Murdoch’s blood ran cold. “That’s… Dr. Julia Ogden.”

They found it in the victim’s coat pocket. But before Murdoch could insert it, the station door slammed open. A woman in a long, dripping coat stepped inside, her face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. She held a small, metallic device in her gloved hand.

It was a warning.

Just then, Inspector Brackenreid stormed in, rain dripping from his bowler hat. “Murdoch! What’s this nonsense? A man scared to death by a shiny record?”

They watched, transfixed, as the episode unfolded. It was a case Murdoch had never worked. A murdered theatre impresario, a missing topaz, a confession from a man who had not yet been born. But the most chilling part came at the end. The screen-Murdoch cornered the killer in a shadowy alley. The killer, a gaunt man with a scar over his eye, sneered. “You’ll never stop what’s coming, Murdoch. Not in your time. Not ever.”