his lightning-fast brain, deductive skills, and ability to investigate. Very fit, he was easily able to jog to the scene of the third crime.

This criminal must have a reason, some motive. If he gets caught, he will be charged with first-degree murder and arson, not small crimes. So there must be something he’s going after. Revenge? Money? Love?

Voisard chuckled to himself, imagining ghost romance. “Ah, here we are,” he said as he reached the burnt, charred house. He could easily tell it was a large, lovely home. He began to pick his way through the remains. Suddenly, a bright flash caught his eye. A diamond necklace, worth at least a million dollars, lay gleaming in broad view.

Maybe I should commandeer this for...evidence. Voisard thought, smiling. He put it into a plastic bag and alerted the police he had found a new piece of evidence.

He continued to walk through the destroyed house, spotting dozens of incredibly valuable items, such as a jade and emerald vase lying broken, next to the broken remains of a large stool that it must have rested on. Then he spotted something. A broken picture frame, the glass over the image that had once been in there smashed and destroyed, clearly hit with something hard. The image was gone. But ashes scattered over the frame gave Voisard a strong suspicion of what had happened to it.

A revenge case. I love these. Voisard then turned his powerful brain onto the criminal himself. Someone no one saw coming. Someone… with the ability to levitate? Non. Ah, but what? Nothing was stolen. The death was prolonged and drawn-out, but riskier, as there is always the chance the victim could be saved before death. So why risk the victim escaping, like the third case, rather than a simple bullet to the head? Voisard grimaced in frustration, then headed back home.

Chapter 2

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        Voisard’s head snapped up and he glanced at the door as it rang. “Let yourself in!” he called, and the Chief Inspector entered once again.

        “We have another kill. But this one’s not by fire,” the Chief Inspector began, sweating with nerves from, Voisard assumed, the difficulty of the case.

        “Well? You’re just going to let the fire case run, well, cold?” Voisard challenged, and the Chief Inspector found something very interesting to look at on his big toe.

        “Well, yes. I mean, a ghost? That’s all we have to work off of. We have no choice,” the Inspector said, temper aroused.

        Voisard began to chuckle. “You officers give up so easily. You swagger around the city, with your chests puffed out like a proud rooster. No case, and I mean no case, is impossible.”

        The Chief Inspector snarled. “Well, you’re wrong, this one is. Nobody could solve this. Not even you, VOISARD.” He practically spat the last words at Voisard, and he rose to his feet.

        “Is that a challenge, Inspector? You’ll never solve a case again if you continue along this path.”

        “You think you can solve all of my cases before I do?”

        Voisard just glared at him. The Inspector turned on his heel and walked out of the door, his back muscles quivering in rage. Then the Inspector spun again.

        “Oh, and Voisard?” Then his hand dipped into his coat and he pulled out a pistol. “Don’t mess with me.” Then he aimed it at the wall centimeters from Voisard’s head and fired. Voisard never flinched. Then when the Inspector smirked and spun, Voisard’s hand disappeared behind his own coat and pulled out a pistol. And he didn’t miss.

        Voisard grinned, then kicked the body to make sure. The Inspector groaned, and he pulled the trigger once again. The Inspector stopped moving. Then he dialed 911.

        “Hello, Operator? The Chief Inspector just shot himself in my house! Help!” Then he hung up.

        Those imbeciles won’t even realize the gun wounds were in his back and the back of his head. Hah!

        Shortly, the officers came by and took the body away. As predicted, they didn’t notice. Imbeciles. Until one officer came along. A young rookie, about Voisard’s age, and he was fresh on the job and eager to prove his worth. He was then questioning everything, in an effort to find an amazing discovery and thus raise himself in the rankings. He was the last to leave, looking at photographs.

        “Wait a second,” he said. “If he suicided-”

        Voisard yanked out a gun. A smile spread on the rookie’s face. “I was going to say, clearly he suicided. It’s just that he chose a weird place to shoot himself.” Then slowly, ever so slowly, his eyelid drooped in a wink and his grin widened. Then he exited out the door, leaving a card on the ground.

        Voisard picked it up. A playing card, the king of spades. Then Voisard turned on his heel and sat back down in his chair. Fiddling with the card, his finger came away bleeding from the edge of the card. He peeled away the two layers and out fell a razor-sharp card, reading only The King of Spades. “Well, duh. I knew that!” he exclaimed aloud. Then he flipped the card over. An image of a ghost was printed on the back.

Chapter 3

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        Voisard crept stealthily down the street, blending into the shadows. Along with his ever-present pistol, he carried a knife strapped at his thigh. He arrived at his desired location, an enormous home. He watched a dark shadow lift up a white sheet and drape it over itself, then pick up cans of gasoline, hop on a hoverboard, and quietly zoom into the door.

        “Gotcha,” he whispered in the dark, then drew his pistol and crept into the house. He saw the figure setting down barrels of gasoline. He snuck over to the figure and then, suddenly, shoved his pistol barrel to the figure’s head. He went rigid, then relaxed, and then quietly, ever so quietly, began to laugh. Voisard felt something he rarely did: fear. Then, quickly as a flash, he spun around, grabbed the pistol barrel, and wrenched it out of Voisard’s hands. He then turned it on Voisard, and his laugh grew in volume.

        “Stay where you are and don’t move,” the figure said, an unmistakable tone of authority in its voice. Voisard grinned as he realized the figure had no idea he was still armed with a knife.

        “Stop grinning! Wait a minute… It’s you! That man who killed the Chief Inspector! You stole him from me… he was next on my burning list.”

        Voisard realized he was speaking to a maniac as the man continued, still with the pistol pointed at Voisard’s head.

        “I am going to kill you for that, I’ll just say I found out you were actually the one who killed him and I killed you in combat.”

        “I’d better make some combat for you, then,” Voisard said with a grin, then drew his knife.

        Voisard feinted at the man, who drew back, cowering. Then he seemed to remember he had a pistol and advanced again. Voisard knew he had to do something desperate. Then he flung his knife away. The man’s attention was momentarily distracted as he watched the knife fly away, spinning end over end. Voisard dropped back, took a running start, and leaped straight over the man’s head, landing without a sound. Then he chopped the man in the wrist, and he dropped the gun with a muffled cry of pain. Voisard scooped it up, rolling, and came up with the end of it pressed on the man’s head. Then he squeezed the trigger.

        M. Tragizur sat straight up in bed. He grabbed a flashlight and tried to creep stealthily downstairs. But there was nothing down there- living, at least. The body of a man, with one neat bullet hole in its head, lay on the floor, next to tanks of gasoline.

        M. Voisard reclined in his chair, holding the evening’s paper. Serial Arsonist’s Dead Body Found! and Police Searching for Hero Who Killed Arsonist decorated the papers as his grin widened as all leads the police had led away from him. He pulled out his pistol and turned his smile in its direction. The police will never know what hit them…