Raymond's case has already become national spectacle in less than forty-eight hours. His face is everywhere, and everyone has an opinion. Well, not gonna lie, most of them certain.
But I don't care if he's guilty or not. I just need something heavy enough to make my mind work and my pulse move faster than usual. Strange? Maybe. But I've never been known for defending pickpockets or second-rate frauds. My clients… let's just say they're not dinner company. And somehow, there's always a certain satisfaction in pulling them out of holes meant to bury them alive.
But Raymond? This is the third hardest case I've ever taken.
And so far… I haven't found a single crack I can use to say the kid is innocent.
Today, I went to the district attorney's office. And I can see that Raymond's name was already on several desks before I even said it. I stop in front of a door labeled Evelyn Carter, District Attorney. I knock once and walk in without waiting.
She's already behind her desk, reading. Late thirties, composed, sharp—like someone who doesn't tolerate inefficiency. She glances up briefly, then back down.
"Campbell," she says flatly. "I knew you'd come."
"Of course," I reply, pulling a chair without asking. "A case this big? I'd be offended if I wasn't invited."
She exhales lightly, uninterested. "What do you want?"
"I want to say this is moving too fast."
Now she looks at me fully.
"You made Raymond your sole suspect in under two days. That's not precision—that's haste." I continue.
"We have enough evidence," she replies shortly.
"Evidence?" I raise a brow. "Or a narrative that conveniently fits?"
"Victim's blood on him. He fled the scene. Body parts found in his car." She closes the file calmly. "If that's not enough, I don't know what you're looking for."
"I'm looking for something that makes sense," I say lightly. "A motive, for example."
"The motive is clear."
"How clear?" I lean forward slightly. "Do you have a history between them? Conflict? Threats? Or is this just 'man meets woman, ends in brutal murder'?"
She watches me, expressionless.
"Not every murder comes with a clean background."
"Agreed," I nod. "But something like this?" I tap the desk lightly. "Decapitation isn't impulse. It's personal. Intense. And usually… it doesn't come out of nowhere."
She goes quiet for a moment, clearly holding back.
"We don't need your theories, Harold. We need facts."
"Facts also say this is too clean in some places and too messy in others," I reply. "That's an interesting combination."
"Interesting to you," she says coldly. "For us, it's enough for maximum charges."
I smile faintly.
"Life without parole?" I ask.
"If not more," she answers without hesitation.
I lean back, exhaling slowly, like I've just heard something expected.
"You should start with people close to Elena," I say. "Family, friends, exes—people with real reasons to hurt her."
"We already did."
"This fast?" I let out a quiet chuckle. "You're working faster than usual, Carter. I'm impressed."
The tone isn't entirely sincere.
"This case is clear," she says firmly. "You're just trying to blur it."
"I'm doing my job," I reply calmly. "Which is making sure you're not too confident in your own version of the story."
She watches me longer now, calm but sharp.
"You know your problem, Harold?"
"Several," I say lightly. "Be specific."
"You treat every case like a personal puzzle," she says. "Like the world owes you a surprise."
I smile faintly.
"And you settle too quickly for the first answer that looks right."
Silence settles between us, heavier now, but neither of us moves.
"I'm going to bring him down," she says finally, quiet but certain.
I stand, adjusting my suit.
"Maybe," I reply. "Or maybe you're sending the wrong man to rot for life."
I pause at the door, glancing back.
"Either way," I add casually, "this will be an interesting trial." I leave without waiting.
As far as I know about Raymond Gilmore, his life has never really gone anywhere. For the past seven years, he's worked as a central AC technician, moving from one building to another, fixing other people's air while his own life stays suffocating. The pay is low, unstable—honestly, not enough to build anything. So when he says his savings are sixty dollars and eight cents, I'm not surprised. If anything… it's consistent.
What's not so simple is his criminal record. Raymond served time at Red Rock State Penitentiary, Nevada, for aggravated assault. His victim, Andreas Rodriguez, never fully recovered—permanently paralyzed. Raymond did four years, and with a record like that, the easiest conclusion is obvious: he has anger issues.
And maybe that's true. But is anger enough to explain a man who decapitates a woman on the night of their date? I don't trust answers that come too easily.What makes this even more… interesting is the victim herself.
Elena Vance. She's twenty-four. She's clean on the surface, but dig a little deeper and she's no less damaged than Raymond. At sixteen, she burned down her uncle's house. The fire killed his wife and his children. The case was big enough to land her in juvenile detention, followed by rehab because she was under the influence at the time.
She got out eight months ago. Yes, eight months ago Long enough to start over… or to repeat old patterns.
The next day, I stand in front of the forensic lab with a cup of coffee gone cold in my hand. The smell of antiseptic hits me the moment I step inside.
"If you're here to cause trouble, Harold, I haven't had enough coffee yet," the old woman's voice cuts in before I even see her.
Grace Damond.
Her hair is almost entirely gray now, tied back carelessly, and her expression… like someone who's been dealing with people like me for the past twenty years.
"Always a pleasure to see you too, Grace," I reply casually, setting the file on her desk.
She rolls her eyes. "What is it this time? Don't tell me you want to argue about DNA again."
"No," I say, pulling a chair without asking. "Something simpler."
"With you? I doubt anything is simple."
I open the file and slide a few lab reports toward her.
"Raymond Gilmore," I say. "I need you to take another look."
She glances at it. "I already did. He's clean. No alcohol, no common narcotics. You've got the same report I do."
"I know," I answer calmly. "That's why I'm here."
She exhales and takes the file more seriously this time. "What are you looking for, Harold?"
I lean back slightly. "He says he doesn't remember anything from that night."
Grace lets out a quiet scoff. "Everyone says that."
"I know," I cut in. "But I've seen cases like this before."
She stops flipping the pages and looks at me. "Go on."
"There are certain substances," I say quietly, "that, once in the system… can cause a complete blackout. No memory at all. Even hours before the incident."
Grace narrows her eyes slightly. "You're talking about anesthetics?"
"Not the kind used in hospitals." I lean forward. "Something more… specific. Midazolam. Or other benzodiazepine variants in certain doses."
The room falls silent for a secong before Grace closes the file slowly, then crosses her arms.
"If that's what you're looking for," she says flatly, "it won't show up on standard screening."
I smile faintly. "Exactly the answer I was hoping for."
"But," she adds quickly, "that doesn't mean he was exposed. You'd need a deeper toxicology test. And timing matters—substances like that leave the system fast."
"I know."
"How soon was the sample taken?" she asks.
"A few hours after he was arrested."
She nods slightly, thinking now.
"Still possible," she mutters. "But we'd be looking for metabolites, not the original compound. And that…" she glances at me, "requires a formal request. I don't run that just because you have a hunch."
I smile wider.
"Grace," I say casually, "since when do I come here without a plan?"
She studies me for a long moment.
"You have a basis?" she asks.
I tap the file lightly.
"A man with no alcohol, no drugs, suddenly wakes up at a brutal crime scene with zero memory," I shrug. "If that's not a red flag to you, I'm starting to worry about your standards."
She snorts. "Don't try to provoke me."
"Too easy," I reply.
Grace exhales, then pulls the file back.
"I'll see what I can do," she says finally. "No promises."
"I don't need promises," I say, standing. "I just need possibilities."
She glances at me again. "And if it comes back clean?"
I pause at the door, then look back slightly.
"Then we go back to the beginning," I say quietly then open the door.
"And that means," I add before stepping out, "the kid's in serious trouble."
Raymond has been transferred to Kings County Detention Center in Brooklyn. A place too crowded for human standards and too loud for sanity. After leaving Grace's lab, I went straight there, stopping briefly to pick up one small thing—Snickers. Becaas his lawyer for the past two days I know Raymond has a sweet tooth.
And when Raymond is brought in to the private visitation room, I barely recognize him.His face is bruised in several places, his lip split, and the way he walks… slightly uneven.
"What happened?" I ask flatly.
Raymond doesn't answer right away. He doesn't even look at me. His jaw tightens, his eyes empty like someone too exhausted to be angry.
"You know with a case like this, I'm a walking target," he says finally. "Everyone here thinks I killed a woman, raped her, and cut off her head." He exhales shortly. "What did you expect?"
Hm, fair enough.
I don't respond. I just slide the Snickers toward him. He grabs it quickly, tears the wrapper open, and takes a bite like it's the first real thing he's had in two days.
"They jumped me," he says between bites. "I asked for protective custody. The guards refused."
"Yeah, Raymond," I say quietly. "You need to hold on."
He looks at me with angry look.
"Hold on?!" His voice rises, "You're a terrible lawyer, Harold. What does that even mean? I could die after this conversation, and you just go on with your life!"
I raise a hand slightly. "Alright. Calm down—"
"Calm down?!" he lets out a rough laugh. "You don't know someone tried to kill me last night?!"
"I know now," I reply quickly. "And I'm working on it."
"Doing what?" he scoffs. "Giving me a Snickers? Fuck you, Harold!"
I let out a short breath. "Come here. Show me your hands."
He doesn't move.
"I'm not joking, Raymond."
Still nothing. So I grab his arm myself, firm enough that he can't pull away. I examine both hands. There are scratches on the some spot, and nail marks. Not deep, but enough to show there was a struggle.
"Not this," I mutter.
I stand slightly and reach for the back of his head. He immediately resists.
"Stay still," I say quietly, tapping his head just enough to make him stop.
I push his hair aside, checking along his neck, just below the jawline. And there—a small mark. Almost invisible unless you know what you're looking for.
"Found it," I say.
"What the hell does that mean?" His voice sounds confused.
"Injection mark," I reply flatly. "On your neck."
He pulls away instantly and touches the spot, his fingers stopping right on it.
"I don't remember that," he mutters.
"Of course you don't," I say quietly. "That's the point."