Trapped

TWENTY

David Tennon returned to his desk in the back of the District One stationhouse with a second cup of coffee and a few Tums.

His digestive system didn't agree with the third shift life. The hours were a young man's game. And of course the coffee didn't help matters. But he needed it.

He had Homicide's files about Julian Maxwell in a mess across his desk. He was hoping a break would have done him some good. A little while back he had stood outside the building, brooding like an old-fashioned movie detective, smoking the rare cigarette he allowed for himself on cases like this, and tried to clear his head.

But nothing seemed clearer when he came back. He had been hoping for another movie detective moment where from out of all that paperwork a name or some information would jump out at him with all the bells and whistles. Clue right here! Killer!

Homicide's files were all pretty cursory stuff, nothing at all that dug back into the NTX chemical plant days. The case was a stone-cold whodunit. The killer was a ghost. Physical evidence, witnesses, confession—the trinity of putting a case down—were nowhere to be found.

All that was unique was a note in the autopsy report about the knife used to stab Maxwell to death. It was a very specific, wave-bladed dagger, not at all with the typical curves one would find on a kitchen knife or a hunting knife. Homicide had tried recreating the exact shape to track the purchase, but came up empty.

But find that knife, and it was a fair bet that the owner was the killer.

Tennon had to wonder, if this did have something to do with the plant, why would the killer have waited this long?

He spent more time in his own old files, and notes from others back during that time. Field interview cards of suspects who threatened the company, and known rabble-rousers during the protests. Arrest reports of those who were actually brought in. Those with family that got sick or died.

He ran through histories at the computer terminal on his floor. Over the course of a few hours he came up with a small handful of names that could fit the bill. Arrest report. F.I. card. Known threats. Sick family.

It was a long shot. Tennon doubted a connection. But if he worked it hard enough, maybe that transfer would still be there for him regardless of the case being put down or not. Day shift, Homicide.

He doubted it. An old partner from years ago, long since retired, used to tell him to just keep his head down and put in a clean twenty years. The department will use you up like a number two pencil, he liked to say. Don't be a hero.

But all ambitions aside, Tennon liked the job enough to put in the effort regardless of what they did. There were still leads—like the newspaper clipping found with Maxwell's body. Clear focus on NTX, the chemical plant, Maxwell's involvement.

And that newspaper clipping stopped him. Big-time Justice Department lawyer Harvey McKenna had not mentioned the clipping found at the scene when they talked, and he seemed to know everything about the case already.

If McKenna's theory about an inside job was correct, there would have been no need for that newspaper clipping. Unless it was meant to divert attention, make everyone think it was a revenge play. Possible, though to Tennon it still seemed too out there.

From underneath all his papers, he pulled out the thick file McKenna had given him on NTX's private security guys. A big federal seal with fancy insignias that read CLASSIFIED stared up at him.

Tennon sighed, took another sip of coffee, and opened the file.