The Twenty-Seven Stab Wounds of Julius Caesar

Detective Albert Fernandez gripped the edge of his desk so hard that his knuckles turned white. The whole department could feel the heat radiating off him, a barely contained inferno of frustration. He had been staring at the evidence board for hours, the crime scene photos glaring back at him like a personal insult. 

There was Reginald Marston III, sprawled across his office floor, dressed like some ancient emperor. A crimson toga, a golden diadem resting askew on his bald head, and twenty-seven stab wounds painting his chest like some grotesque work of abstract art. A modern-day Julius Caesar, betrayed in his own empire—Marston Global Holdings. 

And yet, every single suspect had an alibi that was damn near ironclad. The CFO had been at a charity gala, rubbing elbows with people who had no reason to lie for him. The board members had been scattered across the city, attending meetings with timestamps and witness statements to back them up. The high-ranking supervisors and managers had been on video calls, in packed restaurants, at home with families. 

If they were telling the truth, then this was one of the most well-orchestrated murders Detective Fernandez had ever seen. And that was what set his blood boiling. Someone was lying. 

"Albert, you're burning a hole in that board," Detective Eleanor Allan said, leaning against his desk, a coffee in one hand and an evidence file in the other. "Take a breath before you pop a blood vessel." 

"I'm fine," he snapped, but the way his jaw clenched said otherwise. "This doesn’t make sense. It’s too… perfect." 

Eleanor sighed. "I agree. But unless one of these alibis cracks, we’re running in circles." 

Albert stood abruptly, sending his chair skidding back. "Then we need to start over. We’re missing something." He snatched the file from her hands and flipped through it for what felt like the hundredth time. 

Marston was not a well-loved man. He was rich, arrogant, and had built his empire on stepping over others. He ran his company like a Roman emperor, ruling with absolute authority. If someone crossed him, they were exiled. If they pleased him, they were rewarded with wealth and power. It was no wonder someone wanted him dead. The problem was that everyone did. 

"Let’s go over it again," Albert said. "Marston’s assistant leaves for the night at 8:30 PM. He’s found dead at 10:47 PM by the janitor. Cause of death: twenty-seven stab wounds from multiple angles, meaning multiple attackers or one very methodical killer." 

"Surveillance?" Eleanor asked. 

Albert clenched his jaw. "Glitch at exactly 9:15 PM. Someone hacked the system and looped the footage. Classic move." 

Eleanor exhaled sharply. "And forensics says no foreign fingerprints, no DNA, no footprints. The place was scrubbed." 

"That means professionals or someone inside the company who knew how to clean up," Albert muttered. 

Eleanor flipped open her own notes. "The way he was dressed... that wasn't just murder, that was theater. Someone wanted to send a message." 

Albert’s hands balled into fists. "But which of these bastards pulled the knife first?" 

The rage simmered in his chest, a constant, relentless pressure. He felt like he was in a locked room with no doors, suffocating under the weight of this case. 

Then, something clicked. 

"Wait." Albert’s eyes darted back to the crime scene photos. He flipped through them, his pulse pounding in his ears. "Look at his face, Eleanor. What do you see?" 

She leaned in, brow furrowed. "He looks… surprised?" 

Albert shook his head. "No. He looks amused." 

Eleanor blinked. "Like he knew who was killing him." 

Albert’s mind raced. "Not just that. He was expecting it." 

They stared at each other for a long moment before Eleanor whispered, "A pact." 

Albert exhaled sharply. "That’s why everyone’s alibi holds up. Because everyone was guilty." 

The I Am Spartacus theory wasn’t just a theory anymore. It was the answer. 

Albert grabbed his coat. "Let’s get to Marston Global. If these bastards think they’re going to get away with it, they’re dead wrong." 

Eleanor grinned. "Now you’re talking." 

The fire inside Albert burned hotter. This time, it wasn’t frustration. It was determination.

The drive to Marston Global Holdings was silent, save for the occasional sound of Albert Fernandez’s fingers drumming against the steering wheel. His mind was running a mile a minute, each thought colliding into the next. Eleanor Allan sat beside him, flipping through her notes, retracing their steps. 

If their theory was right—if the entire board had conspired together—then they had one hell of a problem. No way to pin it on just one person, no weak link to squeeze. A perfect crime. 

But when they arrived at the towering glass headquarters of Marston Global and began questioning the board members again, the whole theory crumbled. 

Every alibi checked out, again. 

Nobody cracked, nobody wavered. 

There was no secret meeting, no whispered confessions, no sudden glances that hinted at a guilty conscience. If they had all participated, they weren’t giving a damn thing away. 

After three hours of wasted interrogations, Albert slammed his notebook shut and leaned back in his chair, seething. Eleanor, across from him, let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed her temples. 

"This isn’t it," she muttered. 

Albert clenched his jaw. "No kidding." 

They were back to square one. 

That night, at the precinct, Captain Marcus Bell strolled into the bullpen, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand. He took one look at Albert, who had his head in his hands, and Eleanor, who was furiously stabbing at a notepad with her pen, and smirked. 

"Judging by your faces, I’d say you two hit a wall." 

Albert grunted. "More like slammed into it at ninety miles an hour." 

Bell took a sip of his coffee. "You’re too focused on the board." 

Albert lifted his head, eyes narrowed. "You got something better?" 

Bell shrugged. "Just a thought. You ever stop to ask about Marston’s family?" 

Eleanor sat up. "His family?" 

"Yeah. The guy had one, didn’t he? A wife, a son, a daughter-in-law, a brother, three sisters, two brothers-in-law, two nephews, and a niece." Bell pulled out his phone and tapped a few times. "Word is, he wasn’t exactly brother of the year." 

Albert and Eleanor exchanged a glance. 

Bell continued, "Marston was the oldest. Thought that meant he was king of the family, just like he was king of his company. He got drunk on that power real quick. And guess what? He was slowly taking over his siblings’ portions of the family estate upstate. Expanding his mansion inch by inch, pushing the others out until all they’d have left were tiny strips of land, just big enough for an ADU or some dinky little house." 

Albert’s fingers curled into a fist. "You’re telling me this guy was gutting his own family’s inheritance?" 

Bell smirked. "That’s exactly what I’m telling you." 

Eleanor let out a low whistle. "And that, boys, is what we call motive." 

Albert felt the fire in his chest reignite. This wasn’t over. Not even close. 

"Let’s pay the Marston family a visit," he said, standing. "Something tells me they’ve got a lot to say."