Crux
Original title: Quid
Story and English translation ©Αγάπη.
Law & Order characters Dick Wolf.
Copies or reproductions without permission are prohibited.
WARNING! The story contains/mentions sensitive topics: mpreg, sex, violence, torture, murder, cannibalism, discriminatory language, abortion, and religious cults.
NOTE!: I am not a native English speaker, nor do I live in an English-speaking country. I have utilized all the resources available to me and my expertise as an English-to-Spanish translator to ensure that the text reads as if it were initially written in US English. Please note that my grasp of English grammar and its nuances is still developing. Thus, I welcome your constructive feedback and proofreading assistance.
Thanks to Nine, Dovesliveon, and Aneria for their valuable observations.
NOTE 2: The TV shows Hannibal and Blue Bloods are mentioned.
For Sandy.
Law
.
What would you do if we woke up and the whole world was gone?
Well, would you believe with me is where you belong?
—In the Middle, Theory of a Deadman.
.
The windows of the emergency room at Harlem Hospital endured the relentless pounding of the violent storm. Betty, who was working the overnight shift, became worried as the water began seeping through the glass doors. She was grabbing the phone to contact maintenance when the power suddenly failed. The emergency generator took a few moments to light up the room when a car crashed into the wall beside the reception area, a mere step away from Betty. The nurse clung to the phone, pale, her heart pounding within her ears.
"Oh, my goodness!" a bystander exclaimed. "It's a carrier!"
Betty promptly relied on her training and hurried past the bystanders to the driver's side with the broken window. The sight that drew her attention was not the man with his bleeding face on the airbag, one hand on his slightly swollen and contracting abdomen, nor the puddle of thick, greenish liquid with the peculiar aroma of amniotic fluid that soaked the driver's seat and indicated fetal distress. Rather, the image that left her speechless was the torture marks all over the man's unclothed body.
"Please…" the man sobbed, "Help."
.
The elevator doors in the ICU opened just before nine p.m. Detective Jalen Shaw took three steps forward before asking his partner, "Is everything okay?"
Detective Cosgrove was still in the elevator and paying close attention to his phone for a response to his last message. Putting his phone away and stepping out of the closing doors of the elevator, he raised his head and took in the room.
The lobby had seven police officers. One was by the office, and two were by the emergency exit and Neonatal Intensive Care Unit each. A couple of nurses behind the reception desk looked Frank over from head to toe.
Driven by curiosity, Frank hurried toward the office, Jalen following close behind. As they approached the entrance, the officer acknowledged them with a nod. Before they could enter, a group of three doctors exited through the opposite door.
"The victim is a carrier," Frank told Jalen. "Shouldn't the Special Victims Unit oversee this case due to it being in their jurisdiction?"
As Jalen began to speak, Captain Olivia Benson came over to them. "The victim, Randy Peterson, age 36, died twenty minutes ago during surgery," she said, emphasizing the name. "His profile aligns with the modus operandi of one of your cases, Detective." Then, she gave Frank a medical file. He read it with raised eyebrows before passing it on to Jalen.
"None of the Bay Killer's victims were carriers," Frank claimed.
"Carriers' pregnancies are usually visible up to twenty-eight weeks," Benson replied. "However, Peterson was only twenty-six, so there is a possibility that the killer is targeting a wider range of victims."
Frank rubbed his chin in contemplation. The Bay Killer targeted unmarried, attractive, professional men with no family ties. He selected them in clusters of three (dubbed sounders by an FBI agent) and arranged their bodies in grisly scenes that the killer's admirers regarded as art. Although to Frank, it was the work of a disturbed mind. The case was complex due to the diverse backgrounds of the victims, including different races, socioeconomic statuses, sexual orientations, and religions. This left a substantial portion of New York's population vulnerable to the killer. Moreover, there was no discernible pattern to the murder dates. The scenes could be staged within two weeks of each other, months apart, or even on the same day as last year. That is why the case remained under their jurisdiction and not the FBI's. If Peterson were a victim of the Bay Killer, it would be the second this year within four months.
"The baby? The other parent?" Frank asked.
Benson glared at him. It was all in the file, but Frank needed to hear it. A theory was beginning to form in the back of his mind, and the implications did not look good for them.
"The baby was born by C-section," Benson explained in a stern tone. "Doctors say that if he can make it through the next 72 hours, he has a good chance of surviving. Peterson told his obstetrician that he was a single father. Nurses said he used to come in alone to get checked up on. His emergency contact was his boss."
Peterson fit the profile. The problem was his carrier status and the pregnancy. One of the things Frank had learned about the Bay Killer was his meticulous way of choosing his victims. He would kidnap them from their homes without a trace, indicating weeks or months of surveillance. There was no way he could not have known about Peterson. If Frank admitted anything to the killer, it was that he had stayed away from the carriers.
"I agree that he is not a victim of the Bay Killer," Jalen deduced. Benson and Frank turned around to look at him. He took a photo of the file and pointed to a certain spot. "The FBI will demand that the case be turned over to them if my suspicions are correct."
Benson was quiet. A strange atmosphere permeated the room. Frank imagined what the captain would tell them, part of him agreeing. The other, pointing out everything that could go wrong. "The car?" he asked. "Is there a missing person's report?"
"No missing person's report. Forensics is still working on the car." Benson replied, turning to meet Jalen's eyes. "What if there was a way to keep the feds out, Detective?"
With the cards on the table, Frank let out a breath of air that he had no idea in which moment he was holding it. By law, only the FBI or the Special Victims Units could take over cases involving a carrier. Unfair? No doubt, but the system worked. Or so he liked to think.
"Are you asking us to take on a carrier case under the banner of another open investigation, Captain?" Jalen asked, while he frowned.
"67% of the cases involving a carrier never make it into court, Detective," Benson alleged.
"I used to be a defending attorney, Captain," Jalen replied. "I know the stats."
Benson and Jalen were standing close to each other, their torsos almost touching. The difference in height was considerable, though from Frank's perspective, Benson was more intimidating. When neither of them retreated, he felt a twinge in his temple, and he stepped between them.
"We're in this together," Frank emphasized, he made eye contact with Jalen and then, with Benson. "What's your plan, Captain?"
The mood lightened. Benson took a step back. Jalen cleared his throat and straightened his tie. Frank could not blame them. Their work kept them stressed and alert, sometimes on the verge of crossing the line. It was not a professional thing to do, and the image of those who did it left a bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"If the case is taken over by the feds or remains under my jurisdiction, there is a high probability that the perpetrator will not be brought to justice," Benson clarified. "If homicide takes over, the likelihood of the case going to a grand jury increases because Randy Peterson may be the second victim of the Bay Killer."
The detectives exchanged a brief look. The Bay Killer case had advantaged that Frank could not understand. The media and public were focused on the killer, while his victims were just names on a list. But if a journalist or conspiracy theorist claimed that Peterson was a carrier, it would not only draw the attention of federals to Jalen and Frank. It would also put the reputation of the 27th Precinct's homicide squad on the line.
"Accepting the case doesn't guarantee it will go to trial, Captain," Frank expressed.
Benson sneered and inquired, "Is that you or EADA Price speaking?" Frank responded with a stoic expression. Benson continued, "Informally, this is a collaborative inquiry, Detective. But officially, it's under your jurisdiction."
Frank watched her leave quietly. A sensation of discomfort in his neck reminded him that his work shift was starting. He retrieved his phone and launched the messaging application. The discussion remained the same from where he had left it.
"You seem distracted," Jalen said. "Is Julia's lawyer still trying to increase her pension? Is Lily having trouble with college?"
Frank turned slowly, hesitant to reveal his thoughts to his partner or risk Jalen's independent conclusion. To avoid the inevitable, he pursed his lips. "As my lawyer—"
"I just gave you a few tips, the rest was done by the lawyer who provided you with the Police Department."
"As my lawyer, you are familiar with the terms of the divorce agreement. Lily's doing well and finds Dr. Graham's criminology course enjoyable. Let's get ready."
.
Lights flickered, then went out, then came back on in the hallway leading to the morgue. Footsteps echoed with an eerie metallic tone. Jalen adjusted his tie while Frank smirked. Upon entering, the peculiar aroma of the morgue caused them to clear their throats slightly.
"Hey," the coroner greeted them, he had a cup of coffee and a half-eaten donut in his hands, crumbs on cheeks and tie. "Are you here for Peterson's case?"
Frank raised both eyebrows. The place was crammed with files, books, medical and technical equipment, a few blackboards with formulas, and shelves with vials.
The coroner got up without leaving the doughnut and coffee and led them into the ice-cold room where a sheet-covered body lay on the central table. "I haven't started the autopsy yet," he said quietly, taking a bite of the doughnut, passing it to the hand holding the coffee and lifting the sheet with his free hand. "But I can tell from his condition that the marks are fresh and made with different tools."
"How long?" Jalen asked, leaning forward to examine the injuries.
Leaving the coffee on the edge of the table and the doughnut in the cup, the coroner wiped his hands on his robe, pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket, put them on, and gently lifted Peterson's arm.
"My guess is less than six hours, maybe four. From the bruising on his wrists and ankles, I can tell he was held for at least 24 hours."
"He came in for a checkup three days ago," Frank interjected.
The coroner carefully adjusted Peterson's arm and covered him with the sheet. "You've got your time frame, Detective." He let out a gloomy sigh. "Not everyone in the neighborhood liked him, but I can't imagine who would go after him like this. He was a good kid."
"Did you know him?" Jalen asked.
"Not exactly. He was known to carry his pregnancy with pride."
"Thank you," Frank whispered.
The coroner dismissed them with a brief nod.
Jalen's walk was leisurely. Frank could see the gears in his brain turning. "What's on your mind?" he asked as he pushed the elevator button.
"Peterson was black, gay, and a carrier proud to be so. With the mark on his hip of one of the most horrific cults in the history of the United States. As if that were not enough, he spent the last hours of his life being tortured. And we have no idea if they let him go, if he escaped, or if there are more victims. Or if he is the second victim of the Bay Killer. What do you think I am worried about?"
"The media circus that will ensue?"
The elevator bell rang, the doors opened, and Jalen reluctantly stepped inside. Frank hesitated and turned his attention to the morgue. If Peterson were the second victim, why would the killer target such a vulnerable group after years of avoiding them? How did Peterson escape? Or did the killer let him go? And if so, why?
"The damn media!" Jalen's voice snapped Frank out of his thoughts.
"The good news is they haven't heard about it yet."
"That gives us... What? A week to identify a suspect and turn the case over to the DA, hoping to prosecute without federal intervention or media condemnation. Price won't be happy."
On the way to the car, Frank saw a couple of reporters trying to peer through the locked entrance to the emergency room.
"No, Price won't be happy," he muttered to himself as he opened the driver's door.
.
Two days later, Frank was leaning on the edge of his desk, a cup of cold coffee in his hand, his eyes on the blackboard with Randy Peterson's picture and the information about both the Special Victims Unit and what they had compiled. He stifled a yawn with his hand. He had only slept for a few hours on the break room couch and his body was craving more rest. The thought of going back to an empty apartment made his stomach turn.
"What have you got?" Lieutenant Dixon asked. Frank turned to look at her. From behind his desk, Jalen raised his head.
"Peterson's apartment was immaculate," Frank read from his notes. "Neighbors said it was quiet and reserved. He worked as a public relations assistant for a cosmetics company. In his 13 years with them, he had never had a problem. He had just begun a leave of absence for pregnancy. There were no reports of incidents against him, although he was a regular member of carrier rights groups. His friends said he was generous and discreet; only three of them knew about the pregnancy".
"The car had been reported stolen fifteen minutes before Peterson crashed into the emergency room," Jalen continued. "It was parked three blocks away from the building where he lived."
"So, he was the one who stole it," Dixon concluded. "Was it caught on camera?"
"No," Frank answered. "And due to the storm, nobody was paying attention."
"The surveillance cameras in Peterson's building recorded him coming in after his doctor's appointment," Jalen added. "There is no evidence that he ever went back out."
"Consistent with the Bay Killer's modus operandi. Or he never left the building," Dixon said. "Any problems with the neighbors?"
"No," Frank replied, "most of them have known Peterson since he was six. They all have solid alibis."
Dixon walked over to the blackboard. "What about The Lineage?"
Jalen stood, took out the same photo he had pointed out in the meeting with Captain Benson, and placed it under the glowing lamp on Frank's desk. The picture showed Peterson's hip tattooed in the shape of a burning flame, the edges forming a dove in the center, the symbol of The Lineage, a late-'70s, mid-'80s cult that claimed carriers were prophets of Christ's return. Whole families had joined in hopes of a better future for their children; it turned out they were just a bunch of pedophiles, perverts, and pseudo-scientists. The feds got involved, the leader committed suicide with most of his followers, the surviving henchmen ended up in prison, and the information about the rescued children was sealed. There were rumors that members of high society had been part of the cult and were silencing survivors who were encouraged to tell their stories.
"Accessing The Lineage files wasn't easy," Jalen reported, pointing to a stack of folders. "My contact at the FBI let me know that they did not take the case away from us because of the profile of the Bay Killer and because Peterson was barely 'initiated' when they intervened."
"Both parents died in the mass suicide," Frank continued. "Custody of Peterson went to his maternal grandmother. They changed their names and moved to Harlem. The grandmother passed away of natural causes. There is no indication that Peterson had any contact with the remnants of the cult."
"So, you're starting over," Dixon affirmed, turning her attention to Detective Yee. "Have you discovered anything on Peterson's laptop? His social media or finances?"
Detective Yee was concentrating on her screens, then turned to face Dixon and forced a smile. Frank sympathized with her. She had worked just as much if not more than the Special Victims Unit, due to her brother being a carrier. Frank appreciated Benson and her team's ability to retain confidentiality and avoid media involvement in the investigation. How long they continued to succeed remained to be seen.
"His sole activity was on Instagram," Yee stated. A collection of posts and messages instantly became visible on the monitors. "He was simply supporting the cause without any personal information. It was a case of classic haters, with nothing indicating a threat. His bank accounts were in good standing…"
"What?" Frank interjected.
"A purchase was made from the Saint-Germain restaurant on Central Park West, six months ago."
"Is that the place that requires a year-long waiting list?" Jalen asked.
"Yep," Yee confirmed, "and a salary with over five digits. Peterson bought a bottle of Pinot Noir."
"You don't buy a Pinot Noir unless you plan to share it with your couple," Frank exclaimed as the rest looked at him confused. "What?"
"It has been six months; will anyone remember Peterson?" Jalen argued. "Furthermore, as we lack a warrant, it seems unlikely that we would be granted access to the surveillance tapes or reservation records."
Dixon crossed her arms and scrutinized the blackboard. Frank knew the solution was right in front of them, but they were unable to perceive it. Suppressing another yawn, he put down his coffee cup, grabbed his jacket, and muttered, "We'll investigate." He proceeded toward the elevator. In the car, after buckling up, he checked his phone for a reply to his message. However, there was none, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Frank," Jalen spoke up from the passenger seat.
"Yes?"
"Are you attempting to reconcile with Julia?"
Frank had two choices: to come clean and confide in his best friend or to maintain his stance. "The last time I tried," he said as he started the car, "it didn't work out so well. Remember? Her lawyer asked for an increase in her pension."
"Frank... If you turn onto Manhattan Avenue and make a right at 106th Street, we can avoid the lunch rush."
'You are an asshole!' The insult echoed in Frank's head. He stifled a sigh, unable to disagree.
.
The Saint-Germain restaurant was on the first floor of a residential and hotel skyscraper. Its lobby was a hallway with dark royal blue walls, a bar and three small round tables in the back. Across from the white marble bar, was the dining room with a dark wood desk. The receptionist in high heels looked them up and down.
Anger swirled in the pit of Frank's stomach; he hated this kind of place. "Good afternoon," he greeted, showing his badge. "I'm Detective Cosgrove, my partner is Detective Shaw. Could we speak to the manager?"
"Just a moment," the receptionist replied, waving for them to step aside. Frank bit his cheek. They were alone in the lobby. He exchanged glances with Jalen; they approached the bar and the bartender smiled at them; Frank smiled back. The receptionist pressed a wireless headset to her right ear and whispered something. She did not even turn to look at them when she finished speaking.
Jalen shrugged. Frank shook his head and took the moment to look around the room. The large windows looked out onto a terrace overlooking Central Park. The ceiling was high with a crystal chandelier. The tables had long white tablecloths, chinaware, and a small vase of fresh flowers. The chairs looked like low, light-colored armchairs. A man at the table in the right corner caught Frank's attention; it took him a split second to recognize him. Executive Assistant District Attorney Nolan Price sat with his back to the window, dressed in a navy-blue three-piece suit, his hair free of product, and the smile on his lips made him look younger. The man with him had his back to Frank; he had broad shoulders, dark blond hair with silver highlights, and was wearing a gray and red plaid suit. Frank could not help but furrow his brow. Who the hell went out on the street dressed like that?
The manager, a tall man in a dark suit and bow tie, stood between Frank and the room. "How can I help you gentlemen?" he asked with a slight accent that Frank could not identify.
"We'd like to ask you some questions about the night of the 24th, six months ago," Jalen said.
"Randy Peterson," Frank continued slowly, showing Peterson's picture on his phone, "paid for one of the most expensive Pinot Noirs in your establishment that night. Do you remember if there were any incidents or anything out of the ordinary?"
The manager leaned toward Frank's phone, frowning in concentration. Frank looked up; Nolan threw his head back and laughed.
"I remember that night," the manager said. "Our staff was overwhelmed when the hip-hop singer arrived with an entourage of twenty. Our regulars complained about the noise. But it was all solved when we moved them to the terrace. Sorry, I don't remember Mr. Peterson."
Frank experienced anxiety in his gut. This case seemed cursed; all the clues led to a dead end.
"Is Pinot Noir one of your customers' favorite wines?" Jalen inquired.
"Without exaggeration, Detective, I can say that our fine wine collection is ordered in an evening. However, it is likely that our maître d' could tell you more. He is exclusively accountable for overseeing the wine service."
"Could we have a word with him?" Frank asked.
"Today is his day off."
"Could we have his contact information?" Jalen inquired.
The manager seemed uncertain. Frank raised an eyebrow. Some people were concerned about privacy, including him. But if the manager did not give the maître d' information, he could become a person of interest or be charged with obstruction of justice. The manager pretended to say something, paused, nodded, and approached the receptionist. She wrinkled her nose and glared at them as if working overtime. Frank glanced over to where Nolan was standing. The EADA took a sip of what looked like water while nodding to what his companion was saying. The manager returned with the maître d's information.
"Thanks for your cooperation," Frank said. "If you remember anything else, don't hesitate to contact me." He handed his card to the manager and turned around, feeling someone watching him, so he did not look back, but walked straight to the exit and then to 61st Street, where, by lucky streak, he had found a parking spot.
"So, you're dating Price," Jalen whispered after closing the passenger door.
"I didn't cheat on Julia," Frank stammered, regretting that he had answered so quickly. He was still smarting from the fact that despite his best efforts, 25 years of marriage and four daughters, his former wife had asked for a divorce because she realized she wanted more than he could offer. 'It's not easy being a police officer's wife,' he told himself, trying to convince the voice in his head that insisted it was not enough.
"I didn't even think about it. So, Price and you?"
Frank sighed deeply. His current predicament with Nolan was causing him a great deal of frustration. One detail followed the next, and now he felt uneasy imagining Nolan with the man who had no sense of style; he did not want to speculate about their connection. The urge to message Nolan gripped his hands, but he chose to start the car instead. "What exposed me?" He continued the conversation to soothe his partner, knowing Jalen would use his legal skills if necessary.
"Aside from the jealous, possessive look on your face. You're a beer lover."
Frank chuckled, then turned left onto Central Park Avenue West. "You don't seem surprised."
"In a way, you make sense."
"You think so? We spend half our time disagreeing and the other half arguing."
"I don't deny it, but have you noticed that you've been pretty lenient with each other?" The light turned red. Frank took the opportunity to give Jalen a look of disbelief. Jalen said, "I have the evidence to back me up."
"What evidence?" The light turned green. Frank made a left onto 62nd Street toward Amsterdam Avenue.
"You're the only one who can yell at Price without repercussions."
Frank hummed in agreement. When people vociferously challenged his handling of cases, Nolan had a peculiar way of putting them in their place. "I have good arguments."
"No, you don't. Back to the main point, Price is the only person you allow to take food off your plate."
"No way! I usually give you the peas."
"I don't mean the food you don't like; I mean you practically bark at anyone who dares touch your plate. But Price? I've lost count of how many times he's broken that rule."
"It's not a rule, it's common sense!"
"Common sense? Remember the Burke case? Price found us in the diner where we were having lunch, sat down next to you, took an olive off your plate and ate it without batting an eye."
"It was an olive."
"You had just given me a whole speech about why it wasn't polite to take a fried potato off your plate. You were pointing a finger at me!"
"I was just stressing personal boundaries. And as I recall, Nolan was pretty upset about DeLuca's arrest."
"Nolan? So, the thing might have gone to second base."
Frank pursed his lips. He hesitated to admit that he had hit a home run at Nolan's office shortly after signing the divorce papers. A mixture of excitement and unease washed over him as he remembered making the first move. Nolan's enthusiastic response led to consummation on the desk and two more times on the couch. The Harlem sign brought him back to reality.
"What's the maître d's name?" he asked.
"Robert Davis."
.
Robert Davis's apartment was small: a living room-kitchen and a hallway with two doors. Down the hall echoed the sobbing of a baby and the soft cooing of a woman. Frank stayed standing. Jalen had taken a seat across the table from Davis.
"Yes," Davis answered after looking at Peterson's picture. "I remember him."
"That was fast," Jalen said. "Your manager told us it was a busy night."
"It was. Mostly because of requests and complaints from some of the regulars about the noise your people were making." He looked at Jalen. "But I remember it because..."
"My people?"
Frank approached the table and placed a hand on Jalen's shoulder. As much as he disliked Davis's words, there was no law against the man expressing himself as such. He leaned toward Davis menacingly. "So, you remember Mr. Peterson, who was also African American due to..."
Davis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Frank felt a pang of satisfaction. "He ordered a Pinot Noir, but he drank water throughout the dinner. In my opinion, it was an insult to Mr. Reagan, even though some people are usually picky."
"Mr. Reagan?" Frank inquired.
"Mr. John Reagan is a frequent customer whom I am privileged to serve," Davis replied with a hint of amusement in his eyes.
The Reagan family, of Irish descent, consisted of Patrick and Elizabeth Reagan and their five children, twelve grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren. The family was influential in New York, and they held conservative and Catholic beliefs. Patrick established a business consortium in the 1950s. Its profits skyrocketed when his third grandson, John, who earned the moniker The Prince for his exceptional business skills, inherited it. Other family members held prominent positions in government and media.
"Did Mr. Reagan get upset because Mr. Peterson didn't drink the wine he bought?" Jalen asked sarcastically.
"Absolutely not!" Davis cried with indignation. "Mr. Reagan frequently attends dinners with people from diverse backgrounds and customs. He had dinner with the ambassador of Jordan last night."
Frank pondered whether Davis had noticed the inconsistency in his words. "Well," he exclaimed. "Mr. Reagan is a skilled entrepreneur. Was there anything noteworthy about the interaction between Mr. Peterson and Mr. Reagan?"
The baby cried louder. Davis stood up and walked to a door. After a brief, rude conversation, he returned with an annoyed expression. "Sorry about that," he told Frank. "But little John has been ill. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Mr. Reagan led the discussion as usual. Mr. Peterson requested Mr. Reagan's support for the carriers' movement, but Mr. Reagan declined due to its inconvenience. I didn't hear the rest as I was assisting Duchess S. Mr. Peterson departed shortly after."
"What did Mr. Reagan do?" Jalen inquired.
Davis glanced at Jalen, as if he realized he was present. "He finished his dinner, paid the bill and left." Davis paused briefly before adding, "He also took the bottle with him."
"Is it unusual?" Frank asked. When dining at restaurants with three or more stars, Frank noticed that most customers did not take their unfinished wine home, which he found to be wasteful. "It's all about showing off your buying power. Most people ask to have the wine sent home." Nolan explained to him after he had stopped laughing.
"Mr. Reagan doesn't skimp on expenses, and that night he picked an exceptional Pinot Noir."
"Didn't Mr. Peterson pay for the wine?" Jalen questioned.
Davis snorted, "Mr. Reagan has exquisite taste. He was the one who ordered."
Jalen clenched his jaw.
"We appreciate your cooperation. If you remember anything else, please don't hesitate to contact me." Frank said through gritted teeth and leaving his card on the table. He practically had to drag Jalen away. There were times when Frank hated this part of his job; people thought they were politically correct, but with a little space their true self would emerge.
They left the building. Frank might have felt the gentle rain starting to fall on his tense shoulders. Jalen went quickly to the car, parked on the opposite side of the street. Frank walked slowly. It was obvious that Peterson and Reagan had broken off their relationship on the night of the 24th. Maybe Peterson told Reagan about the pregnancy and then Reagan denied paternity or asked Peterson to have an abortion. However, why did Reagan wait six months to act against Peterson?
"Will we really inquire with Reagan about dining with Peterson half a year ago?" Jalen asked as Frank shut the driver's side door.
Frank considered his choices while tapping his finger on the steering wheel, but all they had was unreliable. Peterson, as a member of the activist groups, approached influential people to encourage them to contribute to the cause. "Let's ask Yee if Reagan was scheduled to meet with Peterson," he suggested. "How about stopping for lunch? I could go for a hamburger."
"The diner on 103 sounds good to me," Jalen said, typing on his phone. "Didn't you have high cholesterol the last time you had a checkup?"
"We haven't made much progress, so I think I deserve a double cheeseburger with bacon."
"I feel like we're going around in circles with this one." Jalen grumbled as he placed his phone in his coat pocket.
"Or maybe Peterson is the second victim who escaped from the Bay Killer but didn't survive."
"A theory you don't believe, and I agree. The Bay Killer exhibits a discernible purpose, a sense of aesthetics and elegance, showcasing vast knowledge. The injuries inflicted on Peterson were evidently caused by a savage."
"People could perceive you as a supporter of the Bay Killer based on what you said."
"It's a fact that the murders would have been flawless if not for the disclosure of the victims. Although all the victims were solitary workaholics, the connection between them would not have been drawn. They perished through diverse means, with some not even being reported as missing. For example, Benjamin Raspail was seen performing with the Baltimore Symphony on Great Lawn eight hours before his corpse was discovered in a church near the bay with a pierced heart."
"Even if they all lack a few organs?" Frank felt uneasy. The Bay Killer may be gathering trophies or... the alternative idea sent shivers down his spine.
"You know where I'm going with this."
"Alright, the man is a genius," Frank recognized, noticing an available parking spot in front of the diner. They were lucky to have found a parking spot, but regrettably, the investigation did not make the same progress. "However, even geniuses can make mistakes, and we will apprehend him when he does."
The conversation drifted from Jalen's jokes and weekend plans to other topics during the meal. Frank opted not to mention his recent disagreement with Nolan, and with the EADA ignoring his messages, he planned to spend Saturday watching ESPN.
Jalen's phone chimed. He checked the message before reporting, "Yee didn't find any evidence of a scheduled meeting between Peterson and Reagan on the 24th but guess who's the owner of Peterson's former workplace."
Frank chuckled. John Reagan was deemed a person of interest. It would have been easier if his father was not the police commissioner.
.
John Reagan had an office on the 42nd floor of a fancy skyscraper in Lower Manhattan. The enormous windows provided a view of the Hudson River, and the gray Oxford carpet made the space feel serious. There was a black leather sofa to the left, and between the windows on the right side was a wall that was darker than the carpet. Above the fireplace hung a painting of a ship. In the background was a wooden desk with a laptop, papers, folders, and a black executive chair.
Frank noticed that there were no more chairs in the room. Reagan, who was in his early forties with short blond hair and a military bearing, wore a gray suit, vest, and black shirt. Frank briefly thought of the villain in the last John Wick movie, but quickly realized that Reagan exuded wisdom, control, and intelligence. The meetings did not occur in this office. This was his sanctuary, where he formulated strategies for expanding his empire. He had received them with the anticipation of concluding the conversation in under one minute.
"I'm…" Frank started.
"I know who you are, Detective Cosgrove," Reagan interjected, maintaining eye contact with Frank. "Detective Shaw," he acknowledged, directing his attention to Jalen. "My father regularly praises the exceptional performance of the 27th Precinct Homicide Department. How may I assist you?"
The detectives exchanged a brief look. It would be untrue to claim that Reagan's words did not add any pressure. They needed to be cautious.
"There is evidence that suggests you may have had contact with one of the Bay Killer's victims." Frank explained. Reagan's body language showed slight interest.
Jalen displayed a picture of Peterson on his phone. "Do you recall meeting Mr. Peterson?"
Reagan took the phone. For a moment, he looked pained and shocked. When the door opened, everyone shifted their focus to the abrupt entrance of a man.
"As Mr. Reagan's legal representative, my client will not respond to any inquiries without my attendance," the lawyer stated firmly.
"It's just an interview," Jalen clarified. "Your client is not under suspicion, counselor."
"It's all right, Martin," Reagan said as he returned the phone to Jalen and took a seat in the solitary chair behind his desk. "I met with Mr. Peterson half a year ago wherein he asked for my support in promoting the carrier's cause. His arguments were not fully convincing, so we parted ways and I never heard from him again."
"Did Mr. Peterson attempt to contact you once more?" Frank asked.
"Mr. Reagan confirmed that he never received any further communication," Martin responded. "And in case you're curious about my client's whereabouts two nights ago, Detective, allow me to inform you that he just returned yesterday morning from a recent business trip to Europe and Asia, completely unaware that the Bay Killer had struck again."
"We appreciate your cooperation," Frank said as he handed his card to Reagan, who surprisingly accepted it. "Don't hesitate to contact me, if you remember something more."
"I will. Detectives." Reagan's attention turned to the lawyer. "Let's discuss the Madchen project, Martin."
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As Frank and Jalen walked towards the parking lot, a sense of foreboding hung over them. They suspected that Reagan was the primary suspect. Although a DNA test could validate this hypothesis, there were obstacles in obtaining necessary orders without adequate evidence.
"Reagan has both the motive and means," stated Jalen.
"But why act now?" Frank asked.
"Perhaps he didn't expect Peterson to carry the pregnancy to term. A carrier's pregnancy can take time to become visible, leading some people to believe it's the devil's work. Someone at work informed him that Peterson was on leave, triggering his reaction. For all we know, Reagan has an airtight alibi that seems too perfect to be true."
"Peterson's pregnancy was at 26 weeks; however, the carrier's pregnancy displays 28 weeks. Moreover, only Peterson's boss and HR were aware about the absence, and he wasn't the only employee on pregnancy leave. Therefore, it must have been someone who knew about Peterson's specific pregnancy timeline."
"Alright. What's your theory?"
"Do you remember the Hobbs' case?"
"The cannibal who abducted and murdered eight girls over eight months before being killed by an FBI agent," Jalen said, bewildered.
"What prompted the special agent to pursue him?"
"They found a pipe residue exclusive to specific construction sites."
"But what led the agent to specifically target Hobbs?" Jalen shook his head in confusion. Frank continued, "The special agent noticed that Hobbs didn't include an address on his resignation letter, which led to him being the first person to be interviewed." Frank paused. "We've got to get back to the precinct."
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Frank sprinted through the precinct, heading straight towards the archives of The Lineage, with Jalen lagging behind a few steps.
"What's going on?" asked Dixon.
"Well," Jalen stuttered. "We talked to the manager and maître d' of Saint-Germain who led us to a person of interest, and Frank brought up the Hobbs case."
"Have the autopsy results been sent yet?" Frank grunted as he rifled through documents, flipped them around, and repeated the process without addressing anyone specifically.
"Several hours ago," Dixon said, taking the folder from Frank's desk. "The cause of death has been confirmed as cardiorespiratory arrest caused by hypovolemic shock resulting from the stab wounds."
Frank held the folder tightly while he flipped through the pages.
"What are you searching for, Frank?" Jalen whispered.
"The Lineage conducted an experiment involving the forced abortion of carriers between 22 and 32 weeks of gestation. Why did they do it?"
"Between the 22nd and 32nd week of pregnancy, the baby's nervous system is considered to be mature enough to feel pain," Yee replied objectively.
"And what happens at 26 weeks?"
"The baby has sleep-wake cycles; many believe that's when one starts dreaming." Dixon explained. Frank hid his surprise. He chided himself, 'The Lieutenant didn't need to be a parent to know that.'
"What makes us different from the rest of the animals," Jalen added, reaching over and rummaging through the pile of files. "For The Lineage, the number 8 was important, the symbol of infinity and divinity." He pulled out a sheet and placed it on top of the others, a drawing of a carrier with an open belly and a fetus, the umbilical cord coiled to form the symbol of infinity, the end connected to a dove in full flight among clouds and celestial rays. "The moment when God touches us and raises us as his equals, researchers interpret it as the eighth month of pregnancy. Now, I understand that it is the 26th week of pregnancy."
"Hobbs thought the girls he murdered were special," Frank explained, "he honored them by consuming them and using all their parts." He pulled out a newspaper clipping headlined "The Lineage of Cannibals". "The leaders of The Lineage consumed the fetuses to honor their divinity."
"The child is in danger," Dixon concluded. "I'll call Benson."
Jalen checked that his gun was loaded. Yee began typing, images from the street cameras near Harlem Hospital Center appearing on the monitors.
Frank scanned the coroner's report again. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled as he ran to the elevator, but the doors would not open, so he decided to go down the stairs.
"Frank!" cried Jalen, reaching Frank's car. "What the hell...?"
Frank did not stop, but got into the car and started the engine, the tires screeching as he pulled away. Jalen barely managed to close the passenger door and grab the seat. They sped off with the siren on. Jalen called for backup when he recognized the road to the hospital. Frank remained silent, his fingers white from the force of his grip on the wheel. When he arrived, Frank did not even park, leaving the car with the keys and running into the lobby, past the nurses, past Benson's people, not even using the elevator.
"August Hirt, you are under arrest for the kidnapping, torture and murder of Randy Peterson," Frank announced, pointing the gun at the man with a scalpel in one hand and a doughnut in the other, standing at the table where Peterson's body still lay. Frank listened to Jalen and the others behind him.
"What...?"
"You didn't sign the autopsy report." Hirt looked at Frank puzzled and opened his mouth. Frank added, "You stated the cause of death was cardiorespiratory arrest due to hypovolemic shock from the stab wounds, as The Lineage doctors used to do, but in the next line you also stated that it was cardiorespiratory arrest due to a subdural hematoma. So? What was the real cause of death, Doctor?"
"It's a misunderstanding, Detective," Hirt defended himself with his hands up. "It's been a busy couple of days. I probably made a mistake, but I can assure you I didn't kill Peterson."
"How did you know that Peterson was proud of carrying the pregnancy?" Jalen asked as he approached from the opposite side.
Hirt nervously licked his lips.
"We dispatched a team to your residence," Benson said, revealing, "Interestingly, it's three blocks away from Peterson's former residence, on the same street where he absconded with a car to reach the hospital."
"I want a lawyer," Hirt murmured, lowering his arms.
Frank quickly handcuffed Hirt and read him his Miranda Rights. Then, he released him to another officer. Frank looked at Peterson's body, placed his hand on Peterson's forehead, and whispered a prayer.
The forensic team found the basement at Hirt's home where Peterson had spent his final hours; the room was like a true dungeon of horror. Evidence among Hirt's belongings revealed that Peterson was not the first victim, and that he had worked with two obstetrics nurses, a police officer, the janitor of Peterson's building, and one of his neighbors who used a car belonging to a different neighbor who was away on a trip to transport Peterson's body. Although none of the accomplices belonged to The Lineage, they shared the same beliefs.
It was nearly two a.m. on Friday when the final accomplice was brought to the cell. The evidence was still being processed by the forensic team. The media had an early Christmas. The FBI was threatening to take over the case, and Frank had not slept for more than four consecutive hours.
"How did Peterson get away?" said Benson, looking at the blackboard with more photos. "I've seen Hirt's basement. It's a heavily fortified bunker. The entire residence is well secured."
"One of the nurses reported forgetting to lock the basement," Jalen pointed out. "She got a call from her son's school because he was harassing a carrier's child."
"That might explain how he got out of the basement, but what about the shackles?"
The room fell silent as several unanswered questions lingered. Hirt and his associates' salaries were insufficient to purchase all the technology found in the basement, and they had not disclosed how they obtained classified information on The Lineage's techniques. It was clear that a powerful individual was involved, as Jalen had mentioned Reagan, though Frank remained unconvinced. The prosecution would need to delve further into the matter.
"The crucial point is that he was able to escape," Dixon emphasized. "Go home and get some rest. We'll see you on Monday."
Frank nodded and took the elevator. Jalen on his hills.
"Now that I think about it," Jalen elaborated. "How did you connect the Hobbs situation to The Lineage?"
"It was something Reagan mentioned during our departure from his office, the Madchen project. Georgia Madchen suffered from Cotard's syndrome, a rare delusional disorder characterized by the belief that one is dead or doesn't exist."
"She murdered her best friend, Beth LeBeau, now she's confined to a mental hospital, isn't she? I assume the Reagan consortium is actively seeking a cure."
"Perhaps."
They walked through the partially vacant parking lot after the elevator doors opened. Frank elaborated, "The significant detail is that the special agent who identified Hobbs is the one that uncovered Madchen."
Coming to a halt beside Jalen's car, he remarked, "You appear to hold him in high regard."
"I do, he's Lily's favorite teacher, Dr. Graham."
"Do you think Reagan may have brought up the Madchen project on purpose?"
"I don't think so. He should have known that my daughter is a Dr. Graham's fan, and I'm one of the few who have the patience to listen to her talk about him for hours."
"He knew who we were."
"We announced ourselves in the lobby, and he had time to check us out."
"Well, it's not the first case solved by coincidence. See you on Monday."
"Rest."
Frank rode his Triumph Thruxton motorcycle, the one luxury he allowed himself, which he had bought the day after Julia asked for a divorce. He had no regrets. En route to his apartment, he passed a 24-hour Chinese restaurant, the food was not great, but he was hungry. He trudged up to the fourth floor and arrived at green door number 19. Upon pulling out his keys, he noticed that one lock was open. He returned the previous morning for a rapid shower and change of clothes, but he was confident he had fully secured the premises. He left the bag of groceries and the helmet by the door and retrieved the Glock without disengaging the safety.
The hallway light revealed the kitchen bar on the right of the door and part of the living room. Frank glanced quickly and ducked to the side of the door. A figure was sitting on the sofa under the window, next to the bathroom. He removed the gun's safety.
"Good morning, Detective Cosgrove," greeted Reagan. Reagan's voice prompted Frank to engage the safety on the gun and put it away, to pick up his belongings from the floor and to enter the room. "Do you think it's a trap?" questioned Reagan.
Frank turned on the light, closed the door, left the food and helmet on the counter, hung his jacket on the coat rack, and made his way to the bathroom.
"If you were the one who financed Hirt," he said as he exited the bathroom, "you would have sought the evidence or pursued Hirt and his accomplices. However, breaking into my apartment is not consistent with your pattern. Would you like something to drink?"
Reagan stood up from the couch fully dressed in a black hoodie, leather jacket, and dark jeans, unlike a few days ago. He took a seat on one of the two benches in front of the bar.
"And what's my pattern, Detective?"
Frank retrieved two beers from the fridge, gave one to Reagan, and took a long sip from his own. If he truly anticipated the meeting for days, he refrained from projecting subjective evaluations. If he had not seen Reagan's response, he would have thought, like Jalen, that Reagan was the instigator of Hirt.
"You're strategic, thorough, and very controlling. You got in because you served two tours in Afghanistan with Special Forces, didn't you?"
Reagan looked at him. He took small sips of his drink and chuckled before shaking his head.
"My older brother, Danny, is a first-rate detective in the 54th Precinct. I've always regarded him as the finest Homicide detective in the city, but he vouches for you and your partner's competence. As a matter of fact, he's quite curious as to how you formed the link to Hirt."
Frank analyzed his response. He could mention to Reagan that Hirt's comment about Peterson's pregnancy, the lack of signature on the report, or the inconsistency in the cause of death may be factors, but he knew deep down that he was uncertain and acting on a hunch instead.
Dr. Graham formerly showcased Hobbs' resignation letter to his students and asked if they could identify the clue within it, prompting those who believed themselves to be the most knowledgeable to raise their hands. "I couldn't see any clues, Dad." Lily had told him. "I felt foolish surrounded by individuals with raised hands." And then Dr. Graham would disclose to them that there was no clue found, solely incomplete information and sheer luck.
"The Madchen project," Frank revealed after a long pause, "reminded me of a past investigation where the lead investigator relied on his intuition, so I followed suit."
"If not?"
"I would be trying to accuse you of arranging the homicide of your child's carrier. Did you bring up the project on purpose? Do you know who is responsible?"
Reagan chose to remain silent this time, despite having the capability to locate and eliminate Peterson's killers. Instead, he allowed them to take control.
According to reports, among the five sons of Patrick Reagan, only the police commissioner possessed honor. Though Frank had met him a few times and recognized his accomplishments within the Department, he did not personally know the man. However, he had also known police officers with impeccable records until certain indications suggested they were deeply involved. The image of his former mentor, Jerry Ryan, came to mind, so he opted to keep his opinion to himself and refrained from jumping to conclusions.
"The social groups I associate with," began Reagan, "are composed of individuals who often favor maintaining the current state of affairs and undervalue particular segments of society. In public, they display a facade of political correctness, but speculation circulates, which may or may not be accurate."
"That's why you ended things with Randy, you assumed he would be secure if he distanced himself from you."
"He took me by surprise when he told me about pregnancy. It was the best thing I could think of, and it didn't help." Reagan gritted his teeth. His blond lashes were wet with unshed tears. "For the past year, our discussions have mostly centered on The Lineage and its history —without much detail or clarity. I referenced the Madchen project based on a comment my father made about The Lineage conducting drug experiments on the carriers. Initially, I thought it might be a useful clue, but my brother informed me that it was one of the first leads you explored."
"As I said, it helped me follow my instincts."
Reagan nodded, put down the half-drunk beer on the bar, and stood. His body language showed defeat, a stark contrast from the man who ruled the world a few days ago. Frank felt sorry for him.
"Promise me they'll get the maximum sentence."
Frank bit his inner cheek. However, a myriad of arguments could be employed by the defense to reduce Hirt and his accomplices' sentence.
"We will do everything in our power." Frank said. Reagan nodded again. Frank gave him a fake smile. Even if he wanted to, he could not make any promises to him. "Are you going to assert paternity?"
"I did it already," strained Reagan's voice. "My attorneys obtained a court order to keep the details about my child, Joseph Reagan, confidential. My father and siblings are thrilled to meet the new addition to our family. However, for safety measures, they have not seen him at the hospital."
"It wasn't mentioned by Captain Benson."
"Except for my family, my lawyers (who are my older sister, Erin, and my younger brother, Jamie), and the judge, you're the only one who knows. My people and my father's people are watching the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Once the doctors permit it, I'll relocate with Joseph to the Netherlands, a country that has shown acceptance towards carriers and their children."
Frank wanted to ask why he did not persuade Randy to relocate. Why push him away? He restrained himself from asking as it was not his place. He was unsure of the relationship dynamics or Peterson's wishes. Frank stood up, extended his right hand, and said, "I'm sorry for your loss."
Reagan shook Frank's hand tightly, seemed to want to say something else, released his grip, and left. Frank stared at the closed door. He saw himself in Reagan, but Nolan was still alive.
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There goes the world and we're right in the middle.
—In the Middle, Theory of a Deadman.
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