As Casey stepped out of his Crown Vic, the afternoon sun bore down, turning the sidewalk into a shimmering heat trap. The sidewalk buzzed with muted voices, pedestrians whispering about the crime scene that had disrupted their day. Yellow police tape flapped lazily in the warm breeze, a stark contrast to the tension it represented.
Shutting the door with a deliberate slam, Casey swept his trench coat aside to secure his revolver into the holster on the back of his hip. His eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the front of the bank. No shattered glass, no signs of a struggle spilling into the street. His leather shoes, well-polished and worn from years of use, barely made a sound on the concrete as he entered the bank.
Inside, a handful of officers were talking with witnesses to the robbery that occurred earlier. A security guard was being attended to by a paramedic, his nose probably broken from a shotgun butt by Casey's guess. He could almost trace the path of chaos, the invisible thread connecting it to the countless others he had already investigated. It wasn't just a crime scene. It was a pattern. A pattern that had haunted him for years.
One of the older officers approached him with a determined stride. "Are you Sergeant Casey from major crimes?" The man asked him, a mix of irritation and challenge in his voice, as if trying to assert his authority.
Casey grunted at him, not bothering with pleasantries. "That's me. And who are you?"
"I'm Detective Jones from the four five." He said it as though Casey should know who he was. "I was in charge of this scene before you showed up. Which is strange, right?" Suspicion crept into his voice. "Seeing as how there's not much to see here."
Casey's gaze never wavered. "It's an old case of mine." He said, the dismissiveness in his tone suggested Jones was going to be more of an inconvenience than a help.
"A few street trash junkies robbing a bank is an old case of yours?" The cop blinked at him, a puzzled look on his face. "It seems pretty straight forward to me."
"Crew of three men enter the bank, knock down the security guard and take control of the lobby. Lookout stays out front, the other two only hit the cash room in the back. All of them are out in less than five minutes, getaway car lost the pursuit." Casey listed the case, it was too familiar to forget.
Jones removed his cap and ran a hand through his grey hair. "Damn, almost exactly."
Casey nodded, scanning the bank as he continued. "You got a decent description of the three in the bank from the witnesses, and the security footage might help you. There's a chance of tracking down the three of them from the descriptions, but the driver wasn't caught on camera. No one got a good look at him, other than he was wearing a ball cap and a leather jacket."
"So... it's not the robbers that's your old case..." Jones put it together. "It's the driver."
Casey grunted his confirmation. "So, do you have anything on him?"
"No." The man shook his head. "It's like you said, no one even noticed him until the crew was coming out of the bank. I figured if we found the crew we'd find the driver."
Casey nodded his agreement, having been through this before. "This guy only works a few jobs with a crew. Banks, auctions houses, jewelry stores, check cashers, armored trucks, really no way to know what they'll hit next." He sighed and looked around the room, his disappointment growing. He pulled one of his cards out of his pocket, offering it to Jones. "The case is all yours. I'd appreciate it if you let me know anything you learn about the driver."
Jones took the card. "Uh, thanks Casey." He tapped the card against his palm, unsure what to say. "Be seeing you."
Casey grunted a goodbye and left the bank. Outside the sun had dipped behind a solitary cloud, reflecting his own missing spark of insight into the identity of the phantom driver. His case file on the phantom driver grew by one more case, one more useless piece of knowledge. Every bit of information he had gathered over the years only told him one thing. The bastard was good. The best, maybe. Casey slid into the driver's seat of his Crown Vic, a single thought nagging at him. How many more times would he leave empty handed?
o-o-o-o-o
Casey strode out of the elevator into a cacophony of voices, ringing phones, and the incessant clatter of keyboards. The station hummed with the frenetic energy of a typical dayshift, but there was an undercurrent of unease, a palpable tension in the air. The smell of stale coffee and faint, cloying sweetness of cheap donuts hung in the air, a familiar comfort amidst the storm.
Suited feds had taken over the briefing room, their fancy equipment and high-tech gadgets littering the space since their arrival a few days ago. They were chasing shadows, with no leads on the car chase murders after they took over the investigation. It was obvious they weren't making any headway. The truth was being closely guarded at the highest level of whatever pieces of the Syndicate were involved, which meant that whatever was going on was a big deal.
Of course, the feds refused to share information to chase down real leads. Casey still didn't even know what had been stolen, or where from, that had brought in the feds. The lack of leads set them a day behind, and by the time the feds took over, the trail was already going cold. At least it wasn't another case to file in his unsolved cases drawer.
With a sigh at the thought of unsolved cases, he slid into his seat with a squeak from the older leather that usually provided comfort. Today, though, it only reminded him of the endless days he sat back into this seat with no new information on his phantom. He pulled out a blank case form to fill out for the bank robbery. He'd get the official report from Jones eventually, but his initial impressions of the scene were all too familiar. A crew of unknowns, fast take, and clean getaway. No witnesses of the driver had come forward. Another identical mystery to add to the pile.
He jotted down his notes and opened the drawer. Casey was proud this drawer wasn't too full, it was part of why he had been promoted to sergeant in major crimes. Like every cop though, he had his share of unsolved cases. He filed the paperwork in a thick folder under 'P' for phantom. He had no other name. The few crews he had managed to bust wouldn't give him a description of the driver without a deal. Because he was just a driver, none of his previous commanding officers had been willing to cut a deal with the guys committing the crime just to nab a getaway driver. The new chief of police was Casey's first captain, and was willing to let him chase down leads, even if he still couldn't cut a deal to get real information on the guy.
His hands trailed the lettered tabs of unsolved cases, resting on 'B' for a moment before he took a deep breath and pulled out the biggest regret of his career. He slapped the thin folder on his desk, the sound a sharp reminder of his failure. The contents were seared into his brain, the photo he knew was pinned inside the front cover, two bodies on the street, riddled with bullets, and a suspicious absence of any blood on the pavement. The logo for Bartowski Motors loomed in the background of the photo, a silent witness to the crime.
As Casey opened the file, he gave himself a moment to stare at the photo, feeling the weight of it pressing down on him. It had been a professional hit, a message to someone, but to whom and why Casey had never figured out. The Bartowskis were small time, decent folks running a modest business. No protection rackets, no gambling debts, nothing that should have put them in the crosshairs of a hitman. Yet here they were, two innocent people caught in a game they didn't even know they were playing.
He flipped to the next page, the victims statements. A lump formed in his throat as he read them. Ellie, too busy with medical school to even notice her parents were gone until it was too late. Chuck, a bright kid attending Stanford, shattered by the news. A fiery redhead, a friend from Chuck's past, had driven him back to LA, fiercely protective of the Bartowski siblings, as though they were part of her own family.
Casey had broken one of his cardinal rules that day. He promised them he'd solve the murder. A promise fueled by the raw emotion in their voices, their desperate need for closure. And then… nothing. No leads, no witnesses, no answers. Just another cold case in the drawer.
Casey had tried to keep his ears open for any information on the Bartowskis since, but nothing had come up. The siblings had sold the family home to pay for Ellie's medical school, and then she moved to Chicago to start over. Chuck didn't mentally recover from his parents death, and had taken over his parents garage instead of going back to Stanford to finish. From his encounter with Chuck earlier in the week, it was clear the kid was still struggling to cope with his parents' death.
He flipped the folder closed, the familiar weight of it settling in his mind. No matter how many times he looked through it, the answers never came. It was a wound that refused to heal, a constant reminder of his failure. As much as he tried to clear his mind, he knew he'd be back to this folder, back to the Bartowskis, searching for the truth that continued to elude him.
One of the suited feds interrupted his thoughts. "Sergeant John Casey?" The fed's voice was too smooth, his tone too self assured for someone so green. His tamed hair was too long for Casey's like, brushing the collar of his too pressed suit. Casey's lip curled slightly, everything about this guy screamed rookie. The jacket buttoned tight across his chest was a dead giveaway, no seasoned field agent would slow themselves down like that in a firefight. This kid had something to prove, which meant he'd be reckless, make bad decisions.
Casey grunted, the sound laced with barely contained disdain. "Yeah?"
The man didn't even flinch at Casey's. "Got a question about one of the neighbors you interviewed, a Charles Bartowski. Name ring any bells?"
Casey let out a menacing chuckle, his fingers tapping against the folder in his hand. "Name rings a bell."
The man opened the file in his hand, reading Casey's notes. "Past links to organized crime. What was Bartowski's connection to organized crime?" The fed's question was as flat as his intuition, completely missing the nuance in Casey's notes.
Casey rolled his eyes, suppressing the urge to snap. "His parents were murdered in a hit. The case is unsolved, but there's no evidence the kid was ever involved." He didn't bother mentioning how the kid had been shattered by the murders, no way this fed would understand the human side of the story.
"So what if this was a revenge murder?" The agent persisted, clueless to the idiocy of the suggestion.
Casey shook his head, barely restraining his frustration. "He's a smart kid, he's been living at that garage for almost five years. If he was involved, there's no way he would lead Shaw's crew on a chase through the city to his own doorstep before taking them out."
The agent dismissed Casey's reasoning with a wave, plowing ahead with his own agenda. "I need you to sit on this kid for a few days. Just to make sure we've covered all possible suspects."
Casey's patience wore thin. "Get one of your people to do it. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through that's more important."
The agent's lips curled in a smug smile as he delivered the final blow, flexing his miniscule amount of power for the first time in his life. "I've already cleared this with your captain, sergeant. You're on stake out duty tonight."
Casey's jaw tightened, the fed's smug expression grating on his last nerve. He wanted to argue, to tell this kid exactly where he could shove his stakeout. But Casey knew better, he wasn't a rookie with a chip on his shoulder like this one. Instead, he grunted, a low, guttural sound of displeasure. Tonight, it seemed, his mountain of paperwork would have to wait.
o-o-o-o-o
Sitting in his Crown Vic, casually tossing sizzling shrimp into his mouth with practiced ease, his chopsticks barely pausing as his eyes scanned the street. The early evening sun dipped low, casing long shadows and glinting off the rear view mirror, forcing him to adjust it slightly. The kid was out, dropping off a vehicle or picking one up for repairs, Casey mused, as he noted the lack of activity in the otherwise quiet street. A few box trucks rumbled by, finishing off their last runs for the day, as passenger cars were quietly exiting from the various shops and buildings, taking the workers home after their long, tedious days.
Casey's instincts kicked in when he spotted her, a redhead striding purposefully down the sidewalk. The memory of her from five years ago was sharp, she was the protective friend who had barred his path with fiery determination. Now, she was different. The tight black jeans and leather jacket, cinched with buckles, emphasized her curves, but it was the look on her face that caught Casey off guard, a mix of wistfulness and regret, so at odds with the fierce defiance he remembered.
There were almost no pedestrians in this industrial district, making her presence even more unusual. She moved with a purpose, yet the way her eyes flicked to the ground occasionally suggested an internal conflict. The breeze caught her hair, just starting to tousle it, but there were no obvious places nearby she could have come from. Did she work around here? She didn't have the look of someone accustomed to hard labor, though. The way she carried herself, the subtle tension in her posture, hinted at something more, something Casey couldn't quite put his finger on.
Casey watched as she walked to Chuck's garage and produced a ring of keys, opening the door and shutting herself inside. Odd that, the records were clear that only Chuck lived here, but maybe she stayed over occasionally. Couldn't fault the kid for that particular choice.
Casey couldn't help but shake his head as Chuck's Impala rolled into view. The kid had poured a lot of effort into modifying that car, but instead of choosing something flashy, like a Crown Vic or even a vintage muscle car, he'd opted for something that could disappear into any crowd. Smart, in a way, but it also spoke to the kid's desire to stay in the shadows for the rest of his life. The kid was sharp, no doubt about that, but sometimes Casey wished he'd have a bit more fire, more of the drive that had been so clearly present in his life before the death of his parents.
Casey watched the kid pull into his garage, weighing his next move. He mulled over his options, stay and ensure the kid was sleeping with the redhead, or head back to his mountain of paperwork. The rookie agent's surveillance hadn't turned up much so far, and the street was dead quiet. With a resigned sigh, he turned the key in the ignition, feeling the familiar rumble of the Crown Vic beneath him.
As he drove away, he missed the moment when the garage door rolled open behind him. The Impala slipped out, its occupants, Chuck and the redhead, grim-faced and silent, the weight of whatever lay ahead pressing heavily on them.