Chapter 1
Murder In June
The line inside of the brightly sunlit bakery wasn't long, yet the front cashier's casual pace meant that Robbie had now been waiting for over ten minutes, with three people still ahead of him. He rubbed his tired eyes and checked his phone again, making sure he was getting the order correctly. It was 10:00 am on a Tuesday morning, and he was on his second day of working as a Postmates food delivery boy.
This was the week of his birthday, and working for Postmates was certainly was not how he imagined he'd be celebrating 26. In his version of events, he was supposed to be an accomplished actor by now, with three top hit movies under his belt, and spending this week popping champagne and enjoying life with his boyfriend Michael, preferably somewhere exoticÑTurks and Caicos perhaps. What he had not anticipated in any of his fantasy dream scenarios for the future was a brutal and nasty breakup with Michael, and a complete and utter lack of booking any serious acting gigs. After six years of grinding away in Hollywood, his biggest claim to fame was a toothpaste commercial, after which his career came to a screeching halt. With his life going nowhere fast, and his roommate hassling him for rent money, Robbie installed the Postmates app on his phone one night and decided to spend a few weeks earning some extra cash, just to hold him over. Just until he could figure out the next viable option.
His phone indicated that "Casey" had ordered three croissants, two chocolate and one almond. Robbie could not imagine having enough money to pay for a delivery of three croissants. Maybe in the alternate universe where he was a famous actor, but not now when he had to scrounge up pennies for Top Ramen. Yet the worst part of it all was that his parents had been right about everything all along. They warned him that he was living in la la land, wasting time and money on a silly dream that was never going to come true, and that he lacked any sort of practicality. They predicted this very exact thing happening. Soon enough, Robbie would have to move back to his hometown and shamefully admit defeat, then hear a, "We told you so" from his parents, who did in fact tell him so many times, and go work a 9-5 somewhere miserable. The thought was depressing enough to make Robbie wince.
"Next," the cashier cheerfully called out, and at last Robbie moved to the front of the line.
"Hi, picking up a Postamates order forÉ" he checked his phone again, "Casey, order number 403." Instead of moving, the cashier stood behind the register looking at him with curiosity.
"Where do I know you from?" she asked. This was his least favorite question in the world to answer.
"Uhh, I don't knowÉ" he replied, smiling and hoping she'd just hand him the bag with the croissants.
"Are you on TV?"
"Nope," he replied politely, but felt himself growing impatient. She kept on staring, trying to decipher this apparent mystery.
"Your face is just so familiar," she said.
"I've been in a few commercials," he finally relented.
"I knew it! Toothpaste, right?"
"Right," he replied and felt forced to smile for some reason, like he always did when someone recognized him from his toothpaste commercial. It was a gesture he hated doing, but couldn't stop. Like a circus monkey performing tricks on command. Satisfied with her inquiry being resolved, the cashier handed him the brown paper bag and moved right on to her next victim.
Robbie groaned upon seeing the delivery address. It was all the way in the hills, a fifteen minute drive up a nauseating winding road. He wanted to cancel the order, bite into one of the croissants and call it a day, but his roommate Charlie would definitely give him shit if he came back home with no money, so he put his foot on the gas and started the drive.
As he got close to his destination on the map, he approached a large gate with a guard post. He drove up and an angry looking man poked out his head, seemingly annoyed that Robbie had disturbed the soccer game he was watching on the small portable TV inside of the booth.
"Postmate delivery," Robbie announced.
"Which address?"
"881"
"Go ahead," the guard nodded, and pressed a button to open the gate. Robbie drove through the gated community, which featured houses he could only imagine owning in his wildest dreams. So this is who could afford to pay an exuberant price for a croissant delivery, he thought to himself. Finally, at the end of the lane he found 881, a sleek modern house nestled between two large trees. A camera above the door, greeting all visitors. He parked and walked up to the door, which he noted was left slightly ajar. He rang the doorbell and heard a loud melody reverberate through the inside of the house, but no footsteps followed. The place was eerily silent. He rang again, then called the number provided on his app. He heard the ring of the phone inside, but nobody picked it up. He thought of just leaving the croissants right by the door. Surely, whoever Casey was would probably find them after he/she finished showering or taking his/her dog for a walk, or wherever the hell he/she was doing. But something inside made him gently push on the door, opening it further, and slowly walk inside.
"Postmates!" he announced, hoping someone would hear him and save him the embarrassment of walking further in. But still, nobody replied.
"Hello!" he called out again, walking further inside the stunning house. He noted the glamorous artwork on the walls, black and white portraits of beautiful faces. Whoever lived here had good taste. He then passed by a full wall length living wall canopy, and shook his head in amazement. He couldn't believe that some people barely got on by with roommates, while others lived in this type of splendor.
"Postmates!" he called out again, then came to an abrupt stop. There was a two tier floating wooden staircase in the middle of the living room, leading to the second level of the house. At the bottom of itÑa dead body.
The bag of croissants hit the floor, as Robbie stared at the macabre scene in front of him in shock. He didn't have to check to know that the boy in front of him was dead, the blood loss was catastrophic. He was saturated in it, his white t-shirt, and the pool around his head. It was everywhere, creating a wet red blanket.
Then, with an even greater shock, Robbie recognized the face in front of him. Croissant Casey was none other than Casey FowlerÑ21-year-old alternative pop music sensation. Winner of five Grammy Awards, and one of the greatest young songwriters of his generation. Just last night Robbie was angrily singing along to Casey's "Your Love Hurts", a toxic relationship anthem about one person giving it their all, and the other taking it for granted. Casey had supposedly written the song for his unofficial boyfriend, Guy Hopkins, a famous retired boxer who now ran a bodyguard agency. A man so deep in the closet, you couldn't find him in there even with a flashlight. The media constantly speculated on their relationship after Casey hired Guy to be his bodyguard. The pair's entanglement gave birth to numerous heartbreak hits that hinted at a struggle of a young lover ready to risk it all for his beloved, but constantly battling with the other man's uncertainties in regards to their relationship.
As Robbie stared at the dead body, too afraid to move, his brain automatically recited the lyrics to "Your Love Hurts."
"I would try walking on a tightrope for you, like an acrobat, But you'd just say I was born to do that anyway, Like it was no extraordinary feat, Like I could never sweep you off your feet. Your love holds me hostage, and I get no relief. I give it my all, but all I get is defeat."
Robbie had related to the song so much, with his own recent shit show of a break up. He mouthed the words as Casey's melodic voice sounded through his car's speakers. He thought about what it must have felt like to be Guy and be on the receiving end of all this adoration from a gorgeous young starlet who was writing him world famous love songs.
Guy Hopkins was a young looking 42, and even with years of boxing behind him, his face was extraordinarily handsome and masculine. He had the whole rugged man thing going for him. A set of serious blue-green eyes, a strong nose that had been broken twice during his career, and a pair of unusually ample and kissable looking lips. He was mysterious and intriguing, and Robbie definitely understood Casey's fascination with the man who was twice his age.
Guy had constantly denied being bisexual or gay, but his secret visits to male strip clubs continued to percolate the rumors. And when he began working with Casey, those rumors went into overdrive. The two were photographed doing the most mundane things, like coffee runs and mail pick ups. And of course, the paps went crazy at any pictures that indicated a hint of a lover's quarrel between them, like one secretly captured moment of Guy grabbing Casey by the arm rather harshly outside of a club in the early morning hours.
The public's curiosity was also fueled by the obvious differences between the two men. Casey was a delicate looking young man with an angelic face. A beautiful set of curly brown hair, and a perfectly straight and white all American smile. Meanwhile Guy was an enigmatic man with a history of violence. Together, they added up to one salacious headline.
Robbie's body slowly unlocked from freeze mode, and with shaking hands he dialed 911, and stayed on the phone with the operator until he heard ambulance sirens outside.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I'm at 811 New Grove street, hurry please," he mumbled incoherently.
"What's wrong?" the operator asked.
"There's a bodyÉthere's blood everywhere, just get here fast!"
"Sir, whose body?"
"Casey Fowler," Robbie replied, breathlessly.
"Is Casey conscious?"
"No, I think he fell down the stairs," Robbie said.
"How many stairs?"
"I don't know, two flights!?" Robbie shouted panicked, not understanding how this question was helpful.
"Calm down, the ambulance is on its way," she said, and suddenly his uncharged phone went silent, as the screen turned black.
"Fuck!" Robbie cussed out loud. This was not the time for his phone to die. Thankfully, the ambulance along with the police showed up frighteningly fast. This was a highly affluent neighborhood after all, crimes were scarce. The man in charge introduced himself as Detective Greg Owens, and almost crushed Robbie's hand in his palm when he shook it.
"Okay Bobby, walk me through this one more time. You say you got here and the door was open?"
"It's RobbieÉ" he stammered, nervously. "Yes, the door was slightly ajar, and so I called the number on the app, because I didn't want to leave the bag outside. And I heard the phone going off inside the house, but nobody picked it up. So then I walked in, and IÉI found him at the bottom of the staircase," he said, glancing at the body one more time. Casey was saturated in blood, but his face looked like he might have been sleeping. Peaceful and just as pretty as when he was alive.
"And nobody else was in the house when you got here?"
"No," Robbie replied. Detective Owens made quick notes in his pad, shielding them from Robbie's eyes.
Suddenly, a booming voice filled the house. "Casey!" It was Guy Hopkins. Robbie stared in amazement as the muscular man he'd only seen in paparazzi photos and on TV, beat his way through all the officers on scene without a problem, until he reached Casey's body, at which point he folded to his knees like an accordion.
"Oh GodÉ..oh God," he sobbed. Robbie had rarely seen grown men cry, much less an ex-boxer. An officer tried to get close and move Guy away, but he swiped him off like a pesky mosquito, sending the man flying back ten feet. "É.CaseÉ..my babyÉ..no, no, no," Guy sobbed, grabbing the lithe body in his arms and cradling it like an infant. "No, noÉ" Robbie noted that he was now bathed in Casey's blood.
"Oh for fuck's sake, you just let him obliterate the crime scene," Detective Owens grunted at the officer who was still trying to compose himself from Guy's push. Mad as he was, Owens didn't seem to want to get into a scuffle with the broad shoulder boxer either.
"Sir, you have to step away from the body. You're contaminating the evidence," he said, as politely as he could muster.
"Casey," Guy continued to cry, more quietly now, gently touching the pop star's hair and face with his big hands. "Wake up, baby," he pleaded, "please wake up for me." But the pale body was lifeless in his arms. His fire completely extinguished. All that remained was a beautiful shell that was deteriorating, minute by minute. When Guy finally came to terms with that realization, he got up with a crazy look in his eyes, making everyone back a few feet away. His gaze landed on Robbie.
"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, and Robbie's heart skipped a beat in fear.
"Postmates," he muttered incoherently.
"What?" Guy asked, walking towards him with a clenched fist.
"Food delivery. I was delivering croissants," he said, then pointed to the sad brown paper bag now laying on the floor. The look in Guy's eyes was terrifying. He stared at the bag, then back at Robbie.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Mr. Hopkins, we'll be asking all the necessary questions. I can't let you interview our witness," Owens stated, somewhat timidly for a detective.
"Did you do this?" Guy asked, ignoring him.
"Me? Oh God no, no, I came in and the door was open and he was laying there. I called 911 right away," Robbie stammered out.
"Guy! Guy, what's going on?" a stunning red headed woman that Robbie knew to be Elsa Fowler, Casey's sister and publicist, entered the premises. "What are all the police officers doing outside?" she asked, confused.
"For fuck's sake, is anyone controlling the traffic?!" Owens scolded the other officer, then shuffled his way out the door to presumably do some more yelling.
"Don't come in Elsa," Guy tried to stop her from seeing, but it was too late. The woman shrieked a wail of grief Robbie had never heard escape anyone else's mouth before. It was so piercing and shattering that the whole room went completely silent. Guy took her in his arms and shielded her from further view, transferring Casey's blood all over her white butterfly top.
Detective Owens came back in.
"Are you the deceased's sister?" he asked and Elsa shrieked even louder, meanwhile Guy shot the man a deadly look.
"I'm so sorry, I'm going to have officer Rollins escort you both to the station, so you can answer some questions. We have to go over this place with our team and check for any evidence."
"What happened?" Elsa managed to ask in between cries.
"WellÉhe may have fallen, I'm not sure. I'll need a blood spatter analyst to check this out and other information before I can make a call," Owens answered. Elsa cried harder.
Guy and Robbie exchanged quick glances. Both men seemed to have caught on to the word "may" in the Detective's sentence. Because if there was another possibility, outside of Casey simply falling, it must have been that he was pushed.
Guy and Elsa walked outside, then Detective Owens turned to Robbie.
"I'm going to need you to give me your contact information. And then you'll have to go down to the station and make an official statement as well," he began explaining, when Guy Hopkins barged right back into the room, alone.
"I didn't want to say anything in front of Elsa, but we both know this was not caused by a fall. I mean, just look at him," he said, turning towards Casey, and getting emotional again at the sight of the fragile boy splayed out on the floor and surrounded by a sea of now slowly drying blood.
"Well, you'd be surprised. I've seen a lot of crime scenes with a large volume of blood loss from simple accidents," Detective Owens replied, unconvinced.
"Have you seen his head? There are deep lacerations. He could fall 10 times down this staircase in a variety of different sequences and not get those type of lacerations. Those are hits from a blunt object." Detective Owens looked impressed, meanwhile Robbie's head was reeling. Was Guy suggesting foul play? As inÉ Casey Fowler being murdered?
"Are you suggesting a hate crime?" Owens asked, his bushy eyebrow raised in shock.
"No, not a hate crime. I know exactly who did it," Hopkins replied and both Robbie and Owens, along with the rest of the room, fell into an uncomfortable silence.
"Who?" Owens asked, after a beat.
"Ben, his piece of shit brother."
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments or events is entirely coincidental. Comments and feedback are highly appreciated, send to mozlover21@gmail.com.
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Below is the soundtrack I listened to while writing this chapter, in no particular order.
What I Did for Love (feat. Emeli SandŽ) - David Guetta Fragile - Kygo You Get My Love - P!nk Gonna Love Me - Teyana Taylor Walk Away - Christina Aguilera