01
The alley was enveloped in an oppressive darkness, faintly lit by the yellowish glow of a flickering streetlamp. The air was thick with the scent of impending rain, metal, and a sharp, nauseating odor of death and decay that invaded the nostrils.
A body lay lifeless and pale near some refuse, as if it were an old object to be thrown out with the trash. Surrounding the corpse were the usual tense and distracted faces of the local police, too accustomed to such scenes to be disturbed, yet still unprepared to truly handle them.
Alex Rivers advanced with a calm step, his hands tucked into the pockets of his long black coat. His face, sculpted in calmness and indifference, contrasted with the agitation that hung in the air. No one seemed willing to look him in the eyes, but between those who called him uncivilized and those who were captivated and too shy to endure his gaze, there was a common feeling: admiration. He wasn't the kind of person who was affected by mundane events like death or massacres; he faced everything without disgust, coldly, as if life were a joke or a game that started after the last breath.
"The expert has arrived," murmured one of the officers upon seeing the man approach, but he received a reprimanding look from the colleague next to him. Alex remained unfazed, merely offering a hint of a smile.
The body belonged to a young woman, probably just over thirty. She lay on her back, her arms spread in an unnatural position. Her skin was bruised, her neck marked by deep cuts that left a macabre impression on the young woman's throat. Around her, fragments of glass and bloodstains formed a chaotic mosaic on the wet asphalt, a sight that would make anyone shudder.
Alex crouched next to the body without hesitation. His cold eyes scanned every detail, as if he were examining a painting in a museum rather than a corpse.
"Two holes," he muttered to himself. "Could they be needles?" he said, pretending to be clueless.
An officer handed him a pair of latex gloves, which Alex put on with a slow, measured gesture. He brought a hand to the victim's face, moving a lock of hair to examine the wound on her neck more closely.
"Perforating weapon, the edges of the wounds are irregular, and it's probably a screwdriver or a small object given the size of the injuries," he stated in a monotone voice, observing more closely. "It looks like a crime of passion, but I'm not convinced." He paused. "I don't sense any rage or pain in this murder," he said, looking at the detective quietly taking notes on his theories.
He continued, refocusing his attention on the victim. "The killer seems to know what he was doing; none of this seems impulsive. Also, there are no signs of a struggle: the victim may have been drunk or knew her killer," he concluded, standing up and moving away from the lifeless woman.
His observations attracted curious and resentful glances. He was a fascinating man, an impeccable consultant whose work was almost always excellent, and perhaps due to envy, he was often discredited. It was obvious to everyone that Rivers was an elegant and sociable man, and they watched him as if he were perfect. However, the eyes and attention on him quickly turned to something else... or someone else.
It was then that the sound of footsteps interrupted the silence. A man made his way through the officers, his appearance in stark contrast to the formality of the scene. His hair was disheveled, and he wore a leather jacket that seemed to have seen better days. His jeans were wrinkled, his shoes worn, but his eyes, a bright green, gleamed with an almost animal curiosity.
He, too, was scrutinized by the judging eyes of his colleagues, but not with envy, nor with admiration, just irritated and cruel glances.
"Who the hell is that?" asked Alex, lifting his gaze from the corpse to join the crowd observing the man.
"An asshole..." said one officer, stopping before saying too much. He continued more professionally, "Just an impolite detective with some mental issues, probably. He never talks to anyone, always steals the best cases, and on top of his rudeness, he just wants to make himself hated," he finished with a slight mocking laugh.
Detective Carter stopped a few steps from the scene, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He looked at Rivers with interest, as if trying to decipher something about him.
"You shouldn't be here; we already have a detective in charge of the investigation," said the blonde man, his tone serious and almost reproachful.
He stared at him for a few seconds before the newcomer shifted his gaze and straightened up.
He sighed. "I don't need your permission. Are you the boss now, or do you just need to feel important?" he retorted, his voice laced with defiance.
Alex studied him for a moment, as he had done with the body just minutes earlier, then grinned, amused by his arrogant and somewhat childish behavior, at least in Rivers’ eyes.
He took a breath and opened his mouth. "Ah," he laughed, then continued with an amused expression, "My apologies, I didn't mean to disrespect you, Detective...?"
"Jamie... Carter, Detective Carter," Jamie replied, now a bit irritated by the mocking response from the smooth-talker.
A hint of a smile curved Alex’s lips, but he moved away so quickly that it seemed almost like an illusion to Jamie. He turned his attention back to the body, while Alex moved with other officers to inspect the surroundings more closely.
Examining the scene more carefully, Alex noticed droplets of blood leading near a dirty, foul-smelling dumpster, then found a bloodstain on the wall. Kneeling, he spotted a blood-soaked glass shard, possibly from a bottle. He lifted it cautiously, holding it up to the dim light of the streetlamp, until he saw a mark that resembled a fingerprint.
"Take it to the lab," he ordered, passing the shard to an officer.
Not far away, from the refuse in the alley, an officer found an old pocket watch, seemingly abandoned. It was an unusual item, clearly out of place. He picked it up carefully, inspecting the engraving on the back: "Forever yours."
"An unrequited lover, perhaps?" he mused, glancing at the officer with a doubtful look.
Finally, Alex noticed something that no one else seemed to have seen: a word written in dried blood, almost invisible against the dirty asphalt. He crouched to get a better look, his expression unreadable. The faint, trembling writing said only: "Demon."
"Interesting," he murmured, his tone as calm as if it were just another trivial detail, but his eyes sparked for a moment before returning to their coldness.
"Mm," Alex commented. "A message, a personal item, and a fingerprint... report everything to the detective, please," he said, moving away and finally leaving the crime scene.
-Police station-
On the desk lay the files of the principale suspects:
File 1:
• Liam Harris
•36 years old
• Unemployed
• Arrested for assault
Alibi:
• To be investigated
Information:
•Ex-boyfriend of the victim, extremely. jealous and violent. Arrested for assaulting a public official and known for behavioral problems. Hospitalized in a psychiatric facility for neurosis.
File 2:
• Rebecca Monroe
• 40 years old
• Office worker
• No criminal record
Alibi:
• Not confirmed
Information:
• Colleague of the victim, with whom she had a heated argument just a few days before. Some witnesses claimed that. Rebecca threatened the victim by saying, "im gonna end you."
File 3:
• Martin Greene
• 53 years old
• Suspected of harassment
• Plastic
Alibi:
• To be confirmed
Information:
• A plastic surgeon with a history of obsessive behavior toward his patients.
He had been suspected of harassment in the past, but no charges.
"Well," thought the dark-haired man, "it's usually the partner."
Turning around, he saw the doctor engrossed in reading the files and distracted him with a quick question. "What do you think?" he said.
Rivers responded confidently without without alooking up from the files. "I'm not sure. My professional opinion will be given after the interrogation, and you'll receive everything in writing after the development of the psychological profiles of the suspects," he said seriously.
Jamie continued examining the files, but his attention kept drifting toward the curly-haired man.
He kept sneaking glances at Alex, who was reading in silence. Finally, he spoke: "Aren't you ever afraid?" he asked, his tone lower, almost fearful.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound more confident. "How do you stay so... indifferent?"
Alex didn't look up immediately, but when he did, it felt as if he were reading into Jamie. "No, I'm not afraid, and death doesn't affect me."
He paused, tilting his head slightly. "But you? Are you scared?"
Jamie stiffened, his hands clenched into fists. "No," he replied, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Alex smiled faintly, almost amused, and returned to his files without saying anything more.
Before leaving, Alex watched him in silence for a moment. Jamie’s vulnerability seemed almost... intriguing. In another time, he might have considered it weakness, but now he wasn’t so sure. He smiled faintly and turned away.
"See you tomorrow, Detective Carter," he murmured, walking away with his usual calm step, leaving Jamie with his unresolved question
