The Cold Case bullpen was another world compared to the Intelligence war room, Olinsky thought. It was far quieter down here, darker, the environs reflecting the mission of the new team that had been brought in by the Commissioner to tackle District 21's backlog of unsolved cases, many of which dated back to Olinsky's early days on the job, and before.
Olinsky glanced around again. The central bullpen here was orderly chaos, just like Intelligence; open evidence boxes and case files strewn on the table, the board nearly filled with photos and notes, pictures linked together by lines and hastily scrawled notations connecting them. He was about to move closer to see what they were working on when someone spoke from behind him.
"Hello, Detective Olinsky. Can I help you?"
He spun to face the petite, dark-haired woman who had broken his reverie. He stuck his hand out. "Good to meet you, Sergeant Kreczmar." She took his hand, grasping it.
Strong, yet still feminine. He nearly smiled at her frank appraisal of him from beneath level, dark brows. "You said my name right. I'm impressed. Please, call me Kasia."
"Al." He was reluctant to let go of her hand. "Unusual name. I've never heard it before."
"You probably never will again," she answered. "My brother and I are among the last to bear the name. The Nazis wiped out my entire family. They managed to smuggle my father out of Poland just before Hitler closed the border. My brother and I were the surprise of his old age."
"I'm sorry," Al responded at length. "Is that why you became a cop?"
"Mostly. I wanted to bring to justice to families who had waited a long time for justice, since my family never got any."
He nodded wordlessly, trying to imagine his entire family gone before he was even born. His mind would not go there. "You're young, to have made Sergeant already."
"Went through the Academy the summer after high school graduation. Did a couple years of service in the IDF, then came back to really dig in. Chicago is home."
"The IDF?"
"Israeli Defense Force. I have dual citizenship. One of the perks of the Holocaust."
"Is that your service number?" he gestured with his chin to the tattoo on her forearm.
"My grandmother's prisoner number. Auschwitz. My twin brother, Arie, has a corresponding tattoo, for my grandfather."
"How did you know my name?" asked Al.
"I read your jacket. I read everyone's, actually. I like to know who I'm going to be counting on."
Al nodded approvingly. "Voight tells me you have an impressive solve rate. One of the highest for cold cases in Chicago."
Her face lit up at that, and he saw her smile for the first time. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Resolutely he pushed that thought and those that would follow quickly from his mind.
"So do you," she replied. "I have a great team. We came up through the ranks together. I'd be nothing without them. I'd introduce you, but I sent them both to lunch. Voight I already know, and Sergeant Platt is an old friend." Hank Voight, who was quicksilver, lightning in a bottle with that cymbal-shiver voice like stone grating against stone and that mercurial, hair-trigger temper that served him so well. More a force of nature than a man.
"Burgess is also a friend. We've had a couple of girl's nights," Kasia went on. "Burgess brought in someone we were later able to tie to a burglary that ended in murder back in 1997. She's someone who just sort of became an immediate friend."
"She's good police. Don't believe everything she tells you about us, though," Al said, chuckling.
"Unfair advantage," countered Kasia, also laughing.
"It was Hank who requested you for Cold Case here," Al said, smiling enigmatically.
"I didn't know. I'll have to thank him later, or curse him. We've spent the last two months re-ordering the department, implementing an all new filing system. Every piece of evidence is now accounted for and electronically tagged. No accusations from the ivory tower or the D.A.'s office about slipshod practices from the 21st from now on. It was a daunting undertaking, and I'm glad it's done. We're getting our hands dirty now with cases, prioritizing them."
"I see you're already into something. What are you working on?"
"One of yours, actually. A missing girl, from 1987." She gestured him over to the board, watching his eyes as they moved over the old photos and newspaper articles. The photo in the center from which the lines that linked to the others spread out like rays from the sun held him. A gap-toothed girl of eight, posing for a school picture in front of the gray-blue background that had been standard back then.
"I remember her. Chynelle Kenner, gone without a trace, We never found her body, and whoever took her left no evidence. That one kept me up nights."
"Her mother still lives in the same house. Hoping her daughter will find her way home."
"I'm sorry we dropped the ball."
"You didn't. It was excellent detective work. There was just nothing to go on."
"Think there will be now?"
"Yeah. Time has a way of eroding this kind of stuff. I started with this case by listening to my gut. Very scientific, I know." She lifted an self-deprecating eyebrow.
"I miss the days when that was how it was done. No internet, no GPS tracking, just your gut and your instincts and the trusted few covering your back."
"Those days aren't gone, Al. Not as long as some of us are still living them."
"I hope you find her."
"We will."
He sighed heavily. "Forgot what I came down here for. Voight wanted me to ask you for everything you got on this." He handed Kasia a slip of paper with a case reference number, then followed her into the forest of floor-to-ceiling racks of evidence boxes. She fetched a rolling ladder and shimmied up, easily finding the box he wanted which she scanned with a device she pulled from her belt. She maneuvered down the ladder rungs with a practiced grace, balancing the box, and handed it to him, smiling smugly.
"Order from chaos," he said with a note of wonder as she stepped down from the bottom rung of the ladder. He had stolen a secret glance at her hand while she was retrieving the box. No wedding ring. Her smile told him she had seen anyway.
"Married to the job."
There was no need to reply. All was understood. She followed him to the door, where he hesitated, looking at the sign she had hung above the doorway. Et Mortuus Loqui.
"What does that mean?" he asked her.
"The dead speak."
Al could only nod in reply. He found it difficult to leave, and knew he would be thinking about this unexpected encounter later, far more than he should.
