Siggy woke up early, it would be a long day. He loaded his van, gassed it up and headed for RDU airport for a quick errand before hitting the road for the long nine hour drive to New York.

Upon reaching the airport, he drove to long term parking and sat in his van waiting for someone to park in an area not covered by security cameras. After about half an hour, a beaten up Jeep parked in an empty spot Siggy was watching. The driver exited and waited for the shuttle that would transport him to his terminal. When the driver was out of the parking lot, Siggy walked to the car and removed the license plates of the Jeep and transferred them to his own van before driving off to begin his journey north.

The drive was uneventful and boring, more so for Siggy's discipline in driving no faster than the speed limit. As evening approached, the city finally came into view. Siggy had selected an unusual route, choosing to travel through Staten Island and then boarding the ferry to Manhattan.

He relaxed and stretched his legs as the ferry crossed New York harbor, taking in the skyline as it began to light up in the night. Once in the city, he made his way to Wilson's apartment, parking where he was told and finally ringing the buzzer at the elevator to announce his arrival.

Wilson buzzed him up.

"You look pretty worn out," Wilson noted while handing Siggy a beer.

"You don't look so great yourself," Siggy replied.

"I'm just hungover. I was out till about eight this morning. Bertie and I were celebrating our fifth anniversary. The old dog's got more energy than I do, I can barely think straight," Wilson said as he rolled the beer bottle across his forehead in an effort to cool his brow.

"It looks like you need to rest more than I do. The drive was long, but pretty relaxing all in all," Siggy noted.

The lights in the loft began to flicker, then went out for a few minutes. When they came back on Wilson turned towards Siggy.

"It's been doing that all day. This building is pretty old and so is the wiring. I think everybody is running their air conditioning at the same time. It's a bit much for the old girl to take," he stood up and went to his desk where he retrieved two flashlights, a bright yellow LED model and a bulky older metal MAGlight. He handed the yellow one to Siggy, "Here, take this in case you need to hit the head when the power's out. I'm gonna try to get some rest."

Siggy took the flashlight, "Thanks. Damn, it must have been a helluva night, it's barely ten. This is pretty early for you to turn in."

Wilson laughed, "What can I say, my lifestyle must be catching up with me now that I'm a successful agent. Anyway, help yourself to anything in the fridge. Oh yeah, Devon might be dropping by with some paperwork from Elaine. He'll let himself in, the elevator's not locked, so don't be startled. Other than that... nothing, goodnight, Siggy." Wilson headed for his bedroom.

"Good night, Willy, see you in the morning."

Try as he might, Wilson was unable to sleep. He stared up at the ceiling imagining what his life might become if he continued on his successful career as an agent. He was alternately guilty about abandoning his art and jubilant in his new found wealth.

Wilson reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the bottle of bourbon, which rested on top of it. Taking several deep swigs to calm his nerves, he began to drift off, when the sound of the elevator brought him back to wakefulness. 

That must be Devon, he thought.

When the elevator stopped, he was surprised to hear an unfamiliar voice calling out Siggy's name. He got out of bed and cracked the door to the loft's main space to see who this intruder was. He spied a slightly familiar black man that he vaguely remembered from the exhibit at Elaine's gallery. Wilson cracked the door a bit wider to listen to the conversation.

"I need to ask you something," the black man told Siggy.

"What might that be?" Siggy asked.

"You were very clear that you don't lie. I believe you. So this is what I need to know... do you know where Doc Bennet, the serial killer is?"

"I do." Siggy answered calmly.

Wilson was disoriented and confused. Serial killer? What were they talking about?

"You killed him, didn't you?" The man asked bluntly.

"I did."

"Have you ever killed anyone before?"

"I've killed a lot of people, Mr Forrester. Never for pleasure, never out of spite, but yes."

"Your other artworks?"

"Pretty much all of them," Siggy confirmed.

Wilson's mind raced. He questioned whether he was really awake and pinched himself. He returned his attention to the confrontation.

Forrester pulled a gun from the holster he wore under his arm, "I'm going to have to take you in, Mr Jager."

"The gun won't be necessary. I'll come with you quietly. If it's my fate to be caught, so be it," Siggy stated, still remarkably calm.

"Just like that?" Forrester asked.

"Just like that." Siggy responded.

Wilson was overwhelmed with panic. If Siggy was a killer, if all his art was suspect, Wilson would lose everything he'd gained. His reputation would be ruined, he might even be arrested as an accomplice. His heart raced, he couldn't think clearly. He looked around the bedroom and found the flashlight. Without any great amount of thought, he grabbed it and burst out of the bedroom, running at Forrester. Instinctively, he brought the flashlight down on the man's head with all his strength. He heard Siggy cry out.

"No, Willy, don't!"

Siggy stared down at the prone form of George. He knelt above him checking for a pulse, distressed by the pool of blood surrounding his head. He looked up at Wilson.

"He's dead, Willy."

Wilson was shaking uncontrollably and fell to his knees. "I didn't mean to hit him that hard," he cried out in desperation, "I just wanted to knock him out."

"Why?" Siggy asked.

Wilson looked up in disbelief, "Because he was going to arrest you... and ruin everything."

Siggy shook his head sadly, "Oh Willy, what's going on in your head? This isn't you."

"Me?!" Wilson cried out, "What about you? Is it true what he said? Are you a killer?"

"I suppose I am," Siggy conceded, "but this was a good man. I've never killed a good man... and never out of greed. This is bad."

Wilson broke down again, still not completely accepting what had happened. "I... I... didn't want this to happen. I'm sorry... oh god, what have I done?"

Siggy walked over to where Wilson had collapsed and knelt beside him, draping his arm over the blubbering man's shoulder.

"Come on, Willy, try and pull yourself together," he said soothingly.

Wilson looked up into Siggy's eyes in desperation, "Are you going to kill me?"

Siggy smiled gently, "I would never do that, Willy, you're my friend. You're a good man too, but you've made a terrible mistake."

"What do I do now?" Wilson asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

"That's up to you. You can call the police... I won't stop you, or you can try to hide what you've done."

"I... I... should call the police, it's the right thing," he thought for a moment, "but if I do that, everyone I care about will suffer too. Bertram, Devon, Elaine, they'd all be ruined when people find out about you. They'll be blamed... and Bertie... poor Bertie, it'll break his heart if I go to jail."

"So what do you want to do?"

Wilson stood up and wiped his face with his shirt. His face became very stern and his voice very grave as he asked Siggy, "Will you help me get rid of the body?"

Siggy went silent. His gaze shifted from Wilson to George and back again.

"I'll tell you how and help you clean up, but you'll have to dispose of the body yourself. This is your sin, not mine. This is your guilt, not mine, do you understand?"

"That's fine," Wilson said with resolve, "tell me what to do."

Siggy went into the kitchen area and sat down. He motioned Wilson to join him.

"First and foremost, try to calm down. We have time. It's still too early to move the body. Everything in the city is too busy right now. We'll clean up for now and you'll do your part no earlier than 2AM," Siggy pointed to the studio area of the loft, "put on a pair of latex gloves and bring me a pair. Also, we'll need about ten feet of that plastic sheeting you have on that roll, but discard the first few feet at the beginning of the roll, it'll be covered in your fingerprints. Duct tape too, but discard a couple of feet as well for the same reason."

Wilson did as instructed. He placed the plastic sheeting next to the body and rolled George onto it, while Siggy guided him.

"Empty his pockets, take his phone, remove the simm card. Check his wallet and make sure there's nothing with your address on it. Remove the gun and holster. Now put all the items into some ziplocks. Okay good, secure the body in the sheeting."

Wilson wrapped the corpse tightly and duct-taped it like a cocoon.

"Now, let's clean up the blood," Siggy said matter-of-factly, "we still have some time to kill."

After the blood was cleaned, Wilson collapsed into a chair, waiting for further instructions from Siggy. It was all like some dreadful surreal nightmare. Waves of quivering passed through his body again and again each time he relived the night's events. He quietly prayed he would achieve some sort of numbness, but it was not to be.

At about 2AM, Siggy approached Wilson and showed him a map on his phone. It was Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. He pointed out some obscure maintenance accesses and told Wilson the best area to dump the body. The longer it took to locate and identify George, the better, he explained. With this same purpose in mind, he instructed Wilson to dump the bagged items; wallet, phone, and gun, into a storm drain away from the dump site. The most important thing, he emphasized, was that no one see him, that he be patient in ensuring no one was about, even if every fiber of his being was telling him to just get it over with.

Finally, Wilson and Siggy dragged the enshrouded corpse to the elevator. Siggy gave Wilson his keys and instructed him to back the van up to the loading dock of the elevator before loading the body, rather than dragging the body across the basement. He handed Wilson the freshly cleaned flashlight.

"You're probably going to need this in the park," Siggy told him, "Now get going and try to hold it together. We can talk when you get back."

Wilson just nodded and pulled the freight elevator door shut. He pulled back on the lever and slowly descended to the basement.

After checking to make sure the loading area on the lower level was clear, Wilson exited the elevator and headed across the basement towards the exit ramp by the street where Siggy's van was located. He took the smaller items, the sealed bags, and flashlight with him.

As Wilson was opening the driver's side door, he heard the sound of someone walking down the ramp. Wilson quickly ducked behind the van with his heart racing again. He peeked around the back of the vehicle and his heart sunk. It was Devon, heading toward the elevator.

No, no, no, he screamed in his head, turn around! Please! Wilson knew he had to act before Devon reached the elevator with the body inside it. Once more he grasped the flashlight tightly and rushed up behind his victim. This time he restrained his blow. Devon crumpled to the ground. Wilson quickly checked for a pulse and was relieved to feel it, steady, but weak. He pulled his friend to a side wall and continued his mission.

Wilson backed the van to the loading dock and quickly loaded George's body into it. He was about to leave when a thought occurred to him. He went back to Devon's side and fished out the unconscious man's wallet, emptying it and tossing it at his feet. Returning to the van he pulled out his phone and dialed 911.

"911, what is your emergency?" A voice intoned.

"I just saw a man being mugged at 1330 Spring Street, in the parking area. He looks badly hurt, hurry." Wilson hung up the phone and exited the building. He was crying again as he headed uptown.

It took Wilson about two hours to safely dump the body and dispose of the remaining evidence. By the time he got back to his loft, Devon had been transported by paramedics. No police were evident in the area. He dragged himself to the elevator and rode it to his loft.

Siggy had gone to bed. The loft was deathly quiet. Wilson looked around. It was all like a horrible dream. He stumbled to his bed and collapsed on it.

How quickly everything can change, he thought, how easily a lifetime of struggling and work can be destroyed.

He felt like a monster now and cried himself to sleep.