The Next Victim

The Next Victim
Sam's POV

It shouldn't be so hard to forget someone. I have done it so well in the past. I should be able to do it again, I thought to myself as I strolled into the precinct this morning, the coffee warm against the paper cup and in turn against my fingers.
In my miserable search for love in the past before I finally gave up, I dated men whose names I can't even remember. And just like I can forget them, I would forget Roran too. We’ve only met for just four days, and most of the men from my past whom I had forgotten now actually lasted for a minimum of three weeks with me before deciding I was too stuck up and boring for them.
I poured the coffee down my throat, feeling the warm bitter sting against my throat, just as I eased myself into my seat. I shook my head, shaking off the memories of last night from my head, the look on the face, the uncertainty in his voice, and the fact that I had practically cried home, like I had just gone through another breakup again. I threw my head over the headrest, grunting with clenched teeth at the ceiling, and I slammed the coffee cup against the desk.
God! It had only been four days, so why does it feel like four years? Why does it feel like I had known him for long when I barely do? Why does this feel like a heartbreak when we never even dated?
I dragged my eyes from the ceiling and made a low grunt, grinding off my throat. I forced a sad smile at myself to assure myself that all was well, that I could fight this, and then I powered on my computer.
I took another sip of coffee, staring at the operating system's logo, while waiting for it to boot. I dragged my seat forward when I found it was close to the end of booting. I snatched the mouse first, moving fast for my mail.
I didn't have to refresh my inbox before I saw it sitting at the top of my mail. Finally, I heaved a long, satisfied sigh as my eyes spotted the mail from the network carrier and the attached file to it—Cecilia Rosewood's call logs. Finally, I made another long exhale and double-clicked it.
A spreadsheet bloomed across my screen. Columns of dates, times, and numbers stretched downward in a timeline. Each entry was sterile, clinical.
I snatched a pen and jotter with my free hand while I scrolled down fast with the mouse for the last number that called her. She had died not long after she received the call from the Warden Karo at the elevator, so he must be the last person who called her or nearer to the last.
I blew out an exasperated puff of air, my gaze brushing the number, when I hit the end. Just like I’d suspect, it was without a name. I wasn't expecting anything less. A killer as precise and thorough as Warden Karo wouldn't leave a big digital footprint that would easily get him. He’d called her with a burner phone.
I snatched the pen and jotter, and I scribbled the number down. Then I picked up the mouse again and resumed scrolling.
Cecilia Rosewood was quite a busy woman; her call logs were packed with so many male names, so much that I can try to follow up on. Amidst her boyfriends' names and those of her family and friends, the only constant in her call log for those three days she spent in the Perry Lane hotel was Warden Karo's burner phone number. Even the day before she arrived at the hotel, while Warden Karo was already in the hotel, he showed up in her log for that day.
I didn’t even bother finishing the log. Nothing else mattered now. Her death was deliberate and planned, and Warden Karo had primed her those three days they were there. And the call before she arrived must have meant that she probably came to the Perry Lane hotel because he asked her to.
I lifted my head from the screen, and I peered above the desk, my eyes darting around in search of Alex. A lightness claimed my body as he didn't crop up under my sight. I hope the bastard would just stay away forever. I was going to find the killer myself and catch him by myself; I wouldn't let Alex ruin my case again.
I leaned forward and clicked on Microsoft Word. And as soon as the blank page opened up to me, I began typing up the affidavit with shaking but hurried fingers. My eyes dart around, jumping from the monitor to the office, watching out for Alex while I hastily string the sentences together.
“We have reason to believe this phone number belongs to the individual responsible for Cecilia Rosewood’s death. We request immediate access to call detail records associated with this number…” I kept typing.
As soon as I was done, and the printer vomited the printout, I snatched the coffee cup from the desk and poured the already cold coffee down my throat.
Faxing the affidavit to the D.A.'s office by mail would have been better, but it could take longer before it was attended to, and I needed this now and fast.
I snatched my car keys, and I strolled out of the office as fast as I could, yet slow enough to not drum up any suspicion from the other officers.
Some minutes later, I was pushing the door into the D.A.'s office.
District Attorney Isabella Parlor looked up at me from her desk, her hands diving fast under her table. She recognized me, and she raised her hand over the table, raising her cigarettes to her lips. Her eyes were stern as they escorted me.
“Can't you knock, Sam?” She scolded.
“I knocked; you just didn't hear me.” I said, waving the cigarette smell from my nose.
“You didn't,” she challenged, almost baring her teeth at me.
“Okay, okay, I didn't.” I conceded, “But you are a grown woman; why should you care that anyone catches you smoking? It’s your lungs getting rotten, not theirs.”
I watched her mouth clip in distaste, and just before she could launch into the angry tirade I suspected she would, I pushed the affidavit to her table; her stern eyes moved from me to the paper. “Sign this for me.”
Her heated eyes skimmed it, jaw tight. “So this is what made you just barge into my office, Sam.
“Don't get touchy with me, old woman. Just sign what I need you to sign, and I was never in your office. How about that?” I said, giving her a false smile.
Her lashes fanned me for a moment, and then the paper. She finally hissed as she shifted her cigarettes to her left hand, snatched her pen, and scrawled her signature onto it.
I snatched the paper, and I turned fast for the door.
“Next time do well to knock before…”
“I will,” I yelled back before she could croon her heart to my ears, and I pushed the door, stepping out.
Within the hour, I was standing in front of a judge who didn’t even raise a brow. “Homicide?” he asked.
My kind of judge. I grinned at myself.
“Yes, Your Honor. Time sensitive.” I responded.
His pen scratched the page. “Granted.”
I was back at my desk some minutes later, and I shot the signed warrant through the system, moving stealthily so Alex wouldn't notice me. Thank God the bastard hadn’t deemed it fit to show up at my desk today to make me pay for his bruised ego and broken heart.
I slumped back onto my chair, swinging myself gently from left to right as I waited for a response from the carrier again. Every second felt like an hour, my knee bouncing under the table, and my eyes darting to the computer screen at every opportunity it gets. Finally, a soft chime broke the silence. I swung the swivel chair around with a rush that almost made me butt my desk against the desk. I liked how fast it was to monitor, and there it was—another file in my inbox. This one is tied to Warden Karo's burner.
I clicked it open. Sparse. Almost empty. The burner wasn’t used often, which didn’t surprise me. Warden Karo was thorough with his job. I bet he bought the burner phone specifically for Cecilia Rosewood's murder…. But then I paused, leaning closer to the screen, recognizing another number. It was tucked in between the calls to Cecilia. Not once. Not twice. Repeated.
Whoever owned this number wasn’t just a casual call. The person was either the next victim or an accomplice. But the sudden chill that claimed my gut as I snatched up my pen and paper and began scribbling the number down told me wherever this person was, he or she was the next victim. Then that will mean we don't just have a killer in our hands, but a clinical and crazy serial killer.
I dragged the keyboards closer again, and I typed another affidavit, my fingers jamming the keys as fast as the speed of light. It was a miracle to me when I reread it after and didn't find an error.
My fingers were aching when I snatched myself down off my seat, turning fast to the printer, daring it to keep up. As soon as it produced the printout, I raced as fast as I could again to the D.A.’s office, trying my best not to arouse suspicion from my colleagues around and have them inform Alex about me.
D.A. Isabella Parlor wasn't so touchy this time, perhaps because I didn't catch her smoking this time. She signed it immediately, and soon I was before the same judge again, who had just one glance at him again and signed.
I drove like crazy back to my office, and I filed the warrant to the network carrier. And then I went through the ritual of waiting again for a new addition to my inbox.
My eyelids were slowly sealing shut when the notification snapped them open. I dragged the mouse nearer again, and I clicked and opened the file sitting atop my inbox. It wasn't a burner this time; it was a real subscriber.
My eyes trailed over the name slowly, and I started on my seat, straightening up like a ruler. I did a double take on the name again, rereading it. But it wasn't a mistake. The name was clear and bold—Lucy Callaghan. Mayor Callaghan's only sister and Alex’s aunty. Though—technically, because he was a few years older than her.