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CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT
HOMICIDE DIVISION
REPORT FILE #1947-0409
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Date: April 9th, 1947
Time: 3:02 AM 

The shrill ring of the phone slices through the stillness of my apartment, jarring me awake. For a moment, I lie there, tangled in the haze of a fading dream, the sound reverberating like phantom echoes from the war. Slowly, I blink the sleep from my eyes and reach out, fumbling for the table lamp. The soft click of the switch brings light, casting the room in a dim glow that pushes back the darkness.

The phone keeps ringing, persistent and sharp. I sigh, leaning over to grab the receiver. "Hello?" I mumble, my voice rough with sleep.

"Detective Adam Cole?" A man's voice, clear and calm, cuts through the line.

"Speaking," I reply, rubbing a hand across my face.

"This is Robert Kindle from the coroner's office. I apologize for calling you so late, but we've finished examining the Jane Doe. I believe we've identified her."

Thirty minutes later, I find myself in the stark, clinical chill of the coroner's examination room. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, their harsh white glow illuminating every corner of the space. It smells sharply of antiseptic, tinged with something metallic that clings to the back of my throat. Beside me, Dawson looks as groggy as I feel, her hair slightly mussed and her sharp suit betraying the rush of getting dressed in half the usual time.

Doctor Robert Kindle stands at the center of the room, his appearance reflecting the gravity of his work. His white lab coat has been swapped for a blood-smeared apron, the deep red streaks contrasting against the pale fabric. As we step closer, he peels off a pair of latex gloves, revealing hands that are slightly reddened from hours of work. His face is composed, sharp eyes behind wire-framed glasses scanning us briefly before he nods in greeting.

"I apologize again for calling you in this late," Kindle says, his voice steady, though his exhaustion shows in the faint lines around his mouth.

"Just tell us what you found, Doc," I say, reaching for my cigarettes. I pluck one from the pack, ready to light it, but Kindle raises a hand.

"Please don't smoke in here, Detective," he says, his tone polite but firm. "The chemicals we use—formaldehyde, among others—are highly flammable. A single spark could turn this room into an inferno."

I grunt, slipping the unlit cigarette behind my ear. "Fair point," I mutter, pulling out my notebook and flipping it open. I ready my pen as Kindle turns toward the steel table in the center of the room.

The Jane Doe lies under a pristine white sheet, her unnervingly still form a silent focal point in the room. Nearby, a wheeled tray holds a grim collection of surgical tools—scalpels, forceps, and clamps, each carefully arranged but still smeared with the remnants of the procedure. Another tray holds several of her organs, neatly placed in jars filled with preserving fluid, the sight enough to turn even a seasoned detective's stomach.

Kindle steps to the body, pausing for a moment before folding back the sheet. The room feels heavier as Dawson and I step closer, both inhaling sharply at the sight.

The woman's body lies pale and lifeless, her skin waxy under the unforgiving light. A single gunshot wound mars her forehead, the small, clean entry wound framed by dark bruising. Below her collarbone, two more gunshot wounds puncture her chest, their edges ragged and stained with dried blood. The most striking feature, though, is the vertical incision running down her sternum, the flesh parted and raw from the autopsy, left unsutured and exposed.

Kindle clears his throat. "Judging by her postmortem lividity and rigor, I estimate the time of death to be between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. The cause of death was the gunshot to the head. Instantaneous."

I nod, my pen scratching across the page as I jot down his words. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the lights and the steady rhythm of my note-taking.

Kindle steps to another table and retrieves a small glass container. Inside, a single bullet gleams under the fluorescent light, its surface darkened with dried blood. Kindle holds it out for us to inspect.

"This is the bullet that killed her. A .22 caliber long rifle round," he says, his voice calm and measured.

I pause, tapping the pen lightly against the notebook's edge. "What makes it special?" I ask.

Kindle adjusts his glasses, holding the container closer. "This round was fired from an Olympic-class sharpshooting pistol."

Dawson folds her arms, her brows furrowing. "That narrows it down," she says with a faint note of confidence.

"Not necessarily," I interject, shaking my head. "Chicago has plenty of shooting clubs that use those pistols for competitions. Our killer could be a member of one—or they could've stolen it."

Dawson's lips press into a thin line. "Why use a .22 caliber pistol for murder? It seems... unconventional."

Kindle nods, his sharp gaze flicking between us. "A valid question, Detective Dawson. These rounds are subsonic, designed to travel below the speed of sound. When paired with a suppressor, the gunshot is almost inaudible. Ideal for someone who doesn't want to draw attention."

I hum thoughtfully, jotting every detail into my notebook. "So, we've got the weapon and the ammunition. You mentioned over the phone that you've identified her."

Kindle meets my gaze, his expression grave. "I believe I have," he says, his voice carrying the weight of the revelation.

The room grows silent, the only sound the faint hum of the overhead lights. Dawson and I exchange a glance, bracing ourselves for what comes next.

Doctor Kindle moves across the room with steady purpose, his blood-smeared apron swaying slightly as he walks. He approaches his desk, where stacks of papers and manila folders vie for space amid a few medical textbooks. Among the clutter, a folded newspaper sits conspicuously at the center. Kindle picks it up, flipping it open with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to rifling through documents. He pauses on a specific page, glances down at it, then turns and strides back toward me.

"Detective," he says, holding the paper out, his index finger tapping an article halfway down the page. "You might want to take a look at this."

I take the newspaper, the familiar texture of cheap, thin newsprint rough against my fingers. The headline above the fold catches my eye: "Mayor Freeman Opens New Community Center for the Underprivileged."

Below the headline is a grainy black-and-white photograph, its edges softened by the printing process but clear enough to make out the scene. The image shows a podium set up in front of a modest but freshly painted building, its simple brick façade adorned with a banner that reads "Westside Relief and Community Center." A small crowd of onlookers stands in the background, their faces blurred but turned toward the man at the center of the frame—Mayor James Freeman.

Freeman is a striking figure, even in monochrome. His tall, broad-shouldered frame exudes authority, the kind that commands attention without effort. He's dressed sharply in a dark three-piece suit, the pinstripes faint but visible in the stark contrast of black and white. A neatly knotted tie lies against his crisp white shirt, and a pocket square adds a touch of refinement. His hair, dark and thick, is combed back meticulously, a streak of silver catching the light at his temples. His square jaw is clean-shaven, and his expression carries the practiced warmth of a politician addressing his constituents. One hand rests on the podium, the other raised mid-gesture, frozen in the act of emphasizing a point to his audience.

Standing beside him, slightly to the left, is a woman. Her presence, though secondary in the composition, is hard to ignore. She's young, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties, with a graceful air that matches the dignified setting. Her long hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, dark enough to appear nearly black in the photo. She's dressed appropriately for the occasion in a tailored dress that cinches at the waist and falls to mid-calf, the subtle pattern of the fabric visible even in the muted tones of the photograph. She wears a simple string of pearls around her neck, and her hands are clasped neatly in front of her. Her smile is poised and polite, the kind that looks effortless but deliberate, as if trained for public appearances.

The two figures are framed perfectly within the shot, their expressions open and inviting. The backdrop of the community center gives the scene a sense of hopefulness, the kind that photographers and editors eat up for headlines.

The article beneath the photograph delves into the details. It highlights the new mayor's promise to address the city's growing poverty problem in the wake of the war. The Westside Relief and Community Center, Freeman's first major initiative since taking office, is described as a resource hub for the city's underprivileged, offering services like job placement assistance, food distribution, and free health clinics. The text is optimistic, almost glowing in its praise for Freeman's efforts to unify Chicago during a time of transition.

I glance between the article and the photograph, taking in every detail. Something about the woman beside Freeman feels familiar, but I can't quite place it. I frown, my eyes narrowing as I commit the scene to memory.

Dawson steps closer, her sharp eyes scanning the article and the photograph with meticulous focus. She doesn't say anything at first, but I can see the gears turning in her head. My own gaze flicks between the woman in the photograph and the body lying cold on the table. The resemblance grows stronger with every glance—the curve of the jawline, the shape of the nose, the length of the hair. The more I look, the harder it is to ignore.

"You believe our Jane Doe is Evelyn Parker, the mayor's assistant?" I ask, breaking the heavy silence.

Dawson's head tilts slightly. "You know the mayor's assistant?"

I nod, keeping my eyes on the photograph. "I voted for Freeman," I admit, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Even attended a few of his rallies. Evelyn Parker was always by his side, taking notes or coordinating his appearances. If you asked me to swear on it, I'd say our Jane Doe is her."

Dawson exhales softly, her expression somewhere between disbelief and realization. "Damn," she mutters, crossing her arms as she studies the lifeless body again.

"Thank you, Doctor Kindle," I say, turning my attention to him. "Is there anything else you discovered?"

Kindle nods gravely. "There is," he replies, walking back to his desk. He picks up a manila envelope, holding it between his fingers as he returns. "The contents of this envelope were found in her stomach during the autopsy."

My brow furrows as I take the envelope from him, noting its slight weight. Whatever is inside feels small but solid. There's also a faint greenish stain on one corner of the paper, a sickly hue that speaks of the harsh processes the contents endured. "Digestive fluid," I mutter to myself, running my thumb over the stain before pulling out my leather gloves and slipping them on.

"Let's see what we've got," I say, sliding the envelope open carefully. Inside is a small, lumpy object wrapped in what looks like a crumpled piece of paper. The paper's edges are damp, stained with that same pale green residue. I pull it out gently, holding it up as Dawson leans in, her curiosity obvious.

I unwrap the paper, the damp folds peeling apart to reveal a small brass key. Its surface gleams faintly under the fluorescent light, though the metal is dulled in places, likely from its time inside the victim's stomach. The key is unmarked, devoid of any engravings or numbers, but its design is intricate. A series of notches and grooves run along the shaft, each one cut with precise angles. The bow is a simple oval, smooth and utilitarian, attached to a plain metal ring. No logos, no serial numbers—just a key meant to open something very specific.

Dawson whistles low under her breath. "Looks like someone didn't want this falling into the wrong hands."

I nod, setting the key aside carefully. My attention turns to the paper that had been wrapped around it. The ink on the paper has bled into the damp fibers, warped by moisture, but a few words remain legible. I squint, holding it closer to the light.

"Lucius Rimscar is..." The sentence trails off abruptly, the remaining text too smudged to read. Large streaks of ink blur whatever came next, leaving me with nothing but a partial phrase and frustration.

I read it aloud. "Lucius Rimscar is..."

Dawson frowns, leaning in. "Is what? That's it?"

"That's all that's legible," I reply, flipping the paper over as if the answer might be hidden on the other side. It's blank, damp, and useless. I set it down with a sigh. "The rest is too smudged to make out."

"So, we've got a key and half a clue," Dawson mutters, crossing her arms. "Who's Lucius Rimscar?"

"Good question," I reply, glancing between the key and the note. "And what does he have to do with Evelyn Parker?"

Kindle clears his throat, drawing our attention. "If I were you, Detective," he says, his tone even, "I'd start with Lucius Rimscar."

I nod slowly, pocketing the envelope. "Thanks, Doc," I say. "You've been a great help."

"Just doing my job," Kindle replies, his sharp eyes following me as I glance back at the Jane Doe. Evelyn Parker, or whoever she really is, just became a whole lot more than a victim.

The chill of the early morning air greets us as we step outside, biting through the thin fabric of my coat. The street is eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of paper caught in the wind and the distant hum of a streetcar. A faint mist hangs low over the pavement, softening the sharp lines of the buildings and muting the flicker of a neon sign advertising an all-night diner across the way. The streetlights cast pools of weak light, their glow reflecting off the wet patches of asphalt from last night's drizzle.

Dawson walks beside me, her shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. Her face is set in a tight expression, her lips pressed into a thin line. I can tell she's not thrilled by the prospect of what comes next. Neither of us is going home anytime soon, and the weight of that realization hangs heavy in the space between us.

I glance at her sidelong. "Let's turn this in and then grab some coffee," I suggest, my breath visible in the cold as I speak. I feel it too—that bone-deep fatigue mixed with the growing determination to see this case through.

Dawson sighs, her breath fogging the air. "Sounds like a plan," she mutters, though her tone lacks enthusiasm.

The drive to the precinct is short, the city sliding by in shades of gray. The streets are mostly deserted, save for the occasional figure hurrying home or starting an early shift. The hum of the engine fills the silence between us, a steady backdrop to our individual thoughts.

We pull into the precinct lot, the building looming before us, its utilitarian brick façade lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. Inside, the atmosphere is subdued but busy. The late-night shift occupies the desks, a mix of tired faces and sharp-eyed vigilance. I nod at a few familiar officers as we walk in, their haggard expressions mirrored in my own reflection on a nearby window. These are the guys I've spent too many all-nighters with, the ones who know the grind all too well.

I hand the manila envelope and the small glass container to Dawson. "Hold onto these," I tell her. "I'll grab what we need to box this up."

She nods, heading toward the evidence intake desk while I make my way to the equipment room. The narrow hallway leading there feels longer than usual, the fluorescent lights overhead casting sharp, cold shadows. Inside, I find a stack of evidence boxes—plain, sturdy, and utilitarian. I grab one, the corrugated cardboard rough against my hands, and head back toward the dispatch area.

At the dispatch desk, the officer on duty looks up, bleary-eyed but alert enough to recognize me. "Cole," he greets with a faint nod.

"Morning, Jackson," I reply. "I need you to contact Mayor Freeman's office. Set up a meeting as soon as possible."

Jackson raises an eyebrow but doesn't question it. "Will do. Give me a few minutes."

I nod, leaving him to his task as I return to the office. Dawson is already there, standing near my desk. The pictures from the crime scene have been developed, laid out in neat rows across the surface. The stark black-and-white images are crisp and unflinching, capturing every detail of the alleyway where Evelyn Parker—or the Jane Doe—was found. Blood spatter, the positioning of the body, the discarded bullet casings—it's all there, a grim puzzle waiting to be pieced together.

I set the evidence box on the desk and begin organizing the photos and notes into the case file. I don't include her identity just yet. That has to be confirmed first—protocol demands it. Dawson returns a moment later, balancing two mugs of steaming coffee.

"Figured we'd need these," she says, handing one to me.

I accept it gratefully, taking a tentative sip. The taste is as awful as ever—bitter, burnt, and vaguely metallic—but right now, I'll take whatever caffeine I can get. "Thanks," I say, placing the mug down as I lay out the evidence we've gathered so far, arranging it alongside the crime scene photos.

I stand over the desk, staring at the array of crime scene photographs laid out like pieces of a puzzle. My eyes linger on one image: the Jane Doe sprawled in the alley, her lifeless body illuminated by the harsh flash of the camera. I tap the edge of the photo, the faint thup-thup breaking the silence.

"Our victim came from a club," I begin, my tone measured but heavy. "Look at the state of her shoes. Worn but polished, like she danced all night. Her dress—high-end, fitted, not something she'd wear casually. She was there to be seen."

Dawson steps closer, her gaze narrowing as she studies the photo. "Makes sense. A place like the Tower Room or maybe The Peacock Club."

"Exactly." I tap another photo, this one of the Jane Doe's face. "She must have been followed. Maybe she realized it and ran. But her pursuer caught up to her." I pause, tracing the trajectory of the bullets in my mind. "Bang. Bang. Bang."

Dawson flinches slightly at the verbal reenactment, but I continue. "Before she got shot—or maybe during—she swallows this key and note." I reach for the small glass container and hold it up, the key gleaming faintly inside. "That's not spur-of-the-moment thinking. She knew what she was doing, knew she had to keep this from whoever was after her."

"And the murder weapon," I continue, setting the container down, "isn't just any gun. It's a specialty weapon, used for shooting competitions. Precise. Professional. This wasn't some junky with a cheap piece of scrap metal. The killer knew what they were doing."

"And then what?" Dawson prompts, her arms crossed as she studies the photos.

I gesture to another image of the alleyway. "Her body is moved here. Not dumped in some backwoods spot or the lake where it'd never be found. But here, where the morning garbage truck would pick her up in a few hours."

I pause, sighing heavily.

"What's wrong?" Dawson asks, her voice soft but tinged with curiosity.

I run a hand through my hair, the fatigue catching up with me. "Just a feeling," I reply. "If they wanted to get rid of her, they could've done it a hundred different ways. Hid her body. Weighted her down and tossed her in the lake. Something that would keep her from being found. But this..." I tap the photograph again. "This wasn't that. Her body was moved—poorly staged, even—to make it look like a robbery gone wrong."

Dawson's brows knit together. "What are you suggesting?"

I glance at her, my expression serious. "That the murderer wanted her body to be found."

Her lips part slightly in surprise, then press into a tight line. "Why would someone do that?"

I lean back, crossing my arms. "Maybe as a sick game. Lay out just the right amount of breadcrumbs for us to follow. Lead us to dead ends, waste our time."

Dawson considers this, her gaze drifting back to the photos. "That's one hell of a game," she mutters.

The shrill ring of the desk phone cuts through the tense air, startling both of us. I snatch up the receiver. "Cole."

"It's dispatch," comes the voice on the other end. "The mayor will see you at seven."

I nod, even though they can't see me. "Thanks, Jackson." I hang up and turn to Dawson. "We'll be seeing the mayor at seven."

She glances at the clock on the wall. "What time is it now?"

I check my wristwatch. "Five fourteen."

Dawson exhales, the frustration creeping back into her posture. "Great. Enough time to think about how tired I am."

I crack a faint smile. "Let's grab a bite to eat before we go. If we're going to chase breadcrumbs, we might as well do it on a full stomach."

Dawson smirks faintly, grabbing her coat. "Fine. But you're buying."

"Deal," I reply, slipping my hat on as we head out into the Chicago morning, ready to face whatever the day throws at us.