Chapter 10: Pressure

The KCPD homicide floor always felt like Monday, even when the calendar insisted otherwise. Fluorescent lights hummed too loudly, the old air conditioner rattled in the ceiling like loose bones, and half-empty styrofoam cups of cold coffee littered desks like defeated soldiers.

In Captain Lewis Singleton’s office, the blinds were drawn tight, but the morning sun still bled through in thin, angry stripes across the paperwork stacked in front of him. Singleton looked worn — tie crooked, shirt sleeves shoved to his elbows, eyes red like he hadn’t slept. That wasn’t surprising. When the Mayor bothered the captain, nobody slept.

Whitaker and Mendez stood across from him, backs straight, jawlines stiff. It felt less like a briefing and more like a funeral.

Lewis didn’t bother with small talk.“I’m drowning, gentlemen.”

Whitaker raised an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

“No,” Singleton snapped. “Rough phone calls. Rough politics. Mayor Lawson is chewing my ass raw over this warehouse situation.”

Ray folded his arms. “Mayor was at the big party that night, wasn’t he?”

Lewis shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“You watch your mouth. You are not investigating a party. You are investigating a fire.”

Whitaker kept his voice steady. “With respect, sir, we found nothing at the scene. No accelerants we can trace, no prints, no clear cause. The only witness statements all point to one man at the warehouse—”

Lewis held up a hand. “I don’t care if witnesses saw Abraham Lincoln moonwalking out of that building. The fire stays the fire. We don’t drag city officials into it. Not the Mayor. Not the Chief. Not the senators or the billionaires.”

Ray muttered, “Convenient how they show up at the same place DeCarlo disappears.”

Lewis slammed his palm on the desk.
“You will solve the warehouse fire. You will keep the politics out of it. And you will do it before the Mayor starts calling the Governor.”

Silence choked the room.

Whitaker finally nodded once. “Understood.”

Lewis sagged back in his chair, the weight of every phone call dragging his shoulders down.
“Get out there and make progress. The longer this drags on, the more someone high up will decide you’re the problem.”

They stepped out into the fluorescent haze of the bullpen. Phones rang. Fax machines spat paper. A young patrol officer laughed too loudly at something, unaware that homicide detectives don’t laugh before noon.

Ray exhaled loudly. “City politics. Better than morning coffee.”

Whitaker didn’t smile. “I’m heading to Gladstone. Frank and Ginger Haldoran. If Frank wasn’t at that party as long as people claim, someone will slip.”

Ray nodded. “I’ll go to evidence. Maybe CSI pulled something useful from the rubble. A miracle would be nice.”

They were halfway to their desks when Marla Simmons and Rory Wallace came up the aisle with purpose. Marla carried a file folder. Rory carried a smirk.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Rory said, leaning on Whitaker’s desk. “Guess what? Your polite suspect from yesterday? He might be tangled up in our mess too.”

Whitaker’s jaw ticked. “Jaxson Lee?”

Rory grinned. “See? You remember.”

Marla set the file down. “This is about Harvey Miller. Construction worker. He had a reputation — violent, especially toward sex workers.”

Ray frowned. “What does that have to do with Jaxson?”

Marla opened the file. “Six months ago, Miller beat a prostitute badly in the parking lot of the Bluebird Motel. No charges. No arrests. No one reported it.”

Rory chimed in, “But word got around. And then Jaxson showed up. Asked questions about Miller — name, job, habits — like he was doing an interview.”

Whitaker’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he care?”

Rory shrugged. “Don’t know. But two weeks later, Harvey Miller dropped dead in a Raytown motel. Heart attack. On top of a girl.”

Ray’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus.”

“Coroner ruled it natural,” Marla said. “Case closed. No foul play.”

Whitaker flipped a page. “And the girl?”

“Tami Paulson,” Marla said quietly. “Went missing a week later. Haven’t found her.”

A cold silence rolled over the group.

Ray leaned forward. “So you think Jaxson convinced her to kill Miller?”

Marla shook her head. “I don’t make leaps. I collect patterns. A violent john hurts a girl. Jaxson appears. Two weeks later the john dies. Then the girl vanishes.”

Rory added, “And here’s the kicker — Miller worked for Haldoran Construction.”

Whitaker stilled. That name again. Always circling back.

Ray rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, that ties it to our side of town.”

Marla closed the folder. “We’re going to the Brownhardt. See if Jaxson knows what happened to Tami. Or Alicia. Or any of the others.”

Whitaker scribbled an address on a notepad and handed it over. “Seventh floor. Apartment 713.”

Rory smiled. “Nice view. Shame he’ll have to let us in.”

Ray took a step back, thinking aloud. “Funny how every road keeps winding back to him.”

Whitaker put on his jacket. “Yeah. Problem is, every time he talks, he answers without answering.”

Marla tucked the folder under her arm. “Then we stop asking soft questions.”

Rory popped his gum and grinned. “Let’s go meet the Angel of the Streets.”

Ray glanced at Dan. “Ask Haldoran about Harvey Miller while you’re up there?”

Whitaker nodded. “If Frank knows Miller’s name, we’ll see it in his eyes.”

They parted ways — one pair heading to a mansion, one pair to a decaying apartment building — and the air in the bullpen shifted, like the investigation had finally found its pulse. 

© 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.