Chapter 1: The Knock at My Door

Early in the morning, I sat on the faded couch, giving my daughter a bottle when the sharp clatter of voices and footsteps rattled through the hallway. Instinctively, I shifted my body to shield her, heart thumping like I’d just heard a car backfire in the middle of the night. A sudden memory flashed: the last time cops came to our building, it ended in handcuffs and broken glass two floors down. My grip on my daughter tightened, my mind racing with worry and a fierce, parental protectiveness.

Someone pounded on my door. The hallway’s faded blue carpet and dented mailboxes did nothing to soften the tension. The air was thick with nervous buzz—muffled voices, the bark of a police radio, hurried footsteps. I cradled my daughter closer, feeling her tiny hands clutch my shirt as I tried to calm the sudden spike of anxiety tightening my chest.

I opened the door. Two police officers stood there. The front door to 316—my neighbors—was wide open, officers coming and going. Near the elevator, a crowd had gathered: property management and anxious neighbors, all shifting from foot to foot, coffee mugs clutched like lifelines.

The hallway reeked faintly of bleach and something metallic. Yellow tape fluttered in the A/C draft. People whispered in clusters, peering around corners, the sense of dread almost physical—like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, my voice coming out smaller than I’d like. I shifted my daughter to my hip, trying to keep my tone steady.

The middle-aged officer pointed up at the security camera above my door. “We need your help with an investigation. Is your security camera working okay? Have you noticed anything weird on it lately?”

His tone was polite, but there was steel underneath—a reminder that this wasn’t a friendly visit. His badge gleamed on his belt, his uniform crisp enough to make me stand up a little straighter.

“Of course, I’ll cooperate. Here’s the backup from my home security system. Please take a look.”

My hands trembled a bit as I pulled out my phone and opened the security app’s playback feature. The blue glow of the screen reflected on the officer’s face as he leaned in, the loading icon spinning, my nerves stretching tighter with every second.

The younger officer took my phone, while the middle-aged one kept his eyes on me. He made small talk: “Mind if I come in and sit for a bit?”

He gave me that practiced, reassuring smile cops use to put people at ease, but I could see him scanning everything—my posture, my daughter’s fussing, the pile of toys and laundry baskets behind me. I hesitated, glancing at the living room—scattered baby toys, half-folded laundry, a bottle drying on the counter. I didn’t love the idea of a stranger near my daughter, but refusing felt worse. Reluctantly, I stepped aside and let him in.

He looked around, his gaze landing on my daughter. “Your little girl is adorable. How old is she?”

He crouched down to her level, offering a goofy smile that made her giggle despite the tension. For a moment, his face softened—the detective’s mask slipping, and I caught a glimpse of the dad or uncle underneath. My guard dropped for a second, a memory of my own father flickering through my mind, mixed with a pang of loneliness that sometimes comes with being a stay-at-home parent.

“Eleven months,” I said, managing a small smile.

“Almost time for her first birthday, huh?” he grinned, hinting at the big family party tradition. He played with her for a moment, then asked, “Is it just you at home? Where’s her mom?”

There was a flicker of concern in his voice, probing gently. I could almost picture him at a backyard barbecue, talking about teething and sleepless nights over the fence.

“She got upset and went back to her parents’ place,” I replied, voice tight.

The officer chuckled. “Young couples shouldn’t fight so much. By the way, what do you do for a living? It’s a workday, but you’re home.”

He perched on the edge of the couch, glancing at the framed photos on the mantel—my wife and I at Niagara Falls, my daughter’s first steps, the goofy Halloween costumes. I tried to sound casual. “I write from home—mostly suspense novels these days. Take care of the baby too, so I don’t need to go out for work.”

He looked genuinely interested. “No kidding? That’s pretty cool. Wish I had time to read anything besides case files.”

There was a wistful glimmer in his eyes—like he’d once dreamed of a quieter life. “What kind of stories do you write? Got a pen name?”

“Mostly suspense lately. My pen name’s ‘Nightfall.’”

He nodded, as if making a mental note, then his tone shifted: “How do you get along with your neighbors?”

His fingers drummed lightly on his notepad, the switch from friendly to investigative almost imperceptible. I let my frustration show. “Honestly? Not great. That’s why I put up the camera in the first place. They’re always complaining or trying to get free stuff out of people. It’s been a nightmare.”

The words tumbled out, my old resentment bubbling up. The officer just listened, his face unreadable, but I saw a flicker of sympathy—maybe he’d had nightmare neighbors too.

After venting, I asked, “With all this commotion, did something happen to them?”

“They were murdered,” the officer said bluntly, sizing me up. “How long have you had the camera at your door?”

His words hit me like a punch. My mouth went dry, my palms went clammy, and I suddenly tasted copper in my mouth. My daughter gurgled in the background, blissfully unaware.

“Almost a year. Back in February, when my daughter had colic and cried at night, they banged on my door, accused us of disturbing them, tried to force us to move. I argued, got slapped. After the police mediated, I put up the camera.”

I felt the sting of that old fight—the shaking hands dialing 911, the embarrassment of explaining to the cops that a crying baby wasn’t a crime. The officer just nodded, scribbling notes.

He pressed, “Really? Any more conflicts since then?”

“Of course,” I said, my voice sharp. “I’ve called the police five or six times. Every time, it’s just mediation, and then they keep causing trouble. That’s why my wife left for her parents’.”

He looked up from his notepad, sympathy and skepticism mixing in his eyes.

He raised his eyebrows. “When was your last conflict? What was it about?”

I replied impatiently, “I don’t remember. Wait—you think I did this?”

My pulse hammered in my ears. The officer’s gaze stayed steady—calm, unreadable.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t overthink it, just routine questions. You write crime novels—you know, when there’s a homicide, we have to be thorough and collect every clue.”

Suddenly I felt like a character in one of my own thrillers—backed into a corner by a detective who wouldn’t let go.

“Then you’re asking the wrong person. We haven’t spoken in months. I always go out when they’re not home. I don’t know anything about their affairs. If there’s nothing else, I need to put my daughter to sleep.”

I shifted my weight, making it clear the conversation was over. My daughter rubbed her eyes, sensing my tension.

The officer didn’t argue. He called to his colleague, who finished backing up my phone and handed it back.

The officers thanked me and slipped out, leaving the room emptier than before. I stood by the door, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

At noon, after giving my daughter a bottle and coaxing her to sleep, I slipped out quietly.

I tiptoed past the creaky floorboard by the crib, careful not to wake her, then grabbed my keys and headed for the hallway, trying to shake off the unease clinging to me.

Police were still busy at 316. I found my neighbor from 314 and quietly asked, “Mike, what’s going on? How did a murder happen in our nice building?”

Mike’s the king of gossip around here—he gets along with everyone. As soon as I asked, he leaned in, coffee breath and all, lowering his voice like we were in a high school locker room.

“Who knows who the Johnsons ticked off? The killer was vicious. I heard the cops say they only found their heads in the fridge—nothing else. Nobody knows where the rest of them went.”

I frowned. “That can’t be. Our building has cameras everywhere—elevators, stairwells, parking lot. How could the bodies just vanish?”

The thought made my skin crawl. I glanced around at the humming fluorescents, the security mirrors in every corner. It felt impossible—and yet, here we were.

Mike whispered, “That’s why the killer’s so skilled. Building management said the cops watched every second of security footage—nobody even walked past their door. Now the police think it’s someone from our floor who dismembered the bodies and flushed them down the toilet. They’re getting ready to pump the septic tank.”

He slapped his thigh. “Oh, right! They’ll have to cut the water to do that. Better fill your tub and every pot you’ve got. With a baby, you can’t risk running out.”

Mike hustled off, muttering about needing to fill his bathtub. I stood there a moment longer, my mind racing through worst-case scenarios—the logistics, the implications, the fear that now tainted every corner of our once-safe home.

I turned to go home, feeling the eyes of other neighbors burning into my back. Paranoia was infectious, and it spread quickly in close quarters.

Before I could go in, the middle-aged officer from the morning stopped me. “Derek, wait a second.”

He called me by name—he must have checked my info. As I stood at my door, a neighbor peeked out from behind their door, eyes wide, before quickly slamming it shut.

Detective Carter showed his badge and smiled. “This morning was a bit rushed, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Detective Sam Carter from the homicide unit, in charge of this case.”

He extended his hand for a practiced, firm handshake. For a moment, it felt like a scene from Law & Order in my own hallway.

“Hello, Detective Carter. Is there something you need?” I said, polite but wary.

He pointed toward my living room. “Can we talk inside?”

I blocked the door. “No, my daughter’s napping.” My tone was guarded—protective, maybe even defiant. He nodded, glancing at the silent baby monitor blinking on the table.

“True, kids are light sleepers. Let’s not disturb her. I just have a few more questions.”

He came closer, body camera aimed at me, and asked, “Since you installed your camera, has it ever been moved?”

I said, “Didn’t I give you the backup? Can’t you see if it was moved?”

He replied, “We checked, but it only records the last seven days. Everything before that was overwritten.”

I shrugged. “Can’t help that. I only put it up to stop them from causing trouble. Didn’t need a lot of storage. What exactly do you want to ask?”

My patience was wearing thin, but I tried to keep my irritation in check. Across the hall, someone’s dog barked, breaking the tension for a second.

Suddenly, Carter’s tone turned cold. “Do you know the code to 316’s electronic lock?”

I rolled my eyes. “Detective Carter, seriously? Who would give their door code to a neighbor?” Then it hit me. “Wait—you think I did this?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at me, as if trying to read something from my face.

I snapped, “Come on, let’s be reasonable. I had conflicts with them, sure, but I’d never murder and dismember someone. My daughter’s still so young—how could I throw my life away over a neighbor dispute?”

Detective Carter waved his hand. “Don’t be nervous. I’m just asking.”

“Just asking? This is straight-up suspicion! That was a brutal murder and dismemberment. Do I look like I have the guts?” My voice echoed in the hallway. More neighbors poked their heads out, then quickly disappeared back inside.

Detective Carter said flatly, “I don’t know about others, but you definitely have the guts. I just checked—you went to med school and worked as a surgeon for a few years. Dismemberment might be too much for most, but for a surgeon, it’s nothing.”

I felt my cheeks burn. Just because I knew my way around a scalpel didn’t mean I was a monster. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to shout.

“You… you…”

Seeing his ‘you’re the murderer’ look, I was shaking with anger. But I quickly calmed down and shot back, “Impressive background check. Yes, I was a doctor, and I did plenty of dissections in college, but does being a doctor mean I’d kill and dismember someone? Why are you even suspecting me? Do you have any evidence?”

I looked him straight in the eye, letting the frustration and exhaustion bleed into my voice. I was sick of being boxed in by suspicion, just because my resume made for a good plot twist.

Detective Carter pointed at 316’s door. “We examined the scene. The doors and windows were all intact, so there’s only one possibility…”

I cut him off. “Someone knew the code and used it to open the door, right? And because I installed a camera, you think I know their code? Please, look at the camera’s position. I put it on the south wall, their door faces north. No matter the angle, you can’t see their electronic lock.”

I gritted my teeth. “Detective Carter, next time do your homework before questioning me. You suspect I killed and dismembered them and flushed their bodies down the septic tank? Then check our recent water usage first—see if anything’s off.”

Detective Carter suddenly smiled. “You really know your stuff—even thinking about checking water usage. That’s right, we already checked. Nothing unusual. That’s why I’m here.”

Before I could say anything, he patted my shoulder with a grin. “Alright, don’t be upset. I believe you didn’t do it, but this is my job. Gotta follow procedure.”

A beat of silence hung between us. But I could tell he was still watching, still waiting for me to slip up.

Detective Carter’s sudden change in tone left me a bit lost, so I asked, “If there’s no problem, why are you looking for me?”

He looked a bit embarrassed. “I want to ask you for a favor.”

“A favor? What kind?” I was even more confused.

He chuckled. “I skimmed your novels this morning. All about perfect crimes—very impressive.”

His tone was lighter now, almost friendly, but I knew better than to let my guard down. I almost laughed—what next, ask me to sign his copy of my book?

“To be honest, your neighbors’ case is a tough one. Aside from the two heads, there’s not a scrap of body tissue left. The floors, walls, furniture—spotless. Even the security system your building brags about, I’ve combed through it over and over—nothing suspicious. The killer just vanished into thin air, so…”

He paused, giving me a half-smile. “You’ve written so many perfect crime stories, you must understand criminal psychology and methods. Consider me owing you a favor—help me analyze how the murderer got in and made the bodies disappear without a trace.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. In another life, maybe we would have traded theories over coffee at the local diner instead of in this tense, fluorescent-lit hallway.