Why Sleuths are bored

Little did we know,
shadows had been
unpolluted,
pristine specters,
until they crossed the sinister alleys
in a writer's mind,
burgeoning
with his own diabolical plot -

Of decrepit fingers reaching
out
to lone, unsuspecting ladies
who, just seconds ago,
felt their skins crawl, and their
spines tingle.
Of course, they showed no haste.
Calm and
Steady,
brushing the sensations aside as
silly little waves of
paranoia.

They'd soon find out,
(much to their chagrin)
that it was no wind chill,
as they're once again,
reduced to the lifeless
heap of mess
lying just inches away from the streetlight,
between pages 16 and 17.