Nineteen... Such a messy number, uneven, a prime number. Nothing important or good comes in nineteens... No one cares about your nineteenth birthday... It's not a dozen, or even a baker's dozen; and just shy of a nice round twenty... 

“Mr. Ledger, the witness is yours.” 

The judge removed his glasses in anticipation of the spectacle about to be unfurled upon the courtroom as a short man clad all in charcoal theatrically rose from the frontmost row of the legal arena. Harold Ledger adjusted his already-perfect fire-red tie and, on his way toward the me, took a detour toward the jurors’ stand.  

I found the tension in the room exhilarating. The prospect of being caught; the reaction of the audience to my evidence, it tickled my excitement to no end. But for now, I had to keep calm. I can't let my true colors show. 

Yet. 

Absently I watched the accusing lawyer present before me evidence, mostly photographs, of nineteen gruesome murders. All of them were different, which had allowed the number to climb so high. No two victims had the same profile, old, young, black, white, man, or woman, they were all represented. And to add to that, the cause of death wasn't ever by the same means. I mean, yeah bleeding to death was a common theme, but there is a big difference between being hung and bled like a pig and being stabbed to death on a billiard table. Not to mention the fact that there were never any fingerprints or D.N.A. samples left behind at any of the crime scenes, the perfect crime.  

The link between them had finally been discovered with number fourteen, when they opened her mouth and found a single, black button. It was too odd to ignore, an obvious tell from the killer. And from there all it took was the curiosity of a certain female detective to discover the black buttons on a handful of other victims prior, fourteen to be exact, and to dub the murderer, the Coraline killer. Something about a movie with buttons. Afterwards it was only a matter of time before a suspect was apprehended.  

The jury gasped, and the gathered attendees murmured and gossiped not so quietly. Flashes of reporters' cameras were only drowned out by the wailing of a few victims' loved ones. Many of the surviving families had gathered, allowing for quite the crowd, some were crying, most of them were angry, I felt nothing.  

And at the center of this rage, and pain, and violence, was Mark Stoll. My best friend. He looked terrible. His hair was filthy, and he clearly had not shaved in at least a week. Add to this the overwhelming evidence against him, and he was as good as sentenced.  

“What is that Mr. Goldstein?” asked Ledger, peering at the photo through his glasses.  

“A memory. One my friend here won't remember but I do.” I said, looking in Mark’s direction, a touch of bitterness in my voice. Not too much that it comes off as aggression, but just enough to appear sane. The jury raised themselves slightly out of their seats in anticipation. That was the first time they ever took their accusing eyes from Mark. Good, I thought. Now I have their attention.  

My friend's lawyer took the picture and quickly passed it to the jury. The worn polaroid photograph depicted two young children, one pale and sickly, the other poking something with a stick. That something... “Ah!” yelled a woman. I had to bite down my lip to stop myself from laughing. I love it when they scream. It makes it all even more fun. 

“Is... is that a human head?” Detective Trudeau asked hesitantly, disbelief written all across her pale face. I took a deep breath and regained my composure.  

“Yes. If you look closely, the clearly ill child crouching in the background is the defendant. How could someone who cannot face a corpse murder nineteen people in a similar fashion?” I answered calmly. At once, everyone began chatting amongst themselves, well except for the Detective, who was biting her burgundy red lower lip, clearly deep in thought. The judge banged his gavel, calling for silence. 

“Order! If there aren’t any further questions, I will now call on the jury for a verdict. Please take the time to consider all evidence put forward.” Fools. My mouth twitched, holding back a smile was proving to be a challenge. I had them all in the palm of my hand. I looked up, searching for Mark. Instead, I was met with Detective Olivia Trudeau staring at me intently. I cleared my face of emotion, a talent I had perfected after years of practice, reading her expression. She was suspicious of me. She was not convinced.