Philip H. Cornwall was born on a stormy Sunday afternoon in October. His mother, a poor long-haul trucker, didn’t have the funds to give birth at a hospital, so he was born in the passenger seat of her semi-truck. His father was unknown and unpresent in his life, other than the occasional birthday card containing $5 and cigarette ash. Sometimes the gifts would come with a package of a random goodie, such as a cell phone that was still password protected and obviously second-hand, a pink hat, and once he even got a pair of size eight women's tennis shoes. Once Philip had turned fifteen, his father would put terribly rolled-up joints of marijuana in the envelopes, which his mother would quickly confiscate to smoke herself.
When Philip was roaming the streets of Cheekago in the middle of the night at about seventeen years old, he saw a man quietly running out of a dead end alleyway and into the blanket of darkness. There was something about the alleyway that raised the hairs on the back of Philip’s neck. So young, reckless Philip decided to ignore the voice in his head that was trying to save his life and turned to walk down the alleyway. Low and behold, in that dark alleyway, was an atrociously fat man in a tuxedo laying in a pool of blood. Question after question popped into Philip's head. Who was this man? Who was the man running away? Why was this man killed? Philip then realized his questions would never be answered because he was just a boy on the streets of Cheekago. After that moment, Philip’s life changed forever, and he dedicated the rest of his life to answering the questions he always wanted to know.
After years of studying and gaining experience, highly decorated Detective Cornwall now stood in the same alleyway as he did when he was a boy, ready to answer all the questions he needed to.
Cornwall approached the crime scene in the same manner he always did: head held high, thermos full of the strongest coffee he could find, and not a single thought in his head. He took in the fresh air of Cheekago, filing his lungs with chilled air and lifting his head to allow the sun to beam on his pale face. He liked to appreciate the beauty of a city as lush as Cheekago before he ventured into the mind of a killer. The beauty of the nature around him brought him peace and gave him a clear mind. However, he couldn’t stand around all day; he had a job to do.
"Detective Cornwall, what a pleasure to see you here, late," Dr. Doctor, the lead forensic scientist, said through gritted teeth with fake enthusiasm. He grabbed Cornwall's shoulder to shake it in playfulness, but the tight and painful squeeze suggested otherwise.
"What have you got for me?" Cornwall asked, ignoring Dr. Doctor's comments on his tardiness. Dr. Doctor groaned and reluctantly gave Cornwall the clipboard he had been holding.
"Victim is Kadilac Gram, male, age 43. He was killed around midnight last night by blunt force trauma to the head, but the killing blow was the 28 stab wounds. He was found around 8 a.m. this morning by his assistant, who was bringing his morning coffee. She ended up fainting and hitting her head when we got here, so she was transported to the hospital," Dr. Doctor sighed out, still clearly annoyed.
"There are a lot of police officers around for one guy." Philip looked up towards the dozen cop cars blocking the wide sidewalk, sirens flashing red and blue. Normally in a murder situation, there are maybe four or six cars, but the number of cars was puzzling.
"This is a high-profile victim," Dr. Doctor said, rolling his eyes, as if Cornwall was supposed to already know.
"Why?" Cornwall asked. But before Dr. Doctor could respond, he heard the sound of screeching tires coming towards them. Cornwall's attention snapped to the three huge black SUVs screeching to a stop a few feet away. One man from each of the cars stepped out, dressed in black tuxes and sunglasses, standing side by side as the other opened the back door. From the car emerged a tall, very handsome man with slicked-back hair. The man adjusted his suit and brushed off his sleeves before walking directly to Cornwall. Following the handsome man was a smaller woman in pigtails and braces, like the ‘before’ of a dramatic makeover. She scurried to the man's side, clutching a clipboard tight to her chest.
"Hello, Detective Cornwall," smiled the handsome stranger, holding his hand out for Cornwall. "How are you today?"
Philip stared at the man's hand, then back at the man. Cornwall then took two black gloves from his pocket and put them on. Cornwall had always had a thing for germs, and his mother was unsure of where it might come from since she cared very little for hygiene. The doctor said his hypocondria would soon pass as a phase, but Cornwall never recovered.
"Can I help you?" Cornwall asked, shaking the stranger's hand. The stranger smiled at the gloves, then back at Cornwall.
"My name is Fallon Banks," the man smiled widely, "loss prevention at Fishies Inc."
"What do you need, Mr. Banks?" Cornwall let go of the man's hand and placed the gloves back in his pocket.
"Well, Mr. Gram here is an important person to my boss," Mr. Banks said, trying to look around Cornwall's shoulder at the crime scene.
"I can’t let a citizen in on an active investigation." Cornwall snapped his fingers in front of the man's face to grab his attention.
"Fair enough, just let me know if there's anything I can do," Mr. Banks kept his eyes on Cornwalls, "and please alert us with any information you can regarding Mr. Gram."
The man pulled down his sleeves once more, but not before revealing a fresh scar on his arm.
"How’d you get that?" Cornwall asked.
"I went fishing with my kiddo, and the hook got caught on my skin," Mr. Banks hesitantly replied.
"Recently?"
"Last night, yes, around midnight."
"Late night fishing with a little kid?"
"I’m not here to talk about my parenting."
"When was the last time you saw Mr. Gram?" Cornwall asked.
"Last night at a benefit charity event," Mr. Banks replied, "at Gagnim Hall."
Cornwall didn’t peg Mr. Banks as someone who was malicious in any aspect other than when protecting the company. So with no further questions, Cornwall let Mr. Banks and his assistant leave the crime scene. Although Mr. Banks wasn’t ruled out as a suspect, Cornwall viewed him as a potential important source of information. With no other leads, Cornwall thought it best to start where Mr. Gram was merely two hours before the murder: Gagnim Hall.
The air in Gagnim Hall smelt rich; fresh flowers cycled through every week, rain or shine. The floor was polished marble tile, and the art on the wall was detailed with real gold. There wasn't a scuff on the floor or a scratch on the walls. The upkeep of such a beautiful establishment took tons of effort, seeing as though Cornwall was surrounded by painters, florists, and cleaners all picking up the messes from last night's soiree. Cornwall wished he would be able to be at an event someday in Gagnim Hall; however, he had a murder to solve first.
"Yello, you must be Detective Cornwall," said a tall, beefy old man walking towards him.
"And you are?" replied Cornwall.
"Mr. Killsby, sir," the man said, uptight and professional despite his heavy country accent. He was stressed but presented himself otherwise: "I was told to expect you’d be showin’ up, seeing as though there had been a murder of a guest of Gagnim Hall."
"Do you mind if I take a look at your security cameras?" Cornwall glanced up at the various hidden cameras around the lobby.
"You can, but I’m afraid it was a masquerade event, so you may have trouble figuring out who everyone is." Mr. Killsby started to saunter towards a small door behind the check-in counter. Inside the door were several screens and computers, covering every nook and cranny of the hall. First, Cornwall knew he’d have to pinpoint which of the men was Mr. Gram. Without another word, the busy Mr. Killsby left Cornwall in the security room to attend to a careless painter. Cornwall paid no mind to the man’s behavior, seeing as though Cornwall was also a clean freak. In a way, he felt like he related to Mr. Killsby’s need for order.
Cornwall put on his gloves and rewinded the security footage back to two hours before the murder, looking for a short, fat man in a blue tux. He scanned the room on the tape, which was surprisingly clear for a camera so high up, and located Mr. Gram in the corner of the room at a table. He was talking to a woman, clearly enjoying the conversation considering the belly laugh he produced that looked a lot like Santa Claus’s signature jolly laugh. The woman was clearly flirting, placing her hand on top of his and brushing his arm. Cornwall was almost embarrassed watching them flirt back and forth. However, then their attention snapped to something on stage suddenly.
On stage stood a man with long, dreaded hair and impeccable fashion taste. He had baggy pants securely held up by a belt with a huge buckle, with a leopard-patterned shirt tucked into the belt. Although the man looked glamorous, he was clearly angry about something and was removed from the stage by security. Cornwall then saw Mr. Gram get up to approach the man, placing his hand on his shoulder, to which the fabulous man pushed it off and stormed away. He recognized the dreaded man, but he didn't know for sure. He walked out of the security room and approached the uptight Mr. Killsby, who was scrubbing away at a seemingly clean spot on the floor.
"Who was the man who got on stage at the event?" Cornwall asked.
"Ah, Hallen Gram, the fashin’ dee-signer!" Mr. Killsby spat out the name like venom.
"What was he so mad about?" Cornwall questioned. He knew Hallen Gram very well from the tabloids. Hallen used to be heavily addicted to Bratz, a street drug that made you see in pink and purple while also reportedly causing you to hallucinate as if you were in a cartoon. He would party nonstop and abuse drugs during his fashion shows, and eventually his father, the victim of the murder, placed him in a residential rehab against his wishes. While he was in rehab, his fashion brand did not stay afloat. That caused strain on their relationship, and Hallen publicly rejected his father for forcing him into treatment and ruining his brand, and they’ve been separated ever since.
"Hallen was supposed to win the award for best dee-signer according to Fishies Inc. polls, but Kimmy Jimmel ended up winning by one vote," Killsby explained.
Cornwall knew he needed to question Hallen Gram. He hated his father, making him the perfect suspect. So Cornwall rushed out of Gagnim Hall without another word, and as he walked to Gram Studios, he remade the list of suspects in his head. There was Mr. Banks, with the mysterious late-night fishing trip and the scar on his arm; the mysterious woman talking to Mr. Gram at the party; and his son, Hallen Gram, the fashion designer. He was unsure yet of who could have possibly murdered Mr. Gram, but he felt confident Hallen could provide some answers.
He got to the studio, where Hallen made some of his most internationally famous clothing pieces for celebrities such as Kom Kardoshian, Barak Abama, and even Cornwall's favorite, Tonald Drump, the beloved animal rights activist. The studio was grand and white, going up about three stories of brick with grand black windows. It was definitely not to Conwall's taste, but aside from that, it was a pretty cool building.
He entered the building to find empty desks full of fabric, all lined in a row, with one single man in the back with a sewing machine. He approached the man, and as he got closer, he realized that it was Hallen.
"Hallen Gram," Cornwall spoke, causing Hallen to look up in surprise, "I’m here to ask you some questions."
"Oh, hello, is something wrong?" Hallen spoke as if he had no idea what was going on.
"It’s about your father," Cornwall said, to which Hallen then rolled his eyes.
"What about the bastard?" Hallen returned to his sewing, uninterested in anything having to do with his father.
"He was murdered last night." Cornwall raised an eyebrow, and Hallen stopped in shock. Hallen placed his hand over his mouth and stared at Cornwall in shock.
"What? Are you sure? When?" Hallen asked, standing up from his chair to listen more intently.
"Last night, around midnight." Cornwall said, letting his body remain still but his eyes following Hallens face as it changed from dismissive to remorseful. Hallen placed his hand on his heart, clutching it tightly.
"I said such awful things to him," Hallen sank to the floor, taking his hands to his face and starting to sob loudly. "I wish I could take it all back."
Cornwall let Hallen cry in silence for a moment. After a couple minutes, Hallen stood up, brushed himself off, and faced Cornwall in a shaken but composed manner.
"Where were you around midnight?" Cornwall asked.
"I was here, with my lover." Hallen wiped his surprisingly dry eyes, which was strange for a man who had just been sobbing on the floor seconds prior.
"Who is your lover?" Cornwall asked.
Almost on cue, a woman in a long, elegant black dress and a fluffy fur coat emerged from the top of a staircase. She had long, straight black hair that went down to her belly button, and she wore huge sunglasses that covered most of her face. The white Louis Fouton heels on her feet clicked on the tile floor, almost as if the clicks of her heels demanded attention. Sure enough, all eyes were on her.
"Oh darling, I heard your cry." The woman kissed Hallen on the lips, locking onto him for longer than was comfortable for Cornwall to witness. "What ails you, my love?"
The woman was none other than Ingrid Von Doffen, the famous actress from New York City. She rose to fame as a child, starring in movies and television shows. Soon she was discovered for her ability to sing, and her popularity skyrocketed. Until she was exposed at an event for lipsyncing to another singer behind the curtain, her reputation was ruined.
"This is a detective; he’s come to question me about my father’s death. Can you believe it? The agony!" Hallen sobbed into his lover's fur coat as she petted his head gently.
"Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry." Ingrid soothed him, then turned her attention to Cornwall. "Thank you for delivering this news to us, Detective Cornwall. We were here, at the studio. I have a big movie coming up, and he's my makeup artist, so we were both here practicing our arts."
"Interesting. May I have any footage confirming your arrival at the house? Like the camera footage outside any doors?" Cornwall asked Hallen, who still stood clutching his lover.
"Yes, Yes! Of course, anything you need." Hallen scurried off into another room, leaving Ingrid and Cornwall alone.
"It’s a shame this happened." "He was going to apologize and make amends with his father too," she said pitifully.
"Did you approve of mending the relationship?" Cornwall asked, to which Ingrind let out a heavy sigh.
"His father never approved of me, and to prove me a fraud, he was the one who exposed me to the media. Now, Hallen and I don’t have enough money for the grand wedding package we wanted. I hated the man, but I hate seeing Hallen suffer the loss of a father," she explained. "A stabbing is so brutal; who could do such a thing?"
"Someone with motive," Cornwall said, "do you mind if I look around?"
"Not at all. I’m going to check on Hallen." Ingrid left Cornwall alone in the studio to be with her lover, retrieving the security footage.
Cornwall looked around. Although he didn’t mention it, Cornwall was a fan of Ingrid. He had been enchanted with her style ever since she appeared in the Louis Fouton magazines his mother used to use as napkins. Her signature shoes and extravagant accessories were always the center of attention. Her dresses hung from hangers on the other side of the studio. Cornwall walked over to them and started reciting the year each made their appearance in magazines: 1989, 2003, 2004, 2015, and so on. However, the last one was new yet oddly familiar to Cornwall. Although he couldn’t quite place it, he knew that dress came from somewhere.
"Here you are, Detective," Hallen said from behind, snapping Cornwall out of thought, "the footage from three hours before and after the ball." "This shows you every entrance to the studio."
"Thank you," Cornwall said. "I’m sorry for your loss."
Without any other word, Cornwall headed home. On his walk, he thought over every possible scenario. Everyone he had questioned had an alibi or proof of their whereabouts. He took a deep breath and let the cold, fresh air of the city fill his lungs. He tried to clear his mind to focus on the facts that mattered, trying to narrow down who had the means and ability to commit such a murder. Cornwall felt the answer on the tip of his tongue; he just needed to prove it.
He reached his home early into the evening, taking his shoes off and giving his cat, Bene, a loving pat on the head. He cuddled in with Bene on the couch, his laptop and the CD in hand, ready to be bored to death by hours of security footage. The footage started with Hallen angerly leaving the house during the middle of the party. Cornwall assumed it was to crash the party, as he had seen on the footage at Gagnim Hall. Then, about an hour and a half later, Hallen returned with Ingrid as she helped him into the studio after a rough night. Nobody left the house at either entrance for the rest of the night. However, something caught Cornwall's eye—a woman he recognized walking by the house. He tried to remember where he had seen her before, trying to recall every face he'd seen today. Finally, it hit him. It was the woman from the party, accompanied by Mr. Banks, who said he had gone fishing at night. Then, right as the footage was ending, the door to the studio opened up and a red Louis Fouton shoe peeked out.
The footage ends as Cornwall tries to piece together everything he has learned. They were all connected somehow, but how or why? The woman with Mr. Banks, the opening of the door, the Louis Fouton shoe sticking out All of their alibis are very wrong, but why would they all lie? He knew he needed to talk to someone who knew all of the people involved, the very center of the spiderweb of connections: Travis Fishie, CEO of Fishies Inc.

It was the next morning, and anticipation hung in the air as Mr. Banks and his nerdy assistant sat in the conference room of the police station. He sat impatiently, tapping his foot, as his assistant was scanning through some work documents on the clipboard she always carried. The door creaked open, and Ingrid, as well as Hallen, walked through the door. She looked confusedly at Mr. Banks and his assistant; they had been called there by Cornwall as well. They sat down across from each other; Ingrid texted quietly on her phone, and Hallen looked around. The door opened once more, and although they expected Detective Cornwall, to their surprise, it was Mr. Killsby. He paused and scanned the room, picking a seat a couple chairs over from Ingrid. They sat anxiously, wondering why they were all called to the same place at the same time. However, their anticipation did not last long because the door opened one more time, and in walked Cornwall, who took a seat at the end of the long table. Following him was Dr. Doctor, the forensic scientist, with a briefcase held tightly in his hands.
"I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here," Cornwall said as he got situated in his chair. "I brought you here because all of you are suspects."
"What?" Ingrid gasped, "We gave you the footage; I was home all night."
"Yeah, me too!" Hallen said.
"This is ridiculous!" Mr. Killsby said, wiping down the table he was sitting at.
"Let me explain," Cornwall stood up and started to walk around the table, saying, "Mr. Banks, you didn’t go night fishing with your kid, as you previously stated. At 2 AM, you were outside Hallen’s studio with your assistant, who was in disguise at the masquerade event. Perhaps it was because of your affair with your assistant!"
Several gasps erupted from the room as Mr. Bank's expression grew angry and he stood up to stand face-to-face with Cornwall.
"I did no such thing!" Mr. Banks denied
"Sit down; I’m not finished yet," Cornwall demanded, moving to stand behind Ingrid. "Ingrid, you gave yourself away. You immediately identified me as Detective Cornwall, even though my name was never mentioned."
"Oh my god, anyone and everyone could have figured out your name; I remember seeing your name in the newspaper about the investigation." Ingrid rolled her eyes, annoyed but calm.
"It’s strange you would see something in the paper about Mr. Grams murder but claim to know nothing about the murderer when Hallen and I were in the studio. Not to mention, the details of the stabbing were never released to the public, so you would have no way of knowing he was stabbed at all. So not only did you allegedly lie about your knowledge of the murder to Hallen after claiming you read about it, you also know details that were never released to the public!" Cornwall said.
"I was in the studio when the murder took place!" Ingrid started to yell, feeling backed into a corner by Cornwall.
"Yes, but at the very last second, minutes after Mr. Banks and his assistant, I saw a limited edition Louis Fouton blue bottom high heel appear from the door as you left the studio around 2 a.m." Cornwall said, causing a commotion to erupt in the room.
"What's so bad about them all being around the same place after the murder took place?" Hallen asked, eager to know the point of Cornwall’s interrogation.
"I’m almost there," Cornwall said calmly. "Mr. Killsby, you are a neat freak much like myself. Disorganization drives you crazy. Although you cleaned very well, you didn’t dispose of everything you had intended."
Cornwall signaled for Dr. Doctor to open the briefcase he carried in. Inside the briefcase, there was a bloody glove in a plastic bag.
"Your DNA as well as Mr. Gram's blood is all over these gloves. All of your DNA, minus Hallen’s, is on these gloves!" Cornwall proclaimed.
Instead of an eruption, the room went so silent you could almost hear a pen drop. They all looked at each other in confusion, which signaled to Cornwall that he was on the right track.
"What are you saying, detective?" Hallen asked, sitting at the edge of his seat.
"Each of you had good reason to murder Mr. Gram. Mr. Banks, I talked to your boss on the phone, who told me you got promoted out of your office into Mr. Grams position recently. You both were apprentices to Mr. Fishie, but when Mr. Gram got the job you worked so hard to get, you hated him. Hated him enough to kill him! Ingrid, Mr. Gram didn’t approve of you, so he ruined your reputation to prove you were a bad match for his son. Because your reputation was ruined, you didn’t have enough money for the luxury lifestyle you so desperately clung to. Mr. Gram's death meant Hallen would inherit all the money his father had, and you knew that because Hallen loves you so much, he would spend it all on you and your luxury wedding. The assistant, Elenor VonDoffen, is the forbidden lover of Mr. Banks and the devoted sister of Ingrid. Because of her love for the both of them, she proudly played the part of distraction to get into Mr. Gram's home so all of you could enter the home to murder him." Cornwall said to their shocked expressions, "Mr. Killsby, you just hate how Mr. Gram treated you all these years of events at the ball. He bullied you for your cleanliness, and because you care so deeply about the care of the hall, you hated him. He teased you about your passions. So you gladly cleaned the murder scene so perfectly that I would have never found any evidence."
"We were all where we said we’d be during the time of the murder," Mr. Banks said, still holding the defensive position. "It can't be us!"
"That's my favorite part of it all," Cornwall grinned before turning around to face Dr. Doctor, whose jaw was dropped. "Dr. Doctor, the absent father of Ingrid, recently reconnected with his daughters. He wanted so desperately to have connections with his daughters that he lied about the time of death on the evidence paper he handed me. So he could prevent you all from going to jail, and he could have a relationship with his children to make up for abandoning them."
Cornwall opened the conference room doors, allowing several police officers to come in and arrest everyone in the room except for Hallen, who sat in shock.
"Let’s see if I get this right." Cornwall stood at the end of the table, looking into each of their eyes.
"The plan was for Elenor to seduce Mr. Gram to get into his house, where you would all kill him and Mr. Killsby would discard the evidence. However, when Mr. Gram was more concerned about his son and left Elenor behind, it ruined the plan. Ingrid also had to care for Hallen, seeing as he was very distraught. So Mr. Banks took Mr. Gram to a small, barely relevant bar and got him drunk. He befriended Mr. Gram so he could get into the house, where you all killed him and dumped his body in the alleyway. After that, you all made sure everyone else knew exactly where I was in the investigation, which I have proof of in the form of the fake social media profiles you all have."
They all stayed quiet as the police officers read their rights, glaring at Cornwall with hate. Hallen stayed seated, staring directly at Ingrid with an expression of deep betrayal and disbelief. Ingrid was the only one who wasn’t glaring; instead, she stared sympathetically at Hallen. It was clear she really loved him, which almost made Cornwall feel bad for splitting them up. Cornwall was glad he had finally answered all the questions he had.
Cornwall left the police station as he always did, thermos in hand and an empty lunch bag, holding his head up to breathe in the fresh air. He had been so busy chasing around a murderer that he forgot to appreciate the beauty of Cheekago. He walked to his apartment, ready to relax on the couch with paperwork and his cat. He was beaming with self-confidence and pride in his achievements. Although he loved the work he did for Cheekago, he was ready to take a break.
Cornwall got comfortable on the couch, turning on his favorite show, snuggling with his cat, and sipping wine. This was his favorite part of the day. However, it wasn't long before his phone started to ring. He answered the phone and heard his boss on the other line.
"Detective Cornwall, Lacey Langton, the famous artist was just murdered, and we need you," his boss said.
Cornwall was disappointed to miss out on a night of serenity, but he knew there was nothing more rewarding than the justice he brought to those who had been wronged. So he stood up, filled up his thermos, and went back to work.