NationStates Jolt Archive

Episode 1: Lucky Strike's Delight


The nighttime alure disappeared, giving way to a crescendo of alarms and activity. The shades of the night retreated into the abyss as lights from Police, Fire, and Medical pulsed in the night, reflecting off buildings and windows, drawing the nighthawks like moths to the flame. They gathered outside a tapestry of police tape, wrapped around telephone poles, street lamps, and signs. A back alley was cordoned off. Firefighters disappeared behind the police line while a watchful, albeit tired uniformed policeman held back the crowd with an occasional warning and motion of the hand.

The water trickled down the sidewalk, slithering and snaking down a nearby storm drain. A murky, discolored water cascading down into the sewer system below.

"Jesus" announced Detective James Foster as he tip toed in the water as it came down the sidewalk, "These are new shoes!"

Detective Matt Stohler looked down at the Italian leather shoes, recognizing them as cheap knock-offs, shrugged his shoulders, "They're fake, you know?"

"No way" Foster fallsback into defense mode, "The guy at the store assured me these are genuine"

"Genuine knock-offs" Stohler repeated.

Foster, refusing the believe what everyone else has told him, decided to drop the argument for the sake of his dignity. This wasn't the first time Foster had made...questionable fashion choices. The other guys never let him live it down. Was it some freak gene that made him wear Hawaiian shirts or on the occasion socks and sandles? Or maybe he had no fashion sense. Stohler made sure to perpetuate the tourment and draw it out as long as possible.

They dipped under the police tape, brandishing their trusty shields at the uniform who barely glanced at them. The alley was lit by an emergency light, basking everything in unnatural light. Everything had a dramatic and spiderlike shadow, even the smallest object's shadow made it seem larger and scarier than life.

"We have ourselves a crispy critter, gents" a boisterous and familiar voice echoed from behind. The pair spun around to see Sgt. O'Hara, all six foot three of him. He was a real heavy hitter, old police if you would. A tough as nails cop but with a sense of humor that never failed to be inappropriate for the occasion.

"What do you mean?" Foster asked

"Turn around" O'Hara winked. The pair turned back around.

Foster brought a hand to his mouth, 'Jesus" he said muffled.

Stohler remained staring at the lifeless, blackened corpse of what was once a human being. Smoke still plummed from the simmering mass. The stench suddenly hit them. There was no smell on the planet worse than burning human flesh. No smell was harder to get out of clothes either.

"Damn, what happened?" Foster asked, taking out a hankerchief he always carried in his left pocket.

"Dunno" O'Hara shrugged, "I'm not the detective here, just the Watch Commander"

"Smart-ass" Stohler said under his breath.

"Hey" O'Hara snapped his fingers, "That's Sgt. Smart Ass to you!"

Stohler clicked his tounge against his cheek and removed a pair of blue latex gloves from a pouch attached to his belt. They snapped over the back of the hand and his fingers flexed, feeling them out.

"What's the word?" Stohler asked, head cocking to the side, as if a change of the view angle will make a difference.

O'Hara cleared his throat, "We get the call at about 2343 tonight. Someone was complaining about another fire in the back alley here"

"Another fire?" Foster interjected

"It turns out kids like to come back here and play future arsonist. Anyways, uniform arrives to discover John Doe over here balls deep in the fire. They guy was already dead and get this-our uniform saw that the guy was tied to a chair before it collapsed from the fire and comsumed everything" O'Hara continued, "There was no one who saw it or just no one has come forward. One minute its' quiet, the next minute there's a back alley barbeque"

The detectives listen intently as the Watch Commander described further details pertaining to the crime. The Fire marshall still had to finish his investigation, then CSI had their investigation, then came the detectives. Already the scene was a mess. Stohler clopped his feet in the murky water, noting that whatever trace evidence was at the scene, was either washed away or trampled on.

"There's too many bodies here, have the Fire Marshall clear out anyone of his guys that doesn't need to be here. We're going to step out too and let the Marshall do his thing. Then let CSI in, no one else" Stohler blurted after jotting down some notes in a small notepad.

On the other side of the police tape, on the normal side of the world; the two began the time consuming activity of interviewing possible witnesses, trying to piece together anything that might help them. Natutally, most of them were just nighthawks or rubberneckers, few if any had anything worth while to scribble down.

After fifteen or so odd minutes, the aging Fire marshall emerged at the edge of the police tape, motioning for the detectives to follow.

"This guy was soaked in good ole fashioned gasoline" The Marshall began, "Doused in it from head to toe. The accelerant was a cigarette we found a foot or so away from the body"

"That's it?" Foster inquired

"What do you mean: That's it? What else do you want? This is a crude, simple burning. He used gas, alot of gas and then lit the poor sonofabitch up with a cigarette" The Marshall's eyebrows furrowed, "I'll submit my report in paper tomorrow, goodnight"

"Way to win cool points with the guy who puts out fires and saves lives, Jimmy" Stohler smirked when the Marshall was out of earshot.

Foster shrugged his shoulders, "What?"

There was painful little they could do there at the scene. Their investigation couldn't progress until the various other initial investigations were complete. CSI and the Coroner still had their cards to play in this deal, Stohler was left with a bad hand, trying to bluff his way to the prize.

"What's your take on this?" Foster asked as he brought a styraphome cup of coffee to his lips.

Stohler shrugged his shoulders. Foster seared his lips and jerked the cup away, sloshing some coffee out of the cup and plummeting onto those precious shoes

"Fuck!" Foster exclaimed, bringing a free hnad to his lips

"Nice"

The Moon arced across the night sky, in perfect harmony with a worldy cycle its' been a part of since time began. Stohler slid back his cuff to see the wacth staring back at him, mockingly ticking away passed when his shift was supposed to end. The call came in a few hours before the day detectives took over. Plenty of time for something to happen but he enjoyed the notion of never having to step outside his cubicle unless it were for a piss break or a lunch break. He wondered if the countless victim's families he had to break the news to, interview, and in some case; arrest had any clue exactly how little enthusiasm he carried for this profession. He often contemplated putting in his papers but the future was uncertain. His brother Carl owned a sporting good's store and is always looking for a helping hand in the family business.

He could imagine himself behind the gun counter, selling a revolver or shotgun to someone he porbably busted for a weapons charge. The possibility of reading someone's mannerisms and other signals that would give away their true intents.

"Good luck hunting" would translate to "Good luck shooting your cheating wife, come back soon!"

Yeah, that would go over real well.

Or maybe his cousin Paul...Wait, he doesn't know what Paul does and doesn't care, he's an asshole anyways. The job field was slim and it wasn't getting a sandwich any day soon. So, it looked like this was what he'll be doing until he's 65, with a beer gut, another bout with alcoholism, and the best memories anyone with those set of traits could possibly take away.

"Hey!" Foster was apparently trying to snap Stohler back to reality, "CSI's almost done here"

Stohler blinked quickly, realizing that he was still in the damn alley with a foul smelling burnt out body, Damn.

They dipped under the tape once more, once more into the breech. People in swishy blue jackets that were labeled "Crime Scene Investigation" across the back. These people weren't the glamorous CSI specialists from TV. They didn't wear fancy suits, not all of them were good looking, and they weren't super cops who did EVERYTHING. But, they were nontheless important if not critical.

"Look who's here" Foster leaned in quickly then snapped back.

Stohler looked up and wished instantly he had flunked the detective's exaime four years ago instead of being a shining example at the time of model police work. A figure stood up, dropping a charred piece of God knows what into an evidence bag. She whipped her hair back and just happened to catch Stohler's gaze.

Dammit, of all the people who had to be here, "Hey Janet, how's it going?" Stohler smiled.

She folded her arms, "Fine, how about you, Detective?"

Janet, when angry at Stohler which was most if not all the time, would refer to him as 'Detective' and by that word only. Uber-professionalism can often irritate the most.

"Couldn't be better" His teeth grinded against eachother, "What do you have for us?"

When it came to business, she'd set aside her usually never ending vendetta against him to the side, just long enough to exchange information and theories, "Our friend here wasn't killed by the fire. There was a bullet wound to the left temple, close range. The bullet, as it looks now is a .38 slug. That's just guessing by eye but I'm more than certain. There's no ID, no wallet, no nothing nearby."

"The uniforms turned up nothing" Foster added

Janet Gray ignored Foster's bit and plotted on, "Right now we have no clue who he is, we got a few partial fingerprints from the dumpster as a coke can, probably not enough to make anything stick. As it looks now: you have your work cut out for you"

"You're telling me" Stohler rolled his eyes

Hal's Auto Shop

"I'm telling you, this is goin' to come back and bite us in the ass" said a nervous man between drags of a cigarette.

The other man was sitting atop a crate, rapping his knuckles against the wood in rythmn to some unnamed song. There was little urgency in his motions, everything deliberate and timed, "Don't worry"

The nervous man flicked the cigarette to the ground, "What do you mean? How can I not worry?!"

"Easy, don't worry"

"You nee-"

The Man's eyes fixated, they were two sharp brown eyes, compacted with more emotions than his face revealed, "I need to what, Leo?"

Leo gulped, "Nothing"

An awkward silence filled the void of the auto shop. There was a Chevy Blazer, some older model up on the jacks, missing a right front tire. Various instruments surrounded the truck. A hook light dangled carelessly from the under carriage. The shop stayed in regular business for well over ten years. It was off an access road that you had to take off 3rd Street. A comound unto itself, there was also a miniature junkyard out back, used to pirate pieces. On the outside, no one could or would mistake it as serving any other purpose than to fix cars and like all auto shops, shaft their customers on the price.

"When did he say he'd call?" Leo asked

The Man struck a match, bringing it to a cigarette. A small red light illuminated his face in the darkness. Leo felt uneasy, turning away and sniffling. It was getting cold out, the last vestiges of Fall were beginning to die away.

"When the phone in the office rings" The Man replied nonchalantly. That pretty much killed any thought of conversation. The man practiced puffing circles into the air, it takes alot of practice and skill to get it down and for the past few weeks, he's dedicated himself to achieveing that sought after bragging right.

Unfortunately, those supposive perfect smokey rings were just awkward puffs, trying to be something they're not. He shrugged it off and went back to taking a long, satisfying drag.

The phone in the side office split the silence like an axe. Leo jumped up and walked into the office. His hand hovered over the reciever as it rang once more. Finally, he picked it up.

"Yeah?...what do you mean?...No, there was nothing else, it happened too fast...No, it wasn't me...Yeah, he's here" Leo cupped the phone and craned his head out the frame of the office door, "For you"

The Man dropped the butt and picked up the phone, "Yeah...You asked for my help...Sure" as the voice on the other end, obviously flustered and about to add more, The Man gently set down the phone.

"What are you doing?" Leo asked

The man looked up casually, "He was yelling at me, I don't like to be yelled at"

Leo mouthed out the next words but no noise came out. No one hanged up of...him. This guy was obviously a loose cannon, he should've never got himself mixed up with this sort. It was just supposed to be a job, but everything went south. Now, this guy showed little remorse nor fear of retribution for disobedience.

The Man walked out the office and grabbed his coat which was draped over a box, dusting it off, smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Where are you going?" Leo asked, crossing his arms

The Man put his arms through the coat arms and adjusted the collar before answering, "Home"

The Morgue always creeped Stohler out, just as anyone not accustomed to dealing with the deceased would feel. An uneasy feeling overcomes you, spidering across you. The freezers were the worst, seeing those gastly filing cabinets, knowing full well what was on the other side of that metallic door. To know that certain people were used to it and unbothered by all the conditions of death took the cake. Seeing all manners of causes of death, from simple heart attacks to a run-in with a wood chipper gone bad. Every form of cut at unnatural angles, shotgun blasts, decapitation, everything.

The two detectives stood o one side of a gurney. A zippered body lay flat across it. On the other side, Janet Kozinski, an old flame rekindled for the sole purpose of burning Stohler alive.

"My full report is over there on the tabler, pretty cut and dry" Janet began, removing her used gloves, "We found a few interesting things though"

"Like what?" Stohler asked, eyes fixated on the aippered body bag, knowing full well what was sealed tightly inside.

Janet tossed awya the gloves in a small, special waste basket with a biohazard label stuck across it, "When we performed the autopsy. There was smoke in his lungs"

"Which means he was still alive during the fire?" Foster asked, cringing at the idea.

"Yes, but it wasn't what killed him. The .38 slug is what killed him" Janet added

Stohler looked up, "A mercy killing. Well, at least they had enough dignity to put him out of his misery, the poor bastard"

"Also, we found the ignitor for the fire. It was a cigarette, more specifically a Lucky Strike cigarette"

"Those things will give you cancer after just a pack" Foster said.

Janet went over other minor details. It was impossible to get finger prints off the body, too much damage. They did manage, however; to look through the dental records. She went over to a box and turned on the light to it, illuminating the dental records of the deceased.

"He had specific dental work done. Three fillings here, this tooth down here was a fake all together" Janet combed across the x-rays.

"Do we have an ID?" Stohler asked

Janet flipped through a folder, "The name's Saul Garrett, age 28. All his info is in my report"

Finally, they witnessed the first crack of light through the mucky haze. It gave Stohler some idealism of finishing this case quick, he already had three open cases on his desk, all of which needed attention. Homocide Division, though an important department, garnished numerous drawbacks. The hours were terrible, the divorce rate for married men in the division was out the atmosphere, Stohler being part of the statistic.

The detectives left the Morgue, out into the growing cold. Stohler got a few hours of sleep prior on a cofa in the break room. It was off in the corner, frequented by detectives burning the midnight oil, or men avoiding their wives, or men being locked out of the home. That last part happened to Stohler, and seemingly him only. Now came the aspect of the job most hated by Stohler, notifying the family of the deceased, then dragging them to the Morgue to identify the body and then the questioning. This whole process is ugly and shameful.

Episode 2: The Longest File

Stohler typed away, pecking with his two index fingers on the type writer. Every move, a cautious and deliberate one. The Precinct had computers on back order...for three months. Funding was getting tighter and tighter with each budget overview. So, the city's finest worked with what they had. Computers were saved for the big wigs and other 'critically essential' divisions and personnel. The regular homocide detective apparently didn't fall under that category.

A small plastic vile of white out sat at the ready to fix the ineviteable mistake. he glanced over at it, he too knew the time drew closer, spiraling towards' itself.

Then, Foster wheeled around and entered the cubicle, dropping a packet of records on the table. The shockwave knocked Stohler's finger off course which was heading for an R but instead hit a T. Instead of barrating Foster as was accustomed, Stohler simply sat back in his seat, took a deep breath, and asked, "What?"

"This Saul Garrett has a record a mile long" Foster said, "This isn't even his juvenile record, that's sealed and the lady down at the Juvenile Records won't budge"

The record was indeed thick, to put it in simpler terms. A large folder, ready to burst with reports, files, records of action, finger prints, mug shots, a full track record of a star petty criminal. Stohler brushed the whiteout aside and heavily flipped open the file. He breezed through, past an unglourifying mugshot of a desheveled Saul Garret, with all his skin and hair, through a list of petty misdemeanours.

"He's a sucky criminal" Stohler decided, "Possesion, possesion with the intent to distribute, vandalism, grand theft auto though never convicted. Spent three years in Juvy, that's the only part they have on that side of his records...not much else that I can see"

"For a small timer, he got caught up in some big time action" Foster added, "No low level pot dealer is going to light him on fire and shoot him"

"Very true, I guess Saul tried for the big leagues" Stohler set down the record, "Family?"

"Can't get a hold of them. They're out of state, somewhere south-way south. There's a sister that lives in New Brunswick, that's about it. She's going to the morgue and'll be there in about a half hour to claim the body"

Stohler stood up and removed his trenchcoat from the coat rack, Foster picked up the record and the two headed out the door.

At the morgue, a Claudia Garrett stood opposite the viewing window. She was bitting her fingernails, eyes glossy. The veil opened and janet stood over the gurny with the body in the bag.

"He was badly burned" Stohler said to Claudia but in the same instance, nodding to Janet to close the veil again, "We're sorry for your loss"

This was a phrase he said time and time again. A well-worn phrase that carried little meaning or sympathy, or comfort. He remembered the first time he ever has to utter it. Back, years ago when he was a young and optomistic patrolman. A young kid was shot on a corner, some turf war and the kid caught a stary bullet. He was only sixteen or so, just waiting to cross the street.

The mother tore past the police tape, flailing her arms around, tears spouting like a ruptured jugular. Stohler moved in to keep her from getting too close, digging his feet into the ground as the weight of a grieivng mother who wanted to get to her son beared down against him. It was highly emotional, even for himself. He tried to calm her, he whispered quietly, "I'm sorry-I'm so sorry" as he brought his arms around her, consoling her the best he could, not knowing the full story at the time, or where she was coming from. It tore at him for weeks afterwards.

Now, he'd said it so frequently that he felt nothing, not even as parents crumpled to the ground in agony. As wive's shreieked and pounded against that very viewing window. He learned to just step back, give them some space and time, then move back in with a cold but wamrly intended hand on the shoulder.

Claudia remained quiet, obviously disturbed but using every ounce of strength this thin young woman could muster. It was admirable really.

"Ms.Garrett, I'm sorry to have to do this, but we need to ask you some questions" Stohler finally said, having assessed her state and deamed it stable enough to approach.

She turned around, a thin line of mascara running, but only a trace amount that she quickly wiped away, "Sure...sure"

In the waiting room, Claudia nursed a cup of coffee.

"When was the last time you spoke to your brother?" Stohler asked.

Claudia took her understandable time to answer, "About three weeks ago. WE touch base from time to time. He's not real close to the family"

"Because of his record?" Stohler opened his notepad, clearing his throat.

"Y-Yeah, because of all the trouble he got into. Saul was, I guess you'd call-the blacksheep of the family"

Stohler scrawled down some notes with a pen that choked out its' last traces of ink, "What was his condition, the last time the two of you spoke?"

"I met him at a fast-food joint off Carson Way. He seemed in good spirits, a bit more than usual. Normally he's involved in some scheme that had a habit of backfiring. He'd call our Dad, asking for money here and there. Then he asked me for $3000 a month ago. I'm an anethesiologist at Liberty Hospital, so I was able to scrap some up for him" Claudia answered in step

"What was the money for?"

"I didn't ask, his latest little project was opening up some little eatery. His credit with the bank was bad but he managed a loan through them and got the rest from me" Claudia replied, looking deep into the now cold coffee. She hardly took a sip but still held it as though a moment away from gulping the whole thing down.

"Where was this eatery at?" Foster interjected

"Up on Clarence Avenue in Whitebrook. I went there once to see where my money was going. It was a decsent little place. The place was still being renevated at the time" Claudia smirked, "The last time we talked I saw that he was trying to change, trying to turn a new leaf. Mom and Dad were skeptical, he'd made numerous empty promises before but I could tell this was for real...he was a descent guy, just always somehow ended up on the wrong side"

Stohler nodded, continuing to write his investigative notes, "So, was he having any other troubles? Anyone asking around for him? Anyone whom might want to do him harm?"

There was a pause, Claudia fell into a deep thought, or taken back by the question, her eyes went up to the left, looking at the ceiling, "No, not that I know. Saul was harmless, a descent guy"

It became apparent that to press any further might cause her to crack, "That will do it for today, thank you very much for your cooperation. If anything comes up, here's my card"

The detective produced a small business card from his wallet, Claudia nodded and put it away in her purse.

The Banking Clerk, Mr. Henry Graham-wasted no time in clarifying that the Bank in no way whatsoever gave Saul Garrett a loan, much to the detective's surprise. They were in his office, the senior loan officer for the 1st bank of Liberty.

"I mean seriously" Henry Graham said as soon as the door closed, "The man was a convicted criminal, we don't deal with those sort of people. We did a full backround check on him and discovered his...lengthy record"

Stohler nodded, clicking his tounge against his cheek again, "But he did try to, correct?"

Henry adjusted his glasses, reseting them on the bridge of his nose, "Yes, he came in on...let me see here" henry flipped through some paperwork. There were stacks, like a low rising mountain chain serving as a backdrop for his desk, "September 3rd he came in and requested a loan for his eatery in Whitebrook. He was declined"

"Did you handle this yourself?" Foster inquired

"Yes, one of our representatives came to me after the backround check and I broke the news to him, declining the loan"

"He had an account with this bank, right?"

"Yes"

Stohler set down his pad, "Can we have access to his financial records"

Henry sat back in his chair, letting out a small gasp, "Sorry, but I'm not atliberty to make that decision. Our Bank Manager is out right now but if you give me a number, I'll let you know when he's in and inform him to the situation"

Stohler and Foster exchanged glances, "Thank you for your time"

Outside on the busy streets, a wind gust blew up and Foster shrunk in his coat, turning slightly away from the breeze.

"Do you think the sister knew about his finances?" Foster asked

"Maybe" Stohler said, angling through the crowded streets of the midday lunch crowd. Office buildings and businesses let the flood gate's open, "Maybe not. This guy didn't have the best honesty track record. Three-thousand dollars isn't enough to open anything more than a hotdog stand these days. That just begs the question-"

"Where'd he get the rest of the money?"

"Bingo" Stohler winked, "That's the million dollar question. He possibly lied to her about the bank loan. Now we have to track down where the rest of the money came from"

"How much money we talking?"

"Dunno, that's why we need to get a crack at his finances and the leasing paper. Let's go visit his eatery" Stohler offered their next course of action.

Foster put a hand to his stomach, "Let's eat first"

"Now we're on the same page" Stohler replied.

"What happened? Honestly, what the FUCK happened?" asked a thick-accented man.

Leo, not accustomed to being sweated felt the pressure coming down on him. Having to deal with him wasn't how he'd imagine his life, trying to explain this mess he was a part of, "W-Well what had happened was-"

"I ask you to help take care of this teeny tiny problem" The accented man used mannerisms to illustrate his point, "But instead you fucks it up"

Leo looked up, "Everything was going fine until he started up"

Ivan Krazny, thick thick-accented man, began stroking his beard, this was true and he couldn't argue that. Leo's admission defused a portion of his notorious rage, "How did you let him get to that point. If he started acting out of line, you call me"

"What was I going to do?" leo asked, boldly, "That guy was scary. He didn't think twice about samcking Saul around"

"Did Saul tell you anything?"

"Nah, the guy just kept at him, not really givin' him a chance to answer" leo recalled, cringing, "I had no idea what he was going to do"

Ivan sat down on the top of the desk. The other man in the room, Victor Vilkhail leaned against a wall with his arms crossed, listening and remaining quiet. Everything was now a huge mess, it wasn't supposed to go down the way it did.

Ivan began spouting off in Russian, throwing his arms up then settling back down. He contemplated kicking the trash can over but held himself back, "Can we get in contact with him?"

"The guy disappeared" Leo replied. The three men remained silent for a few more minutes. Noises from the auto shop hung in the air. The sound of drills, clanking of metal. Hal, a burly man walked around inspecting the state of the trucks being fixed and inspected. He never asked questions on what Ivan and his boys did. Hal owed Ivan Krazny a favor for helping him out a few years back. Ivan helped him get his auto shop off the ground and in exchange, it served as a base of operations. Hal's clean record kept the law's light off of him. Ivan was very tactful in his fronts, using only people with clean records and never allowed them to be any more involved. he also kept a tight leash on their work activities. making sure they weren't trying to work with other crews and making deals behind his back.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have brought him in?" Viktor brought up the remnance from a previous discussion a few weeks prior, "We could've handled this, you know?"

"Saul was playing hardball, I did what I had to do" Ivan justified his position, "We had little time for anything else"

Ivan found himself in a bad position. Of course, this was his life growing up. He came to this country at a young age and had to fight to get anything. That's how he lived, a tough street smart asshole. That's how he ran his organization, through intimidation and strength. So, it only seemed the natural response to use muscle when dealing with Saul, it became obvious that he used a little too much.

"What do we do now?" Viktor asked

Ivan cracked his neck, "We take care of our current problem. There's a loose bullet ricocheting out there and we need to find it a wall"

"These animals are getting bolder and bolder!" Mark Lewski said as he stood from his chair. The room was filled with like-minded people from the community of Whitebrook. The Community Action Coalition met once a month in the gymnasium of the Youth Center down on Chester Avenue. His voice echoed down the court. Several dozen folding chairs were busted out for the monthly occasion. The seats were descently full with community-minded individuals. Ordinary people devoting whatever small amount of time they can between work and home.

"That guy who was killed two days ago...set on fire in an alley just three blocks from this very center" Mark continued, "The police need to step up or we will"

Stohler stood by one of the double doors, their backs to him. A sea of concerned citizens chimmed in their two cents, all agreeing with Mark Lewski, a local supply store owner. One woman, the ex-Mrs. Laura Stohler turned her head, flipping a lock of short blonde hair back behind her ear. Stohler made a small wave which only met her back again.

"W-What are you saying?" asked an obvious soccer mom, "The police are there for a reason"

Lewski, who sat behind a row of two desks at the base of the stage. He was one of the board members for the CAC. There were six other people sitting to either side of him, "The Police?" Lewski chuckled, "Don't even get me started on them"

"Calm down, Mark" hushed a member on the board

"No, this is the last straw" Lewski waved it off, "It's time we did something to protect our communities"

"That's what we do, that's why we're here, Mark" Echoed another person, "These things that are going on are aweful but there's only so much we can do"

After the meeting concluded, some time later, Stohler reemerged into the gymnasium as a few volunteers began putting the chairs away. Laura gathered up her purse and conversed with a group of friends, she saw Stohler and excused herself from them, waving goodbye.

"What are you doing here?" Laura asked

"I'm sorry for missing Jack's meeting" Stohler shrugged his shoulders, "Things were yough at work today.

Laura's eyes rolled and began shaking her head. These discussions dominated the last three years of their marriage, "He really wanted you to speak at the Scout Meeting tonight"

"What do you want me to do? Call crime and tell them not to burn anyone alive tonight, my son wants me to speak to his Boy Scout Troop tonight?" Stohler countered.

Laura made a dismissive wave, "I'm not going to argue, I already talked to him about it. So, I'm sure you heard Mark-referring to that poor man"

"Yeah, concerned citizens of the world unite" Stohler said

"Stop it, I know you don't like Mark but he does deeply care about this community" laura defended Mark. After their divirce, Laura met Mark and the two have been seeing each other for the past few years. At first, Stohler vowed to kill the bastard and they engaged in several verbal matches here and there but now they mainly avoid one another. As the two talked, he saw Mark begin to walk up then suddenly stop and turn to a friend and begin talking, case in point.

"I'm headin' the investigation on that 'poor man'" Stohler admitted

"Oh, well how's that going?"

Stohler rolled his eyes, "As well as it can go"

Finally, Mark mustered enough minerals and walked up to the two of them. A hand moved to the small of her back, "Hi, hon" Mark said, "Hey Matt, how are things?"

Stohler nodded, "Peachy, yourself?"

"Everything's a little tense around here as I'm sure you can tell" Mark replied

"So, you going to be the kinda hero this city deserves? Run around on rooftops at night?" Stohler joked

Mark gritted his teeth but remained blank, "No, just going to keep doing what we do"

Episode 3: Making a Name for Himself

The next day at the Precinct, Stohler and Foster gathered, sitting at a table in the break room, one of the circular tables blanketed with paperwork they were given access to by the Bank Manager. A very forthcoming man who was all too eager to help the boys in blue, or at leaset get them out of his bank before any potential big customers saw.

"There's no way a measely three-thousand dollars was enough to cover ALL the expenses for opening that eatery. Just the lease was more than that." Foster noticed, using his superior detective skills to do the math.

Stohler sat back in his seat, feeling a tenseness in his neck. They looked down at the banking statements, receipts, pojected costs that they procured from the prior owner of the property who sold to Saul, "Everything checks out though, the previous owner sold the lease and Saul lived happily ever after, for about a month" he replied.

To Stohler's dismay, the case just kept getting more and more complicated. What was just supposed to be a cut and dry murder investigation suddenly stretched further and further. Lt.Warwick, his supervisor, remained at the nape of his neck, demanding results on the backed-up cases before the quarter was over. The back logged cases were a pain too, one of them was well on the way to the cold case files, never to be seen again.

"We still need to talk to...Ray Vincennes, the guy who Saul bought the property from" Foster said, flipping a page from a larger notepad.

"Right, let's get out of here" Stohler replied, hoping to dodge any extra work. He made it a habit to spend as little time as possible in the Precinct building. 'Out of sight, out of mind' was a very practical and wise saying and became one of his pillars of performance at work.

The two snaked out of the breakroom which entered into "The Pit" as in the main hub for the homicide detectives. Clusters of cubicles, ringed with offices, evidence rooms, interrogation rooms, storage rooms, etc. Phones rang, loud men joked, paperwork shuffled.

"Stohler!" Yelled a familiar voice. Stohler felt his body seize up, damn.

Lt.Warwick, stomped out of his office. This man was a veteran of the police force, though one of those more time in the ffice than the field kinda cops. In his mid-fifties but still got blustered and angered at the drop of a dime

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Stohler managed, turning around. Foster gave him that 'sucks to be you' look.

"Get in my office" Warwick sneered. Stohler followed his boss into the office and the door shut almost magically behind him. Warwick turned around, a rolled up newspaper in his hand, "What the fuck is this?!"

He slammed the paper onto his desk. The front page was entitle 'Burning Death Case Turning Cold'. Stohler picked up the paper and read on.

'...A source directly involved with the case stated that the investigation into the burning death of Saul Garrett was quote unquote 'stalled' and as of now, the police have no leads or suspects...'

Stohler slapped his hand against his forehead, how the fuck did this happen? I didn't talk to anyone except Laura, but she wouldn't go to a newspaper...fuck

"I'm waiting" Warwick began again, reminding Stohler that he wasn't in some fantasyland but up shit creek.

Stohler's mouth opened but nothing came out, "I-I don't know what's going on, sir"

"Really?" Warwick started up again, "I wake up this morning and when I come to work-I go to the newspaper stand around the block like I do everyday. I give the man the change and I get my paper to go with my morning coffee. I read the headline and automatically know it was you!" a long finger pointed, "Stohler, even if you didn't directly talk to a reporter, I know this leak is because of you, every leak is because of you. My ship is about to sink. I have a meeting with the Captain later today. My Danish hasn't even digested yet, for Christ's sake!"

"Sir, I-"

"You wanna make a name for yourself?! Huh?" Warwick was about five seconds fro popping a blood vessel, Stohler secretly wanted to see it happen but knew the man would live to spite him, "Whatever you did, whoever you talked to or talked near...So help me God! If I get a shoe up my ass, my shoe's gonna be so far up your ass, you're goin' to taste shoe pollish, you get me?!"

"Yes, sir" Stohler knew resistance was futile, just turn around, drop pants, bend over, and take what was coming.

"Get out!" Warwick had a habit of shouting as loud as possible so that every word reverberated throughout the floor, through the thin walls.

The Liberty City Tribune is located on East 21st St in the Dowtown District, overlooking the river. It takes up several floors of the Luther P. Rathen Building. Luther P. Rathen was a Captain of Industry, so says the history books, helping to pull the city up and make it what is is today. The man, owner of Rathen Steel built a solid economic, financial, and political base which swept him into the Mayoral seat. At the turn of the century, he led the growth of Liberty City and laid the foundations for a robust economy which lasted until the economic crisis of the 1970's. Since then, the city rebounded slightly but for the most part, never got over it. Snug at the base of the river, with the hills serving as a backdrop, large cavernous steel mills and refineries, remnances of the industrial behemoth Liberty City once was, sit in silence. Hallowed out, deserted, tall weeds protrude between the rails of the railroad. Empty and abandoned box cars sit in files.

Now, not all of the industry was gone. Rathen Industries, the survivor to Rathen Steel, remained a pillar of the city's economy. many of the people, however; live in a time warp, stuck in the past, unable to get out of a rut that's been getting deeper for thrity plus years. Walled up buildings, 'CLOSED' and 'OUT OF BUSINESS' signs hung about, plastered against graffittied particle board that cover windows. Still, Liberty City plugged on and will do so for years to come.

Ryan Collins took note of this everyday when he emerged from the subway on his way to The Tribune. A breeze swept down the street but he remained unphased. Instead, his eyes drew across the river to the slopes of Mt.Jefferson. Mt.Jefferson wasn't a mountain but a steep incline and at the top, the community of Mt.Jefferson. At the base loomed the old Iron Works. Several warehouses, some of them used by seedier elements of the city for their own purposes.

Work as an investigative journalist, though the pay lacked, there never ran out of topics to investigate. The thirty-four year old journalist worked for the LCT since he was twenty-five. A tactful man with a nose for intuition made a name for himself as a dilligent worker. He once spent three nights in the County Jail for contempt in court for failing to name his source in a scandal that forced the resignation of the Vice Mayor. The Vice-Mayor, as it turns out, was having an affair and using city money to pay for these excurions the two went on. Mayor Sarah Berks, did everything possible to distance herself from the Vice-Mayor. Ryan Collins uncovered the expenses and wrote a story, prompting the Mayor into action.

Since then, he's enjoyed an amount of prestige at the LCT. However, his investigative reporting has garnished some contempt from city officals who on the outside championed him for his work but secretly condemned him. City Counsoler Fred Wexler, at a charity dinner nearly crushed Ryan's hand during a greeting and whispered into his ear, "Watch yourself, chump". Ryan Collins is currently digging up dirt on Wexler as a side project.

After breezing past the receptionist, flashing his ID badge, Ryan entered his world. Rows of desks, the noise of a hundred telephones and fax machines hummed in the air. The rapid clicks of typewriters added to the overture. Ryan sat down at his desk and flipped through a stack of papers. Currently, as his actual project, Ryan was tackling police corruption. Two weeks into his work, after an allegation from a confidential informant came in, Ryan made little headway. His informant, a man who only went by the alias 'Solomon'. Ryan asked him once and only once why he chose that name. Solomon replied:

"Because I'm your King Solomon's Mine of info!"

He never asked again. Solomon came to him three weeks ago about something very interesting. They mainly talked over the phone and only actually met on three different occasions. Solomon stated, that while working with a suspected crime boss, Ivan Krazny, he uncovered that Krazny was involved with several police officers and had proof to boot. Everbody knew that the former Labor Union spokesman, Ivan Krazny was involved with the criminal element, but his exact involvement elluded the police. For years, the DA tried in vein to reel him in on a number of charges ranging from skimming union fees to murder. After researching and collecting piles of court documents, receipts, meeting with people in the union and the DA's office, he was slowly piecing together something big. But, he hadn't been able to get in contact with Solomon for a week now.

"Hey Ryan" Ryan's Editorial Chief, Bill Landsman stopped by with a stack of papers, "What's the status with your work? Fred's on my ass so I have to get on your ass"

Ryan had just got his coat off and settled into the worn groove of the seat, "It's a work in progress, Bill" Ryan smiled.

"Just keep pluggin' away, Ryan" With that, Bill departed. Ryan shuffled through the paperwork and picked up the phone. He looked down at the sticky notes arranged on the cubicle wall, searching for a specific number but it wasn't there anymore. He kept a beeper number for Solomon somewhere but always managed to lose it. He fumbled through the overstuffed drawer with no luck. Nothing was under the desk except for an adaptor and a gum wraper. Finally, he searched through his bottom drawer and found the number. The dial tone rang and rang and rang. Unluckily, there was no answer, Ryan felt flustered, Solomon was is key source and had the names of the cops in bed with Krazny.

His fellow journalist, Dan Lee intercepted a call they recieved concerning the burning deal case of some poor bastard. Lee sat at the desk opposite him, a proud smile cracking across his face.

"Heard the story went well, Dan" Ryan congratulated.

"Yep, Chief's pleased. Got the call and sent it to the presses for release. The whole story's a shame, really. Some poor bastard being burnt to death, probably gangland related" Lee replied.

Ryan turned around and went back to work. He had a few interviews to take care of today, "Wait, where did that burning death happen at?"

"Whitebrook" Lee said as he cupped a phone, leaning back in his seat.

Ryan thumbed through a small black book he kept, remmebering from the last time he talked to Solomon. It had somehting to do with...what was it again? He found a small folded piece of paper and unfolded it, a quick scrawl of line stretched from one end to another.

173 Clarence Avenue, Whitebrook

He forgot what the meaning of it was but he was desperate to find Solomon, perhaps he got scared and went underground.

The unmarked Crown Vic lurched out onto busy midday traffic. Foster wheeled around a corner and headed uptown towards Whitebrook, it was approximately a fifteen minute drive, given traffic abides.

Stohler stared aimlessly out the window, watching people go about their days. Outside, the world moved almost easily. Stohler's world was becoming a bit more dark. With Warwick breathing down his neck from now till the apocalypse mixed with a backlog of cases, things were adding against him.

"C'mon, it can't be that bad, right?" Foster questioned, trying to break the silence.

His partner chuckled, "I am royally fucked"

"That bad?"

Stohler turned to look at his partner, "You have no idea"

The car continued along the beltway, they had to take the St.Claire exit on Upton to avoid a traffic accident that crippled the beltway. From traffic reports on the radio, the normally joyvial disc jockey, Randy "The Rave" Hinton reported on the accident with the solidarity of a Sixt Minutes correspondant.

'...There's not much yet on the accident, it appears as though a semi-truck jackknifed just before the overpass, clogging up traffic all the way back. Good luck trying to get to Graystone anytime soon. Luckily, there are only a few minor injuries reported...'

Foster switched stations, normally a fan of "The Rave" he became dissatisfied when Randy either ran out of material, ahving burnt himself out over the past eleven years as the early morning disc jockey or maybe he's trying to certify himself in the mass media field. He grumbled while trying to find a suiteable genre of music to fill the void normally brimmed with lively conversation with Stohler.

"Let's just hope Ray Vincennes either has ground shattering evidence pointing to who did this or maybe he's got the gun in his trouser pocket still" Stohler fantasized aloud.

"I bet Warwick will overlook your fuckup if we find Jimmy Hoffa's body at his house" Foster joked.

Stohler had to laught oo, "I doubt, if anything he'll say 'What? you couldn't find BigFoot there too?!'"

"Yeah, I bet" Foster laughed. They emerged off the exit and drove through the neighborhood of Hazleton. Large, ancient and worn oaks lined the streets. This was the upper class section of the city, not the only but one of the more note-worthy. Home to famous people, such as the Rathen's. The had an ancestrial home here but they for the most part, live outside the city limits where the riff raff of the city were few and far between.

They breezed through the neighborhood, taking their time. It was a bretah of fresh air from the high buildings of the downtown. Sadly, that came to pass. Whitebrook was in stark contrast to Hazleton. They descended down the hill and into the neighborhood. A tough working class neighborhood. It was hit hard by the rising economic crisis in the country seemingly the hardest. As if those Federal Bankers targeted this neighborhood over anything else. Whitebrook was a buffer between Hazelton and the old industrial center of Liberty City. Some of the factories were still open but they were surrounded by the decayed remnats of the glory days.

Stohler's father worked at one of the steel mills. A hard worker, a heavy drinker, but all around a descent influence in retrospect when last year he was hospitalized after his liver failed. Stohler took all aspects of his childhood under a microscope and examined every moment his father was involved. He only hit Stohler's mother once and for a good reason. Henry Stohler, his father, came home one night after the Liberty City Stallions won the SuperBowl. They began arguing, probably because he came back minus the car. Anyways, he smacked her a good one. She left the room and into the kitchen, all the while his father continued shouting at the top of his lungs. Little Matt Stohler was walled up in his room with his sister Lisa. Their mother, Vanessa, retreated to the kitchen. Their father followed and suddenly a frying pan impacted his forehead, sending him backwards, sprawling out on the living room floor.

She left his sorry ass there all night and into the morning. He woke up, oblivious to what occurred the previous night. She explained that he fell down the stairs. I never asked, but always had the idea my father knew exactly what happened but wasn't going to do anything dummer than what he already did.

Since then, up until his death, he treated that woman like a goddess.

They scooped out the various streets, neither of them ventured through here very often. Stohler's apartment was in North Ablington now. Finally, they found Clarence avenue and patrolled down the length of it. They stumbled upon 173, sandwiched between a lowrise apartment building and a bakery that's see better times.

"Here we go" Foster said as they parked along the curb.

Stohler and Foster walked to the entrance of the eatery. It was a simple looking place. A combo bar/eatery. It never opened, not to their knowledge. Attempts to contact Ray Vincennes met with negative results. Stohler looked through one of the windows, nothing out of the ordinary. They decided to go around back. An alley ran behind the bar, full of dumpsters, old boxes, the usual. Foster looked around, opposite the alley were residental apartments, he could hear a tv blaring, someone arguing, and another person crying from one apartment, he turned to Stohler who merely shrugged his shoulders.

There was a back door which they believed led to the kitchen. There were two green dumpsters about ten feet from that door, along a low concrete wall that seperated the property, from a short side alley and the next property. It was a quiet day out today and the detectives looked around for anything that they could find. The door wasn't padlocked. Stohler placed a hand on the door and jiggled the knob, it was loose. His eyes met Foster's.

"What are you thinking?" Foster asked.

"Don't you hear that?" Stohler asked, "I hear someone in need of assistance" he winked.

Foster nodded and Stohler put his shoulder into the door and it jarred open. They looked behind them then entered the rear of the bar, gently closing the door behind them.

Their activities did not go unnoticed. Ryan Collins, with the crumpled address in his hands, ducked behind a wooden pickett fence near the bar. He hung low and peaked around the corner to see two men force their way into the back of the bar. He felt a surge of adrenaline pump through his veins. Ryan's mind raced on what to do next. He saw a Crown Vic earlier as he pulled up a block away. Waiting for approximately five minutes, he then moved to a side alley on the other side of the next property, a bakery and exited out onto the main street. He crossed the street and walked down, crossed the street again and ended up staring at the Crown Vic. He took out a pen and scrawled down the license plate below the street address. He noted the time and a brief description of the two men he saw. After finishing and putting the paper away, he turned around and headed away from the bar. He didn't know what the connection between Solomon and this address were until he saw that car and the two men. They looked like Cops. Their dress, the Crown Vic, a long time favorite of police departments, all of it added up to them being Cops.

Ryan recalled the last time he spoke with Solomon, he sounded nervous over the phone. As Ryan jotted down key pieces of information, he remembered Solomon talking about Cops with close ties to Krazny. Could these two Cops he saw be the ones his contact described? Solomon had the names but hadn't called him back and all other attempts to contact him failed. Pieces were beginning to fall together, much to his dismay. Of course, this was a break in his investigations but he worried about Solomon. Did they get to him? Or did he just get scared? Either possibility spelled disaster for him.

He had a friend in the DMV who could give him a name tied to the car. He already suspected it was a police unit but wanted verification just to be safe. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and walked back to his car and drove off, not giving the car or the bar a second look as he turned onto Yuelin Street.

Inside the bar, the detectives walked around. There were cans of paint sitting at the base of a far wall. Pool tables, still in their plastic wrapping occupied a space set aside for slot machines, darts, and pool. It looked like it was going to be a good place to throw back a few after a long day.

"This place isn't too shabby" Foster noted.

Stohler went back behind the counter, "Yeah, which begs the question where did he get the money?"

"What do you think he did with the three-thousand he got from his sister?"

Discontent with finding nothing behind the bar, Stohler emerged back to the main floor, "Dunno, but we can take a look in the office."

There was a back door at the end of the bar which read 'Employees Only'. The door was unlocked and Stohler fumbled for a light switch which flickered on the lights. The office was small and cramped. A simple desk, a few filing cabinets, other assorted boxes stacked upon one another. STohler moved around to the desk and began rooting through the drawers. Foster opened up the top box and discovered all sorts of papers.

"Matt, we need to come back with a search warrant and finish this up later" Foster reminded his partner on proper police procedures.

"Relax, this is technically his property and he's dead. So, we can look at whatever we want" Stohler shot back. He closed a drawer and opened another. The search continued...

Episode 4: Those You Know

Without Ray Vincennes, they were stalled. The man owned a house just a few blocks away. After rattling the door nearly off its' hinges and blowing up the answering machine, the two detectives decided to try again another day. They walked down the stoop and back onto the sidewalk, making a left. The two discussed possible angles. A backround check on Ray Vincennes yielded very little. He was a convicted felon, having robbed a bookie's store back in 1986, served six years on his sentence, released on good behavior. There were two tarffic tickets to his name too. One was the night of the robbery for parking the getaway car next to a fire hydrant. The other...a more recent one oddly enough.

"His vehicle was stopped for speeding on Interstate 30, up near Chester" Stohler read off as they gathered around a computer back at the Precinct, "Six days ago"

"That's upstate" Foster noticed

"Yep, he has a cousin that lives in Chester" Stohler observed, "We can give him a call or we can call the locals to nab him"

"But the locals can't get involved. We have no probable cause to bring him him"

"True, but he's a person of interest. We have to talk to O'Hara and run this by him first" Stohler replied. Red flags were going off on Ray Vincennes. His timely disapperance wasn't helping much. They of course ran a snag, the ticket was given six days ago, the murder was four. So, it technically ruled him out as a suspect but not a person of interest. He paid for the ticket and went to traffic court up there in York County too, at least he appeared law abiding since being paroled from prison.

====================

"Yep, looks like the license plate is registered with the LCPD, Ryan" replied his friend Larry, a clerk at the DMV. Ryan got behind the counters, past the lines of distraught and bored motorists. A couple teenagers were gearing up for their driver exams.

"Is is registered to any specific driver?" Ryan asked, bending over to get a closer look at the screen. All the vehicle info was displayed before him. make, model, colo, VIN number, everything. Unfortunately, under the name was simply LCPD. It was a common aplication. Any state or city owned vehcile had this imputed for the driver's name. He'd have to go to whatever precinct it was assigned to and find out who signed out the vehicle.

"Does it say what Precinct this vehicle is used by?" he asked

Larry scrolled down and clicked a link, "Nope, just that it belongs to the LCPD. But, I do have a friend who works at one of the motorpool's, I think it's the 11th Precinct he works for. I can give him a call and turn something up"

"You are the man, Larry" Ryan joyfully answered, smiling, "I owe you big time, just gimme a call when you have something, alright?" he gathered up his bag and exited through the employee exit back into the bull pen of teenage drivers.

====================

Sgt. Thomas O'Hara, a veteran grunt of the LCPD sat behind his desk which if you craned your head to the right, you can see out his door and the back of Stohler's head at his desk. He often sat there, finger extended like a pistol, making shooting noises to himself, nonchalantly of course. He had large butcher hands, an authorative voice, but normally light hearted, a gentle giant that was quick to anger when it was needed.

"Manage to keep your trap shut today, eh Matt?" O'Hara asked as he leaned back in his chair.

Stohler chuckled along with his Sgt, "Nah, I called CNN just before I came here, Sarge"

"Warwick's been on my ass the whole day, bitching about you!" He extended a meaty finger out, "He says: 'Why the fuck don't you know about what Detective Stohler's up to?'. I tell him I have no fucking control over who he gripes to when he's off the clock. Anyways, what do you want?" O'Hara asks, getting his gripe out of the way.

"We need to head up to Chester" Stohler got to the point

"Why the fuck do you need to go to Chester?" O'Hara leaned forward as he replied.

"Ray Vincennes sold his property to Saul Garrett, our burn victim. There's some irregularities with the money trail. Claudia Garrett, Saul's sister gave him three-thousand dollars that he said he needed to open a bar in Whitebrook and said the rest was covered by a loan from the bank. We talked to the bank and they denied ever handing out a loan to a convicted felon like Saul. Now this Ray Vincennes has skipped town in the past week and a traffic ticket he recieved up near Chester is our only lead to his whereabouts." Stohler rambled, taking a breathe afterwards.

O'Hara stroked his chin, soaking in the information. He nodded, citing that he was impressed by Stohler actually doing some police work for a change, "Is he a suspect?"

Foster stepped in, "No, the ticket was issued six days ago, Saul was murdered four days ago. But, he is a person of interest. We need a crack at him to get a better idea of what the exact financial arrangement was between them"

"Alright, hope you two annotate your overtime on your time card, have a fun trip ladies" O'Hara waved them away.

Ivan puffed out a large, thick cloud of smoke from his cigar. He loved cigars, even had a box or two of Cubans that he got through some connections with the Shipping and Trade Unions. It was all about who you know. Connections, networking, and favors are what really got things done. People owed Ivan around the city. Everything from a breakfast at the local diner to more...complicated favors. He rolled up his sleeves while savoring the rich tobbacco leaves rolled tightly by some poor farmer somewhere in Cuba.

"We have a few guys working on this" Viktor said, closing the door behind them. They were at the Local #44, a lodge for the union just south of Worthington, near the old Rathen Steel Works. The unions still held sway over many sectors of the city's economy. The haydays were gone but not forgotten. They didn't take to the streets, bashing scarb workers anymore. No, nowadays it required tact. Union membership remained at a descent level, though the fees were trickling in slower than oil.

He was first generation in this country. A rough childhood raised by a rough and iron fisted father. He grew up in the steel mills and labor union halls. He sat by while he saw his father raise a defiant fist in the air outside Rathen Steel Headquarters back in the 70's during the economic hardtimes. So, he became heavily involved. He was a troublemaker throughout school, popped for several misdemeanours before he was eighteen but after that, he dropped from the radar, realizing that the court system for adults was far more punishing that the joke of a juvenile court he frequented. No, one had to cleverly manuever if you wanted to survive.

Survive and thrive is what he did. becoming the Local #44 leader, brokering several new and beneficial contracts for the members. This garnished him praise. Then, about severn years ago he became the Union Spokesman who spoke for the union as a whole in the city. The United Labor Unions was a powerful force indeed. Rathen Industries, Bentington Co, Kewlen Inc, just to name a few feared the ULU which existed for decades but just within the last decade, began to turn the tide.

He reminisced about the good ole days. Now, he found himself, unofficially handling Bill Donovan, the ULU President's dirty work. Ivan was a strongman for this kind of business. Coercing laborers to join a union, bullying other unions to join the ULU. Ivan even met Jimmy Hoffa once, though when Ivan himself was younger. Hoffa left an impression on Ivan that carried with him to this day. He broke a few skulls here and there but nowadays looked to distance himself from the real work, that's what Viktor was there for.

Ivan snuffed out the remnance of the cigar and sat down, "Is anything coming up?"

"Nope, The Man's a ghost, like Leo said. He's like some fuckin' Kaiser Sose or somethin'" Viktor responded, shaking his head.

"Fuck, we bring him in to take care of one little fuckin' problem and he turns it into a BIG fuckin' problem" Ivan started up, "That little maggot turned out to be the least of my problems. If I knew this was going to happen, Ida just taken care of it myself!"

"Donovan's been asking questions" Viktor remined him, "He's breathing real hard down our necks now"

"Who are these guys you have on it? They from the outside? Can we trust them?" Ivan asked.

"I vouch for them" Viktor nodded, "They're good at what they do, they'll take care of this mess and be out of town before the body drops"

"Good, that's good to hear" Ivan said, "What about our other friends, have they heard anything?"

"They heard a few things. Mainly that Vincennes is walled up with his cousin up in Chester"

Ivan exhaled deep, "What's his angle?"

"There is no angle from what I understand. He's strictly unaffiliated"

"Then there's no problem" Ivan leaned back, hopefully the storm was going to blow over quickly.

"The other two, the outsiders tell me they are getting close to our ghost" Viktor smiled, "I figured I'd save the best news for last.

"That is very good news", a broad smile appeared on Ivan's face, "I can breathe a little easier now. If these guys take care of it quiet, we'll double the pay"

"So I'm sittin' there at the bar and this guy comes up to me and he says, he says to me: 'Hey, what the fuck are you doin?' and I tell him I'm just sittin' here, mindin' my own business and he should too" said Paul Sanders between draws from his cigarette. He's sitting in a car parked along 4th Avenue in South River, another industrial sector of the city. Tall smoke stacks reach out to the heavens for a lifeline.

"Then what happened?" asked Carl lansgaar, sipping a cup of coffee.

"This guy bucks up on me and starts accusin' me of fuckin' his girl in the bathroom" Paul replied.

"Did you?"

A smile broadened from one ear, across his face and to the other ear, "Yep, but the fact of the matter is he didn't know it was me, he just starts accusin' me. Then, he shoves me and I nearly spill my beer-"

"No way?"

"Yes way" Paul pointed a finger, "I point my finger at him, almost touchin' his chest and tell him to back off. He doesn't so I had to waste my beer and smash him upside the head with my bottle-"

"That's alcohol abuse, Paul" Carl shot him a disappointed look.

"It was for a good cause. Anyways, the bartender starts yellin' while I'm goin' to town on this jabberjaw. I give him a few hits and he falls over, doesn't even give a fight or nuthin'. So, I grab his girl, you know Sheila?"

Carl nods but remains quiet.

"So I take her out back and bang her again!" Paul swears.

"You fuckin' liar" Carl laughs, "Like Hell you did!"

"I swear on my mother's grave" Paul swears again. The two laugh in the car and it dies out, like any good joke. After the long winded laughs, the two suddenly snap into business.

"So what's the address again?" Carl asked, putting on his black watch cap.

"It's actually at that fuckin' factory over there, across the way" Paul pointed, "You see the red brick building attached to the factory? That's wher they say he's at"

The two men got out of the car. It was getting dark earlier and earlier, announcing that Winter fast approached. The weather made no effort to hide this fact either. The trunk popped open and the riflied through the contents of the trunk. A large, weather buffel bag zipped open and each of the men slipped a pistol apiece somewhere on their person. Paul grabbed a sawed off shotgun and a fist full of shells, stuffing them in his pocket. This area was mainly deserted, having been hit hard by the steel mill closures decades earlier. Many of the apatment buildings were boarded up and some used by drug addicts and squaters. Carl took out a pump action with the barrel shortened and the stock removed. They carefully moved across the street and throguh the tattered chain link fence.

The two men remained silent as gravel crunched beneath their boots. Carl was a large, towering man. Qite strong by most accounts whereas Paul was far shorter and ill-tempered. The two evened each other out and worked well together. They entered an old parking lot with weeds protruding from the gravel as Mother Nature battled to reclaim land for the Earth. Everything was still and quiet out. The two men rounded a corner and dsucked behind a piece of heavy machinery that was approximately ten yards from the entrance to the red bricked building.

"He should be in there" Paul whispered, "You go in through the main double door there and I'll go around back, there's an access door that he might use there, got it?"

Carl nodded and the two men moved in. Carl edged along the wall, close to the door while Paul moved around the side, his shotgun ready to deal out a world of hurt. He stopped by the access door, ignoring a low hole in the wall, believing that due to the mud and ground water that The Man wouldn't crawl throguh there.

Suddenly, as he prepared to enter the door, there was the ominous sound of a nearby click. His shoulder shot up then everything froze.

"How many?" asked the voice behind.

"J-Just two" Paul replied, his mind raced on a possible solution to his current problem. He hoped Carl heard the click and would investigate. THis was a major slip up, but how did it happen?

"Drop the sawed-off" The voice commanded

The shotgun fell to the wayside just as ordered, "So you're him, eh?"

"Who sent you?" The Man asked, he wasn't standing right behind Paul but at an angle.

"You know who sent us" Paul replied, he struggled to retain his dignity in the face of certain death.

There was the brussle of weeds and The Man turned around to see the hulking Carl round the corner, cautiously. The Man raised his pistol and fired off a few rounds, catching Carl by suprise. Buts of brick shot out from the impacting rounds. Paul saw this as his chance and grasped his pistol. The Man wheeled around and put two bullets in Paul's chest before he could get a round off. The smaller man collapsed to the ground.

The Man barrel rolled into the thicker weeds just as Carl came around and blasted a shotgun round where he thought The Man was.

Unfortunately for Carl, The Man had a beed on him and fired one shot that hit Carl straight in the head, he crumpled to the ground. The Man walked over to Paul who was gasping for air, one of his lungs was punctured by the bullet, crimson red blurped from his mouth.

The Man raised is gun and without any clever words, ended Paul's suffering with one between the eyes. The shots echoed throughout the old factory complex.

Ryan Collins sat on the floor of his loft in Scarsborough. It was one of those rsutic apartments, white painted walls that hadn't been painted in years. It had that 'writer' feel to it, inspirational one would suppose. It was old but had a nostalgic feel when you stepped into it. Laid out across the ground, at the base of a couch were several documents and receipts. He poured over records, transcrips, and other paperwork he procured over the past few weeks. Names, contact info, photos were attached to folders. He was applying all his skills in trying to nail this story. He dreamt of winning a Peadbody award or something along those lines. despite personal glory as a driving factor, deep down inside he truly did care about digging to the truth. The truth was once explained to him by a newspaper editor as 'The truth is what we make of it'. This was a shocking guidline to live by. Since those days as a lowly staffer he dedicated himself to washing away that idea and prove that the news media was still an important watchdog for the people.

His long-time girlfriend, Melissa was out for the night with her friends. So, this gave him ample time for fact finding and at-home research. An empty carton of Chinese food sat on the table with a crumpled napkin. As he poured over documents his cell phone rang. He dropped his pen and scattered to the phone on the counter and flipped it open, praying it was Solomon.

"Hey Ryan, it's Larry"

Ryan rebounded quickly, "Larry, how's it going?" he scratched his head and turned back to walk towards his papers.

"My friend tells me that the car you were asking about it attached currently to the...Fifth Precinct. Better yet, he, through a little work has the names of the two detective who checked it out today" Larry told him

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks, he recovered and scrambled for a pen and pad, "Great! What are the names?"

"The names are...You ready? Matt Stohler and James Foster"

"What division or squad are they with?" Ryan asked

"Dunno and he didn't know either"

Ryan scrawled down the names, "Thank you so much, Larry. I owe you big" he hanged up the phone and did a small dance of joy. This was a major break. He sat back down and added their names to the pool of suspected police officers. Still, the fact that Solomon was abscent didn;t settle his concerns. Without that defenitive list that Solomon promised, it was all still speculation. Dammit, where the Hell is he?

====================

The Man fumbled with Carl, the heels of his boots digging deep into the soft soil, leaving a trail. He grumbled to himself, feeling the strain of dragging the lumbering dead man. Out in the open was no place for those two. Krazny made a big mistake in coming after him. It was an offensive gesture that demanded swift reaction. They called him, asking for his help in their little in-house mess. The guy wouldn't talk, that was certain so he did what he had to do. There was a reputation to uphold and he wasn't going to let some pissant ruin that hard-earned reputation.

The little guy was easier. Their new home was the basement of the red brick building for the time being. He decided to leave their car, not wanting them to remain there forever. Those two were professionals, just doing their job, no personal attachments. He just happened to be a better professional. But, now he was forced to bring emotions into this equation. He prided himslef on remaining tactful and choosing his contracts wisely. Thanks to saving his money, never being a big spender. He decided that Krazny and his whole organization had alot to answer to for trying to kill him. After he removed the bodies to the basement he emerged and struck a Lucky STrike Cigarette and took a long, satisfying drag.


====================

The Wayside Inn along Interstate 30 carried with it all the sterotypes of a roadside motel. The flickering neon sign with the marquis missing half its' words while trying to describe HOW many channels are free. Tw cars occupied the gravel parking lot. The two detectives shared a room, to save money. The trip upstate was a long one. The walls were brutally thin and a couple, probably two rooms down were going to town. Their love making was obvious to pretty much everyone at the motel.

"Dammit, I'm trying to sleep!" Foster grumbled. He was sparwled out on one of the beds in nothing but his boxers, a white t-shirt, and black socks. He turned up the volume to dry and drown out the noise.

"If I'm not getting any, they shouldn't either" Stohler mused as he emerged from the bathroom. They were about thirty or so miles from Chester. Both were too tired to keep driving down the blur of a highway.

Stohler look at the clock, "We're gonna have to get up early...fuck"

"Yeah, but the sooner we get this out of the way, the better" Foster replied, "Besides, we're gettin' overtime for this. I don't have much of a life outside work and neither do you, so stop griping" Foster blurted.

Episode 5: Shifting Gears


The basement was dank, leaky pipes dripped steady droplets of water in time with the squeeks of rats. Massive, oily rats making their way through the walls, having cut themselves a descent pie in this world in the foundations of the old abandoned steel mills and iron works that dotted along the river. The Man emerged in the celler, a beam of light from a flashlight sweeping across the ground. Carl and Paul were lying next to eachother at the base of several old empty drums.

"Looks like you two are cold" The Man said aloud, the only living creatures to hear him were the rats. They were begging for a chance at those two fresh corpses. They scatter upon sight of The Man as he set down a gasoline can, a small red plastic container that you'd find in any car, mores specifically, their car. He popped open the nozzle and liberally doused the two bodies. The vapors filled the musty air. They filled his nostrils, it was a familiar odor, almost welcomed.

He reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes, just two left. He frowned, hoping that there were more, "Looks like you two will just have to share". He placed a cigarette in his mouth and lite it. The spare one he burned off the one in his mouth and flicked it onto the bodies which erupted in flames. The heat and brightness forced him a few steps back, further into the abyss. Content that he left minimal traces, he grabbed the gas container and set it a bit closer to the spreading fire and exited the basement. As he walked across the gravel parking lot, a small plume of smoke choked out from an opening in the floorboards and puffed into the early morning air.

====================

The Detectives, as a courtesy stopped off at the Chester City Police Department. A bunch of yokels who run around playing cops and robbers. These were green cops, Chester wasn't exactly crime central. The streets weren't polluted with drug dealers and drive-bys. This was the sort of treeline streets, the town where everyone knows your name and everyone's a friends. The Sheriff decided, while his feet were kicked up on his desk to tag along, to make sure things go smoothly.

Pissing matches between departments and agencies were frequent and often juvenile. Each side whipping out their fundings and man power to see who'sd is bigger. But, Sheriff Bud Taylor, an older gentlemen with a booming voice and a constant smile waved it off, understanding their case perfectly.

"I just want this whole mess from Liberty City to pass through my town quietly" Sheriff Taylor told Stohler as the heels of his boots clacked against the hard wood floors, "That way everyone stays happy, right?"

"Right" The detectives echoed in unison.

They tracked down the address to Megan Bernstein, Ray Vincennes cousin. They suprised Ray as he was about to be a good cousin and fetch the mail for Megan. Inside, Ray explained that his cousin had leg surgery a week ago and needed someone to take care of her and watch the house. She was recently divorced and going through a rough patch and Ray was just being a good guy. Megan appeared from time to time in her temporary wheelchair. After inquiring about the financial arrangement, Ray told the detectives that,

"There wasn't much too it. I was selling the property and after a month and no taker, Saul appeared out of nowhere with the money" Ray explained, "He checked out the place and was desperate to buy it there on the spot. I didn't ask questions, just a short backrounds check. He'd had a run in with the law, like me and he was as he explained just trying to get his life back on track. I sympathized and helped him out with the paperwork."

"Did you find it odd that he had all the money right then and there and had no other job except for working at an auto shop?" Stohler asked

"I don't know what he was doing and I didn't care. I just wanted to sell the damn place" Ray nonchalantly replied, crossing his legs.

Several other questions followed in succession but none of them helped the detectives in the investigation. Stohler could still read an interviewee, despite his lapse in actually doing his job and some would say he was losing his edge but some things remained. Ray appeared to be just another guy who fucked up in the past and was trying to make ends meet, there was nothing that made him suspect that Ray was connected in any other facet than being a property owner getting rid of a dead beat property.

As the detectives exited the rsidence and Sheriff Taylor nearly crushed their hands with his iron yet friendly grip, the cell phone rang.

Stohler flipped it open, "Yeah?...We're up in Chester, remember?...yeah...You gotta be fuckin' me!...Alright, we'll get there as soon as possible" Stohler nearly threw the cell phone to the ground, swearing in full view of the Sheriff who merely tipped his hat and walked away.

"What's wrong?" Foster asked cautiously.

"Two more burn victims in South River, the MO matches our guy's" Stohler said.

"Fuck"

Luckily, they received the call early in the morning and traffic was light so the detectives, while breaking numerous traffic laws, managed to make it back to Liberty City by the evening. As the sun began to touch base with the tops of the hills and the city shifted gears for the night life, the detectives made it to South River in the wake of a massive fire that to the shigrin of old steel workers, a majority of the Iron Works burnt to the gorund. Fire crews were still on sceen, poking through the rubble as small plumes of smoke still wafted into the air. Police lights bounced off the walls and reflected off the pools of water from the fire engines.

Sgt. O'Hara greeted the weary and saggy eyed detectives, "Nice to see you boys made it to the party, how did your field trip go?"

"Nothing camme of it from what we gathered, Ray's clean" Stohler replied, yawning afterwards.

"The call came in this morning about a fire at the Iron Wokrs. By the time fire crews got there, that whole part over there was a towering inferno, took them damn near all afternoon to subdue the fire. What we thought was just a regular fire turned ugly when their investigation to the cause turned up two crispy critters in the basement of the starage building" O'Hara described the day's events, capping it off with, "The accelerant was fire and somehow, don't ask me how, they found the remnants of a cigarette butt"

Stohler whistled at the whole mess, "Lucky Strike?"

"Probably, got off the phone with the Lieutenant and the Captain an hour ago, they're getting tired of this mess" O'Hara told them, "They believe we have a serial/arsonist on our hands"

"I thought three wasn't enough to label a 'serial killer'" Foster interjected.

O'Hara turned to him, "After news of this broke, a detective from Nuevo Vista called and said two years ago they had a similar string of incidents. That's why the Captain wants a task force started on this. It gets better, once of those jackasses out there leaked the detail about the cigarettes to the press, their already labeling this guy as 'The Smoker'"

"Christ, Sarge-'The Smoker'?" Stohler wimpered, "You gotta be kidding me, so these giuys are comin'all the way from Nuevo Vista?"

"Nope" O'Hara chuckled, "What's better is that you two are on it too. The NVPD are sending the two original detectives on their case to assist, you two could use the help, ha"

"I'm glad you find this funny, Sarge" Stohler quipped, "Who's leading it?"

"The Captain wants Lt.Sykes to help out"

The detectives looked at one another, "That guy? What does he even do around here?"

O'Hara rolled his eyes, "Don't ask me, just some upstart who's shining brighter than any of you two"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Foster asked, feeling the sting of a hurtful comment that apparently struck a cord with his sentiments.

====================

"How you doin' Greg?" Lt.Warwick said with a broad smile and a firm handshake. Lt.Greg Sykes returned the warm smile and handshake, taking an offered seat. Sykes was one of the shining stars of the LCPD. A tenacious worker, having only spent three years in patrol before being picked up for the Organized Crime Task Force where he rose to the rank of Lieutenant. SOme griped that it was because he was Black that allowed for such a swift rise in a police department trying to shake the equal right's groupd off their back. He worked just as hard as disuading that myth as he did his own shrt career.

"I'm fine, can't complain much, yourself?" Sykes asked.

"You've read up on the case thus far?" Warwick asked, "It's a real mess. What was supposed to be a simple murder case has blown up into...this" he had his own copy of the case sitting on his desk.

"I stopped down briefly at the scene a few hours ago down in South River. The two detectives from Nuevo Vista are expected to arrive tomorrow morning, who are the other players for the task force?" Sykes inquired.

Warwick read them off, "Detectives James Foster and Matthew Stohler. You need to watch out for Stohler, he's a piece of shit. Remember the news article about how the investigation is stalling?"

Sykes nodded, listening carefully.

"It's because of Stohler that that slipped out. He's a talker, alright. Just keep an eye out for him. If I had it my way, he'd be working in Traffic Enforcement"

"With the meter maids?" Sykes asked, laughing at the notion of a veteran detective giving a pissy fit about overtime parking, not to mention those shorts those poor bastards have to wear.

"Exactly, shorts and all. But he just happens to be attached to this case so he has to stay" Warwick conceeded, disappointed at the situation. He reveled in any chance to shit on Stohler but once again his white whale eludes him.

"Anyone else?" Sykes asked, "Four people, two of them being outsiders isn't enough to adequetly pursue this case"

Warwick leaned forward, loosening his red tie, "We're trying to get a few more people, we're understaffed and the budget is getting tighter by the day"

"I'll find some people" Sykes replied, "I'll see you around" he stood up and shook Warwick's hand and exited the office. He sighed, knowing that this was going to be a tough one already.

Tom Donovan bursted through the double doors and out into the hallway, nearly throwing his shoulder into a passerby. Ivan Krazny and two other members of the ULU follwed behind him. Donovan's face was brimming red and removed his glasses.

"Those fucks!" Donovan blurted, "They think they can jack me off?! I can't believe what the fuck they think they are doing!"

Ivan and the others kept their cautious distance, allowing the rampaging union president to continue on. Negotiations had just broke down with representatives from Rathen Industries. 4,600 employees contracts were going to expire in five months and Rathen Industries was playing hardball about the terms concerning the renewal. These things happened every so many years and it is always painstaking and drawn-out. The last time employees and workers went on strike was six years ago and lasted for over two months, crippling Rathen's profits and image. It was about who can outlast who. The workers struggled greatly, manning pickett lines outside the forge's, factories, and other assets. None of them were rich and the longer it took, the more they and their families suffered.

But, Tim Rathen, the current head of the company finally rboke down. He was a descent enough man, an old strike breaker for his father years ago. The days of strikers and hired thugs duking it out at the locked gates of the steel mills were long gone. Bad publicity can do as much damage as any riot. "Big Tim" Rathen traded those days in for the days of suits and meetings. He entered the family business as a supervisor at foundery 3 down in Worthington. Tom Donovan and Tim Rathen faced off from one another numerous times. When they were both younger and Tim was still a supervisor, back in the 70's a fiery Tom busted Big Tim's nose when the lay offs started trickling in.

Big Tim remembers that day but doesn't let a grudge get between him and business. Today wasn't about that, it was about leverage. Over the past decade, the ULU grew far too powerful that the suit's first believed it could become. Now, he was attempting to curb their influence and power.

As Donovan entered the elevator, nearly closing the door on Ivan who caught it with his arm snugged through.

"Big Tim's getting scared" Ivan said

"Doesn't look like it, he's got our nuts in a vice grip" Donovan clenched his fist, holding it up to illustrate his point.

Ivan shook his head, "It's all a bluff, we just have to show him we're not falling for it"

They were the only two in the elevator, the other two men missed the train. Donovan took a deep breath, "What about our other problem?"

Earlier that day, Viktor busted into Ivan's office and broke the bad news about the two outsiders. It was a disaster, instead of Ivan tearing up the office or yelling, he simply nodded, much to Viktor's confusion and relief.

"It's complicated" Ivan replied

"How so?"

"Our two associates are...unavaliable" Ivan chose his words carefully, you never know who's listening.

"For how long?" Donovan turned his head.

"Indefinetly" Ivan met his piercing eyes, unblinking.

Donovan turned away, looking up at the lite numbers for the floors, "Fuck"

====================

Back at the Precinct the two detectives sat in one of the conference rooms, O'Hara told them to meet Lt.Sykes there and just shut the fuck up. Stohler flipped a pen through his fingers, eyes idle. Foster rapped his fingers off the long, smooth table. The two collectively believed they were wasting time sitting in the conference room and could be out there on the streets. The door suddenly opened and startled Stohler into dropping the pen. It rolled in the direction of the door and a foot stepped down in the path of the pen, halting it in its' tracks.

A delicate hand grasped the pen and a flick of black hair revealed a woman, looking up and smiling, "Pen's go in your hands" she said.

Stohler snapped out of a momentary trance and extended a hand out, "Thanks for the tip, I'll keep that in mind" taking the pen back.

"I'm Detective Ramira Vargas, from the Nuevo Vista PD. This is where we're supposed to meet, right?" she asked.

"Yep, they told us you'uns were comin'" Stohler replied, "Where's the other guy?"

"Right here" a man said as he walked in behind Ramira. His smile was broad, clean cut, and very sharp looking, "I'm Chad Carson"

"Hi Chad" Stohler and Foster said in tune.

Chad Carson moved around the side of the table, now awkwardly smiling and sat down at a corner of the table. Ramira Vargas was the real attraction. She had long black hair, done in a pony tail that drapped down to the bottom line of her shoulders, smooth darker skin. Stohler thought this was a joke, there aren't women like that in the police department. The again, these two are coming from Nuevo Vista. People were just different from that sunny and warm part of the country.

The four detectives talked amoungst themselves, Chad, as STohler predicted within the first three seconds of meeting him, was an asshole. One of those tools you run into that are strictly by the book, clean cut and not willing to get into it with a boss. They knew it was going to be a long investigation without even mentioning it. Vargas and Carson were going to debrief the team once Sykes showed up, whenever that was.

The detectives slipped into small talk, uneasily at first but they gradually let go their inhibitions for talking to strangers, Stohler snuck a few more glances at Ramira Vargas. She was like some bright, Latina Goddess in his eyes, exotic, from some part of the country he never visited before. Over the years, Stohler honned his skills but a bout with alcohol flushed all that away when the word spred about the divorcee alcoholic. He wasn't that guy anymore, just a shell of that guy. He followed her neck down into her shirt as her head turned to talk to Carson about something. He took a big gulp and literally firced himself to look off somewhere else.

The door opened, the blinds clattering off the glass as Lt.Sykes shut the door behind him. He offered a weak smile to everyone, "Good morning, sorry for being late" he briefly glanced at his watch, "I had some other things to deal with"

He carried two thick folders with him and placed it ont he smooth table, "This right here is our case thus far" he said pointing to the one of the left, "This one was kindly given to us from our comrades from the NVPD. I'm sure everyone introduced themselves so I'll introduce myself. I'm Lt.Greg SYkes, coming over from MCU. I'll be headin' this taskforce to apprehend our little fire bug"

"Is it true that the newspaper's labeled him, 'The Smoker'?" detective Carson chirpped, hands folded, leaning forward, stick up his ass.

"Sadly, the press loves murder" Sykes resonated throughout the room, "The press love interviewing those involved in murders" Now, it didn't seem like much at first, but when the words exited his mouth, they found a direct line that led straight to Stohler. This fact, Detective Stohler made a mental note of.

"We are going to do everything in our power to stamp out the press and news. Anything that turns up during the course of the investigation is going to stay in-house, am I clear?" Sykes asked and watched heads bop up and down, "Now, I'd like to ask Detectives Vargas and Carson to tell us about their end of the investigation"

Sykes side-stepped, allowing Crason and Vargas to take center stage for the main event. Carson stood with his hands behind his back and the two shared a 'who's gonna wear the pants?' look. Vargas appeared to be waring the pants in this partnership so she stepped up, "We were investigating the destruction of a known Truijo Mafia stash house. It was burned to the ground and two members, later identified as one of the enforcers, Carlos Rena and a minor dealers" Ramira Vargas prowled around the room, everyone seated swiveled in their chairs, following her every move closely.

"The two major gangs in Nuevo Vista were the Trujio Mafia and Los Dos Muertes, an upstart street gang. They are single minded and ruthless, run by the brothers Ernesto and Esteban Santiago. They were embroiled in a gang war that was ravaging the streets. During this gang war, the Los Dos's enlisted the help of a man. He was a gun for hire. We began noticing a pattern in several deaths. Most that they were arson or fire related. This man, still unidentified, had a peculiar method of extracting information. He would douse a victim in gasoline and smoke a pack of cigarettes while he interrogated him. If the victim didn't relinquish any information by the time he finished, then with the last cigarette he'd light them on fire"

Ramira opened their file and produced several gruesome scene photos and slid them across the table to each person, "All in all, we have circumstantial evidence, based on certain MO's we associated him with, we believe he killed between seven to nine people. There may be more we don't know about"

"We have reason to believe he may now be in this city, operating" SYkes dimed in, "The death of Saul Garrett and these two unknowns match the MO perfectly"

"Do we have ID's yet on the lattest two?" Foster asked.

Sykes were shook his head, "We have to work fast. The deaths our perp believed to have committed in Nuevo Vista spanned only five months"

Stohler finally said something, "We need to find who he's working for"

"Why do you say that?" Foster asked, obviously behind the curb.

"Because from how it sounds, this guy doesn't do this for shits and giggles. It's starting to make sense now. Our first guy, Saul Garrett had a shady past and magically pulled enough money out of his ass to buy, referbish, and restock a bar in Whitebrook. He had a prior history, nothing too big. He's no criminal mastermind so someone gave him this money or he was in good with someone" Stohler replied.

"That sounds like a solid lead. We're relocating to another room that they set aside for us. I have two more people coming down on loan till this investigation is over. There, we can coordinate our moves and have some privacy" Sykes interjected.

Foster patted Stohler on the shoulder, "There's Super Cop Matt Stohler I've missed".