If you don't drop the federal grand jury indictment against War Supplies Corporation by midnight, your niece won't leave this precinct alive, the police officer whispered, pressing his service re...
The cold metallic clang of the Fifth Precinct’s back door echoed through the damp basement. Agent Brody led a team of Federal Marshals, their faces grim, their service revolvers unholstered but held at rest. I walked behind them, every step a conscious effort to keep my rage in check.
“Records room is this way, sir,” Brody said, pointing down a narrow, ill-lit corridor that smelled of stale sweat and mildew. “Officer Callahan’s desk is usually right outside.”
We found Callahan there, leaning back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, casually filing his nails. He didn’t even look up when he heard us.
“Federal search warrant, Callahan,” Brody announced, holding up the official document. “We’re seizing all arrest logs for the past forty-eight hours, specifically regarding Clara Pendelton.”
Callahan slowly lowered his hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “Arrest logs? Didn’t get the memo, Marshal? We had a little ‘fire incident’ down here.”
He gestured vaguely toward a heavy steel door at the far end of the corridor. From behind it, I could hear a faint, rhythmic whooshing sound, like a large bellows.
“Fire incident?” I stepped forward, my voice dangerously low. “What kind of fire incident, Callahan?”
He finally looked at me, his eyes devoid of emotion. “Just a routine cleanup, Mr. Pendelton. Got a little backed up with old paperwork. Didn’t want the place getting cluttered for the next shift.”
Brody pushed past him, heading straight for the steel door. “Open it, Callahan.”
Callahan just shrugged. “No need. It’s just the furnace room. Where we dispose of all the… paper waste.”
Brody didn’t wait. He yanked the heavy handle and pulled the door open. A wave of suffocating heat and acrid smoke billowed out, stinging my eyes and throat.
Inside, a hulking, soot-stained furnace roared, its belly glowing with an orange inferno. And on the floor around it, scattered haphazardly, were the charred remains of bound ledgers. Thick, leather-bound books, their pages reduced to crispy black flakes.
I saw fragments of handwriting, partially legible dates, then just ash.
Brody picked up a half-burnt page, examining it. “These are official precinct records,” he said, his voice hard. “And they’ve been deliberately incinerated.”
“Under whose orders, Callahan?” I demanded, my voice shaking with a cold fury.
Callahan finally stood, his face a mask of casual defiance. “Captain Gallagher issued a standing order this morning. Clear out all ‘expired’ documentation. Said we needed to make space for the new system.”
He pointed to a stack of fresh, blank ledgers on a nearby shelf. “Just being efficient, Mr. Pendelton. War effort, you know.”
The furnace continued its roar, devouring the last remnants of what could have been crucial evidence. Not just Clara’s arrest, but potentially dozens of other illegal detentions, all gone, swallowed by the flames.
Tommy wasn’t just pulling strings. He was actively erasing every trace of his operation, burning the very foundation of due process to protect his syndicate.
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