No answer.
Felix tilted his head, listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No movement.
He glanced at Frank, waiting for the call.
Frank stepped back a few feet, lifted his radio.
"Adam‑44 to dispatch. We've got heavy blood traces in the garage. Possible home invasion with injury. Requesting authorization to breach."
"Copy, Adam‑44. You are authorized to breach. Additional units are en route. Hold position until backup arrives."
People loved to say cops in the U.S. couldn't enter a home without permission or a warrant. They weren't wrong—just incomplete.
If police believed someone inside was hurt, destroying evidence, or if they'd seen a suspect enter, they could force their way in. And if someone inside came at them with a weapon? They could shoot first.
Stand‑your‑ground, they called it. Who walked away usually came down to who shot straighter. And it wasn't often the cop who lost.
Frank nodded once, signaling Felix. They counted down—one, two, three—then Frank slammed a boot into the door and stepped back.
Felix stretched an arm forward, twisting the knob and yanking it open.
The wood gave way easy. Too easy. Felix made a mental note: I need a steel door on my apartment.
Frank peeked inside, quick and sharp. "Clear. I go first. You stay close."
He pushed in with his Glock raised. Felix followed, heart steady, but a part of him hoping—praying—the killer hadn't left. It had been days since he'd punished anyone. No kills, no leveling up.
They stepped past the threshold.
First thing they saw: an older Asian man, sprawled on the floor, soaked in blood. Not moving.
"Frank?"
"Leave him. Clear the rest first."
Felix marveled, not for the first time, at how cold American cops could be.
They swept the house room by room. Backyard too. No one.
When they returned to the living room, the old man looked even deader than before.
Frank crouched, checked quickly, then keyed the radio.
"Adam‑44. Breached residence. Found one Asian male, mid‑age, heavy blood loss, no signs of life. Vehicle missing from garage. Suspect may have fled with it. Requesting verification and BOLO."
"Copy, Adam‑44. Maintain scene integrity. Homicide and Coroner's Office are en route."
Frank dropped the mic. "That's it for us."
Felix frowned. "We're not going after him?"
Frank gave a short laugh. "No, partner. We're patrol. We observe, we secure. If we catch someone in the act, we stop them. But this? This goes to Homicide."
Felix didn't like it. It felt like doing nothing.
Frank read his face and clapped his shoulder. "I know what you're thinking. Young blood wants to be a hero. But every cop has their lane. You even know where to find him? His plates? How to pull evidence? Hell, he's probably out of the county by now."
Felix knew Frank was right. Even with the system, he couldn't pull a killer out of the entire city on his own.
Sirens wailed outside. Backup had arrived.
Felix peered out the window: three black‑and‑whites, six deputies piling out.
Frank stepped out, hands raised in a friendly wave. The arriving deputies relaxed, holstered their weapons, and came in.
They gave the body a quick glance, then moved on—taping off the yard, shooing away gawkers.
And there were plenty.
Americans loved a scene even more than back home. Didn't matter if it was a murder or a shootout—people would still edge closer, phones out, narrating for whoever would listen.
One guy kept dialing and snapping photos. Felix leaned closer. Selling the story to a paper. Bounty money.
No one else seemed to care, so Felix let it go.
More sirens. Two more cruisers. An ambulance.
Frank went out to brief the new arrivals. That's when Felix learned: Homicide.
They weren't the TV version—no suits, no trench coats. Just more deputies with badges and clipboards.
They took over immediately. Photos. Evidence bags. Talking to neighbors, the caller, anyone with a story.
Felix followed them at first, curious. No one shooed him away—if you weren't in the way, they didn't care.
But the work bored him fast.
This wasn't TV. It was painstaking—cataloging blood‑stained objects, inch by inch searches, neighbors rambling off tangents while detectives scribbled notes that didn't seem to lead anywhere.
He went back to the car. Frank and a few other deputies were leaning against hoods, chatting.
Felix nodded at them, then rested against his own door, arms crossed.
The radio cracked.
"Dispatch to all units: BOLO vehicle from Bisby Street homicide spotted. Suspect traveling eastbound on I‑10. All units in proximity, respond."
Felix shot upright. "Frank—drive. Now!"