“Today, I died.”
“That’s what the coroner will say, anyway.”
Homicide victims rarely talk to police detectives. One would hope the detective assigned to the case gathers clues, interviews witnesses, and applies some semblance of deductive reasoning. Hopefully, not while hungover and not swamped with open cases.
For a detective, murder is rarely as complex as it seems. No grand conspiracy. No mastermind. If a husband winds up dead and the wife had motive, odds are she did it or knows who did.
For my sins, or luck of the draw, they gave my case to Hugh Davers. Oldest on the force. Counting days to retirement. The precinct’s most incompetent detective.
Except, this time, the body on the slab is mine.
“Open and shut,” the captain told Hugh. “File on my desk by end of shift.”
I wasn’t optimistic. Hugh’s chair groaned under him like it knew better.
The victim’s name was Dolly, a wanna be social influencer. They used to be called a ‘stringer’. Someone who would attend local school board or town hall committee meetings, take a couple of pictures and turn in the copy late that night. If there was room, the editor would include the picture, but most of the time, it was one paragraph way in the back of a local paper. But the internet killed off local papers, there are only a few regional papers remaining. It is difficult to find local news anymore.
Every young person now gets any information they need from their cell phone, listening to podcasts or TikTok influencers.
Social media influencers. What the frick is this world coming to? Dancers, singers, have hundreds of millions of followers. Dolly had about three hundred. But she wasn’t lip-syncing or doing beauty tutorials. She was asking questions. And that made people uneasy.
At the county planning commission meeting, she asked the wrong question to the wrong official. Hours later, she was dead. The press called it a tragic accident: an undocumented drunk driver hit her as she crossed the street in front of her apartment.
The phrasing alone made it national news. Right-wing outlets demanded more deportations. Left-wing ones countered with policy debate. Everyone talked about the driver. No one asked about Dolly. Within two days, the story vanished, swallowed by a louder headline. That’s what they wanted.
I did the usual. Interviews, background checks. Her apartment was spotless, unnaturally so, except for one thing: an empty birdcage with fake droppings on a newspaper lining. Taped beneath it, her journal.
Dolly didn’t just ask questions. She kept receipts.
Planning commissioners greased by developers. Developers bankrolling state reps. Reps feeding senators and governors. All flowing upward like dirty water through pipes, stopping, well, who knows where. Ever wonder why traffic is getting worse?—piss poor planning, someone was getting paid. But Dolly suspected more. Much more. Millions in campaign funds. Votes bought. Bills being ghostwritten. Laws shaped quietly by unelected hands.
And the President? Just another puppet on a string.
Who was pulling the strings?
The captain wanted the case closed. But Dolly had named names. And I was not ready.
I gathered them together using my best Benoit Blanc imitation. County officials, state reps, the captain, two detectives. Every major player Dolly had flagged. I laid it all out. All the pieces to the puzzle. Dates. Donations. Locations. I thought the weight of it would crack someone open.
But I misread the room.
People underestimated Dolly because of her low follower count. I thought the truth would be enough. Instead, I gave them what they needed.
A scapegoat.
The final piece.
I saw who pulled the trigger.
The captain shot me again before I hit the ground.
Case closed.
“Today, I died.”
“The upload was supposed to be seamless.”
If you like what you are reading, or not, let me know:
Excellent social commentary. I love the reference to Benoit Blanc 🔍
Well done. So proud of you!