I've recently been dividing my time between fanfiction and writing a novel, so updates may be a little far between, but they'll be there, never fear.

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4. Black Ice

"From now on, I'll connect the dots my own way." – Bill Watterson

Even at seven in the morning, the war room was in full swing, screens filled with leering mug shots that flashed by on slideshow. Maps grafittied with the forensic hypotheses of escape routes had been taped to the whiteboard, complete with evidence citations, times, and a myriad of other details. In the middle of it all sat Don, slouched in an office chair with a cup of something that vaguely resembled coffee and a headache. David watched the faces on the projector screen with interest, while Colby examined the escape route diagrams, checking them against his notes.

"Hey Megan greeted them as she entered, clutching a cup of Starbucks that Don was instantly envious of. "How are we doing?"

"Well, we've made a lot of guesses," answered Don, gesturing to the general illusion of progress that had infiltrated the war room. "But that's all they are, really: guesses. We don't have anything solid yet."

From across the room, Colby piped up. "He's right. I tried to pick up security footage to review, and it turns out that their camera 'broke' two weeks ago. I tried using traffic cams, but there's no clear shot of the entrance, and I logged over 2000 vehicles pulling onto that street yesterday."

Don peered at the coroner's report. "If they moved Coop after he was dead, then we're looking at someone coming in between four and eight."

Crossing to the table, Colby scanned his logs and shook his head. "No good. We're still talking about hundreds of cars."

"What about cross-referencing guest names with registered owners?" suggested Megan.

Shaking his head as well, Don fished from a stack the guest roster. "Coop was checked in as—" he squinted to make out the name, "—Kel Bacci." He managed a small smile and tossed the roster across the table. "And his neighbor introduced herself as Miss Octopussy."

"As in the Bond girl?" questioned Colby with raised eyebrows.

"All right, all right, so the cameras are a dud," concluded Megan.

Don eyed the papers in her hand. "Has the coroner called back on IDing those drugs?"

"No," sighed Megan, setting them down on the already file-laden table. "But I did find something interesting with what we already have." Crossing to a laptop, she stopped the slideshow, clicking up a row of five pictures, grinning mug shots paired with grisly crime scene photos. "Five ODs with similar characteristics – the bruises, the drop spot…"

"Wait," Don stopped her, rising to stare at the screen. "Five?"

"All in the last six weeks," confirmed Megan, clicking up Cooper's picture and file. "Ending with Cooper."

"And this hasn't been called a serial killer because…?"

"According to the files, the only death classified as a homicide was Cooper's."

Don ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Can you get a profile for our guy outta this?"

"That's the problem," she admitted with frustration. "The victims are so random, I can't pin down an MO." She opened one of the files, a white guy in his mid-forties with a scraggly beard and a weight problem. "This guy, David Harris, is a garbage man who lives in the slums. And then there's Mia Chang." She summoned up a picture of a pretty Asian woman in a smart designer suit. "She's a bigwig for some fashion line; lives in a high rise across the way, in starlet country. The only thing they have in common is that none of them seem like they would commit suicide; other than that, they seem pretty much random."

"Did I just hear someone use a certain forbidden 'r' word?" came a familiar voice as its owner strode in, smiling.

"Hey, Charlie," David hailed him. "Yeah, we have a group of victims and no way to connect them. I'd call that random."

"Nothing is random," insisted Charlie, scanning the smiling faces and skimming their files briefly. "I could run an analysis on the victims to try and determine a common factor. It's actually quite simple, really; you see, you take…"

Having heard this spiel before, Don reached forward and retrieved the guest list from the seedy motel, musing over the foolish and often obscene monikers absentmindedly. His gaze drifted, eventually coming to rest once more on Coop's unusual choice: Kel Bacci. Or rather, his killer's unusual choice; Coop probably had very little say in the matter. He repeated the name softly to himself. It sounded almost familiar, but he didn't know from where.

"…and the bull dogs' leashes are only a certain length," explained Charlie animatedly to his rapt audience. "This means that…"

Suddenly, he saw it. Grabbing a pen from where it had been nestled behind his ear, he scribbled down two words, letter by letter, crossing out each corresponding letter in the name on the roster. Replacing the pen behind his ear, he read and reread the phrase, reluctant to admit their implication.

"…so all I have to do is take these people's lives, find each one's radius, and see where they overlap," finished Charlie with a flourish.

"How long?" Don asked in what he hoped was an offhand tone.

"Four, maybe five hours, give or take, depending on how much data I have to work with."

"Good; do it." He stood and began to collect his things. "David, Colby, I want you to dig up everything on these people; phone and finance dump, the whole nine yards. Whatever Charlie needs. Okay?"

They nodded and commandeered the laptop, setting to their task. Slipping on his coat, he turned to Megan.

"Try to find a supplier for the sodium pentothal," he ordered. "We can pull business records and see who's been getting this stuff."

"Sure," she said, puzzled. "Where are you going?"

When he answered, he didn't meet her eyes. "To meet an old friend."

He sidestepped her and swept out the door. Looking back, she crossed to the desk and picked up the motel roster. Next to the ludicrous name Kel Bacci were scrawled two words.

BLACK ICE