Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Pandemic Panic, Petty Crimes, and Hairdryers A Detective’s Tale of Modern Murder #4

Episode Date: August 9, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #detectivestory #modernmurder #pandemiccrime #truecrime #crimeinvestigation  This tale follows a detective navigating a city gripped by pandemic panic, petty crimes, and bizarre clues—like hairdryers—that unravel a complex murder case. It highlights the challenges of law enforcement in unprecedented times and the dark side lurking beneath daily chaos.  #horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #scarystories #horrorstory #creepypasta #horrortales #detectivestory #modernmurder #pandemiccrime #truecrime #crimeinvestigation #murdermystery #policework #urbancrime #darkcrime #chaos #suspense #crimefiction #clues #thriller

Did you ever notice how books used to have these crazy long sentences? Really? Ha! Didn't know that, but I guess it kind of makes sense. Yeah, I saw something about it on Reddit. Didn't go deep into the comments or anything, but apparently, people used to have the mental bandwidth for that kind of stuff. Now, it's like memes and TikToks and six-second attention spans.

Nobody can focus on anything longer than a cat video. I don't know, man. I think every era had people who thought they were better than everyone else just because they read something once. You and I, we've read a couple books and now we're looking down at everyone else from our self-righteous pedestals. The two men chuckled. It wasn't a real argument, more like a regular back and forth between people who were used to being in each other's space. They had a kind of rhythm, like an old married couple that bickers as a form of communication. The first man shrugged.

Anyway, didn't find anything new, he said, standing over a woman's crumpled body, lying cold and lifeless in the hallway of a London flat. The other detective gave the room a slow scan. Nothing the responding officers couldn't have told us already, huh, pretty much. Blunt force trauma. Looks like someone clocked her on the head with something heavy. No real attempt to hide the body either. These two were detectives with the Metropolitan Police. No flashy suits or Sherlock Holmes coats, just regular guys with overworked eyes and a permanent hint of sarcasm in their tone.

They were the first on the scene after uniformed officers secured the place. A neighbor had called it in, said the door was wide open and there was a body just lying there like a scene out of a crime drama. None of it adds up, said the taller detective, pacing slowly. Whoever did this didn't even try to cover their tracks. They just left her there. All he had to do was shut the damn door. Would have bought him some time, at least. Maybe he's out there chain smoking right now, having a meltdown, trying to process what just happened.

Or maybe crying somewhere in a hoodie, wondering how it all went sideways. Hell, I bet you in a few hours he'll walk into a precinct somewhere and confess. Probably open with something dramatic like, I didn't mean to kill her. You just assume it was a he, the other detective said, smirking. Well, the stats are on my side, came the reply. Most women who get murdered. It's by someone they were dating, or had dated. Partner or X.

That's just reality. He gestured lazily at the body like it was Exhibit A in a crime museum. If this was a movie, I'd say this is the start of some sick serial killer arc. You know, some criminal mastermind playing chess while we're all stuck playing checkers. But real life doesn't work that way. Real life is messy. Real life is petty. She probably caught her boyfriend having coffee with someone else, maybe a co-worker he thought was cute.

One thing led to another, and boom, he mimed swinging something. She slaps him, he panics, grabs the nearest object, maybe a lamp, maybe a hairdriar, and he hits her. End of story. You're such a romantic, the other detainter. detective replied, You should write poetry. I'm just saying, man. This is probably going to be another open-end shot. Talk to her friends, her family. Figure out who she was involved with. Go knock on his door. He breaks down in the first ten minutes. The second detective wasn't entirely convinced, but he didn't have a better theory either. If she was gay, maybe it was the girlfriend

that snapped, he offered. Wouldn't be the first. time. I've seen domestic fights go sideways like that. They stood in silence for a bit, looking over the apartment. It was oddly clean, like it had been freshly vacuumed. Except, of course, for the pool of blood under the woman's head. You ever wonder if we're getting dumber, said the first detective, shifting the conversation again. I mean, think about it. Most cases are like this. Practically solve themselves. Offender. don't even try to be original anymore. We're not even solving crimes, we're just checking boxes. Speak for yourself. I like to think I still use my brain occasionally. Yeah, well, if a real

mystery ever came along, you wouldn't know what to do without a checklist. There's a reason there are jokes about cops and donuts. Harsh, said the other, though he was grinning. But not entirely wrong. They continued combing the flat, poking into drawers, checking shelves, pretending, they might find something the first responders hadn't. But there was nothing dramatic. No blood-spattered note, no weird ritualistic symbols, no sinister diary. Just a regular flat, recently lived in, now unervingly quiet. As it turned out, the so-called mystery unraveled fast. They pulled CCTV footage from the camera mounted above the building's entrance. The timestamp was right, just hours before the body was discovered, and it showed a man walking out in a hurry.

Not running. Just, fast walking like someone late for a bus. They froze the frame, took a screenshot, and showed it to the victim's sister, who had just arrived at the station, pale and shaking. Yeah, she said immediately, that's her boyfriend. They've been living together since the lockdown. It didn't take long to find the guy. They sent a patrol unit to a his flat, and surprise, surprise, he was drunk. In the interrogation room, he didn't lawyer up, didn't even try to deny it. He just sighed and started talking. The detectives sat across from him, watching this broken man fidget with a paper cup of water like it was a ticking bomb. He told them about the lockdown, the stress, the tiny apartment that got smaller every day. He said things

have been tense. Petty fights, silence, more petty fights. The usual pandemic drama. But then he ran into his ex at the grocery store, of all places. They chatted for a bit. Nothing romantic, he claimed. Just reminiscing about the good old days, laughing nervously about the apocalypse and masks and missing hugs. She told him to take care. He said he would. End of story. Except it wasn't. Hours later, back at the apartment, his phone buzzed. It was a text from the ex. Nice seeing you.

We should do this again. Maybe when the world's not ending, his girlfriend saw it. Didn't even snoop, he left the phone unlocked on the couch. She read the message and just, snapped. She started yelling. Accusing. He said it was nothing. She didn't believe him.

Slap. He grabbed a hairdriar, why was he holding it? No idea. Maybe he just used it. Maybe he was putting it away. Who knows? But when she slapped him, and he swung without thinking, that's what he had in his hand. A damn hairdriar.

She dropped like a rock. Blood everywhere. He stood there, staring, still gripping the damn thing. No CPR, No-999 call. Just panic. Pure, dumb panic. He bolted. Down the stairs, out the front door, still holding the murder weapon like an idiot. The detectives didn't even need to press.

He spilled it all. I didn't mean to, he kept repeating. I just. I just reacted, and that was it. Case closed. No mastermind No serial killer arc Just a guy, a fight, a mistake, and a hairdryer.

Back at the precinct, the two detectives sat at their desks. The one who guessed everything right leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. Ten pounds, man. I called it, I should have bet, the other said, shaking his head. Still, kind of depressing how easy it all was. Hey, maybe next time we'll get a real mystery. Something with puzzles and riddles and string on a courtboard type of stuff. Until then, we solve crimes with hair dryers.

Better than donut thefts. They both laughed, the kind of tired laugh that comes from knowing tomorrow's case will probably be just as predictable. The end.