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CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT
NARCOTICS DIVISION
REPORT FILE #1947-0407
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Date: April 7th, 1947
Time: 05:00 AM

Location: Detective Adam Cole's Apartment, Chicago, IL
Detective: Adam Cole
Partner: Richard O'Connor
CASE DETAILS: ---------------------------------
Case Title: Narcotics Theft Investigation Summary: Ongoing investigation into the theft of 10 cases of morphine stolen from three hospitals within the past week. No signs of forced entry at any of the facilities. Possible ties to black market operations. Detective Cole and O'Connor are following multiple leads.

A shrill ring cuts through the silence, dragging me from the shallow pit of sleep I've been tossed into for the last few hours. With a groan, I swing my arm over and slam the damn alarm clock. The clock reads 5:00 AM.

Three hours. Maybe. If I'm lucky. Barely enough to call it sleep, but that's the job. Sleep when you can, coffee when you can't. The same cycle every day, but you get used to it.

I sit up in bed, the cool morning air already hitting my bare skin. In Chicago, there's still a bite in the air that reminds you winter doesn't let go easy. I shuffle out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. Coffee first. Always coffee first.

I grab the percolator off the stove, fill it with water, and spoon in the grounds. Dark roast. Strong enough to get the dead walking, and I need it today. As the coffee starts to brew, I pull open the fridge and scowl. One egg left, a sliver of cheese, and an almost empty bottle of milk. Damn. Milk deliveries are every other day, so no fresh bottle today. Guess that means breakfast at Rosa's. Best pancakes on this side of town, but I'd rather have something in the fridge.

I shut the fridge, still irritated, and step outside to check the hallway. At least today's paper is there, sitting neat as ever thanks to Mrs. DiAngelo. Old Italian woman, tough as nails, but she's got this building running better than most around here. Place is old—no getting around that—but you wouldn't know it by the way she keeps things in order. Fresh paint, steady repairs.

I bend down, grab the paper, and head back inside. The Chicago Tribune. Same as always.

I glance around the apartment, taking it all in. Tidy. Just the way I like it. The kitchen is small but functional, with a stovetop, a small fridge, and a few old wooden cabinets hanging on the wall. The countertop is clutter-free, save for an open cookbook I haven't touched in weeks. The fridge hums quietly in the corner—old, but reliable.

There's a small table near the window, barely big enough for two, but it does the job. The space is tight, but it's enough for me to feel comfortable. This is my home. It may not look like much to someone else, but I've worked my ass off to get this place, and compared to where I stayed in my youth—and after the war—this feels like luxury.

Across the room is my reading nook, a comfortable chair tucked next to a small bookshelf overflowing with crime novels and mystery paperbacks. The radio sits nearby on a low table. It's my connection to the outside world, always on when I'm here, playing soft music or the latest news.

By the bed, the framed picture of my unit rests on the nightstand.

Everything in its place. Everything orderly.

The coffee's done. I pour myself a cup, black as night, and add the last of the milk from the bottle. Waste not, want not. Every drop counts. I step out onto the balcony, cup in hand. It's small—barely enough room for me to sit in the chair I keep out here, but the view's not bad.

The city's waking up below, and I take it all in. Skyscrapers loom in the distance, and the streets below are starting to fill with cars. Steam rises from the grates on the street, mixing with the sounds of delivery trucks and the occasional horn blaring. Chicago's alive. It's always alive. Never a dull moment in this town.

I take a sip of the coffee—strong, bitter, with just enough milk to cut through it. Perfect. For a few minutes, I just sit there, letting the city do its thing while I enjoy the quiet. These moments don't last long, but I take them when I can.

I sit down and flip through the pages. Labor strikes are still making waves, workers demanding better wages and conditions. Cubs are gearing up for the new season, and O'Connor, my partner, still bets on them like this is their year. Europe's still picking up the pieces from the war, and Japan's under American occupation—likely for a long while yet.

And then there's the piece on Mayor Freeman. Freshly elected, still full of hope and promises. He's ambitious, I'll give him that. Too ambitious, maybe. He's been talking big about cleaning up the streets, making life better for the common man. Part of me wants to believe him—hell, this city could use it—but the other part? I've seen too many of these guys come and go, making all the right noises and then folding the minute things get rough. Time will tell if Freeman's the real deal.

I finish the cup, toss it in the sink, and head into the bathroom for a shower. As soon as the water hits my skin, I grit my teeth. It's cold, as expected. The water heater's still on the fritz, and Mrs. DiAngelo hasn't hired anyone to fix it yet. She's good about everything else, but this? This is taking too long. I power through the freezing spray, finishing as quick as I can.

I dry off, brush my teeth, and check the mirror. The scar around my left eye has faded some, but it's still there, a reminder of the bullet I took during the war. Glass eye, but no one notices unless I tell them. Black hair slicked back, still wet from the shower. Sharp cheekbones. A cut along my right cheek, courtesy of my work as a detective. It's healed over by now, but the line it left tells a story on its own. My face ain't bad-looking, but I wouldn't call it handsome, either. Just lived-in. Too much, maybe.

I grab undies, then pull on my black dress pants, button up the black work shirt, and finish with the belt and socks. All black, just like the shadows. People tell me I should wear more color, but this suits me fine.

I step into the walk-in closet, reaching for my black tie hanging beside my suits. The closet's small, but it's enough. As I pull the tie down, my eyes flick over to the dress blues hanging in the corner, pristine and untouched since I got back. Next to them is my combat uniform, the one that survived the war, still mostly intact. The scars are there, though—just like the ones on me.

On the shelf below, I spot the neatly piled PT shirts and shorts. Those old things? They've become my pajamas now. Funny how something I used to sweat through in the field has become the most comfortable set of clothes I own.

But that's enough reminiscing. I grab the tie, loop it around my neck, and pull it tight, making sure it's just right. Once I'm sure the tie is in place, I grab my dark gray vest—a perfect match for the rest of the outfit—and button it over my work shirt.

Before I do anything else, I turn back to the bed. I pull the covers tight, tucking the corners in with precision, just like I was taught in the Corps. Military style. It's a habit I never dropped, and I don't intend to.

With that done, I turn to the nightstand and reach for my Colt 1911, but before my hand touches it, my eyes catch on the framed picture resting there—my unit, the 1st Marine Division, taken the day before we shipped out to Guadalcanal. Some of those men didn't make it back. It's a reminder of what was lost and what I carry with me every day. Above the photo, my medals hang on the wall—Purple Hearts, Bronze Stars, and the Navy Cross. Framed beside them is the insignia of the 1st Marine Division—a bold, red numeral one set against a blue field of stars. They're all there, framed and untouched. Earned in blood, but I don't dwell on them for long.

Finally, I pick up the Colt 1911—no serial number, no company name etched into the barrel. It's smooth, pristine, almost like it just came out of the factory. But it's old, older than me. My father carried it through the Great War. He always took great pride in it, and so do I. He replaced the original dark wooden grips with warm oak handles, a custom touch that made the pistol his own. Now, it's mine. Every piece of it has been cared for, cleaned, maintained. Not a scratch, not a spot of rust. I keep it as pristine as he did.

I slide the magazine out to check the load. Fully loaded, as expected. No bullet in the chamber—that's how I prefer it until I need it. I slide the magazine back in with a solid click and holster it in the shoulder rig.

Next, I retrieve the trench knife from my drawer, the kind with the brass knuckle handle that belonged to my father. It slides smoothly into the sheath on the left side of my jacket, nestled alongside my ammo pouches. Two spare magazines rest there, within easy reach. I double-check the placement, making sure the handle won't print through the jacket.

The brass knuckles are next, fitting perfectly into my right coat pocket. They've come in handy more than once, and it's good to know they're there, just in case things get up close and personal.

I reach down and strap the .32 caliber revolver to the inside of my left ankle, making sure the holster clips securely. It's light, compact, but it's saved my life more than once. A backup for when the Colt isn't an option.

Before I finish, I grab the last piece—the paratrooper switchblade—and slip it into my pocket. It's a habit now, like muscle memory.

Some might say it's too much— my 1911, maybe my switch blade are enough—but in this city? It's vital. You never know who or what you might run into in a shady alley or in some backroom. There are places in Chicago where the wrong move will get you killed. I'm not one to take those chances.

I reach into the drawer and pull out my money clip, flipping it open. The bills are all there, neatly stacked. I give them a quick count to be sure—always good to know exactly how much you're carrying in this city. It's not much, but it'll get me through the day.

Next, I grab my pack of smokes, tucking it into my left coat pocket. I wasn't always a smoker—never touched a cigarette before the war. I used to turn down every one offered to me. But after seeing enough combat, enough death and near-deaths, the habit picked up quick. Same as it did for the rest of the men out there. Something about lighting up after a firefight... or a hard day... it calms the nerves.

Finally, I pick up my flip lighter, the last thing I keep from the war. It's seen better days—worn down, scratches along the sides, and a few spots of rust here and there. But it still works, and that's all that matters. The emblem of the 1st Marine Division is still faintly visible on the side, though it's starting to fade with age. This lighter's been with me through hell and back, and like me, it's seen things no one should have to. I thumb the lid open and close, that familiar clank a comfort in itself.

With the lighter tucked away in my pocket, I'm ready to face the day.

Then I grab my dress coat from the hat rack by the door and slip it on, the weight of the rig beneath barely noticeable. It's cold outside today, so I pull on my overcoat, thick and warm, and smooth it out, making sure everything is concealed.

I stop by the door and take one last glance at myself in the mirror hanging there. Everything is neat, everything in its place. The trench knife, the 1911, the extra magazines, brass knuckles, and the .32 revolver—all concealed perfectly beneath the layers of my suit and coat. No one would know what I'm carrying unless I want them to.

Satisfied, I grab my fedora, don it, and step out of the apartment, ready to face whatever this day throws at me.

I head down the hallway, footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floors. The building's old, but Mrs. DiAngelo keeps it in good shape. I pass by her on my way to the stairs, and like clockwork, she's already working, mop in hand, scrubbing the same floor she's scrubbed every morning for the past decade.

Mrs. DiAngelo is a small woman, barely five feet tall, but tough as nails. Her hair is a mass of graying curls, pinned up messily, and she's wearing her usual apron over a long, faded house dress. Her face is lined with years of hard work, the kind that's made her hands rough but kept her back straight. She's been running this building longer than I've been alive, and she won't hear a word about retiring.

"Morning, Mrs. DiAngelo," I say as I pass.

She glances up from her work, barely pausing. "Morning, Adam. You look like you've seen a ghost. Didn't sleep again?"

I offer a shrug. "Something like that. Any word on the water heater?"

She scoffs, leaning on her mop. "The water heater? You think I've got a magic wand, huh? It'll get fixed when I get to it. You wanna play handyman, go ahead. Otherwise, you'll have to wait, like everyone else."

I chuckle. "Fair enough. Just figured I'd ask."

She waves me off, already back to scrubbing. "Yeah, yeah. Be careful out there. And don't forget to lock your door. Last thing I need is you letting in some riff-raff."

"I'll be fine, Mrs. DiAngelo. Have a good one."

"Yeah, yeah. Get outta here."

She may sound all rough, but I know she keeps the building running like a well-oiled machine. I make my way downstairs, step outside, and the Chicago air hits me—a bite of cold that I've gotten used to by now.

Rosa's Diner is just around the corner. It's one of those places that feels like home, even when it's crowded. The smell of coffee and bacon hits me as soon as I walk through the door. The diner's filled but not packed—morning regulars taking up the booths, a few businessmen huddled at the counter nursing their coffees before heading to work.

Behind the counter, Rosa is moving like a woman half her age, pouring coffee, flipping pancakes, and barking orders to the kitchen. Rosa is a stout woman, always wearing her floral apron over her plain dress, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She's got arms like a boxer and a voice loud enough to cut through the diner chatter, but she's got a heart of gold. She's been running this place since before I joined the force, and her pancakes are a staple in the neighborhood.

"Morning, Adam!" she calls, barely turning her head as she refills a customer's mug. "The usual?"

"Yeah, Rosa. Just something quick today," I say, sliding into one of the stools at the counter.

Rosa gives me a quick once-over. "You look like hell. Didn't get much sleep again, huh?"

"Something like that," I say, the words automatic by now.

"Eh, you'll live," she says, waving me off as she slides a steaming plate of pancakes and a cup of black coffee in front of me.

I eat fast, but not too fast to miss the warmth of the food. Rosa's pancakes are as good as ever, and the coffee is strong enough to wake the dead. I finish up, leave a few bills on the counter, and nod to Rosa.

"Take care out there, Adam," she says as I head for the door.

"You too, Rosa."

The streets are busier now, but I weave through the crowds until I reach my car. 1940 Ford Deluxe Coupe, black and sleek, waiting for me like a loyal dog. I unlock the door, slide in, and the engine roars to life, a low, comforting rumble beneath me.

Time to head to the precinct and see what the day's got in store.

The streets are already coming alive, the early morning sun barely making a dent in the cold air. Chicago in the morning is a mix of cars, delivery trucks, and pedestrians all trying to get where they're going before the real rush begins. Steam rises from the grates, swirling with the exhaust from the cars, while the occasional horn blares in the distance.

I pull into traffic, and the Ford's engine hums under me, a steady, low growl as I navigate the morning chaos. The streets are a mess of newspapers blowing in the wind, vendors setting up, and the occasional cop car cruising by. People walk briskly, coats pulled tight against the chill, eyes forward like they've got somewhere important to be. Some of them do, most of them don't.

I turn on the radio, twisting the dial until I land on a station playing jazz. The familiar sound of a trumpet fills the car, smooth and mellow, though the song's not one I recognize. Doesn't matter—music's music when you're just trying to keep yourself grounded.

The buildings loom on either side of the street, towering over the traffic, casting long shadows as the sun rises higher. The city's waking up, but it never really sleeps. It's like this all the time—hustle, movement, noise. But I've lived here long enough to know that even in the busiest streets, there are hidden corners, alleys where things go unseen. Places where a guy could disappear if he wasn't careful.

A two-way radio sits in the car, but there's no call for me yet. Just the crackle of static and the occasional burst of chatter from a patrol unit. I leave it on, just in case, but I keep my focus on the road ahead.

I take a left onto Clark Street, where the precinct looms ahead. The building is solid, a hulking mass of stone and brick, with an American flag flapping lazily in the wind on the front lawn. I park the car, turn off the engine, and step out. The morning air is sharp against my face, but I've gotten used to it.