One Direction to Hell

The new guy in homicide was in the corner, gagging and coughing into a trash can. His partner was more weathered when it came to crime scenes.

Detective Mick Cosell first investigated a rape in Echo Park back in '76, first year on the job. Some young chola had crossed the wrong group of Bloods, and they treated her woman parts like a top-level Crip.

In the four decades since, Cosell had investigated more rape scenes than he cared to recall. Boys in the precinct called him the Rape King, which had ended Happy Hour early on several occasions. He couldn't help it. He was the Rape King. More rape arrests than anyone in the history of the L.A.P.D. He'd wear that name tag any day of the week.

Cosell had seen it all -- regular ol' rapes, rape-murders, rape-murder-rapes, even one rape-rape-murder-rape-rape in the nasty city of Van Nuys. "The rape equivalent of genocide," he'd told a colleague once. "Exhausting activity, I imagine."

This one wasn’t much different, he thought. A dead body, raped and beaten in a posh penthouse apartment. These rich kids always seemed to have some strange way to get their rocks off, and their partners weren’t always keen to oblige.

“I’ll need you to take some notes when you’re done over there, rookie,” he said. “Photographer’ll be here soon.”

Detective Max Baxter, the poor young bastard, was spitting into the can.

Of course, I get this fucking guy, Cosell thought. He wished he was in McPherson’s shoes, taking early retirement, that old sonuvabitch.

Baxter wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, and flipped open his notebook.

“It’s not good, that’s for sure,” Cosell said. “Just on the backside here, we’ve got multiple cigarette burns.”

His eyes scanned the naked body, a young man, early twenties, at least that’s what he thought. It was either a small young man, barely out of the teenage years, or a tall pubescent girl. He assumed the severed penis shoved unceremoniously into the victim’s anus was the victim’s own. On the victim’s right hand, middle finger, there was a ring with a round face, embossed with a symbol. A number one and a capital D. The inside of the D was an arrow, pointing to the right.

He looked down the rest of the body. The left leg had a bone peeking through an opening in the skin.

“Broken femur,” Cosell continued. “Blood and tearing around the anus, phallus inserted into the anus. Blunt trauma to the back of the head, several bruises along the back.” He grabbed the victim’s upper lip with his gloveless hand and pulled it up. “A few cracked molars, swelling of the cheeks.”

“Is, is that all?”

“I don’t know. We’ll wait for the photographer to get his pictures before we flip the body over. The coroner ought to be here soon,” Cosell looked at his watch, “if he’s finished drinking his lunch by now. Shit, we’ll be lucky to get an ID without DNA. This son of a bitch was beat to a pulp.”

Cosell walked to the edge of the room, leaned against the window frame. The lights from the city speckled the vista. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, and a matchbook from his other pocket. One match left. As he struck the match, it slipped and fell beneath a chair at the window. He bent to one knee, inspected the area around the chair. He reached his arm underneath, and patted it back and forth. His hand hit something, something small, but larger than a match. He felt more, found the match, and lit his cigar. With the match still lit, he illuminated the area under the chair, and there was a twinkle of a reflection at the back. He waved the match to extinguish the flame, reached under, and removed the object. He stood up, looking at the ring. “1D,” with an arrow pointing to the right.

“What is it, boss?” Baxter called out.

“Make sure the photographer gets a good photo of that ring,” Cosell said.

***

Cosell sat at his desk, which was situated next to the boxspring and mattress in his tiny studio apartment. The red neon sign across the street for the fried chicken joint turned off, leaving his desk lamp the only thing keeping the apartment from total darkness.

He took a pull from a plastic pint of cheap bourbon, scrunched his face and lit a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind.

When the phone rang, he nearly tumbled out of his chair. He stood, stumbled forward, fell onto the bed, and pulled his phone from the charger.

“Yeah….uh huh...uh huh...Alright, cut to the chase...Should I know who that is?...Oh fuck me.”

He rubbed his face and leaned forward in his chair, staring at the floor. Groaning, he pulled himself to a standing position. He stood, tucked his shirt back into his pants, snapped his suspenders up over his shoulders, and grabbed his jacket as he walked out the door.

***

The coroner led the detectives down the hallway in the rough stone basement of police headquarters. Water dripped down in spots, giving the corridor a musty, damp feeling. Hanging fluorescent lights with rusted edges provided spots of light, so that Cosell could only see the coroner’s face every five or six feet, followed by black.

“It was a quick ID once we got the dental records,” the coroner said, holding open the metal swinging doors at the end of the hall.

Inside the morgue, stainless steel glimmered with a light blue tint. This was a more recent addition with modern concrete blocks for walls, though it wasn’t new in any regard. The white shelves along the edge looked blue in the light, and an ammoniac, sanitized smell filled the air and prickled the inside of Cosell’s nose.

There were three body bags zipped up, ready to be moved to the freezer. One was open. Cosell recognized the face. In all the rapes he’d investigated, there’d been too many with someone on one of the stainless slabs. Each face was etched in his memory, but this one might stick in his mind with a bit more clarity.

Cosell walked up to the edge of the table and cocked his head, the young man’s mutilated face etching itself deeper into his brain, a slightly rotten smell emanating from the corpse.

“You sure it’s him?”

“A hundred percent,” the coroner replied. He walked up next to Cosell, and dropped the open file on the table, next to the boy’s swollen, bloody face. “Harry Styles, every teenage girls’ dream.”

“They see his mug now, it’ll be a nightmare.”

“I found semen in the anus, the mouth, and some traces on the back. There also may be blood samples from another subject on the body. That and the hair you recovered from the scene have been sent to the lab. It’ll be a few weeks before DNA results come in.”

“No chance on getting it any faster.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t told them who it is. They might be able to expedite it, but they’ll charge us out the ass for it.”

“We’ll have to pay it. Once the media gets hold of this, it’ll be a fucking war zone.”

“How long you think you can keep it out of the news?”

“Not long enough.”

***

The tabloids were full of the headlines, complete with any photo of Harry Styles caught in mid-blink or mouth open or looking just plain out of it. There were photos of the other One Direction band members crying, quotes about how surprised they were. It was a madhouse.

Zayn Malik had already given a tear-filled interview to Barbara Walters, who came out of retirement just for the exclusive. Niall Horan, Liam Payne, and Louis Tomlinson, the other band members were staying quiet on the whole thing.

The commissioner did a press conference. He told the media they were hot on the trail of the murderer. Yeah, right, the DNA results weren’t even in yet. There were no witnesses, no leads.

Bulbs flashed. Teenage girls cried outside. Outside the apartment complex where Styles was living and later found murdered was inundated with flowers.

Cosell sat on his murphy bed. He took the last swig of bourbon, tossed the bottle on the ground, and put his head in his hands. He laid back, tried to fall asleep as the television filled the room with light from the Harry Styles show on every news channel, smelling his own hot whisky breath.

***

The coroner tapped his fingers on the table. He looked at his watch. The door flew open, and Cosell stormed into the room. Baxter sat across from the coroner, and jumped at the sound of the door.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cosell said.

The coroner scrunched his nose at the smell of cigar smoke and alcohol. Cosell plopped down in the chair.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Baxter said.

“What?”

The coroner slid a folder in Cosell’s direction. Cosell took it from the table, and opened it.

“DNA results are in,” the coroner said. “We got two different semen samples from the anus and mouth.”

Cosell raised an eyebrow, then back to studying the contents of the folder.

“So who do we have?”

“We couldn’t get a good match on the sample from the anus,” the coroner said, straight-faced. “But the one in the mouth came from...the media’s going to have a field day with this one…”

“Out with it!” Cosell said, then grimaced and rubbed his temples.

“Simon Cowell.”

“The X-Factor guy! You believe that?” Baxter exclaimed.

“The TV guy who put the band together?”

“Yup,” the coroner said, a slight grin emerging on his face.

“Well, I guess everyone’s gotta give a blowjob here and there on the way to the top.”

***

Cosell slid open his desk drawer, removed an empty bottle, and put it to his lips, trying to tip the last drop. After a few shakes, he hurled it at the wall. He leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hands.

“You okay?” a voice called from the door.

Cosell peeked out from under his hands, saw Baxter in the office entrance, and leaned forward. Police sirens blared in from the open window. A new rain smell blew in through the open window.

“I’m fine,” Cosell said, and he turned to the window.

The couch on the back wall of the office squeaked. Cosell turned. Baxter sat there, watching Cosell.

“You don’t seem fine.”

“Look, rookie, I’ve seen worse than this Styles kid.”

“I know. You’re the Rape King. But this one seems different.”

“It’s not. Just have a lot on my mind.”

Baxter raised his eyebrows, gave Cosell an I’m-all-ears look.

“I said I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

Baxter picked up the bottle and looked at the crack in the plaster wall, then back to Cosell.

“Alright, rook...Baxter,” Cosell corrected himself. Baxter flashed a grin. “Don’t ever repeat this.”

Baxter slid his fingers across his lips like a zipper, and turned them at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve seen this before,” Cosell said.

“Another rape-murder like this one?”

“No. Worse,” Cosell said, and he took a deep breath. “I was just out of high school. A group of guys and I, we’d been singing at a mall about an hour south of town on the weekends. We had this whole show choreographed, and we did some old disco covers, some of the Monkees, shit like that.”

Baxter chuckled. Cosell scowled at him.

“Sorry,” Baxter said. “It’s hard to imagine you singing and dancing.”

“I can stop.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“We had to go down to the mall. We got made fun of at school, picked on: swirlies, wedgies, the whole nine yards. But we loved it.

“One day, this guy comes up after a show, says he’s a manager, says we got what it takes to get big. Bigger than the Beatles, he said. The other guys, they were all for it. I wasn’t so sure. I liked doing the show at the mall. It was fun. But the guy got us a contract to make a record. Our parents all bought into it, so we did it.

“Anyway, a couple years later, we had a two records done, we were touring the country. We weren’t New Kids on the Block or anything, but we sold a few records. Then, the manager comes in after a show one day. He’s all jumping around, excited, said he got a call from Arista Records, and they wanted to sign us. I really wasn’t sure about this one. I didn’t want all the fame and attention. We had been in some local newspapers, but this was the big time.”

“This is amazing. I can’t believe you hit it big like that.”
“We didn’t. The contract was never signed. Cameron, who was like the Justin Timberlake of our group, the hot one, he didn’t want it either. I didn’t know why. But for a while, he seemed distraught, removed. A week later, he was found dead in an alley.”

“What happened?”

“Cameron and our manager, Joe Tittles, they were having a secret affair. Cameron told Joe he wanted to come clean about the relationship. Joe, according to his testimony later, said he knew that would hurt sales, a scandal like that coming out. Cameron threatened to leave Joe and the group, and Joe lost it. He gutted Cameron,” Cosell choked up, opened his other desk drawer, looked inside and slammed it shut.

Baxter took a bottle from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it to Cosell. Cosell caught it and looked at the new guy, surprised.

“You learn quick, rookie.” Cosell took a drink and tossed it back. “They found Cameron in pieces. And Joe, well, he knew what he’d done as soon as he’d done it, and he ran away. They caught up to him pretty quick, though. Bastard’s still sitting on death row.”

“I’m sorry,” Baxter said. The two were silent for a while as they tossed the bottle back and forth a few more times.

Baxter got a puzzled look on his face.

“Hey Cosell?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the name of your band?”

“Two Cool, with the number two, not the word.”

Baxter laughed. Cosell leaned back, and laughed himself.

“Hey boss.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s hang this Simon Cowell dude up by his balls.”

“I like your style, Baxter. I like your style.”

***

“How long are you going to make me wait in here, you fucks!” Simon screamed from inside the interview room, a bright, bland room with chipping, stained eggshell white paint on the concrete walls.

Cosell peeked into the room through the tall, skinny, chicken wire-reinforced window. Simon sat, then kicked the chair out from under him and began to pace. He wore skin-tight jeans that looked ridiculous with a black polo shirt. His hair looked like it was made in a lab somewhere and affixed to his skull.

“What an ass,” Cosell said.

“So how we going to go after him? Good cop, bad cop,” Baxter said.

“I’m thinking more like ambush.”

The Police Commissioner was at a desk across the way, and he approached the two.

“Look, this is one of the biggest names out there. Don’t just go in there with accusations,” he said.

“His semen was in Styles, sir,” Baxter said.

“I know, I know. But this guy’s a loudmouth, right? Constantly talking? You’ve seen his show, right?”

Cosell and Baxter nodded.

“Just give him the facts...calmly,” he looked from one detective to the other. “Let him do the talking.”

The two entered the room, and the commissioner went into the adjacent room behind the two-way mirror. Simon turned when the door opened, and stormed up to Cosell’s face.

“What the fuck is this? Why am I here?!” he yelled, his face inches from Cosell’s. He saw tiny, perfectly trimmed nose hairs flexing in and out as Simon huffed and puffed. The two stared.

“You should take your seat,” Cosell said without blinking, without raising his voice.

Simon stared another beat, turned and slammed himself down in the chair. He crossed his arms, and stared into the mirror wearing a grimace.

Cosell took his seat, followed by Baxter. The air conditioning kicked on, whirring and echoing through the room.

“Tell us about Harry,” Cosell said.

“You think I killed him,” Simon said, staring ahead, not at either of the detectives.

“We don’t think anything,” Baxter said. “Just following leads.”

“Oh yeah, and what lead led you to me,” Simon said, now moving his eyes to the young detective, who diverted his gaze to the folder in front of him. Cosell watched every movement.

Liars always have tells. Cosell knew this. After forty years, he had to. Some are quite good at lying, manipulating their face, their eyes. But there was always a split second immediately after making a statement or asking a question that a liar will give a twitch of the eye. They show their lie right away, but only for a moment, a split second. Also, he knew to watch the legs. The legs are the hardest thing for a liar to control. Cosell had the table removed from the interview room long ago. It only gave liars a shield. Sitting wide open across from a person, he could spot them, the liars.

“Your semen was found inside Harry.” Cosell kept his stare, and he caught the bit of surprise in Simon’s face before he straightened up.

Simon raised his voice again. “Found my semen in him?” Liars also tended to repeat questions, to give their mind time to create their lie. “That’s ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous.”

“Afraid not,” Baxter said, leaning forward, offering a sheet of paper to Simon. Simon snatched it from his hand and studied it.

“DNA doesn’t lie,” Cosell said. “Out with it. If you didn’t kill Harry, this is the perfect time to explain.”

Simon kept his eyes to the paper, shuffled in his seat, crossed his legs, and spoke with more calmness. “I...we...Harry and I,” his chin quivered. “We had this thing.”

“A relationship?” Baxter asked.

“Yes, you could say.” Simon shook his head, paused a moment. “We...Harry and I...it started out before One Direction, before any of that. He caught my eye backstage of the show. We talked. It didn’t take long to go further.” Simon put his hand to his mouth, fought back tears. “I loved him.” He sobbed.

Cosell and Baxter looked at each other, then back at the mirror, then back to Simon. His leg was jittering up and down, biting his index finger.

“Tell us what happened that night.”

Simon told them about the late-night liaison between he and Harry. He had gone to the apartment, he said, with a bottle of Harry’s favorite wine and an eight ball of coke, Harry’s drug of choice. The two of them blew lines and toasted glasses of wine after eating Chinese delivery. They were celebrating, he said, celebrating life. The two made love, as Simon called it. He wanted to sleep over, but Harry insisted he leave that night.

“He said he was worried about paparazzi,” Simon said. “But we had kept that apartment a secret, set up this whole system to escape and meet there.”

The only other people Simon claimed to have known about the love nest were the other members of One Direction. That was where they came to unwind from it all, the fame, the attention. It was where they met for band-only drug parties, filled their heads with coke and smack and ecstasy. Many times, these late nights turned into giant One Direction orgies, Simon said.

“But they were different,” he said. “Different than any other boy band, any other pop stars I had ever known. There was no jealousy, no animosity between them. It was incredible.”

Cosell watched Simon’s fingers flitter. He wore a ring, stamped with the 1D logo.

“The ring?” Cosell nodded to Simon’s hand.

Simon looked down at the ring, stared for a moment. “The ring? We had these made after the first album was released, sort of a tribute. Harry made sure to have one made for me. The others didn’t want me to have one, not being in the band.”

Cosell leaned forward, inspecting the ring. Simon’s finger bulged around the edge.

“Looks a little tight on you.”

“I’ve gained a little weight. What about it?”

Cosell stood up, flipped a card from his pocket.

“If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

***

Cosell and Baxter interviewed three of the four remaining members. None of them knew about Simon’s arrival later that night. After the bandmates’ sex and drug party, all but Harry wanted to hit the town, keep partying. They had lost contact with each other at some point in the night.

The only one from the band they hadn’t interviewed was Zayn Malik. Zayn had rescheduled twice his interview. Cosell and Baxter had to decide what to do.

Liam Payne had just left the police station. Nothing different to report. The stories lined up so far. The four of them went over to Harry’s secret nest, did a bunch of drugs, and “made love.” The detectives knew they could do without hearing about the orgy again, but they had just one more guy to go.

“We could go to his house.” Baxter said, rocking in his chair.

“Yes. Yes we could.” Cosell said. He stood up, pulled his trenchcoat off the back of the chair and hung it on his forearm, slipped on his fedora, and walked away. Baxter jumped up and followed.

***

Crickets chirped along the country road as Cosell pulled the car into the driveway.

“This is the last of this rich little shit’s houses,” he said. Baxter nodded from the passenger seat.

Cosell’s old rusted Chevy sputtered to a stop before he turned the key. The two detectives emerged from the car, feet crunching on the gravel, the blue light of the moon flickering between shadows of the wind-blown trees on either side.

They stood in front of a cabin, not a small, rickety hunting cabin. This was a cabin mansion. The large front windows in the main A-frame part of the house glowed bright from a massive chandelier in the center. There were two large sections on either side of the A-frame that seemed to dissolve into the adjacent woods.

The detectives sauntered up to the porch, and inspected the home through the windows. No movement in the house.

They moved up to the front door. Cosell reached up, knocked. Baxter had his right hand inside his jacket, at the ready if there was any trouble. Cosell noticed a bit of a tremble to go along with Baxter’s worried look.

“It’s just a kid,” Cosell said. “Take it easy.”

Baxter nodded, dropped his hand to his side, and tapped his right foot.

Cosell knocked again, this time louder. Still no answer. He held his hand up to the window, blocking the reflection of the porch lights. Nothing going on.

Baxter reached forward, the trembling in his hand less ambiguous, but still there. He rang the doorbell. The church bell sound rang in the large front room, then echoed through the rest of the house, growing fainter as it moved further away.

“How many rooms does this little prick have in there?” Cosell said.

They heard a door slam inside the house, and out came Zayn Malik, ambling through the main room in a red silk bathrobe. He opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Cosell detected annoyance in his voice. He removed his badge from his belt.

“I’m Detective Cosell. This is Detective Baxter. We need to talk about Harry Styles.”

Zayn’s demeanor changed in an instant, but he corrected back to casual. He feigned a sigh, and opened the door wide.

The detectives entered. Zayn asked them if they’d like something to drink.

“Bourbon,” Cosell said.

Zayn left and returned with a tray on which sat three highball glasses. As he handed the glass to Cosell, he took note of the pop stars hands: soft, smooth, and ringless. Cosell downed his drink in one gulp. Baxter took a reluctant sip.

“A little young to have bourbon on hand, aren’t you,” Cosell said, smiling.

“One of the perks of being in the biggest pop band in the world,” Zayn said, leaning back. He crossed his arms, and crossed his legs at the knee. “How can I help you?”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Cosell said, never taking his eyes from the youngster. “We’ve interviewed everyone who had contact with Harry the night of his death. You guys went to Harry’s apartment, blew some lines, stripped down for a circle jerk, and the four of you left Harry.”

“Yeah, Harry had been a little strange of late,” Zayn said. “He was always wanting to stay in.” He rocked his foot up and down.

“You four went to the club, and split up around,” Cosell flipped through his notebook, “Midnight, twelve-thirty or so.”

“That’s right.”

“We’ve talked to the other three. They all have alibis after leaving the club, and we’ve verified with multiple witnesses those alibis. The only one who doesn’t have an alibi, yet, is you.”

Zayn’s leg flittered faster. He realized, stopped it, and uncrossed his legs.

“I went home,” he said.

“Witnesses tell us they saw you return home at about three in the morning, caused a bit of a ruckus to wake them up.”

Baxter leaned forward, slid his hand nearer the inside of his jacket. Zayn’s leg started to bounce slightly.

“I...I went out to another club, alright? Jesus, you think I killed Harry? Why the hell would I do that?”

“What club?”

“Um…” Zayn looked up, then back at Cosell. His eyes widened, and he motioned slightly with his head.

Cosell turned around. He stared down the barrel of a snub-nose revolver. Behind that revolver: Simon Cowell.

“I told you to get rid of them,” Simon said to Zayn while his eyes stayed locked with Cosell’s. “But it looks like I’ll have to do that.”

Cosell stood and backed away, hands in the air. Baxter remained seated, eyes stuck on the revolver.

“No, no. Please, sit.” Simon moved around the couch, facing the two detectives as he sidestepped to a leather chair to the left of them. “And I’m going to need you to put your firearms on that coffee table.”

Cosell and Baxter exchanged a glance.

“Slowly,” Simon said.

They each reached into their pockets, slipped out their guns, and placed them onto the table. Simon stood, keeping the gun and his eyes on the two detectives. He picked up the two guns, and laid them on the ground next to the chair as he fell back into the chair.

“You two have been quite annoying. Too bad my little friend here had to mess up my plan.”

Zayn avoided eye contact with Simon. He tapped his foot on the carpet.

“What exactly was your plan?” Cosell said.

“Being a minor, little Zayn here could have gotten away pleading down to avoid being tried as an adult. But no, he decided not to do that.”

“But why? Why Harry?” Baxter said.

Simon cocked his head. “I wasn’t lying when I told you I loved him. What I didn’t know was that Harry loved someone else.” He motioned to Zayn. “He didn’t tell you. That’s where he went after the club. He was at Harry’s place. I returned later that night to profess my love for Harry, and found those two in the bed. This little cocksucker got away, somehow.”

Zayn’s face straightened. He grew red.

“He only fucked you for the band!” Zayn yelled. Simon waved the gun toward him.

“No!” Simon yelled back, his face growing red. “We loved each other!”

Zayn’s eyes welled up; his chin quivered. Simon moved the gun back to the detectives.

“Why do it?” Cosell asked. “Why kill him if you loved him?”

Simon shook his head. Baxter saw the hand holding his gun slacken a bit. He poised himself, leaning forward at the edge of the sofa.

“Have you ever loved?” Simon asked, eyes trained on Cosell.

“Not sure I have. Never enough to kill.”

“Then, you’ve never had it taken away.” Simon sneered at Zayn, and returned his gaze to the detectives on the couch.

Zayn fidgeted, then stood up. He stared at Simon, fists clenched at his side.

“Give me my ring back,” he said.

Simon looked at him, down at the ring, then back at Zayn. He smiled.

“Oh, this old thing?” Simon laid the gun in his lap. Cosell and Baxter exchanged a glance. Both knew this was an opportunity, but neither knew exactly what to do. Simon wrestled with the undersized ring, twisting it back and forth. He pulled. The ring inched up his finger. He slipped it off with a relieved gasp. Cosell and Baxter were both leaning forward, ready. Simon tossed the ring in Zayn’s direction, but just far enough away that Zayn had to reach. His attempt at catching the ring failed, and it went tumbling down a heating register, where it bounced and clanged, sounds fading as it dropped further into the oblivious reaches of the mansions ducts.

Zayn stared, his eyes grew wide. As if the lost ring was the last straw in the series of events beginning with Harry Styles’ gruesome murder, Zayn took on a powerful posture, breathed heavily, then hurled himself toward the grinning Simon.

Simon reached for the gun on his lap. Cosell and Baxter both jumped in a Pavlovian response to the attack from Zayn. Simon’s hand reached the gun just as Zayn’s body plowed Simon and the chair to their sides, a heavy wood-on-wood thud echoing through the massive room. The guns at the side of the chair skidded across the shiny hardwood floors.

Cosell’s eyes were fixed on the gun in Simon’s hand as Simon kicked the diminutive Zayn backward. Zayn fell to the floor, his head whipped back on his fall and made a cracking sound against the floor. Cosell lunged at Simon, now stumbling to regain his feet. The wind knocked out of him as he fell with a thud on top of Simon, forcing the now not-so-perfectly groomed man back to the ground. He grabbed Simon’s hand, the one holding the gun, as Simon struggled to get his legs under Cosell, aiming to kick the old detective off in the same way as he did the tiny crooner. This was a time when all those late-night cliché visits to the donut shop paid off for Cosell. Simon, despite his chiseled physique crafted for prime time television cameras, couldn’t wrest himself of the old detective.

His finger was on the trigger, Cosell saw. He slammed the armed hand to the ground in an attempt to dislodge Simon’s grip. A shot popped off, ringing off the walls and dying quickly. Cosell slammed the hand down again; another shot popped off. A third time, Cosell let Simon push his arm up a bit more before putting all his weight onto the arm. He banged the hand on the ground. The gun broke loose, and slid across the floor, spinning.

With Cosell’s weight still balanced to the side, Simon tried to push up, but his hand slipped on the floor. Cosell regained his balance, grabbed Simon’s hair as Simon kicked and tried to shake his way out from under Cosell’s grip. Cosell felt the softness in Simon’s perfectly crafted mane as he slammed his head to the ground. He pulled his head up, and felt Simon’s struggle diminish slightly. He forced his head down once more, feeling the thud reverberate through his arm as Simon’s head pounded the floor. Again, he pulled the head up and slammed it down, and again, and again.

With Simon sufficiently disoriented, Cosell dragged him to the staircase leading up to the loft, and cuffed his hands around one of the bannisters. He stood, wiped his brow, and turned to survey the scene. Baxter laid in front of the couch, and as Cosell approached, he noticed the labored breathing from his young partner, who was now clutching his side.

He gasped and hurried to Baxter. He felt the viscous liquid beneath his feet and knelt down in the puddle of blood. He cradled his friend.

Baxter, face drained of color, panting in short breaths, removed his hand from his wound, and looked at the blood dripping down.

“You’re going to be okay,” Cosell said, trying to not sound panicked. He turned his head back toward Zayn. “Call 9-1-1!” He yelled, his voice quivering and cracking.

Zayn rose and sprinted into the kitchen.

“You’re going to be alright. We’re getting help,” Cosell said.

Baxter looked up Cosell, who felt the shaking and coldness of his partner’s body.

“I’m not going to make it, boss,” Baxter said.

“Don’t say that.”

“Tell my wife…” he coughed and grimaced. “Tell my wife I love her.”

Cosell nodded apprehensively. Baxter’s breaths grew quicker, more labored.

“And Cosell?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I fucking hate boy bands.”

“Me too. Me too, buddy.”

Baxter’s eyes went blank.

Notes

This is it. It's a short story.