Steve knew his hunch had been right when he returned to the bullpen close to 6pm, and neither Mike nor Forester could be found anywhere.
With his eyes burning, and a headache threatening to split his skull in half, he dropped the R&I files onto his desk with a heavy thud, before helping himself to a glass of water from Mike's carafe.
When he returned, one hand rubbing the nape of his neck in an effort to ease the pain, he was grateful to find that there were no new notes or missed calls despite his afternoon-long absence, a good, albeit somewhat disturbing sign.
Dropping into his office chair with the enthusiasm of a parched houseplant, he reached for the top of his mountain of files, retrieving the first of eight potential candidates for their mass shooter. It had been a tremendous effort just to narrow their fifteen names down to eight, but nonetheless, it was more than they had yesterday.
It was his sincere hope that one of those eight would prove to be their proverbial needle in the haystack, closing a case that was as heart-wrenching as it was disturbing.
Steve had been bent over the first file for countless minutes, zoning out here and there when his taxed mind couldn't handle the massive amount of information any longer. Failing to stifle a yawn, he rested his forehead on his palms for a moment, hoping it would quiet both, the headache and the relentless doubts clouding his thinking, trying to scare him into believing that he wouldn't be able to solve the puzzle before their killer would strike again.
His sigh turned into a deep breath as he closed his eyes, then took another deep breath, feeling the tense muscles in his shoulders relax somewhat. As he exhaled, his stiff back loosened up, reminding him of the damage all the stress had done to his posture.
A couple deep breaths later, Steve was fast asleep at his desk.