Chapter 7

We started working the phones, making calls that felt pointless. Re-interviewing people who’d already given us nothing. It was like banging our heads against a brick wall. The details of the victims were stark: Richard Vance, the youth coach, a creep who’d never been formally charged but had left a trail of scared families. O’Malley, the landlord, who’d used his power to terrorize young women struggling to make rent. The bar owner, a predator, using his business as a hunting ground. And Tommy Jenkins, the everyday abuser. All different walks of life, different parts of the city, but their sins were chillingly similar.

“It has to be someone who knew these specific types of victims,” Ben insisted again, looking at the board. “Someone who had access to their stories, who saw the pattern. Not necessarily people who knew these dirtbags directly, but someone who knew the people they hurt.”

That thought came up again. Someone from social services. From shelters. I’d dismissed it before. Too broad. Too many people. And Gracie… she fit that description, in a general way. She was empathetic. She heard the worst stories. She believed in justice. The thought flickered, just for a second, then I crushed it. It was absurd. My mind was just cracking under the pressure.

“We’ve been down that road, Ben,” I said, trying to sound dismissive. “We cleared everyone. Too many people, too many connections. No one stood out. We need something concrete.”

The hours dragged. The precinct buzzed with a nervous energy. Everyone was walking on eggshells. By late afternoon, another call came in. Not about the killer. But about a new development related to one of the victims’ families.

“Corbin, Ben! My office!” It was Commissioner Davies’s voice again, even angrier than before.

We walked in, bracing ourselves. He was pacing, phone to his ear, his face white. He hung up abruptly.

“That was the mayor’s office. Richard Vance’s family. They’re demanding a public apology. They’ve hired a goddamn private investigator to investigate his murder because we can’t find anything, and this PI is digging up all sorts of crap about his past victims, bringing it all back into the news.” He slammed the phone down. “They’re accusing us of letting a monster get away with it, even if he was a monster. They want answers, Corbin. They want justice for Vance, twisted as that sounds. And they’re threatening to go public with everything if we don’t move our asses.”

I felt a cold dread settle deep in my bones. A PI. Someone outside the force, digging into the pasts of these victims. This was bad. It meant a new, unpredictable element. Someone who wasn’t constrained by our rules, who might find something we missed. Or worse, stir up even more trouble.

“Sir, we’re doing everything we can,” I said, my voice tight.

“Apparently, it’s not enough!” Davies roared. “This PI, a guy named Marcus Thorne, he’s apparently good. He’s already poking around the old Vance case files, talking to people who didn’t want to talk to us.” He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “You have exactly six days left, Corbin. You find something, or you’re off this case. And if this PI finds something before you do, your badge is on the line. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.” My voice was flat.

Walking out of the office, the weight felt unbearable. A private investigator. That was the last thing we needed. Someone with nothing to lose, digging into the messy lives of the victims, and potentially exposing things that would make our department look even worse. Not to mention, if this PI actually found the killer, that would be the ultimate humiliation.

I went back to my desk, slumped into my chair. My head was pounding. My phone buzzed. A text from Gracie: "Thinking of you. Don't let them get to you too much. Date night tonight?"

A small, weak smile. She was my escape. My sanity check. She didn’t know the depths of the mess I was in. And I intended to keep it that way. The thought of bringing this ugliness home, of letting it touch her world, was unthinkable. She was the one good thing.

I looked back at the corkboard, at the faces of the dead men. Now, not only were we trying to catch a ghost, but someone else was playing detective, and they were stepping on our toes. The pressure was suffocating. I needed a break. I needed answers. And I needed them fast. The idea of losing my job, of failing, was a bitter taste in my mouth. My career, everything I’d worked for, was on the line. And the thought of being a civilian, without the badge, without the purpose… it was a chilling prospect. It felt like the world was spinning out of control, and I was losing my grip, slowly but surely.

The call came in just after 3 PM. I was still drowning in paperwork, trying to make sense of Marcus Thorne, that damn private investigator Davies was so fired up about. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes. The precinct was a pressure cooker, everyone on edge, jumpy. So when my phone rang, an unknown number from a civilian line, I just answered it with a grunt, expecting another furious family member, or maybe a crank reporter.

“Detective Corbin?” The voice on the other end was frantic, high-pitched. A woman. “You need to get to the old Kingston Warehouse district. Fast. It’s… it’s Robert Maxwell. He’s…”

The line went dead.

My blood ran cold. Robert Maxwell. The name hit me like a punch to the gut. The Robert Maxwell. Prominent real estate developer, big shot, community leader. This wasn't some back-alley drug dealer. This was a titan of the city. He donated to charities, held galas, and shook hands with politicians. But in our world, in the files that stayed hidden from public view, he was also known for whispers of domestic violence, hushed reports from his previous wife, calls that always ended with “no charges filed” because she was too scared, too dependent. He was untouchable. Until now.

I slammed the phone down. “Ben! Grab your gear! Kingston Warehouse district! Robert Maxwell!”

Ben looked up, his eyes wide. “Maxwell? What about him?”

“Someone just called it in. Sounded… bad. Get a uniform to follow up on that number, see if we can trace it.” My gut was clenching, a cold, hard knot. This wasn’t just another victim. This was a direct hit to the city’s elite. This was going to blow everything wide open.

The drive across town felt like a blur. Sirens blared, weaving through afternoon traffic. My mind raced, trying to grasp the scale of this. Robert Maxwell. Commissioner Davies was going to have a heart attack. The media was going to feast on this.

We pulled up to the old warehouse, a derelict building casting a long shadow over the street. Uniformed officers were already swarming, tape going up. Crime scene techs were pulling on their gloves, their faces grim. The air was thick with tension, the unspoken knowledge that this was a big one.