The Detective's Watch

Part One

Detective Elijah Crain was considered by many the city’s hero. Sharp jaw. Sharp intuition. Sharp gun at his hip. He hunted burglars, rapists, killers - dragged them into the light, one by one. The papers called him The Watcher of Doverton.

One autumn, the killings were worse than ever. Little girls had gone missing from the south side, bodies turning up along the riverbank. The police department held a press conference and forced Detective Crain to promise he would personally deliver justice. The whole city believed him.

Sergeant Dana Rowen had been Crain’s partner a few times, years back. Everyone in Homicide knew they didn’t really get along.

Dana was an excellent detective, shrewd and relentless. She was also the oddest officer in the department. She muttered case notes into a battered tape recorder, chewed constantly on hard candy, and scribbled ideas on napkins she’d collect like evidence. It made her eccentric, maybe endearing to some - but to Crain, it was grating.

"Sixteen years old," Captain Harley said, tapping the photo on the board. "Emma Darcy. Worked weekends at the Dover Diner. Smiled in photographs with a ribbon tying back her hair. One evening she never came home. Her parents are hysterical, and we don’t have the time to let this one go cold."

Crain studied the photo. Pale face, dark eyes, a cheap silver locket. Another girl swallowed by Doverton’s shadows.

Beside him, Sergeant Rowen clicked her recorder.

"Case Darcy. Female. Age sixteen. Last seen Redburn Avenue. Parents seem distraught. Likelihood of abduction: high."

She spoke as if she was dictating for an audience only she could hear.

"Jesus," Crain muttered.

She ignored him, as she always did, already unwrapping a butterscotch. She popped it into her mouth and offered one his way. He waved her off, scowling.

"Just turn that thing off and get to work."

Rowen smiled faintly and stood. Crain watched her drop a candy onto the desk of a rookie, then hand one to Martin Nelson, the precinct’s night guard. Martin was a quiet man in his late forties, always standing straight, keys hanging from his belt like a rosary. Everyone knew her for it: butterscotch was her social currency.

Part Two

Crain questioned Emma’s colleagues at the diner, but no one had seen her after she clocked out. Other detectives canvassed her school. No teacher nor student had noticed anything unusual.

Elijah felt the city’s eyes pressing on him. Another missing girl. Another broken promise.

Three nights later, they found her. Emma Darcy, slumped in an abandoned lot near the river, her face blue, her ribbon untied. When the call came, Crain didn’t react. He simply turned on his heel and trudged back toward the precinct, his jaw set.

At the morgue, the coroner worked in silence. Crain stood stiffly, Rowen at his side, chewing another butterscotch.

"Cause of death…" the coroner began carefully. "Obstruction of the airway."

He pulled something out with forceps and dropped it onto a tray with a wet sound.

A butterscotch. Half-dissolved.

Crain’s throat tightened. His eyes snapped to Rowen instantly. She stood there, unbothered, sucking on a candy of her own.

The coroner shrugged. "Could’ve been accidental. It’s strange, but it happens."

But Crain couldn’t look away.

"You look like shit," a voice said later.

Martin Nelson leaned in the doorway, keys dangling from one finger. He was one of the night guards, the kind who never spoke unless spoken to. Which meant Crain must really look worse than he thought.

"Thanks," Elijah muttered.

" You should get some rest." Martin’s voice was low, almost gentle. "It’s awful, though. Kids shouldn’t die like that." He paused, studying him. "And the candy… almost sounds like someone forced it in." He hesitated, then gave a faint, almost apologetic smile. "You know what’s crazy? That makes me think of Sergeant Rowen. She’s always handing out sweets. Gives me one every night. Guess it's her thing."

He said it casually, as if it were nothing, but it lodged deep in Crain’s chest like a nail.

Four days later, another girl vanished. Leah Mercer. Not found dead. Not found at all.

Rowen scribbled theories in her odd shorthand, muttered into her recorder, offered candy to jittery rookies. Elijah watched her chew, watched her slip sweets into palms, watched her unwrap foil with ritual care. He started to imagine Leah Mercer choking in the dark, butterscotch lodged in her throat.

The suspicion became fever.

Finally, a couple of weeks later, another body washed up near the river.

Crain pushed past the tape, trembling, his suit rumpled, his tie askew. Officers shouted at him, but he dropped to his knees beside the corpse. His hands forced into the girl’s mouth, prying her jaw open.

"She swallowed it! I know she did!" he screamed. His nails scraped the gums, blood slicked his hands. "It’s her — THE BUTTERSCOTCH — IT’S THERE!"

Rowen appeared, her face white. She held her recorder but said nothing.

"Jesus Christ," one of the cops muttered. "He’s desecrating the body."

The scene made the front page.

Part Three

By winter, no one called Elijah Crain the Watcher anymore. He was just another fallen cop, rotting in a cell, raving about candy. The papers tore him apart - photos of him clawing at the corpse splashed across headlines, his eyes wild, his suit stained with dirt and rain. Detective Gone Mad. The Watcher Becomes the Watched.

Sergeant Rowen testified against him. The city believed she was odd, but not a murderer. Crain’s obsession, they decided, had tipped him into madness.

The only man people remembered kindly was Martin Nelson, the night guard. He spoke softly to grieving families. He stood guard at vigils, steady, dependable. Not only that, but he even carried Emma Darcy’s coffin when her father collapsed in grief.

When reporters wrote their features about the "dark autumn of Doverton," they called Martin the man who stayed at his post. The papers praised his loyalty, his silent service, his unshakable presence when the police department crumbled.

For the first time, Martin Nelson’s name filled headlines, sermons, speeches.

One evening, after an interview, Martin walked home through the quiet streets. He whistled softly while unlocking his basement door.

Leah Mercer lifted her head from the dark.