Detective Cross

[Note - this story involve a crime and crime scene - reader discretion is advised]

A city never sleeps, and a police station never stops bleeding. 

The air inside the station was thick — stale coffee, burnt-out cigarettes, sweat from too many bodies working too many hours. Phones rang, voices barked orders, a keyboard clacked somewhere in the background. Another case. Another mess to clean up. Cops, detectives, and even secretaries sat hunched at their desks, fingers, eyes, and lips moving constantly. People brought in from the streets shuffled through lines, paused for directions, and returned into the night.

Detective Harrison Cross had seen plenty of bodies in his fifteen years working homicide. Blood and bone were just pieces of a puzzle, and he was damn good at solving them. But this one — this one felt different. Close to home. Sitting at his desk, pictures spread on every surface, his eyes focused on details. Every so often, he caught himself in a daze, mind exploring the rooms of her home, zeroing in on the appearance of victim. Stretching his neck, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to refocus. He’d been up for the past sixteen hours, and he was running out of time and energy.

Evelyn Price. Thirty-two. Found in her upscale apartment, throat slit with surgical precision. No sign of struggle. No prints. No DNA. Victim in pristine condition – both physically and aesthetically. A crime so clean it was almost arrogant.

Evelyn Price, in her former life, had been more than just another soon to be victim. She was a force – someone who got things done. The kind of woman who could walk into a room of hardened politicians and leave with their full cooperation. Smart, charismatic, fearless, and beautiful.  She had grown up in the rougher parts of the city but had worked her way out, one hard-earned step at a time. Like a rose growing in the concrete, she was an enigma.

People loved Evelyn. Not in a distant, admiring way, but because she made them feel seen, made them feel like they mattered. She ran youth programs, advocated for police reform, and had even worked on cases alongside the department. Detective Cross met her only a month ago, and was instantly hooked by her charms. She wasn’t naive — she knew exactly how the system worked, the corruption that festered in its cracks — but she believed in change. She believed people could be better.

That belief had made her enemies.

The theories flew fast. A professional hit? A jealous lover? But nothing fit quite right. Cross knew better. He knew when a case was going to stay cold. He knew when the killer had planned every detail. He knew when a crime had been executed perfectly.

His eyes drifted to the crime scene photos pinned to the corkboard. Evelyn’s lifeless eyes bore into him. Not in fear. Not in accusation. Just empty.

Cross sifted through the evidence with practiced detachment, but the details clung to him like smoke. The way the glass on her nightstand sat just slightly off-center, the faint trace of jasmine still lingering in the fabric of the couch — these were things no one else would notice, but he did. He knew how she liked her whiskey, neat with two ice cubes that she never let fully melt. He knew the books on her shelf weren’t just for show — she actually read them, the spines creased, corners folded in thought. He knew, because he had been here before. And now, standing in the fluorescent glare of the precinct, pretending to piece together the mystery of her death, he forced himself to remember that he was supposed to be seeing this for the first time.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. “Who did this to you?” The line came easy. It always did.

Cross’s partner, Detective Mills walked in, holding out a cup of coffee like an offering. “Tell me you got something before I start believing in ghosts.”

Harrison took the coffee, letting the warmth seep into his hands. “Not a damn thing. No forced entry, no defensive wounds. Either she knew her killer, or they had a key.”

Mills frowned, taking a sip of his own. “Boyfriend?”

“Out of town.”

“Enemies?”

“She was well-liked.” Harrison leaned back in his chair, watching the ceiling fan cut lazy circles. “Too clean.”

Mills smirked. “Nobody’s too clean.”

“Maybe she had secrets,” Cross replied, not looking Mills directly in the eye.

“She was pushing for redistricting, restorative justice. Pissing off the wrong people,” Cross said as he swirled the coffee in his cup.

“You think someone in the department took issue with that?”

“That stuff only happens in the movies,” Mills said. “It’s a bad guy. We just have to figure out which one.” He clapped Cross on the back and walked out.

Cross watched him go, then reached into his pocket. His fingers found the fabric, soft and familiar. He rubbed the silk and lace between his fingertips, the way he had that night. Old habits die hard.

The case dragged. Witnesses had nothing. Forensics came up empty. The cameras outside Evelyn’s building had conveniently gone down that night. Another dead end.

Except Cross knew better. He always knew where to look.

Two blocks from the crime scene, tucked between the dumpsters in a forgotten alley, sat a security camera no one ever noticed. No one except him. He had seen it before, about a month ago, during another case. If the killer had left the building, this camera would have caught him.

He accessed the footage back at the station, his pulse steady as he scanned the timestamps. A shadow slipped out of Evelyn’s building in the early hours. A figure moving with purpose, neither hurried nor hesitant.

Cross fast-forwarded, waiting for the moment. The figure turned toward the camera.

The image was grainy but unmistakable.

It was him.

He leaned back, his chair creaking. He had almost hoped he was wrong. Almost.

The details came in fragments. Evelyn opened the door with the kind of confidence that came from knowing she belonged anywhere she chose to stand. She didn’t startle at the sight of Harrison Cross—why would she? He was a fixture in the city, just like her. 

“Detective,” she greeted, stepping aside to let him in. 

The scent of jasmine and expensive perfume clung to the air. Her apartment was immaculate, the kind of place that spoke of careful curation, of a woman who had built herself from nothing and left no room for cracks. 

“I wasn’t expecting company.” 

She poured two drinks, not asking if he wanted one. The amber liquid glowed under the warm light. When she handed him the glass, her fingers brushed his – brief, electric.

“Let me guess. You’re here about the reforms?” 

She smirked, but there was calculation behind her eyes. She knew she was making enemies. She just never expected one to wear a badge. Cross took the glass, his fingers brushing against the silk and lace scarf draped over the back of a chair as he sat — the same scarf he’d later slide between his fingers, long after her body went cold.

“Something like that,” he said, voice steady. 

Evelyn sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “People don’t like change, Harrison. But they’ll have to get used to it.” She leaned forward, that fire in her gaze, the same fire that made her impossible to ignore. 

“And you? Are you ready for it?” The question hung between them, heavy and final. 

Cross just smiled. He already knew the answer. The conversation was calm and measured, with Evelyn taking the lead before she realized. Discussions of plans for the city, reorganization. His movement behind her as he went to refill their drinks. The flick of the blade, the way it caught the light. She didn’t look afraid. Not at first. That was the worst part — she trusted him. The silence that followed.

He had done this before. He had done this many times.

Evelyn had been right about corruption. She had just never expected it to look her in the eye. Never expected it to be welcomed into her own home.

Harrison Cross studied the pictures and looked at his partner. Across the room, Mills flipped through files, oblivious. The precinct trusted Cross. The city trusted him. He had built his reputation on catching killers. On protecting the innocent.

And yet, here he was.

The perfect crime.

He closed the laptop with a quiet click, took a slow breath. This case would go cold soon, like all the others. Just another mystery left unsolved. Another name added to the list.

Harrison Cross hadn’t always been this way. Once, he had been the kind of detective who believed in justice, in the weight of the badge, in the idea that good men could keep the city from swallowing itself whole. But the years had worn him down, each case chipping away at whatever decency he had left. 

He had learned that justice was a fairy tale for people who didn’t know how the world really worked. The system wasn’t broken — it functioned exactly as designed, grinding people down while the powerful stayed untouched. So, he adapted. 

The first time had been a slip — a criminal who deserved worse than a courtroom, a favor done in the dark where no one would ask questions. The next time, it was easier. Then easier still. Now, it wasn’t about justice or necessity. It was about control, about making sure the pieces always fell exactly where he wanted. Killing Evelyn wasn’t personal. It was inevitable. She had walked too close to the fire, thinking she could reshape the city, thinking she could change men like him. But Cross had stopped believing in change a long time ago.

Cross stood, straightening his tie. “I’m going for a drink.”

Mills barely looked up. “Don’t stay out too late.”

Cross smirked, stepping into the neon-lit haze, the city breathing around him, oblivious.

It had never stopped believing in him. That was its first mistake. And it wouldn’t be its last. Not while he was still pulling the strings.