When a call came over the radio that a murder had taken place, Detective Hill was relieved. During his tenure as a police officer, he witnessed every version of depravity and his attitude towards death had hardened, though this was the first time he reacted with anticipatory giddiness. In a few days, the retirement forced upon him would become official. He hoped a lengthy investigation extended a career that he didn’t want to end.

A few weeks earlier, when summonsed to the police commissioner’s office, his sixth sense tingled. After a storied career with many commendations, he knew to always trust his gut. It never steered him wrong. The topic of retirement was sure to come up but it wasn’t an issue he wanted to think about, much less discuss. The moment he walked into the office, Detective Hill interrupted the initial pleasantries with an agenda of his own.

“No party,” he insisted.

“C’mon, you know it’s a required part of the job,” the commissioner pushed back. “You earned it.”

“Required? Does that mean you’ll fire me if I don’t attend?”

“Well, no. Of course not.”

“Then take lots of pictures and send me a postcard. I won’t be there.”

The only thing worse than leaving a job that he loved was the retirement party. They always felt like a reception held after a funeral. A time for surviving loved ones to reminisce about their loss while breathing a sigh of relief that they weren’t the ones in the casket. Retirement was the death of an occupation.

The detective found the rhythm of an active investigation comforting. Every crime different, each was a puzzle that needed to be solved. He was never the smartest person in the room and didn’t need to be. As long as he followed his gut and whichever direction the clues led, then his clearance rate of solved cases remained high. The job, even when he failed, always provided balance to his life. It was his calling.

There was a delicate symmetry to police work. Every investigation had a criminal and a victim. Most of those who committed crimes were brought to some version of justice. Sometimes street justice prevailed. The few that escaped a guilty verdict were often arrested for subsequent crimes. The poor were jailed, the rich set free, and police were universally hated every time one officer stepped beyond an acceptable measure of force. The system wasn’t perfect but at least it prevented anarchy.

Detective Hill parked his car just beyond the cordoned off section of police tape. It was rare for a violent crime to occur in the upscale neighborhood that surrounded the house. Most of the complaints from this section of the city were for vandalism or petty theft but that was immaterial. His experience had proven that any crime could take place in any neighborhood, just as anyone, if pushed far enough, could commit the most heinous act.

Before stepping out of the vehicle, he looked out his windshield at the parade of onlookers who stood nearby with a voyeuristic curiosity. Several officers lined the perimeter of the scene to keep the general public at a distance. A few reporters insisted on answers to questions that were premature to ask. The light bars on top of a half dozen police cars filled the area with red and blue illumination.

Elated at the thought of approaching a fresh crime scene, the detective stifled a smile as he walked towards the house. Sprawled out on the front porch lay the victim. Hovering over the lifeless body, the medical examiner was finishing and covered the body with a cloth sheet to shield it from view.

“Got anything for me, doc?” the detective asked.

“Pretty straight forward. Gunshot victim,” he replied. “But I’ll have more after the autopsy.”

“It was a burglary gone wrong.”

The detective turned towards the voice. In the doorway stood Officer Cunningham, a rookie on the force. A third generation police officer, his efforts were well intentioned, even though he still had a lot to learn.

“How many times have I told you?” Detective Hill replied. “Leave the detecting to the detectives.”

“The suspect has already admitted to it. But you’re never going to believe whose house this is.”

The pair walked towards the back of the house, to the kitchen, where several officers loitered around the suspect. Sitting in a chair, distraught, was the police commissioner.

“It was self defense!” he blurted without provocation. “Mother fucker tried to break into my home.”

The detective turned towards the officer and asked, “Did you secure the weapon and mirandize him?”

“Why would I read him his rights?” asked Officer Cunningham as he raised a sealed evidence bag with a gun inside.

The detective sighed as he walked across the room. When he approached the commissioner, two uniformed officers blocked his path. Standing defiant with arms crossed across their chest, they stood on each side of Detective Hill, sandwiching him in between. Undeterred, the detective recited the Miranda rights amidst loud protestations by the commissioner. The other officers in the room grunted in support of their unified disapproval.

“The law is the law. Nobody gets a free pass,” the detective reminded. He looked around the room before returning his gaze to the commissioner. “I need the room. Gimme five minutes alone with him.”

The officers turned to look in the direction of the commissioner, who nodded in agreement. After the last officer exited the home, the commissioner jumped to his feet.

“You’re arresting me?”

“I’m not gonna end my career in controversy. We have to play this by the book.”

“It was self defense!”

“Not for me to decide. You’re gonna come with me to the station for questions. After the district attorney weighs in, we’ll go from there.”

“And if I don’t?”

The detective stepped closer and said, “Then I’m gonna drag your ass outta here kickin’ and screamin’. It’ll make for a great headline in tomorrow’s paper.”

After weighing his options, the commissioner agreed.

“Fine, but we’re not done talking about this. I still own you for a couple of days.”

The commissioner walked to the front door but hesitated before opening it. Detective Hill reached out from behind and placed his hand on the commissioner’s shoulder. He offered a supportive squeeze before guiding him through the doorway.

Outside the home, the crowd had swelled to double in size. Every available officer now stood in stern observance of the spectacle. All eyes turned towards the front porch. After descending down the first few concrete steps, the commissioner turned to face the detective.

In near unison, most of the crowd shouted, “Surprise!”

Confused, the detective looked at the commissioner, then back to where the gunshot victim lay. The motionless body stood to reveal it was a plain clothes detective with fake blood smeared on his shirt.

“You wouldn’t go to the party so I had the party come to you,” the commissioner explained with a smile. “You were really going to arrest me, weren’t you?”

The stone faced detective leaned in and whispered, “I still might. Filing a false police report is a crime.”

Locked in a gaze, the two men stared at one another without flinching. The detective was no less adamant about his statement as the commissioner was when pleading his innocence. A few minutes later, a smirk appeared on Detective Hill’s face. It was the perfect end to a wonderful career, one he was already starting to miss.