The floor of the 15th precinct bustled with activity in the middle of the afternoon- and at the center of it, Brett Mahoney. Reading over a case file with one hand, Brett straightened out his brown coat and cut through the lobby, heading for the hall that led to his office. He stopped briefly at the front desk to reorganize his papers, but jerked back instinctively at the sound of another, familiar voice.

"Excuse me! Excuse me! Sergeant Mahoney?"

Karen Page. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me…" Brett turned and leaned back against the desk, flattening his hand against the folder on the desk. "That's Detective Sergeant to you. What do you want from me? I have actual police work to be doing, you know."

"I know, I know… I'm sorry to bother you." Karen, dressed up in a grey blouse and a skirt, hurried to the desk to meet him, clutching a brown paper bag and a notebook. "It's just… my editor won't take what I have to print yet. I need something more concrete."

"Well, you can't get it from me. You know I'm not gonna help you speculate on the record. Making an enemy out of HCB is a can of worms I do not need to be responsible for opening."

"I'm not asking you to speak on the record. I just need to know that I'm looking in the right places. I need the right questions to ask. Just a little of your time is all I ask."

Brett thought on that for a few moments and crossed his arms, gesturing slightly to Karen's hands. "What's in the bag?"

Karen shrugged slightly. "Oh, it's for Bess…" She handed it over with a guilty smile.

"Soon as I shake Foggy, you start showing up instead." Brett opened the bag and peered at the fancy box of cigars inside, groaning loudly. "Dammit, why do all you people have a death wish for my mom?"

"…I appreciate your help, Brett."

"You've got no integrity, Page." With a sigh, Brett tucked his case file under his arm, carrying the bag in the same hand. "Alright, we'll talk in my office, but only because I have something to tell you. Try to make it quick."

"Thank you."

With a wave of his hand, Brett led Karen down the hall into one of the spacious offices at the end. Murmuring to himself, he set down the case file he was carrying on the desk and tucked the bag of cigars underneath. Karen took a seat on the opposite side of the desk.

"I don't know how much new information I can give you, but after what you told me, I looked into some of those disappearances… and I have to say, it gets weird. Real weird." Brett slumped into his seat and clasped his hands together, frowning slightly.

"That's what I've been saying." Karen settled into her seat, hands folded neatly over the notebook in her arms. "What have you found out?"

"Where do I start?" Brett reached into his desk, pulling out a second file from a drawer and opening it in front of him. "Malcolm Ducasse, and Jones, and the twins, Ruben and Robyn. All four of them lived in the same building, which is weird enough. But there's another thread to follow."

"Another thread? What do you mean?"

Brett clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "Hope Schlottman."

"From Trish Talk?"

"The very same. Now, I don't know if you knew this, but three of them were both present when she died. Left some vague statements on her death. Supposedly she killed herself in front of them."

"They all left statements like that?"

"All three of them, plus two more witnesses. Forensics backed up the story, too. Stabbed herself in the throat with a wine glass; no signs of a struggle."

"But if it weren't up to her…"

Brett thought for a moment before continuing. "And it's like you said, she made a statement on the air, too, talking about this mystery man. Kilgrave. Invited on by Patricia Walker, who's also missing now." He sighed and looked briefly out the window over his shoulder, as though hesitant to even discuss it. "It's a big trail of bodies to be connected all by coincidence."

"So why is nobody looking into this? Why isn't this getting released?"

"Well, that might be the weirdest part." Brett leaned in slightly. "I don't know. Most of the investigations for the disappearances were opened and then dropped a few days later, just like that. It just never got looked into. Like someone just made an executive decision to close all the investigations."

The two of them exchanged a glance, their expressions dark. Karen thought to speak up, but closed her mouth, not able to find the right words.

Brett shook his head. "But it's all just speculation."

She pursed her lips. "But you think it's possible?"

"The hell do I know about what's possible?" Brett replied sharply, snickering. "Look, I've seen Daredevil in action with my own two eyes. To tell you the truth, Karen, as far as I'm concerned, stranger things have happened."

Karen nodded slowly, scribbling in the notebook. "Thank you for telling me this. It feels like everywhere I go, people don't want me looking into this."

With a raised eyebrow, Brett slid forward into his desk, watching Karen write with suspicion. "This is all off the record?"

"Of course."

"So what are you going to do next? If you want something you can take to print…"

"I don't know yet." She tapped her pen against the open notebook, biting her lip hesitantly. "I don't know…"

Brett let out a loud groan, frustrated with himself for taking pity.

"Alright, well, listen," he said slowly, pulling the first file back in front of him. "I can't offer you anything else about the disappearances, but there's something else you may be interested in taking a look at."

Karen shut her notebook hurriedly. "Oh? What is it?"

He stared at the contents of the open file for a moment. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No; why?"

Sighing, Brett picked up the folder and passed it across the desk for Karen to take a look at. She winced at the sight: laid out in the front were crime scene photos, a headless body strewn against a sidewalk beneath a splatter of blood and brain matter.

"Jesus!" Karen sifted through the photos with an appalled frown.

"Jane Doe came in last week. Mid-40s. Named Miranda Pritchett. We had to ID her from fingerprints; she had no wallet and the face was completely unrecognizable. Head was taken clean off, along with the majority of the sidewalk."

"Do you know who did it?"

Brett gritted his teeth at the question. "Yeah… well. Supposedly. But there's something off about it."

Karen pulled one of the photos out of the file, holding it up to the light. "How so?"

"The suspects are a couple of young guys we were tracking down for an armed robbery two blocks away. One of them had a pistol, but nothing high caliber… and that's all. No blunt weapons."

"So?"

"So, if they did that kind of damage to the body, I have no goddamn idea how. My first thought was a shotgun blast, but as it turns out, there's no gunshot residue. No guns fired at all as far as we can tell. And there's nothing else nearby."

Karen furrowed her brow with surprise. "So they bashed her head in with something."

"Must have. But I don't know what. They were found right at the crime scene by themselves. My best guess… some jacked-up dude with a sledgehammer? We really don't know. But I don't think they could have done it alone. There's got to be someone else. Someone who fled the scene."

Nodding to herself, Karen tucked the photos back into the file, reading a page of officers' notes. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, all we know is that the two of them were there. So we have opportunity, but we don't have means, and we don't have motive." Brett took a long breath. "So I looked into the victim. No connection to either of the suspects whatsoever. The others were saying she must have stopped them while they were fleeing the scene of the robbery, but I found something else. Another connection. And you're gonna want to brace yourself for this one." Brett shot Karen a look. "What I did find is that this woman, Pritchett, was a former client of Jessica Jones."

Karen scoffed. "Shit…"

"Hired Jones to investigate her husband less than two months before the Hope Schlottman case opened up."

"Did you ask the suspects about any of this this?"

"Sure. But they haven't said shit." Brett threw up his hands. "That's the other weird thing. They won't make a peep about what happened. Normally we see this kind of shit with gangsters, that kind of thing. Don't want to snitch. But these guys are a couple of nobodies with spotty records. They aren't gangbangers or anything. They were more than willing to fess up to the armed robbery charge. So if they won't cooperate with the murder investigation, I'm thinking someone's got something over them."

"Someone? What do you mean someone?" Interest suddenly piqued, Karen gave him a sharp look, concerned.

"Impossible to tell. At least with what we have now." Brett shrugged. "They were already arraigned. Both plead not guilty, both insisted they didn't do it, but it's not like they're saying they don't know who did. They just won't tell us. They won't describe what happened even a little. Won't even come up with a bullshit lie. We sweated them out for twelve hours each before the D.A. showed up, and neither one of them would budge even an inch that whole time. How do two cowards that are desperate for a plea hold out for that long? Either they're worried about what will happen to them if they talk… or maybe they can't talk in the first place."

"…Can't talk?" Karen repeated.

"It's just conjecture. Mind control isn't exactly something you can prove." Brett tapped on the folder. "But if you want to try, I would start with Pritchett. Might lead you somewhere."

Karen stared at the papers in her hands, mind racing.

"You're lucky you came when you did," Brett continued, leaning back in his chair. "They're in holding now; we're just waiting for the guys from the Department of Corrections to show up. Then they'll be out of my hair, and Tower will be the one that has to worry about them. But if you spread the news around before they get to trial… hell, maybe you'll buy them a hung jury."

"Thank you for the information, Brett." Karen set the folder back down on the desk and returned to her notebook. "Thank you…"

He watched as she scribbled down notes, which she did vigorously. It was the first real headway Karen had made in ages- the more people tried to get her to drop the story, the more inspired she'd gotten to follow through on it.

A heavy-handed knock on the door startled both of them out of their silence after a few minutes, and Karen jolted up from her scribbling with a start.

"Hello? Excuse me?" called a voice through the door.

Brett sat up and gestured to Karen. "Could you…?"

"Oh, yeah, of course…" Karen replied hurriedly, turning to get out of her seat and open the door.

"Hi, sorry to interrupt," said the man on the other side of the door, stepping boldly past Karen and facing Brett with a huff. "You're Mahoney, yeah? You got promoted since I saw you last?" he asked roughly, self-importance seeping in his British accent.

"Detective Sergeant Mahoney," Brett replied, laying his hands flat on his desk. "I'm sorry, sir, can I help you with something…?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact you can." The British man fixed his cuffs absentmindedly, looking back over his shoulder at the open door. "You've got something of mine. Two men in holding. Go let them out and sign for their release. They are free to go."

Brett blinked once and stood. Karen stepped awkwardly to the side, staring with disbelief as he walked out of the office and down to the holding cells to do as the man instructed.

The man in the suit took a step toward the door and then turned to Karen, who flinched instinctively in response.

He looked her up and down briefly, eyes settling on the notebook in her hands. "Well… and who might you be?"