As a black Toyota Camry pulled up to the RPD police station, the driver's door opened, and a tall, lean man with blonde hair and yellow eyes stepped out. He was wearing a blue shirt tucked into blue jeans. He climbed the station's steps, his expression betraying a mix of determination and nerves.
Inside, the station was alive with the sounds of ringing phones and officers chatting—about cases, their day, or personal matters. As the man walked through the bustling station, a middle-aged officer holding a cup of coffee intercepted him. The officer, clad in a leather jacket and black jeans, looked to be in his fifties, maybe older.
"Ya lost, kid?" the officer asked, narrowing his eyes.
"N-no, I'm Detective J-Jacob Collins," the young man replied, extending his hand for a handshake.
The older man shook his hand firmly before taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm Sergeant Hayes—John David Harrison Hayes."
"That's... a unique name, sir. No offense," Collins said, forcing a smile.
"None taken," Hayes replied. "Now, let me show you the investigation room where you'll waste sixty years of your life," he added with a dry chuckle as he led the way.
As Sergeant Hayes guided him, Detective Jacob Collins couldn't help but feel uneasy. It was his first day, and the thought of "wasting sixty years" here wasn't exactly inspiring. This wasn't what he'd imagined when he joined the force. Though he had a bright mind, he was still just a regular human, not some tireless machine.
"Ya nervous, kid?" Hayes asked, glancing back at the rookie.
"Well... a bit," Jacob admitted, his voice slightly trembling. "This is my first assignment... a-after the academy."
"Hah," Hayes chuckled, taking another sip of coffee. "You'll get used to it."
He pushed open a door marked "INVESTIGATIONS." The room smelled of coffee, ink, and old paper. Piles of files and paperwork, seemingly untouched since the Reagan Administration, cluttered the corners. Bulletin boards covered with crime scene photos, suspect sketches, and red strings created a chaotic vibe.
"Detective Hensley!" Hayes called out. "Got a newbie for you."
From behind a cluttered desk near the window, a man stood up. He was tall, rugged, and looked like he'd stepped out of a high-fashion magazine. With sharp cheekbones, sun-kissed blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Brad Pitt in his prime. Dressed in a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark slacks, he exuded effortless cool.
"So, you're the rookie, huh?" the man asked as he approached.
"Jacob Collins, sir," Collins said, extending his hand for a handshake.
"Mike Hensley. Most people just call me Hensley," the man replied, shaking Jacob's hand firmly. "Rule number one, kid—don't try to keep up with the sergeant's coffee consumption. The only thing you'll get is paranoia and jittery hands."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir," Jacob replied with a nod and a smile.
Hayes chuckled. "Don't listen to him. Hensley's a joker, but he's the best detective we've got. You'll learn a lot from him—if he doesn't drive you crazy first."
"Speaking of driving," Hensley said, grabbing a file, "there's been a homicide near the driving range."
Hayes turned to Jacob. "Ya sure you're ready for a homicide on the go? Maybe try a robbery first."
Jacob smiled and shook his head. "No, sir. I'm ready."
"Perfect. The rookie's got fire in him," Hensley said as he led the way out.
******
Hensley parked his car near the taped-off crime scene. Officers and forensic experts were busy taking photos and collecting samples. The range was deserted except for officers speaking with a few onlookers. Moments later, Collins arrived, parking near Hensley. He wore his gloves and approached the body.
"What do you see, rookie?" Hensley asked as he surveyed the scene.
Jacob took a deep breath, trying to focus. This was his first real crime scene. The air smelled of blood, dirt, and freshly trimmed grass. His heart raced, but he calmed himself and observed the details.
"Eleven stab wounds," Jacob said, his voice steady but quiet. "The neck wound came first—it's clean and precise, likely made by a sharp blade, maybe a knife. The stab wounds are chaotic... possibly a crime of passion."
Hensley crouched beside him, inspecting the body, then called an officer for the victim's information.
"His name is John Kenth, age thirty-six, married to Jesse Lawrence, and worked as a real estate agent," the officer reported while looking through a tablet.
Jacob stood and scanned the area, observing the onlookers and officers. "He's dressed well, so he wasn't here for golf. No defensive wounds on his hands... he didn't fight back. That means he likely knew his attacker or was caught off guard."
"That means it was either a friend, family member, or, most likely, a client," Hensley remarked as he stood.
Jacob continued his examination. Near the edge of the range, he noticed a faint tire track in the mud. Nearby, he found a small piece of cloth in the grass. Carefully picking it up with gloved hands, he sniffed it. "Smells of rose... a piece of a dress, most likely. It belongs to a female."
He then checked the body's pockets and found a strand of hair. Using forceps, he placed it in a ziplock bag. A small piece of green cloth caught on a nearby fence also caught his attention.
"This one has no perfume scent, and the victim isn't wearing green. That means another person was here—a male," Jacob concluded. He handed the hair sample to an officer. "Send it to forensics."
"So, Collins, what you're telling me is the poor man was killed by a couple?" Hensley asked.
Jacob took a deep breath. "This was planned. John Kenth was lured here, likely by someone he trusted—his wife, Jesse Lawrence. The clean neck wound suggests precision, probably the male's work. The chaotic stabbings afterward? That was her—emotional, angry."
Hensley raised an eyebrow. "And the timeline?"
Jacob pointed to the blood. "The body's been here for at least eight hours. That places the murder around midnight. If we pull phone records and check her alibi, I'm betting it'll fall apart."
Hensley chuckled, impressed. "Not bad... not bad at all."
An officer approached them with a phone. "Jesse Lawrence has arrived at the station for questioning."
Hensley smirked. "Hear that? If your theory's right, you might just be the next Sherlock."
"Thank you, sir," Jacob replied, smiling. For the first time, he felt at ease.
******
The interrogation room was cold, its harsh fluorescent lights casting stark shadows on the gray walls. Jesse Lawrence sat at the table with her arms crossed defensively. She was in her early thirties, her appearance polished and composed, though her eyes betrayed nervousness.
Detectives Hensley and Collins entered the room, carrying a folder containing crime details.
"Mrs. Lawrence," Collins began, taking a seat, "thank you for coming in. We know this must be a difficult time for you."
Jesse's lips tightened. "Difficult doesn't begin to cover it. My husband is dead, and you're wasting time asking me questions instead of finding the monster who did this."
Collins observed her carefully—her tone, body language, and the tears in her eyes. Her words were laced with sadness, but they felt rehearsed.
Hensley placed his hands on the table and leaned in slightly. "Mrs. Lawrence, where were you during the murder?"
Jesse stiffened. "I was sleeping at home."
"The whole night?" Collins asked, leaning forward.
"Yes," she replied.
Collins slid a photo across the table. It showed a piece of a dress found at the crime scene.
"That's a piece of your dress," Hensley said, crossing his arms.
"How do you know?" Jesse asked, her face briefly paling.
"You wear Diptyque Eau Rose perfume, don't you?" Collins asked, leaning in further.
"What does that have to do with anything?" she retorted, her voice rising.
"Because we found it on that piece of cloth," Hensley said, stepping closer.
"T-that doesn't prove anything! Anyone can have that perfume!" she yelled.
"Of course," Collins replied calmly. "But not everyone is married to the victim. And not everyone would leave a torn piece of their dress, reeking of their signature perfume, at the crime scene."
Her hands clenched tightly on the table. "This is absurd! I've done nothing wrong!"
"Stop lying to us lady," Hensley said, sliding another photo across the table—this one of tire tracks. "These tracks match your car. You said you didn't leave your house, but your neighbors report hearing and seeing your car leave."
"Also a hair was found in the bodies pockets and when we sent it to forensics the results showed that it belongs to one Jesse Lawrence," Collins said and he slid the document with the report to Mrs Lawrence.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she stammered, "I... I wasn't alone! My friend came over late! We went for a drive!"
Collins tilted his head, studying her. "Your friend. A man, perhaps? Someone you might have confided in about your husband's temper? Someone who might have helped you 'resolve' things?"
Hensley leaned against the wall. "Listen, lady, if you confess and tell us who your buddy was, we can work to get your sentence lowered."
Mrs. Lawrence remained silent for several minutes as the detectives left the room to let her think about her choices.