Nightshift

Bernie Erickson never liked the night shifts. They stretched on like shadows - long, restless, impossible to pin down. But in homicide, preferences didn’t matter. The dead didn’t wait for daylight.

Tonight, the precinct smelled of old coffee and rain sneaking in through a cracked window above his cluttered desk. The overhead lights buzzed, flickering just enough to remind him he should go home - but he wouldn’t. Not yet.

Three photographs lay before him like a grim puzzle missing its corners. Three victims - three lives snuffed out with the same clean precision. Each face stared up at him through glossy film, eyes empty, mouths parted as if they might whisper a clue if he only looked hard enough.

Bernied pressed his knuckles to his temple, chasing away the dull throb that had taken root behind his right eye days ago. His free hand tapped against the mug balanced on a stack of paperwork. The same hands that signed arrest warrants, shook the trembling palms of grieving families, lifted simple coffee cups in the hope the bitterness might anchor him to the moment.

No prints. No stray fibers. No hurried footprints in the mud. Each crime scene wiped clean as if the killer wanted to erase even the idea of being seen. Bernie shuffled the photos and crime reports again, searching for a sliver of pattern he might have missed the hundred times before.

Sometimes when he closed his eyes, half-formed images flickered behind his eyelids - moonlight, alleys, a sharp edge catching the light. But dreams meant nothing. He’d seen worse things awake.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy. Somewhere out there, a killer was walking these streets. And Bernie Erickson was going to find them.

Outside, the rain turned heavier, drumming softly against the cracked window as if trying to drown out the hush of the precincts overnight buzz. Most desks sat empty - just the hum of a copier down the hall and the occasional echo of footsteps from the night sergeant making his rounds. Bernie welcomed the quiet. In silence, the puzzle sometimes spoke louder.

He reached for the map pinned to the corkboard beside his desk. A faded street grid of the west side of the city, veins of black alleys and dead ends sketched in red ink. Three small X’s marked the places where the bodies had been found - an alley behind an old bakery, a trash-choked lot near the river, and a shuttered laundromat with a flickering sign that still buzzed on rainy nights.

He traced the X’s with a finger, as if the paper might give up its secrets if he touched in enough. The pattern made no sense - no neat circle, no clear line, just a ragged cluster that bled into blocks he knew too well. He’d grown up five miles from that river bend, learned to ride his bike down cracked sidewalks not far from the first body. He told himself that was just coincidence. Cities were made of old ghosts and strange overlaps.

A sharp yawn caught him off guard. He scrubbed a palm over his face, eyelids drooping. Lately, sleep felt like wading through wet cement. Even when he collapsed into bed, his brain stayed half-awake, feeding him scraps of restless dreams - glimpses of cold streets, the echo of footsteps too close behind him, something glinting silver in the dark.

He scribbled a note on a sticky pad: Check river lot again. He couldn’t say why. Just a feeling. In homicide, you learned to trust feelings - or they buried you alongside the cases you couldn’t close.

Bernie shoved his chair back and stretched, vertebrae popping like distant firecrackers. The room felt too small all of a sudden, walls creeping closer the longer he sat. He grabbed his coat from the hook, threadbare collar brushing his jaw, and slipped the notebook he kept for half-thoughts and hunches into his side pocket.

The hallway outside his office was a tomb this late. The vending machine by the stairwell flickered its pale neon glow over a cracked linoleum floor. He fed it two quarters for a stale granola bar, more out of habit than hunger. He barely tasted it as he chewed, eyes on the dark windows beyond the squad room. The storm had settled in for the night - a steady hush of rain against glass.

Before he stepped out, he glanced back at his desk. The photos still waited there under the glow of a single lamp, their empty eyes turned up to the ceiling. He told himself they weren’t judging him for failing to find the monster that stole their last breaths.

The precinct door groaned on its hinges as he pushed out into the damp air. The city felt different at night - smaller, somehow, the streets washed clean of their daily noise. Slick pavement reflected streetlights like shards of broken mirrors.

He walked with his head down, collar up against the drizzle, notebook warm inside his coat. He didn’t plan to sleep tonight. He’d check the river lot again. Maybe look behind the old warehouse where the third victim worked part-time hauling crates for cash under the table.

Every unsolved case had its echo. Sometimes he wondered if the echo ever found him in return - if all the nights he spent chasing death would someday lead death right back to his own doorstep.

The river lot smelled of wet earth and old oil. Puddles spread like bruises across the cracked asphalt, catching the thin glow of a flickering streetlamp perched on a rusted pole. Burnie pulled his coat tighter, breath ghosting in the cold air. Somewhere beyond the lot’s chain-link fence, the river murmured - a low, restless hush that matched the steady drum of rain on his shoulders.

He stepped around an abandoned shopping cart tipped on its side, wheels half-buried in mud. The lot had once been a parking ground for a tiny riverside warehouse that went under years ago, but the fence still stood - barely - and kids sometimes slipped through gaps to drink and dare each other to jump into the black water.

Bernie’s boots squelched in the mud as he moved past a row of overturned barrels. He clicked on his flashlight, sweeping the beam over crushed cans, soggy cigarette packs, an old mattress half-submerged near the fence line. Nothing new - just the ghosts of cheap nights and bad habits.

He knelt by the edge of the fence, running his gloved fingers along the tangled wire. The last time he’d been here, crime scene tape had fluttered in the breeze, pale and sharp under floodlights. Now there was only the rain, washing away whatever scraps the killer might have left.

A shape caught his eye - just a sliver of something pale near the mattress. He angled his flashlight closer. A scrap of fabric? Maybe. He reached for it, heart ticking faster for reasons he couldn’t name.

But it was nothing - just a torn piece of plastic caught on the coils. He let it drop, pushing back a sharp flicker of frustration.

He stood, staring at the dark water beyond the fence. Somewhere in this city, he told himself, the killer’s footsteps still echoed - he just had to learn how to listen hard enough to hear them.

Back at his apartment, Bernie shed his damp coat and let it slump onto the chair by the door. The radiator hissed softly, but the air inside still felt cold - a thin, restless chill that never fully left these old walls. He flicked on the lamp beside his worn couch, its glow throwing tired shadows onto stacks of folders and paper cups.

He dropped his keys in the chipped bowl on the kitchen counter and let his gaze drift to the small corkboard above it. Pinned there were maps, grainy printouts, a few scribbled notes - a ghost of the bigger board at the precinct, only here it felt more personal. Closer. Sometimes he caught himself staring at it in the middle of the night, half-awake, certain the pins had shifted when he wasn’t looking.

Bernie sank onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He should sleep. He’d been telling himself that for days - that he’d close his eyes, shut out the noise, and let his mind reset. But every time he lay down, though his body reset, his thoughts wandered places they shouldn’t. He’d drift through allies he didn’t recognize, feel the grit of wet pavement under his feet, hear a voice whisper his name in a tone that made his skin crawl.

He told himself it was just the case digging into him. So many late nights with crime scene photos burned into the back of his eyelids - it was no wonder his dreams had turned ugly. He’d seen worse things awake than anything sleep could conjure.

Still, when he stood to brush his teeth, he found himself pausing by the front door. Checking the lock twice. Three times. As if there was something outside waiting for him. Or maybe something inside, waiting to get out.

Sleep finally came sometime before dawn, heavy and reluctant. Bernie lay tangled in his sheets, city noises drifting through the half-open window - the hiss of tires on wet streets, the distant bark of a stray dog, a siren’s lonely wail. In sleep, the sounds blurred and folded into something else.

He dreamed he was walking. The street was unfamiliar - narrower than the ones near his place, hemmed in by crumbling brick walls damp with rain. He felt the brush of cold mist on his face. A streetlight flickered above him, throwing his shadow long across the slick pavement. He moved deeper into the dark without thinking where he was going.

Somewhere ahead, something gleamed. A glint like a shard of broken glass - or a blade catching moonlight. He couldn’t see it clearly. His breath puffed out in small clouds, and in the dream he realized he was barefoot, skin pressed to the cold concrete. He knelt to touch something on the ground - a smear, dark and wet, soaking into the cracks.

A voice rose behind him - low, echoing off the narrow alley walls, but when he turned, no one was there. Just his own shape, faint in the puddles at his feet.

His fingers curled around nothing. When he opened his hand, the streetlight flickered again, sputtering once before dying completely.

Bernie jolted awake, chest tight, fingers clenched in the blanket as if he’d been holding something that slipped away. The clock on his nightstand glowed 4:12 AM. Rain still tapped at the window, softer now.

He sat up, rubbing his palms over his face. Just a dream, he told himself. He’d write it down, same as the others. Sometimes the mind made sense of chaos in strange ways - maybe somewhere inside the haze was the clue he needed.

Bernie sat at his kitchen table, the old notebook open in front of him. The pages were a mess of quick, looping scrawl - scraps of dream images and half-formed thoughts he’ scratched down in the early hours, hoping they’d make sense in daylight. He turned to a fresh page and wrote down what he could remember: Narrow alley. Bare feet. Wet street. Blade? Voice.

He underlined voice twice, tapping the pen against the paper. It wasn’t unusual, he reminded himself, for detectives to carry their cases into sleep. The human mind hates loose ends. His mind just worked overtime to tie them up, even in dreams.

He flipped back a few pages, skimming old notes: Running water. Metal steps. Whisper. He’d mentioned a river once - the same stretch he’d checked last night. Some part of him wanted to believe his subconscious was piecing the puzzle together for him while he slept, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs only he could follow.

A cynical part of him wondered if maybe he was just cracking under the weight of it all. He’d seen it happen - detectives who got too close, whose own heads became crime scenes when the bodies stacked too high. He’d promised himself once that wouldn’t be him.

He closed the notebook and leaned back, staring at the corkboard on the wall. The victims’ photos - not the official ones this time, but grainy printouts he’d copied for himself. He studied their faces, the empty spaces behind their eyes. Did they know him, somehow? Did they see him standing over them - or someone else?

A sudden shiver climbed his spine. He rubbed at his arms, telling himself the draft from the cracked window was to blame.

Across the table, the coffee maker gurgled its last, steam rising like a ghost he couldn’t quite banish.

By mid-morning, Bernie was back at the precinct, the notebook tucked deep in his coat pocket like a secret he couldn’t decide whether to share. The bullpen was louder now - detectives swapping theories over stale pastries, phones ringing off the hook, someone cursing the broken copier for jamming again. Normal noise. Safe noise.

He dropped into his chair, shoulders stiff from a night that felt more like a long corridor than real rest. Captain Ramirez stopped by his desk, a fresh folder in hand. He dropped it with a soft thud, stirring the photos already spread out like a deck of bad cards.

“Fifth victim, maybe,” Ramirez said, voice low, eyes tired. “Same M.O. - clean cut, same damn precision. But we got lucky this time. Witness says he heard something - saw someone running toward the river after midnight. Tall. Dark coat.”

Bernie felt a tight coil in his chest unwind just enough to breathe. A lead. Finally. He flipped the folder open, eyes skimming the report - name, address, scene photo. The alley behind a run-down grocery store.

“Witness reliable?” Bernie asked, though he already knew the answer. Witnesses always blurred the edges when fear washed over them.

Ramirez shrugged. “Says he’s sure it was a man. Couldn’t see the face - just the coat. Said it looked long, dark, maybe a hood.”

Bernie’s mind flashed back to his own coat - the one draped over his chair now, damp from last night’s rain. He pushed the thought aside like brushing lint off his sleeve. Coincidence. Nothing more.

He jotted a note in his notebook, careful to keep his hand steady. Tonight he’d walk the area himself. Maybe his instincts - or the dreams - would lead him to whatever ghost had left the bodies behind.

This time, he told himself, he’d be ready.

Bernie waited until the sun dipped low, turning the city’s concrete skin to a muddy orange. He pulled his coat tight around him and left the precinct without telling anyone where he was going - just another lead to check, nothing to worry about.

He parked a few blocks from the grocery store, the same battered notebook in his pocket, the folder tucked under his arm. The street here looked tired - cracked sidewalks veined with weeds, old signs swinging in the evening wind. The alley behind the grocery store was narrower than he’d pictured. Graffiti peeled from the brick walls, a dented dumpster sagged against a splintering fence.

Bernie stood at the mouth of the alley for a long moment, listening. The city’s heartbeat felt softer here - no cars, just the faint hum of a neon sign from a pawn shop two doors down. He stepped inside the alley’s mouth, boots crunching over broken glass.

He tried to see it as the witness had: the victim on the ground, a dark figure slipping away into the shadows. He knelt by the damp pavement, eyes flicking over the ground. A bottle cap. A cigarette butt. An old receipt gone to mush in the rain. Nothing useful - nothing fresh.

He closed his eyes, leaning one hand against the rough brick wall. In the hush of the alley, memory or imagination crept in - the faint echo of footsteps, the smell of cold metal and wet concrete. The same dream again, bleeding into the waking world.

His hand pressed harder into the all until his palm stung from the scrape of old mortar. He told himself it meant something - that his mind was piecing things together when he wasn’t looking.

Tonight, he promised the shadows, he’d catch whoever left the bodies behind.

The rain returned as Bernie drove home, a thin mist at first, then a steady wash that turned the streets slick and reflective. Headlights blurred in the windshield. He gripped the wheel tight enough for his knuckles to ache. He told himself he’d get some sleep - just enough to clear the fog in his skull, sharpen the edges dulled by too many nights like this.

He left his coat by the door when he stepped inside, boots dripping a small puddle onto the worn floorboards. The radiator rattled to life, sighing into the silence. He sat on the edge of his bed, stripping off his holster, his badge, the weight of who he was when he was awake.

Sleep pressed close the moment he shut his eyes. He drifted fast - no dreams at first, only darkness, deep and quiet. Then shapes formed in the hush behind his eyelids: an alley, wet brick under his palms, the hush of footsteps. His own breath, steady and calm.

He felt the weight of something in his hand. Cold. Familiar. Metal pressed to his skin. He moved down the narrow passage, past a rusted fence, deeper into the heartbeat of the city that always called him back.

A voice whispered - Almost done.

Something warm spattered his wrists. He opened his eyes just enough to see pale skin under his hands, a throat opened wide. He blinked, the dream didn’t fade. The knife felt solid, the body heavy against his knees. His breath came out ragged, steam rising in the cold night air that wasn’t supposed to be real.

He looked down, the truth bleeding bright in the pool at his feet.

Bernie Erickson, the detective who’d been supposedly hunting a ghost, had caught him at last.