Detective Evelyn Marks adjusted her sunglasses as she walked the winding path past Sunset Park's tennis courts. The rhythmic thwack of tennis balls punctuated the summer air. She paused a moment, watching a young girl practicing her serve. Evelyn hadn't picked up a racket in years, but memories of winded laughter and scraped knees tugged at her for a few seconds.
The courts buzzed — players swinging, chatting, competing. But Evelyn's destination was elsewhere: the single-story building framed by hedges and an equipment shed. Standing in front of the building, the detective paused. Two officers were milling about inside. No one took notice of her. She pushed through the heavy glass doors, welcomed by a blast of air conditioning that raised goosebumps on her arms.
Officer Pelosi approached her. "It's Gregory Brinksman," she said grimly. "Found dead in his car round back in the staff parking lot."
Evelyn blinked. "Gregory Brinksman, the city supervisor? Never had the pleasure."
"Not many would call it that," Pelosi muttered. "He had a cringy reputation. The 'handsy type,' if you get my drift."
The detective knew the type all too well. "Show me the scene," she said.
The employee parking lot buzzed with officers as the medical examiner continued to take pictures. Gregory Brinksman's car sat angled against the curb, the driver's side door ajar. A bloody tennis racket lay in the gutter near the tire on the driver's shoe.
Evelyn crouched beside the car. Gregory Brinksman was slumped in the driver's seat, a severe head wound glistening under the harsh afternoon sun. The city supervisor had impeccable taste. He wore grey Berluti Alessandro slacks and a pale blue cotton Polo shirt by the same brand. His polished Berluti Alessandro dress shoes were scuffed. This man may have been a creep, but he was a well-dressed creep.
The detective straightened slowly. Dr. Bobbi Conrad smiled at her colleague.
"You need to take care of that lower back issue, Evie."
"I'll manage, Doc. What have you got for me?"
"Well, Detective, preliminary examination shows multiple fresh abrasions across the fingers of both hands — consistent with defensive wounds. The vic sustained significant trauma to the right posterior cranium. The fatal injury appears to be a penetrating wound at the base of the skull, near the right auricular region, likely compromising the vertebral artery or brainstem.
The body's position — slumped over the steering wheel with the driver's side door ajar — suggests he may have remained conscious for a brief time post-injury. Estimated time of death is three to four hours ago, based on lividity and core temperature. That said, heat retention inside the vehicle may have altered typical postmortem progression.
I'll run a full toxicology panel to rule out any substances. Everything remains preliminary until the autopsy is complete."
Detective Marks felt her stomach groan and the thought of lunch intruded on her focus.
"Thanks, Doc," the detective said, eyes sweeping the pavement as she made her way toward the rear office entrance. Just as she reached the door, something small and out of place caught her eye — a purple tassel, wedged in the frame of the back hallway door.
"Bag that," she told an officer. "I'll start with interviews."
The Interviews
Witness 1: Lila Carter, Tennis Pro
Evelyn ducked into Lila Carter's so-called office, though calling it that felt generous.
It was more like a converted storage closet, barely big enough for the folding chair tucked against a sagging card table. A scuffed-up laptop blinked on the surface, half-buried beneath open cans of tennis balls, tangled wristbands, and a dog-eared fitness manual from the early 2000s.
Rackets leaned like awkward guests in the corners. A laundry basket full of mismatched water bottles sat near the door. The walls were bare, no trophies or framed accolades — just a whiteboard scribbled with names and tournament dates, most of which had been hastily crossed out.
Evelyn scanned the space and smiled faintly.
It was chaos. Pure Lila.
"I know it's a mess," Lila called from behind her, breathless. "I was going to clean, but then I had to restring Kai's racket, and then Mia forgot her shoes, and then the Wi-Fi died — again — and anyway, I haven't had coffee, so this is what you get."
Evelyn turned. Lila's dark curls were pulled into a fraying ponytail, her warm-up jacket unzipped halfway, a neon scrunchie clinging to one wrist like it had forgotten its job.
"Still the same office?" Evelyn asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Hey, you think I chose this broom closet?" Lila gestured to the stacked ball carts. "They gave the big room to the pickleball guy. The pickleball guy, Evelyn."
Evelyn let out a breath — somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. The banter brought back flashes: teenage her on the court, Lila barking corrections, tossing balls with unerring accuracy, always two steps ahead. She'd been more than a coach — she'd been fire in motion.
"I heard what happened," Evelyn said. "I wanted to talk."
Lila's smile faded, and the room felt smaller. She sank into the folding chair and pulled it close to the table.
"I didn't kill him, Evelyn," she said quietly. "But I hated him."
The silence stretched. Evelyn clicked on her recorder, but her eyes never left Lila's.
"I believe you," she said. "But I need the whole story."
"Gregory Brinksman was stalking me," Lila said bluntly. "I told him to back off. He called me every name in the book, and I snapped. I swung the racket — not to hurt him, just to get him to back off. He left, and I went back to practice."
"Did you see him again?"
"No," Lila said. Her voice was firm, but her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve.
Evelyn studied her. "Why didn't you report it?"
Lila exhaled. "Because it wouldn't have mattered. Gregory's a city supervisor. He has pull. It would've been my word against his. I was just tired of the fight."
"I was coming out of the supply building when the cop cars came up the road. I had no idea what was going on."
A flicker of sympathy crossed Evelyn's face. Lila sounded like someone trying to end a battle, not start one.
Witness 2: Jim Rutherford, Recreation Supervisor
Jim Rutherford's office was a maze of paper — stacked schedules, curling brochures, old tournament posters thumbtacked to the walls.
The large oak desk was cluttered, but Evelyn noticed the clutter was… static. Nothing looked worked on. Nothing looked recent.
A partially opened window behind Jim's leather chair offered a view of the employee parking lot. On the right wall, a single plaque from a decade-old tournament sat lonely on a shelf. A yellowing event flyer had been taped nearby, its corners curled like it was trying to leave.
Jim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over a faded tennis club polo that had clearly been expensive once. He looked like a man who'd spent too many years answering questions and not getting thanked for it.
"Gregory Brinksman was always punching above his weight," he said flatly. "He thought money was a shield — like it gave him the right to anything he wanted."
He reached for a file on the desk and slipped it into a nearby metal cabinet. "We went to school together. Butted heads a lot. No love lost there."
"Where were you around 11:30 a.m.?" Evelyn asked.
"Meeting with some parents about summer programs."
She nodded slowly. "Who?"
He hesitated. "The Klines. And the DuPres. A few others, I think. Their kids are in our travel league."
"You think?"
"Well — I don't remember exactly who showed up. It was informal. Just a check-in kind of thing."
"Anyone still around who can confirm?"
"They left early. I stayed back here to catch up on paperwork. Door was closed, so I didn't hear anything until the sirens."
Evelyn's gaze drifted to the desk. "Doesn't look like you've gotten much done."
Jim frowned. "Well, I was… sorting. A lot of this is old stuff. I've been meaning to clear it out."
"Must be tough to focus with all the yelling going on."
He blinked. "What yelling?"
Evelyn tilted her head. "You said your door was closed. But if you didn't hear anything, how do you know there was yelling?"
Jim shifted in his seat. "I meant — someone told me later. That there'd been yelling. I assumed."
"You assumed Gregory Brinksman was yelling?"
"He always was. That was kind of his thing." Jim gave a small, humorless chuckle.
Evelyn didn't smile. Her eyes moved to a folder peeking out from under a stack of flyers. The tab read Facility Budget – Redraft in thick black ink. A clean rectangle in the dust told her it had been touched recently.
"What's the redraft about?" she asked casually.
Jim followed her gaze, then looked away. "Just updates. Nothing interesting. Admin stuff."
"I like admin stuff," Evelyn said evenly. "Sometimes the boring things tell you exactly where the cracks are."
He didn't answer.
"You've got a lot of paper here," she said, eyes flicking to the pristine trash can, "but not much going out."
Jim cleared his throat. "Well, like I said — I've been meaning to clean up."
Evelyn studied him for a long beat, then clicked off her recorder.
"Maybe it's time to start."
Witness 3: Derek Walsh, Equipment Technician
The gym smelled faintly of rubber mats, sweat, and old disinfectant.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, offering a clear view of the tennis courts and the public parking lot beyond. Rows of treadmills faced out toward the courts, their digital displays blinking in standby. Free weights were racked neatly near the mirrored wall, and a handful of strength machines stood in a quiet line, waiting for the post-lunch crowd.
Detective Evelyn Marks walked across the room, weaving between benches and resistance cables. On the far side, a maintenance door stood propped open. Derek Walsh, the facility's head of maintenance, was unloading tools from a large rolling bin, spreading them out with a practiced, effortless rhythm.
He glanced up as she approached.
"Gregory Brinksman?" he said, brow furrowing. "Guy accused me of kickbacks last year. Liked to pretend he was rich, but I know his secret."
"What secret?" Evelyn asked, stopping beside the workbench.
"The dude's a conman. His family ran outta cash years ago."
Derek effortlessly hefted a duffel-sized bag and slung it onto the shelf above his head. "He lived off image. Flashy car, designer crap — but it was all smoke."
"Where were you during the altercation?" she asked, pulling out her voice recorder.
"I got here around ten," he said, brushing dust from his hands. "Started unloading the truck out back."
"What time did the idiot croak?"
"Where were you for the last hour and a half?" Evelyn asked.
"Fixing treadmills," Derek replied, gesturing toward the clipboard on a nearby shelf. "Check the log."
She picked it up and flipped through. The entries were scrawled, vague — "motor hum," "belt alignment," "reset console." Most were undated or lacked times.
"For the entire time?" she asked.
He shifted. "Took a break. Grabbed a snack. Didn't know I needed to log every bite."
"You're sure that's all?"
He nodded once. "That's about it, Detective."
Behind him, a large spanner lay on the metal shelf — easily overlooked, but heavy enough to split a skull. Evelyn motioned toward it with her chin.
"Don't forget that one," she said. "Looks like it could hurt somebody."
They locked eyes. His face stayed neutral, but his jaw set ever so slightly.
After a long pause, he gave a slow smile.
"Have a nice day, Detective. I've got a schedule to keep."
Witness 4: Victoria Chase, City Manager
Evelyn entered Victoria Chase's office. The city manager sat behind her desk, a plate of lasagna and a large bowl of salad in front of her.
The office was tucked at the back of the building, with a clear view of the parking lot. A wall of awards, hardcovers, and gleaming trophies filled the bookshelf to the left.
Evelyn settled into an overstuffed leather sofa and clicked on her recorder. Victoria Chase wiped her mouth delicately, swallowed, and took a sip of her drink.
"This is such a terrible tragedy," she said. "I was on a call with the mayor the entire time."
"Did you hear anything?" Detective Marks asked.
"I saw the fight on the court earlier," Victoria replied smoothly. "Gregory Brinksman shouted something awful at Lila — I couldn't catch the words. She swung her racket at him. He stormed off."
"You saw all that?" Evelyn asked.
"Clear as day." Victoria's tone turned slightly indignant. "I don't always get involved, but when you see something like that, you have to speak up."
She paused, then added, "Later, while I was still on the call with the mayor's office, I looked out and saw Gregory Brinksman's car door open… and his leg sticking out." She grimaced, as if reliving the moment.
"I called 911 as soon as I realized that he wasn't…"
Evelyn kept her expression neutral.
She really wanted the rest of that lasagna.
The Clues
Evelyn moved down the rear hallway. Fresh scuff marks traced a path from the back exit to the break room. Inside, the air was stale with the scent of burnt coffee and disinfectant. The chipped sink was piled with cloudy mugs, one of them still cradling a spoon glued into a crust of dried creamer. An umbrella stand in the corner overflowed with dusty golf clubs, a couple of old tennis rackets, a hockey stick, and a walking cane someone had forgotten months ago.
A coat rack supported two winter coats, a scarf, large floppy hat, and a windbreaker — practical layers hastily shed in warmer months. Beside it, a wheelchair sat neatly parked. Across the room, a narrow shelf held a jumble of laminated safety signs, half-empty cleaning supplies, a shiny crystal and metal trophy bearing the name of the current director, and a stack of old newsletters wilting under a crooked "Employee of the Month" frame.
Evelyn's gaze paused just long enough to register the room's wear and tear before moving on. She wasn't here for nostalgia.
Interactive Break
Evelyn gathered the suspects in the break room, her face unreadable. She let the silence stretch.
"We're about five minutes away from an arrest," she said.
Ok, dear reader — can you guess who the culprit is? Take a moment. Who do you think did it? What detail gave them away?
Your Theories
Share your guess in the comments below! Who do you think is the murderer and what clues led you to that conclusion?