---------------------------------
CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT
HOMICIDE DIVISION
REPORT FILE #1947-0407
---------------------------------
Date: April 7th, 1947
Time: 09:47 AM

Location: West Kensington Avenue, Chicago, IL
Detective: Adam Cole
Partner: Margaret Dawson
CASE DETAILS: Homicide - Unknown Female Victim
Location of Murder: West Kensington Avenue, Chicago 

Miss Dawson," I say, breaking the silence as I kneel beside the body, careful not to disturb anything further. "Under what circumstances would you wear a dress like this?"

She looks up from her observations, raising an eyebrow at the question. "For a night out, I suppose," she says after a moment's thought. "Maybe a romantic dinner date or for a club. Why?"

I lean back slightly, resting my elbow on my knee as I glance at her. "Are you from here?"

Dawson shakes her head. "No. Got transferred here from Boston about a year ago. Why do you ask?"

I nod toward the dress, its vibrant red catching the faint light seeping into the alley. "Because the closest nice restaurant is on the other side of the city," I say, my voice steady. "And the nearest club is ten blocks away. You don't walk through this part of town dressed like that, not unless you're looking to draw the wrong kind of attention."

She straightens, her gaze shifting from the dress to the alley around us. "So, what are you saying?"

"She was dragged here," I say firmly, pointing to the faint drag marks in the dirt. "I believe she was brought here after she was killed."

Dawson crosses her arms, her brow furrowing. "What makes you think that?"

I stand, dusting off my gloves as I motion toward the far end of the alley. "There are fresh tire marks over there. Not from a garbage truck—they're too narrow. Probably a sedan. I'm just speculating here, but she wasn't killed here." I gesture to the dirt smudges on her dress. "This dirt doesn't match the dirt in this alley. It's a lighter shade of brown, cleaner, like it came from a different part of the city."

Dawson tilts her head, considering my words as I continue. "Whoever killed her shot her from behind." I motion to the two wounds in her back. "Bang, bang—right through the back. But she survived long enough to try crawling away. There's dirt under her fingernails, on the palms of her hands. She tried to get away."

I crouch again, pointing to the wound in her forehead. "Then she turned around. Maybe to beg, maybe to defend herself. Doesn't matter. One shot. Right between the eyes."

Dawson kneels beside me, her voice quieter now. "Whoever shot her must be a damn good shot."

I nod. "Small caliber bullets. Something like a 9mm or maybe even smaller. No heavy caliber damage, which is why the wounds are clean and tight." I glance back at the drag marks leading away from the body. "Then they dragged her here. Staged it to look like a robbery gone bad. No ID, no jewelry, just a few bills scattered from her purse to sell the story."

Dawson's gaze sharpens. "The dirt marks on the front of her dress and the drag marks on the back—they support your theory."

I nod again, taking another glance at the tire marks in the distance. "Whoever did this wasn't sloppy. But they weren't perfect either. They wanted it to look clean, believable, but they left enough breadcrumbs for us to follow. We just have to piece it all together."

Dawson lets out a slow breath, her eyes lingering on the body. "So, what now?"

I stand, the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders. "Now, we find out where she was before she ended up here. Whoever killed her left a trail. It's our job to find it."

The alley grows eerily silent as Dawson and I, along with the forensic team, comb through every inch of the scene for any missed clues. The methodical click of the forensic photographer's camera is the only sound breaking the quiet, each flash briefly illuminating the grim surroundings. Despite our efforts, the search comes up empty. No shell casings, no footprints, not even a scuff on the pavement. Whoever did this was meticulous.

Frustration boils under my skin, but I keep my face impassive. I nod to the coroner, a tall, wiry man with sharp features and a thin mustache. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, his coat slightly rumpled, but his demeanor is focused and professional.

"Go ahead," I say, gesturing to the body.

He nods back and steps forward, motioning to his assistants. They move with quiet precision, draping a white cloth over her lifeless form. The fabric settles gently over her features, veiling the tragedy beneath. Slowly, they lift her, careful not to disturb any remaining evidence, and carry her toward the coroner's car parked at the mouth of the alley.

I feel a pang in my chest as I watch them go. Someone so young, so vibrant, snuffed out in such a brutal way. For what? A robbery? Something more? Questions swirl in my mind, and none of them come with answers.

I glance at Dawson, who's jotting something in her notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looks up at me, and I gesture for her to follow as I finish scribbling my notes. I document everything we've deduced so far—the wounds, the drag marks, the tire tracks, and the missing ID. It's a grim record of a crime that doesn't yet make sense.

We leave the alley, the faint murmur of the crowd beyond the barricades growing louder as we approach the street. I spot an officer near the edge of the scene. "Where's the nearest police box?" I ask him.

"At the end of the street, Detective," he replies, pointing toward a faint blue silhouette in the distance.

Sure enough, there it is—a blue police box standing like a sentinel at the street corner, its paint weathered but its purpose clear. Dawson follows silently as I approach it, the heels of my shoes clicking against the pavement. I open the small door and reach for the phone inside. The cold metal receiver feels solid in my hand as I lift it to my ear.

"Operator," a calm female voice answers on the other end.

"This is Detective Adam Cole, badge number 10232077 of Precinct 21," I say, my tone firm but measured. "Put me through."

"One moment, please," she responds, her voice efficient and professional.

I lean against the box as I wait, the low hum of the city filling the quiet. Cars rumble past, their tires hissing against the wet pavement. A distant horn blares, followed by a shouted curse. Chicago doesn't rest, not for anyone, not even for the dead.

Dawson stands beside me, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning the street as if trying to piece together the city's secrets. I glance at her briefly before focusing back on the phone. Somewhere, someone knows what happened to that woman, and I'll be damned if I don't find out.

I adjust the receiver against my ear as the line clicks. A male voice, familiar and young, answers. "This is dispatch."

"Garrison, it's Cole," I say, leaning back slightly in the cramped box.

"Hey, Adam," he responds, his tone brightening. "Heard about your promotion. Congrats."

"Thanks," I reply, my voice neutral. Garrison's a good kid, fresh to the force. Like most rookies, he got saddled with dispatch—a role that seems calm but comes with its own unique set of headaches. Fielding calls, coordinating officers, keeping his head while chaos unfolds. It's not glamorous, but it's necessary.

"Listen," I continue, "I'm out at Kensington Avenue. I need the addresses of all the nearby clubs in a ten-block radius. Can you help me out?"

"Um... of course, Adam," he says, a slight hesitation in his voice. "May I ask why?"

"It's necessary for my case," I say flatly, leaving no room for argument.

Garrison exhales, the sound soft but noticeable through the line. "One moment, please."

The line goes silent, and I lower the receiver slightly, resting it on my shoulder as I glance toward the bustling street. Dawson leans against the police box, arms crossed, her gaze sweeping over the alley. The crowd by the barricades has thinned, but a few stragglers remain—mostly reporters, hoping to catch something we missed.

Across the way, officers are methodically dispersing the onlookers. The flash of a camera goes off, and I see the forensic photographer pack up his gear. The coroner's car idles nearby, the body already secured inside. The hum of the city doesn't stop for the dead. Cars rumble by, their tires hissing against the damp asphalt. A street vendor shouts about fresh hotdogs from the corner, his voice lost beneath the clatter of streetcars.

I take a deep drag from my cigarette, the taste grounding me as I exhale a slow plume of smoke into the cool air. Dawson doesn't say anything, but I catch her glancing my way.

Finally, the line clicks back to life. "Alright, Adam," Garrison says, his tone slightly hurried. "Here's what I found. There are four clubs in that radius: The Red Aura, The Melody Den, The Blue Velvet, and the Majestic Groove."

I pull out my notebook, flipping to a fresh page. "Go ahead," I say, pen poised.

"The Red Aura is at 325 West Filmore," Garrison starts, and I jot it down, the scratch of the pen loud in the quiet of the box. "The Melody Den is at 1028 South Lakeshore Drive. The Blue Velvet's address is 427 East Halstead, and the Majestic Groove is at 890 North Mason."

I underline each address, my mind already trying to connect dots that don't yet exist. "And those are the only clubs in that part of town?" I ask, double-checking.

"Yes, sir," Garrison confirms. "There are more clubs across the city, but they're outside the ten-block radius. Do you need those addresses too?"

"Not yet," I reply. "This'll do for now. Thanks, Garrison."

"Anytime, Adam," he says, his voice warm.

I hang up the phone, the metal receiver clicking into place. I glance at the list in my notebook before tucking it into my pocket. Four clubs. Four potential leads. I turn to Dawson, her expression unreadable as she watches the remnants of the crime scene.

"Let's go," I say, gesturing toward the car. She nods without a word, and we start toward the next step in unraveling this mystery.

As we step into the car, Dawson finally breaks the silence. "Where are we going?" she asks, her tone steady but carrying a hint of curiosity.

I pull my notebook from my pocket and hand it to her. "There are four clubs within a ten-mile radius of the murder site," I explain. "The Red Aura, The Melody Den, The Blue Velvet, and The Majestic Groove. They're pretty far apart. This might be a long day."

Dawson nods as she flips through the pages, skimming the addresses I've jotted down, but I catch the faint twitch of her lips—a subtle sign of annoyance. "What exactly are we going to be doing?" she asks.

"Question the workers, maybe the club owners if we're lucky," I reply, starting the car. The engine roars to life, its familiar hum filling the cabin. "If they don't toss us out on our asses first, that is."

Her head snaps up from the notebook, eyebrows furrowed. "That can happen?"

I nod, taking a deep drag from my cigarette before answering. "Legally, they can. Fifth Amendment gives them the right to remain silent, even to us. It doesn't mean they're guilty; it's just the way things are."

She processes this quietly, staring out the window as the city begins to blur past us. The buzz of the streets—pedestrians bustling, horns blaring, vendors shouting—fills the air, but her silence draws my attention.

"What were you before this?" I ask, breaking the tension.

She looks away, hesitating, her fingers brushing against the edge of the notebook. Finally, she takes a deep breath. "I was a nurse," she says softly, her voice barely audible over the noise outside.

I glance over at her, my cigarette smoldering between my fingers. I let out a quiet exhale, turning my eyes back to the road. "How long have you been on the force?" I ask, trying to make sense of her trajectory.

Her hesitation returns, but she answers, "Four months."

My grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly as I turn to her, disbelief plain in my voice. "Are you serious?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" she asks, her arms crossing defensively as she glares at me.

"Because it takes years to make detective," I reply bluntly. "And you achieved it in less than half a year. That's practically unheard of."

Dawson's expression hardens, her tone gaining an edge. "I graduated top of my class," she says firmly. "I was picked out of hundreds of candidates, all of them highly qualified."

"And the Commissioner's recommendation had nothing to do with it?" I ask, my skepticism slipping through.

She narrows her eyes at me. "I'm not naive, Cole. I know what people are saying about me, about how I got here. But I earned this. Every step of the way, I've worked twice as hard just to prove I belong."

I flick the ashes from my cigarette out the window, the embers glowing briefly before disappearing into the wind. "Twice as hard, huh?" I mutter.

"Yes," she says sharply. "Because unlike you, I didn't have anyone paving the way for me. Every test, every challenge, I had to prove I was just as good as—no, better than—the men standing beside me."

Her words hang heavy in the air, the tension palpable. I glance over at her again, noting the fire in her eyes. She's not just defending herself; she's staking her claim, making it clear she won't back down.

Her words though hit like a punch, and I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under my hands. "What are you implying?" I say, my tone low but laced with sternness. "That I got this job handed to me? Just like that?"

She doesn't answer immediately, and I can feel her hesitation. Her silence only fuels the tension.

I glance at her briefly before turning back to the road, my voice hardening. "I fought and bled for this country," I state plainly. "I didn't ask for Homicide. Hell, I didn't even want it. I wasn't ready to be a detective, but the Chief saw my record and bumped me up anyway. You think that felt earned?"

Dawson looks at me now, really looks, the fire in her eyes flickering slightly. "I didn't get the kindest welcome either," I continue, my voice quieter now but steady. "When I got promoted, I wasn't greeted with pats on the back. I was met with glares, whispers, people questioning if I deserved it. It felt unearned, Dawson. Every damn day."

I let out a slow sigh, the tension in my chest loosening just a little. "I get it," I add, glancing her way again. "The stares, the whispers, the people doubting you before you've even had the chance to prove yourself. I've been there."

Dawson's expression softens, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I wasn't trying to say you didn't earn your place."

I nod, taking a deep drag from my cigarette and exhaling slowly. "It's fine," I mutter, letting the smoke curl out the window. "Just... don't assume you've got me figured out, alright? We've both got something to prove. Let's focus on that."

She nods in agreement, her hands relaxing in her lap. The tension eases, replaced by a tentative understanding.

The hum of the car engine fills the silence as I navigate the busy streets, the city alive with its usual chaos. Dawson looks out the window, her expression thoughtful. Whatever walls were up between us, they've cracked just a little. But there's still a long way to go.

The drive to The Blue Velvet is uneventful, the city's energy dulling as we head into a quieter part of town. By the time we reach the club, the street is nearly deserted. A few cars are parked haphazardly along the curb, their owners nowhere to be seen. The buildings here are older, their facades worn but still exuding a certain charm, with faded brickwork and painted signs advertising tailors, delis, and a rundown pawn shop.

The Blue Velvet itself stands out, its name scrawled in elegant cursive neon above the entrance. The sign flickers faintly, its glow dim in the morning light. The exterior is modest, with navy-colored paint peeling at the edges of the wooden doorframe. Heavy black curtains obscure the windows, offering no glimpse of what's inside.

I park the car just outside, killing the engine as Dawson shifts in her seat. "So, you think she came from one of these clubs?" she asks, her voice curious but tinged with doubt.

"Yeah, I do," I say, pulling the notebook from my pocket and flipping it closed. "I believe she was in one of these places, probably having a drink, maybe dancing. On her way home—or to her car—she was followed. Ran, but didn't get far." I light a cigarette, taking a long drag before stepping out. "Let's see what we can find."

Dawson follows me as we approach the door. The morning air is brisk, the faint smell of last night's garbage wafting through the alleyways. I push the heavy wooden door open, and we step inside.

The interior is dimly lit, with just enough light seeping through the cracks in the curtains to cast long shadows across the room. The club is a relic of a bygone era, with dark wood-paneled walls, plush red booths along the perimeter, and a small stage at the far end with an upright piano resting in silence. The air is thick with the lingering smell of tobacco and cheap perfume, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled liquor.

A few waiters and waitresses move lethargically, cleaning up the aftermath of what must have been an all-nighter. They stack chairs, wipe down tables, and sweep up crumpled napkins and cigarette butts. Their faces are weary, eyes half-lidded as they work in silence.

At the bar, a burly man stands hunched over, counting a wad of cash. He's built like a linebacker, with thick forearms and a neck that seems to blur into his shoulders. His white shirt is rolled up to his elbows, revealing faded tattoos on his forearms, and his suspenders sag slightly from the weight of his frame.

I lean toward Dawson and lower my voice. "Be extremely careful," I whisper. "Places like this tend to double as fronts for shady dealings. Cops aren't exactly welcomed with open arms."

Dawson nods, her expression serious as she follows me to the bar.

The man looks up from his counting, his expression sour. "I'm sorry, but we're closed. We open again at 4 p.m.," he grunts, his voice gravelly.

I pull out my badge and flash it. Dawson mirrors me, holding hers up for good measure. The man grunts again, pocketing the cash with deliberate slowness. "Unless you've got a warrant, you're not searching anything in here. I must ask you to leave."

I keep my voice calm but firm. "Detective Adam Cole, and this is my partner, Detective Margaret Dawson. We're Homicide."

He raises an eyebrow at that, his posture shifting slightly as he folds his arms. "Homicide? There've been no murders here," he growls.

"A woman was found dead in an alley on Kensington Avenue this morning," I explain, but he cuts me off with a scoff.

"And? That's several miles away. What's that got to do with The Blue Velvet?"

"She had no ID on her," Dawson interjects, her voice steady but polite. "But I was wondering if she was here last night. Long golden hair, bright red dress, blue eyes. Mid-twenties, maybe early thirties."

The man shakes his head, his expression unchanging. "A lot of pretty dames come through here. I don't keep track of every one of them."

"Was there any trouble here last night? A scuffle? Shouting? Unwanted behavior?" I ask, watching his face closely.

"No," he growls again. "We run a clean establishment."

I narrow my eyes slightly. "Is the owner here?"

He leans back, smirking faintly. "You're looking at him. And now, piss off."

I sigh, pulling a call card from my coat pocket and sliding it across the counter. "If you hear anything, give me a call."

He glances at the card but doesn't touch it. "Uh-huh," he mumbles dismissively.

I turn to leave, glancing at Dawson, who's studying him with a furrowed brow. I place a hand lightly on her shoulder and guide her toward the door. This isn't the first time I've met someone like him, and it won't be the last.

As we step out of The Blue Velvet and head toward the car, Dawson lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging. "Is this the kind of welcome you spoke of?" she asks, her voice carrying a mix of frustration and disbelief.

I smirk faintly as I unlock the car. "That's actually the politest 'fuck off' I've gotten so far," I say, sliding into the driver's seat. She follows, still shaking her head as she buckles in. "Usually, they tell me to screw myself sooner or point a gun at me. Got lucky today."

"You call that luck?" she asks, glancing at me like I've just told her the earth is flat.

"I do," I say matter-of-factly, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. "Could have been worse."

Dawson looks out the window, her gaze fixed on The Blue Velvet's dim neon sign. "So, this place is a bust?" she asks, her tone tinged with disappointment.

"Not yet," I reply, exhaling a puff of smoke and starting the car. "Perhaps the owner saw her and is just hiding it. Nothing we can go off yet, but I'll keep him on my radar."

She leans back in her seat, rubbing her temples. "This is going to be a long day," she sighs.

I chuckle, the sound dry and low. "Wait till you have to fill out the paperwork," I say, shaking my head. "That's when the real fun starts."

She gives me a tired look, but there's a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Can't wait," she mutters sarcastically.

I smirk again, shifting into gear. "Next stop: The Melody Den," I say, glancing at my notes for the closest club. "Buckle up, Detective Dawson. The day's just getting started."

With that, we pull away, the tires crunching on the uneven pavement as the city looms ahead.

The Melody Den proved to be a dead end, though its owner, a woman in her fifties named Melody Park, was far more pleasant than the gruff barkeep at The Blue Velvet. Mrs. Park had a warm, welcoming demeanor, her memory of patrons sharp and detailed. Unfortunately, she didn't recall seeing a woman matching the description of their Jane Doe. The Majestic Groove and The Red Aura were equally fruitless. By the time Dawson and I step out of The Red Aura, the city clock tower chimes two in the afternoon, and the exhaustion from the constant back-and-forth begins to weigh on us.

The traffic has thickened, and the streets hum with midday activity. Dawson rubs her temples as we head toward the car. I can feel the hunger clawing at me, and I can tell by the look on her face she's feeling the same. "Let's grab a bite," I say, nodding toward a nearby diner.

The diner is a small, unassuming place with a polished chrome exterior, its name—Jack's Eats—displayed in bold, red neon letters. Inside, the atmosphere is cozy, with checkerboard tile floors, red vinyl booths, and a long counter lined with spinning stools. A jukebox rests in the corner, faintly playing an upbeat tune, and the air is filled with the aroma of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee. The place is modestly busy, a mix of construction workers, office clerks, and a pair of beat cops chatting over their meals.

Dawson slumps into a booth near the window with a heavy sigh. "What an uneventful day," she groans, resting her chin in her hand. I slide into the seat across from her, pulling off my hat and setting it beside me.

A waitress with tired eyes and a practiced smile approaches, handing us a pair of menus. Her uniform is crisp, the apron wrapped tightly around her waist, a pencil tucked behind her ear.

"Don't fret," I say, flipping open the menu and scanning the options. "We had little to go on."

Dawson lets out another sigh. "What happens now?"

"We wait for the coroner's report, check the local missing persons records, and hope we can identify her soon," I explain, my eyes skimming the menu's offerings. "Until then, we're spinning our wheels."

She sets the menu down and leans back. "How do you know so much?" she asks, tilting her head curiously.

I pause for a moment, then shrug. "I'm a huge Sherlock Holmes fan. He'd do the same thing if he were in our shoes."

A soft smile curls on her lips. "Really? I never pegged you for a reader."

I arch an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "What do you peg me as, then?"

Before she can respond, the waitress returns, pencil and notepad at the ready. "What'll it be?"

"Coffee and the chicken sandwich," I say, folding the menu and handing it back to her.

"Same," Dawson adds, offering a small smile.

The waitress nods, jotting down the order with quick precision. She tears off the slip and hangs it on a metal spindle before retreating to the kitchen.

Dawson leans forward slightly. "So, Sherlock Holmes, huh? Got a favorite story?"

I chuckle softly, shaking my head. "You'll have to wait and find out." The smallest spark of amusement dances in her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of the day feels a little lighter.

I lean back slightly, letting the faint smile tug at my lips as I look at her. "So, what did you peg me as?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Dawson doesn't hesitate. "Too brooding," she says, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Especially after the war. You seem like the type who must solve the case at all costs and keep the streets clean. Never cheerful, never smiling."

I nod slowly, rubbing my thumb along the edge of the table. "Yeah, the war did affect me," I admit, my tone even. "But I had a good friend who helped me out a lot after I got back. He kept me grounded."

She nods, but her gaze softens, and I catch that familiar pang of guilt in her eyes. It's a look I've seen too many times.

"Don't give me that look," I say, my voice firm but not unkind.

Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head. "What look?"

"That look," I say, gesturing slightly toward her with my hand. "That hint of guilt. Yeah, the war messed me up, but I believe I came home a better man because of it. I did my part, and now I get to do my part again—here, in my hometown."

Her expression shifts, the guilt fading into a thoughtful curiosity. "So, you grew up here?" she asks.

"Born and raised," I reply, taking another drag from my cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. "You?"

"Boston," she says, her voice light but reflective.

Before I can ask more, the waitress returns, balancing two plates on her arm and a steaming pot of coffee in her hand. She places the plates before us: golden brown chicken sandwiches stacked with lettuce and tomato, accompanied by crispy fries. The coffee cups are set down with practiced precision, and the aroma is rich and inviting.

"Enjoy," the waitress says with a quick smile before walking off.

The food looks good, and the coffee smells fresh. Dawson picks up her sandwich and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. I wait until she swallows before I press further. "So, is Boston like Chicago?"

She shakes her head, setting her sandwich down and brushing a crumb from her lip. "Not really," she says, her tone softer now. "Boston feels smaller, more compact. The neighborhoods have their own distinct feel, almost like separate little towns mashed together. There's a lot of history there, too—Revolutionary War stuff. You can't walk a block without stumbling over some historical marker."

I nod, sipping my coffee. It's strong, just the way I like it. "Sounds different, all right. Guess it has its charm."

"It does," she says, smiling faintly. "But it's nothing like this city. Chicago has this... energy. It's bigger, louder. Feels like the streets are alive in a way Boston isn't."

I chuckle, nodding toward the window where the bustling street is in full view. "Yeah, this city has a pulse, all right. You'll learn quick enough to keep pace with it."

Dawson takes another bite of her sandwich, her demeanor lighter now. I watch her for a moment, the way she's slowly warming up, and it occurs to me that this partnership might not be so bad after all. Still, I keep my thoughts to myself, focusing instead on my sandwich and the strong coffee, letting the momentary reprieve settle between us.

There's not much we can do now. With no leads yet and not even an ID for the Jane Doe, we're stuck in that limbo I hate the most—waiting. Waiting for the photographs to develop, which will take a day or two. Waiting for the coroner's report, which will take just as long. All we have are theories and questions, and the answers won't come easy.

After lunch, Dawson and I return to the precinct. By the time we step through the doors, the clock reads 5 p.m., and the atmosphere has shifted. The day shift is thinning out, replaced by the late shift. The precinct is still bustling, but the energy is different—grittier, more resigned. The night always feels heavier here, even with the hum of conversation and the occasional ring of a desk phone.

I pass by the Narcotics Department, a habit I haven't shaken yet. O'Connor's desk is empty, his chair pushed in. He must've headed out early. Can't say I blame him. I nod to a few familiar faces, but most of the ones I know have already clocked out or are buried in paperwork.

Back in the Homicide office, Dawson is at her desk, typing up the day's report. The steady clack of the typewriter fills the room, a mechanical rhythm that feels almost soothing in its monotony. I take my seat across from her and lay out the notes we've gathered, piecing together what little we have. The Jane Doe. A woman with golden hair, blue eyes, and a bright red dress. No ID. No jewelry. No real clues. Just a body, bullet wounds, and dirt-stained clothes.

The hardest part is knowing that when we finally do identify her, someone's life will be shattered. A family, a lover, a friend—they'll get the news from me, the bearer of bad tidings. It's the part of the job I dread the most.

I work quietly, organizing the notes into a case file. By 7 p.m., it's coming together. A map of Kensington Avenue sits in the center of the file, a red dot marking the murder site. Around it are my scribbled observations, our interview notes, and sketches of the scene. The file feels empty now, but it'll grow as we dig deeper. It always does.

Dawson pulls the last sheet of paper from her typewriter and glances at me. "Is there anything else we can do?" she asks, setting the finished report on her desk.

I shake my head, closing the case file. "No. All we can do now is wait." I lean back in my chair and exhale. "And I hate waiting."

She nods, stretching as she stands. "I guess I'll call it a night, then. You should too."

"Hold on," I say, reaching into my coat pocket. I pull out one of my cards and hand it to her. "Here's my personal number. If anything comes up with the case, give me a call."

She looks at the card for a moment, then pulls out a piece of paper and jots something down. She hands it to me. "That's my home number," she says. "In case you need to reach me."

I glance at the paper before slipping it into my coat pocket. "Thanks," I say, nodding.

She returns the faint smile, then grabs her things. "Goodnight, Adam."

"Goodnight, Margaret," I reply as she steps out. Her footsteps echo in the hallway, fading into the distance.

I stay behind for a moment, staring at the file on my desk. The questions swirl in my mind: who she was, why she died, and who did this to her. I grab my hat, slip on my overcoat, and head for the door, the weight of the case following me like a shadow. This is far from over. It's only just begun.