He didn't care. Not one bit.

Time for another writing sample! I wrote this one a few months ago. The requirement here was to write the plot backwards, so to speak. You are given a phrase, and you have to include it somewhere in your story, using it as the basis for coming up with the plot. The phrase was,

"[He] looked straight into the man’s eyes and saw that he didn’t care. Not one bit."

Naturally, the first thing I thought of was a crime drama with a close-to-retirement detective. This could definitely be developed into something longer, but this is how it stands today. Enjoy!

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It was a hazy morning when Detective Simmons arrived at the scene. He’d been back with the Chicago P.D. for about 3 months, having transitioned from the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, looking for something less intense as he neared retirement. He wasn’t young and spry anymore, no longer turned on by the prospect of chasing a serial killer all over the country. He straightened his tie as he got out of his standard issue Crown Vic, hoping to make a good impression with beat cops, commanding respect despite the state of his combover. Maybe it was time to be like the other old-timers and just shave it off, embracing baldness. His wife Janice always said he had a nice head shape, when she wasn’t complaining about how he needed to eat more vegetables and take a walk around the block now and then.

Trudging up to the 10-story apartment building, he could see the body splayed out on the red Toyota it had landed on. An officer pulled him aside.

“Good morning, sir. Pretty gruesome scene this morning.”

Simmons stopped in front of the car, glancing up at the height of the building.

“Looks like the guy jumped. CSI is up in the apartment now, but there don’t seem to be any signs of a struggle.”

“Thank you, officer. I’ll take it from here,” Simmons proclaimed, hoping he didn’t come across too egotistical—he wasn’t in the FBI anymore.

Suicides were something Simmons hadn't dealt with in a while, having focused on serial killers for so long. He found these scenes particularly troubling. Unlike stabbings or shootings, it wasn’t obvious whether a murder had taken place. He felt compelled to give the person justice, to determine if there was a murderer out there running around who needed to be caught. Since the CSI team was hard at work upstairs in apartment 9D, Detective Simmons turned his focus to the body.

The man was still. His blue jeans and green polo shirt were torn and covered in shards of glass and chips of paint. Even with the state of the body and the car, Simmons was drawn directly to the man’s eyes – they were wide open.

“Eerie, isn’t it,” said the officer, who had apparently remained behind Simmons as he observed the scene.

Simmons ignored the officer, taking a step closer and peering down at the man’s face on the hood. Simmons looked straight into the man’s eyes and saw that he didn’t care. Not one bit. He saw the man’s soul, and it gave him the answer he needed. That’s one thing the BAU taught him—how to read people. This man came to terms with his fate before the fall; he chose his path.

“There was no murder here,” Simmons said.

“But how do you know?” the officer questioned, looking puzzled and concerned.

“Have the report on my desk by 6 pm.” Simmons strode back to the car. There would be no search for a murderer today.