The Last Shift at Hollow Point
June 2, 2025
The wind howled through the alleyways of Hollow Point like a predator hunting its prey. Rain slicked the streets, glinting off dim neon signs and broken bottle glass. At 2:57 AM, most of the city slept—except those who made their living in the dark.
Detective Lena Marris tugged the collar of her trench coat higher and stepped over a puddle. The call had come in less than an hour ago: a body found behind O’Malley’s Pawn. Male. Mid-30s. Gunshot to the chest. No ID.
“Jesus,” muttered Officer Grant as he knelt beside the body. “Third one this week.”
Lena squatted beside him, peering at the victim’s face. Unshaven. Eyes open, fixed on nothing.
“No wallet, no phone,” Grant added. “Looks like a professional hit.”
Lena’s eyes scanned the alley. No security cams. No open businesses. Just dumpsters, decay, and a flickering streetlight like a dying heartbeat. She felt the weight of her badge like a brick in her coat pocket.
“Same M.O. as the others?” she asked.
“Pretty much. Close-range shot. .45 caliber.”
Lena stood, frowning. “Killer’s not sloppy. Three dead, same method. It’s deliberate.”
“You think it’s the Hollow Point Ghost?” Grant grinned nervously.
Lena gave him a look. “We don’t solve crimes by naming them like horror movies.”
She turned and walked toward the street. She needed air—or something that resembled it in this city.
Three hours later, Lena sat at her desk, surrounded by files and stale coffee. A pattern emerged: all three victims had records—petty theft, drug charges, illegal firearms. And each one had served time at Stonewall Penitentiary. The same block. Same year.
She flipped open the third file. “Ramon Keller.” Street name: Ram K. Out in February. Two months clean, supposedly.
Her phone buzzed.
“Detective Marris.”
A gravel voice answered. “I got something. You should come down to Pier 9. Storage Unit 32. Alone.”
Click.
She stared at the screen. No caller ID. No voice recognition. But the tone was familiar—like someone who’d seen too much.
Pier 9 was where the city ran out of ambition and gave up. Storage Unit 32 sat halfway down a row of rusting doors, each tagged with graffiti. Lena approached, hand on her holster.
The door creaked open before she reached it.
A man stepped out of the shadows, hands raised. “Relax. No heat on me.”
She recognized him instantly.
“Victor Vance,” she said coldly. “I thought you vanished after the Barrett trial.”
“I did,” he said, lowering his hands. “Till someone started picking off my old crew.”
Lena narrowed her eyes. “Your crew? You ran with Ram K?”
“And Tommy Delgado. And Leo ‘Wrench’ Morales. All dead now.”
“You’re saying the killer is after ex-cons from your crew?”
“Not just that,” Victor replied. “He’s cleaning house. Someone wants every trace of the Barrett job buried for good.”
Lena stiffened. The Barrett job had been the biggest armored truck hit in city history. $2.8 million vanished. The crew walked free on a technicality. The money was never recovered.
“Why now?” she asked.
Victor lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. “Because someone’s about to talk. And it ain’t me.”
Back at the precinct, Lena sat with Victor in the interview room. The tape rolled.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
Victor exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Barrett job was inside work. We had help—from a cop.”
Lena’s blood ran cold.
“Name,” she demanded.
He hesitated. “He was called Bishop. That’s all we knew. Never showed his face. But he arranged the route switch and police delay.”
“And now?”
“Now he thinks someone’s gonna flip. Maybe me. Maybe one of the others before they died.”
Lena leaned back. “You’re saying a dirty cop’s behind the murders?”
“I’m saying he’s cleaning up. And he has a badge.”
At 10:17 PM, Lena’s office was empty except for the hum of a flickering fluorescent bulb. She opened the Barrett case file. Cross-referenced all officers working that night. Three names stood out. Two retired. One still active.
Captain Harold Reese.
Her boss.
The same man who “lost” dash cam footage and rerouted squad cars the night of the hit.
She heard a soft knock.
It was Reese.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, stepping in. “Looking into old ghosts.”
She said nothing, fingers brushing the grip of her sidearm beneath the desk.
“I got a call. Said Victor Vance’s back in town. You know where he is?”
“Why?”
Reese smiled thinly. “Loose ends. You understand.”
Lena stood slowly. “You’re Bishop.”
His smile vanished.
“You know, I always liked you, Marris,” he said, voice darkening. “Smart. Didn’t ask too many questions.”
He reached inside his coat.
Lena moved first.
One shot.
Reese hit the floor, gun falling from his hand.
The investigation moved fast after that. Victor entered witness protection. Lena testified. The missing Barrett money was never found, but three families got closure.
As dawn broke over Hollow Point, Lena walked the empty precinct hallway. Rain had stopped. Light crept through the windows like forgiveness.
She wasn’t a hero.
But at least the ghosts were quiet—for now.