The bullpen buzzed low with the steady hum of computers and the occasional clack of keys. The morning light filtered through the blinds, striping the desks with pale gold and shadow.
Marla Simmons was at her desk, typing out a report with the kind of calm precision that only came from years of doing this. Early forties, sharp eyes, sharp suits — raised by a strong Ethiopian grandmother who had taught her that every truth worth finding came at a price.
Across from her sat Rory Wallace, the youngest of the group — mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, with a touch of the brogue still hanging on his vowels. He was chewing on a toothpick and staring at the board like it owed him answers.
Pinned to that board were five faces — young, old, male, female — all missing. All from the same side of town.
Rory finally broke the silence. “You’ve been staring at that wall for an hour, Marla. You trying to make it confess?”
Marla didn’t look up. “Maybe it already has. You just don’t like what it’s saying.”
Rory leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “It’s saying we’ve got five missing people who made bad life choices. That’s it.”
“It’s saying they’re connected.”
He groaned. “Marla, come on. They’re not. Look at them — different sexes, different races, different everything. No type, no link.”
Marla tapped the edge of the file on her desk. “There’s always a link. You just have to see where it runs.”
“Runs where?”
“Through the city. Through the alleys, the bars, the motels. All of them worked the same areas — Independence, Riverfront, The Bottoms.”
“So does half the street,” Rory countered. “You could pick any corner in that part of town and find a dozen faces like theirs.”
Marla’s voice lowered. “But not all of them end up dead.”
Rory’s brow creased. “You’re saying we’re looking at a serial?”
“I’m saying,” Marla replied evenly, “it’s too much to be a coincidence. Five gone in two months. That’s not a chance.”
Rory chewed on his toothpick, shaking his head. “You’re reaching. The two guys we found — they were mutilated. Genitals removed. That’s rage or some ritual crap. The girl was asphyxiated. Completely different.”
“Or,” Marla said, “the same hand trying something new.”
He snorted. “Jesus, that’s a hell of a stretch.”
“Not if you look close enough. Whoever’s doing this knows the streets — knows which kids disappear without headlines.”
Rory sighed. “You’re getting that look again. The one that says you’ve been up too long chasing ghosts.”
“Better ghosts than bodies,” Marla said softly.
Rory stared at her for a moment, then glanced back at the board. “So what’s your theory, then? Some sadist running around picking off anyone who won’t be missed?”
“Something like that.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got a hell of a gut, Simmons, but right now, all I see is bad luck and worse neighborhoods.”
Marla’s eyes flicked up, sharp and certain. “You’ll see more soon enough. Linda Park’s coming.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. “The church lady again?”
“Street advocate,” Marla corrected. “And yeah. Every time one of hers goes missing, she shows up.”
“She got something for us?”
“She always does,” Marla said. “Even when she doesn’t mean to.”
Rory leaned back, letting the chair creak. “You think she’ll back your connection theory?”
Marla closed the file. “I think she already knows I’m right. That’s why she’s on her way.”
Rory glanced at the clock, half-smiling. “Well, I hope she brings caffeine with her. I’ve got a feeling we’re in for another sermon.”
Marla looked back at the board, her expression unreadable. “Maybe. But this time, I think we should listen.”
The bullpen door swung open. The laughter and noise of the hallway briefly cut through the hum of the room. A man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped in — trim, polished, with the kind of confidence that came from knowing the law as both shield and weapon.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice even but sharp. “I’m looking for the detectives handling the Haldoran warehouse case.”
Rory looked up. “Depends who’s asking.”
The man produced a card and handed it to Marla.
DEREK CASTLEBERRY, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Marla read it, then looked up. “And what can we do for you, Mr. Castleberry?”
He adjusted his tie. “You can start by telling me why my client, Jaxson Lee, is being questioned without counsel present.”
Rory’s toothpick froze mid-chew. “Well,” he muttered, “looks like our Sunday just got a lot more interesting.”
© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.
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