Observation

  Looking out through the window of my 14th-story apartment, I look out through the world of concrete, steel and glass, past the thin veil of smog and pollution, down to the little ants far below. I wonder where they are all going, little calculations in my head estimate the percentages, but there is always a margin of error with these things. I calculate 70% are moving to work or home from work, 15% are going to a social outing, party, or date, and 15% are going to somewhere else, somewhere I can't calculate. Family or friend's house, a walk in the park, that sort of thing. It is this percentage that I often find keeps me up at night. This percentage is unpredictable, to me, yet also just as predictable as the 70%. If I ever chose to follow one of them to their destination, to find out just where they were going, their actions, their movements, would be predictable, and each turn on a street could greatly diminish the list of directions they may be headed.
  I finish off my cup of coffee, throw on my jacket, and head out the door. One of my neighbors, three doors to my right, also leaves, right on schedule. We exchange pleasantries, and his mention of passing a cemetery on the way to work triggers my mind. I've known his route to work for a few months, now, and I've seen the very graveyard he passes each and every morning. His mention of it today tells me someone close to him died. We enter the elevator together, and I take the moment to study him. His posture is a bit more sullen than usual, though he's working hard to hide it. His clothes are bland, featureless, though I've always known him for wearing colourful shirts, always with some kind of sarcastic joke printed on the front. I see a ring missing from his finger, one I've always seen before.
  As we leave the elevator, I apologize for the loss of his wife, and as he looks at me with shock, I make a mental note to deduce her cause of death later. I rush off before he can say another word, get into my car, and begin heading down several dozen roads, making sporadic turns, trying my best not to be what everyone else is: predictable.
  Finally, after a 15 minute drive, I come to a stop outside a brick building, leave my car, and walk through the door marked "Private Eye". Sitting in my cozy chair, I play my answering machine, and tune my ears to the messages that swiftly follow...