Paul Allen was an unconventional man, there was no doubt about that. He enjoyed the artist's life more than anything in this world. The notoriety, the publicity, the little eccentricities that only a man with his ego would allow himself to have, but more importantly, the somber melancholy that came with it all. 

He had covered the walls of his apartment with his pictures, and he was by all accounts a very talented photographer. With pictures that ranged from beautiful wedding portraits, to some breathtaking landscapes, the man seemed to have an eye for angles, exposition, and the "good side" of faces.

This nigh, as it was becoming habit, was another melancholic night, night of soft music, darkness and solitude. The man slumbered in his red-velvet couch, and drank his favorite red wine, the apartment was engulfed in the usual air of depression, as his thoughts drifted far carried by some foreign-sounding music, with exotic instruments, exotic voices and an exotic language.

Allen, who was known to be a free-spirited man, had a taste for unconventional things, this much wasn't new. However, he was very meticulous about the music he listened to. He despised everything modern, as he considered it nothing more than over-hyped consumerist garbage, but more importantly, the type of music that he almost exclusively listened to appeared to have a meaning to him. He was an American, or so everyone thought, but this music, this particular, odd, and foreign music, brought to him distant memories, of a gloomy childhood, a past that to this day conflicted him, that he didn't seem to get over. The connection wasn't quite clear to his friends yet, they did try at some point to bully him out of it; but as much or as little as anyone could know about Allen, whatever connection that weird-sounding music had with his childhood was definitely not some hippie trend or anything like that, it undoubtedly had some deeper meaning to him.

Paul was beginning to feel the relaxation that the combination of his loneliness and the alcohol brought him. Almost like a ritual before bed, this was how his solitary nights usually ended, with him passing out on the couch, and complaining the day after about the lingering neck-pain, for which he hadn't find the source yet. He rested his head back, and stretched his feet as far out as he could, with his butt on the edge of the seat he formed an almost perfect diagonal line, this man after all did yoga. Just when he was on the verge of falling asleep however, the peace and tranquility of such a lovely soiree, was interrupted abruptly by some loud knocking on his front door. He didn't care for it, it startled him, but after waiting a couple of seconds, and not hearing a follow up, he dismissed it, and went back to closing his eyes and relaxing his head. Then the follow up came, and it was not a gentle knocking, it was strong bang, which sounded a lot like...kicking, there was definitely someone trying to kick down the door. At first fear paralyzed him, but when he was most certain that he was in danger, Paul jumped up from the couch, and ran towards the door with the intent of barricading it. Just as he reached for it though, the door was kicked open with such tremendous force, that it hit Paul in the face, and threw him on the ground bleeding. 

His vision was hazy. A combination of the liquor, the fear and perhaps the almost certain concussion made the world spin around in his head. All he could make out were the silhouettes of people entering his place, with the calmed pace that only someone in control of a frightful situation could have, they all stood around him. They were wearing boots, they were wearing hoodies, he couldn't see their faces in the dark, but he was able to count five.

-"Take what you want and leave." -Paul exclaimed with a broken voice.

-"Pick him up." -Commanded one of the hooded figures to his partners in crime. Two of them rushed to lift the frightened man up, as they grabbed him each by an arm.

-"We are not here for your money and you know it. You do know who we are right?" -The same hooded figure that seemed to be in charge asked. It was at this point that Paul noticed that the lower halves of their faces were covered by some sort of voice-altering device, which gave this already scary man, a deep and distorted voice, that sounded like the devil's.

-"I... I had nothing to do with it. I was just a kid!" -Paul protested as he struggled to stay on his feet.

-"But you do live large, with the money that your family stole." -The hooded figure replied with an eloquent voice, although there was an almost noticeable accent to the way he spoke.

-"I am a photographer, every penny I have made, I made it on my own." -Paul retorted.

-"Except you didn't Paul. Come on think! How do you think your mother afforded to send you to such expensive schools? Take you on nice family vacations to Europe, to Disney? How did your family helped you score this nice apartment, in such expensive part of town? Did you pay for all of that alone?" -The hooded figure concluded, and at this point Allen reflected hints of total submission and resignation on his face.

-"I had no control over how my mother spent her money" -He hurled back bravely.

-"But you do know where all of that money came from, don't you?" -The hooded figure asked as he leaned forward uncomfortably close, which allowed Allen to see that the man was wearing some big creepy goggles.

-"Ah go to hell!" -Paul concluded.

-"Take him upstairs." -The hooded man ordered his goons, who obeyed him unquestioningly. 

The hooded men carried Paul upstairs, whom at this point was not hassling much, and simply complied. Once they reached the top of the stairwell, the man opened the door to the rooftop of the building in which he lived. As soon as they could the goons threw him down, and blocked the exit, cornering him without hope. 

-"I am not afraid to die, so there is absolutely nothing you can threaten me with!"-Paul exclaimed with a now noticeably braver tone in his voice.

-"Good, because you will die tonight. But would you feel the same once I tell you that your little sister is going to have a worse fate than yours?" -The leader of the hooded men replied with his synthetic-gruff voice.

-"You... you stay away from her!" -Paul  exclaimed with a newly found courage in the way he spoke. Now The hooded men have figured out a real way to rattle him.

-"What we offer you today, is a chance at redemption, a chance to purge your sins, she will get her chance as well." -The unexcited eerie voice of the hood replied.

Soon after, the hooded men began closing in on Allen, he stumbled back, and fought to stay standing with his trembling legs. They began cornering him, and pushing him back towards the edge.

-"That's twenty floors down, and a sure death. We know you are not responsible for the sins of your family. Therefore we offer you, a unique chance. Jump, and die a quick and painless dead. Refuse, and we will do something much more sinister. This is mercy, and is much more than your people deserve." -The hooded man concluded, with an inexplicable serenity. As he finished his sentence, the other hooded figures began flashing some very sharp and shiny blades, those knives were so big they looked like swords. 

-"You know we mean it!" -The hooded man insisted.

-"Please don't hurt her." -Allen said as tears began to form in his eyes, and an uncontrollable desire to sob tried to overcome him.

-"You are unsure. Let me give you a hand." -The hooded figure said before pushing Allen off the edge, and down to his sure death.

When Allen fell from the top of the building, he hit the floor so hard that he bounced up a couple of feet. The thundering sound of his fall, that unequivocal crack of the skull was heard a block away. An then, the splattering of brains and blood all over the sidewalk painted the scene with the red of an innocent's death, marking as such the death of Paul Allen.

Detective Fusco arrived at the crime scene about an hour or so later, the body had not been removed yet, but it was covered with a white sheet. However the blood of the exploded head had made its way through the sheet staining it red for the entertainment of all the onlookers gathering around. Fusco passed through the cordoned area after flashing his credentials, and after asking for another detective by name, he was directed upstairs to the apartment of the deceased.

Before Fusco reached the top of the stairs he saw the all too usual chaos that formed in cases like this, junior officers trying to put all the curios neighbors back in their homes, while forensics swept the place clean, and photographed everything.

-"Detective Fusco, glad you could make it." -Another detective greeted him on sight.

-"Detective Randall, it's good to see you!" -Fusco responded as he shook his hand.

-"What do you have for me?"-Fusco asked.

-"This one is weird one, I gotta tell you!"-The other detective replied.

-"It's not a suicide?" -Fusco asked again with concern drawn on his face.

-"Look at the door." -Detective Randall said as he pointed at the huge dent on the door.

-"Apart from the signs of forced entry, is there anything else? broken glass, blood stains?" -Fusco asked as he lean forward to analyze the dent on the door.

-"Just a little bit of blood on the floor, presumably from being hit with the door." -Detective Randall answered.

-"The victim didn't do this?" -Fusco asked.

-"Nah, I talked to some of the neighbors, he was a strange cat, but not a violent one, a little noisy, but nothing to disorderly." -Randall said.

-"Any drugs or alcohol?" -Fusco asked.

-"Just a little bit of wine. But he didn't even finish it. And what kind of man would kill himself without finishing a full glass of Cabernet Sauvignon?" -Randall asked jokingly.

-"If I tasted one of those fancy wines I would want to kill myself too." -Fusco joked back.

-"Do we have an I.D yet?" -Fusco asked now in a more serious tone of voice.

-"Paul Allen, photographer and artist. It's too soon for a motive yet though I will say though that a man with a successful career, doing what he loves, making pretty decent money will have no reason to go up to the rooftop of his building and jump off." -Randall replied.

-"Wait! he didn't jump out from his apartment." -Fusco asked captivated by the new information.

-"No, he went upstairs."

Both Fusco and Randall moved upstairs together, crossed the door, and into the cold breeze from outside. They moved closer to the edge to get a better view, and barely then the ambulance was picking up Allen's body.

-"Perhaps he wanted to ensure he would die, so he came up higher." -Randall exclaimed.

-"Maybe, but for now, we are treating this as a homicide." -Fusco concluded.

The next day detective Fusco came to the office a little late, the road to the precinct was usually hectic that early in the morning, even more so than most other roads down-town. Detective Fusco had a pretty distinctive smell of coffee and cigarette, disgustingly mixed with "noir" cologne. Despite being late, he walked with his habitual calmed and slow swag, something only a senior officer like himself could afford to do. He walked in the office, and before he could sit and get comfortable, his office was stormed by detective Randall who was accompanied by a police woman. 

-"Detective Fusco, I have some intel for you, and I think you may wanna hear this." -Randall exclaimed.

-"Go ahead." -Fusco said. Then the police woman closed the door behind her.

-"That much of a bombshell huh?" -Fusco teased.

-"We I.D'd the victim from last night." -The police woman said.

-"I thought we had already done that?" -Fusco asked confused.

-"Well that's the thing, he actually changed his name a few years back." -Randall said.

-"His real name was Paul DePleur." -The police woman added.

-"And you are not going to believe what we found out..."