"What? You mean to say you knew this was a suicide on the first day, and you kept using departmental resources for the entire week to dig into it and figure out every last bit and tittle?"

"Yes, once you figure that by bit and tittle you mean the possible beginning of an epidemic of suicides."

"Epidemic, what epidemic?"

"The one that hasn't happened yet. Or is just starting to happen, depending on how you look at it. I think it’s either something in this place or a deliberate alteration. My money’s on some environmental factor, maybe linked to some sort of actual virus that spreads. I saw signs in her friends and enemies and work acquaintances of the same thing. Hell, I'd suspect that I have the same thing, but I'm a damn detective, so I've clearly been depressed and suicidal for a very long time. Now that I've talked to you, you should gt yourself checked out regularly and isolation Me, I'm going to go check into a hotel and refuse room service and ask them to leave the food at the door and try to avoid talking to anyone for at least a week. I've already warned everyone I interviewed or interacted with that I can remember."

"You've warned--you've started some kind of crazy health panic because one unstable woman committed suicide?!"

"She wasn't."

"Wasn't what."

"Unstable. She wasn't unstable. She was sent up from the Republic of Uzbek, and you remember how they insisted on all their representatives passing what was basically astronaut-level screening for psychological and physical health and competency? That was because they could afford so few representatives. She passed all the tests with flying colors. I would have been proud to have her at my back."


Inspiration: A series premier with a suicide mystery.
Story potential: Medium-high.
Notes: There's some hints here of space stuff, but that wouldn't be necessary.

I stood in the sun's X-ray, feeling my bones melt and dissolve and wondering if I would live beyond the sunrise. It had been six hundred years--on the early side, for the transform, according to the notes of those who were left behind. Many didn't risk it until a thousand years, when the odds were 80 percent of success. And we didn't even know if it was worth it. Those who left never communicated with us who remained. But they always looked--transcendent. At 600, I had only a 4 percent chance of success, according to those who documented it. It was almost suicide, but not quite. I hadn't been Catholic for 602 years, but some remnant clung.


Inspiration: A little bibliomancy, based on Eli's suggestion. The first clause is from Sometimes, After Sunset by Tanith Lee.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: This is a different take on vampires. I don't know what it is, but I am intrigued.