D.R.T.

I don't know how long we stared at each other as my anger started to wane. One minute? Three? Five? I do know that the food arrived before I was able to think clearly and rationally again.

"Some bastards left my wife there. Some bastard wanted me to see that, they left it for me to see. Whatever they wanted, that was more important than my wife's dignity, than my... than being a fucking human being." I rarely swore. It wasn't unknown, but I'd kept my language professional in my career, if for no other reason than to make sure that the families who might be nearby would never have doubt as to the calm, cold truth leading to justice I'd always pursued. I breathed in. I exhaled. I breathed in again.

"I don't have anything concrete. Bree... my wife was a bit distant lately. Maybe five, six months ago, we started talking again about adopting. Bree didn't say why, when it came around, but it was about two months after Johnson was killed by the kid that she started getting moody. I think... I think she was starting to feel that stress again. I haven't had a beat in over a decade and a half; it was hard for her back then, but she soldiered through it. But that was when her folks were alive. Now... well, she's got a sister, living in Cleveland. And me. If something happens to me, that's it, that's her life. I think she was thinking about it because we always said it was still possible, and she was worried about being alone. I had kind of made up my mind that if she was still serious, at the end of the summer we'd do it, start the process. I hadn't told her that, though. I wanted to see how she was after things had calmed down again. And now... now it's too late."

Brian looked embarrassed when he asked the question. "Did you... did you suspect she might be stepping out? Did you have a clue?"

"I... I don't know that she was. For all I know, that was blackmail or rape. I just don't know. But a clue? Only that she was moody, that she was withdrawn. But those could be attributed to so many things, and one big one that was much more prominent than the idea she might be cheating on me, or about to. And no, I have no clue who Thornton was. Never heard of him."

I had hoped they would share on that news, but all I got was a "humph" from Bill on that statement. Charles Thornton was as much a man of mystery to me at the moment as when I'd looked at his ID card.

The pair looked at each other and dug into their food while the thoughts of what we'd discussed, and the mystery of the case enveloped me like a thick black coat. It stank, stank with the smell of corruption, betrayal, disloyalty, murder. Somehow, I didn't know how, but somehow I knew. It was all related. The IA investigation. The murders. Bree's moodiness. The irregular, probably borderline illegal, search. Thornton. All of them were pieces of a puzzle, a puzzle that someone didn't want solved. A puzzle a lot of folks who knew me and respected me desperately wanted to solve, for me, for themselves, for all of us.

Something wasn't right in the department. Something was very, very wrong. And it swirled around me, the eye of the storm, buffeted by the winds around me but safe enough at the moment. But woe unto me if I breached the walls of the storm.

I now had something to sink my teeth into, something grab to help work out the pain I was under.

In that diner, I dug into that meal now spread before me, a starving man.

- - -

I began my work later that evening. I went online, and tried to find out everything I could about the late Mr. Thornton. Without department resources, I was much more limited in what I could find, but I also had the ability to pull in a few favors from a couple of ex-Cops who now worked as P. I.s. I wouldn't have been able to easily use them in my official duties, but this wasn't official; I was off the case, even forbidden from working it, as well as on paid leave.

My searches were easy enough, I suppose. Thornton was a local man who owned and managed a clothing store in Ford City Mall. And that was about it. I couldn't find his marital status, his age (though I knew he was a few years younger than I from his ID), income, address. I couldn't find much. So I called perhaps the closest friend I actually had, Larry Edwards, one of those ex-Cops turned P. I.s.

After giving him what info I had, Larry agreed to meet me the following morning, Sunday, at Stella's Diner. In the meantime, I'd have to stew, again, with my thoughts.

It was an odd night. I craved other people, for the first time in a while. But I also felt withdrawn, anxious, at the thought of other people. I'd cleared up the initial funeral arrangements for Bree, pending the release of her body and scheduling. I'd handled the initial calls to insurance, called her work and left a message about what happened. I'd even broken down and went to buy clean underwear, arriving back at the Marriott to find my suitcases had been released and delivered to the hotel an hour earlier.

But that night. I couldn't sleep, couldn't rest, couldn't think. I needed noise, I needed quiet. I needed work.

So work, I did. If I couldn't do my forensics, I could at least investigate what I did know. So I started going through our bank records, our charge card records, cell phone records and house phone records. I knew I wouldn't be the only person pouring through those records, but I also knew that I needed something to do, something to focus on.

The question I needed to answer was "How did Charles Thornton know Bree?"

I found the first clue in the credit card records. Eight months ago, there had been a charge, $237.64, at the store that Thornton ran. Bree wasn't a clothes horse, though she did like to dress nice, and bought new outfits occasionally. I couldn't think of any new outfits that I recalled from that time right off, but I hadn't been paying too much attention. Wyatt Johnson, a promising young African American officer only a year out of the academy, had been called in on a report of a teenager acting unusually and causing a disturbance. His shooting death by the troubled teen hopped up on Meth and Ecstasy had hit the department hard. Johnson had left a young widow, and the bodycam showed teen had turned the pistol on himself a moment later. It was senseless, but it didn't stop the entire department from mobilizing as one to try to take down the supply chain. I had helped identify the cook of the specific batch of X that the kid had used. I didn't know the full results of the investigation, as it was still going on, but it had already resulted in six arrests.

Until the moodiness had started up, I'd been so busy trying to help nail the entire supply chain that I had not paid attention to Bree after that, not until it intruded by distancing us. So I hadn't paid much attention to new clothes. But the timing was right; the clothes had been bought two days after the shooting, two days before the funeral. Bree had most likely bought the outfit she wore to Johnson's funeral on that charge. That was likely how she first came into contact with Charles Thornton.

The next morning, I was at Stella's early, my lunch yesterday having been my only meal since Friday morning's quick breakfast. I was just ordering The Gypsy and black coffee when Larry showed up. Hearing me, he ordered The Hobo and coffee as he sat. Attempting to try to pull me out of my obvious mood, as the waitress walked away, the big black man added, grinning, "And why do you have to get racist and say 'black coffee' every time we get together?"

"And why did you always used to say you liked your coffee light and Colombian, like your woman? Seems to me, you started those jokes. But black coffee isn't racist, and you know it" I gently riposted back.

His half smile lasted a few seconds before moving into an expression of concern. "Rob, are you holding it together? This... your situation seems to have hit the entire force harder even than last year. All of my contacts inside are saying that it's the biggest case the force is working on right now. And you're just sidelined."

"My team... Sharon Harper's team is working it. They were doing the CSI work Friday. So it's a bit difficult. Most of the folks I would have turned to, or the work I would have done... well, that's all out of my reach at the moment. So no, I'm not really holding it together well. I'm too caught in my own head, I think."

The coffee arrived, giving us a moment of silence. Larry began adding too much sweetener to his coffee while we thought. Me, I just stared at the mug in front of me before pouring a mug full from the carafe the waitress had left on the table. After a moment, Larry sighed, pulled out his phone to look up a contact.

"Here, I want you to call her; she's my Psychiatrist, so she's under the old doctor-patient confidentiality thing. I think you need to talk with someone. The problem is, I don't want you talking with me. We can talk, sure, but I can be forced to repeat anything you say. So, ask me for help finding out something, I'll help. I'll buy you a beer. I'll do what you need. But whatever is going on, it's a one way street for now, okay? Call her." Larry wrote the information on a napkin; it was awkward not having a cell. "And for god's sake, get yourself a cell phone until they release yours. I may need to call you, you know. A lot of your friends are worried about you."

I smiled, softly, at my old friend. Growing up, Larry and I had been sometimes seemingly unlikely friends, as we had always played on the opposite teams in Little League and High School. His father, a firefighter, and mine, a cop, had had a friendship even older, dating to their own youths; the 1960s, however, had made them fast friends. Larry and I had naturally ended up casual friends as well, something that had grown when he came over to the Blue side. And now Larry was helping me through the most difficult moment in my life.

"So, what were you able to find for me?" I asked gently.

"There's an investigation on you. I don't know why, but there is. Someone, somewhere, is trying like hell to keep that investigation separate from Bree's death. I don't know why, but it's odd; whoever is doing it is trying to get the two teams as far as possible from each other. Nobody can figure out why, but the team investigating you has been told, as I understand, not to cooperate with the team investigating the murders. I actually was able to get closer to seeing the big picture, at least as I see it. I had a side talk with Bill Turner, told him who to talk with to try to get around that barrier."

"Brian Rosen and Bill Turner got together with me yesterday for lunch. They had heard rumors of an investigation, but didn't know more than that. Except that someone executed a sealed search warrant on my house Thursday. Bree and Thornton were dead since at least Thursday morning, and probably since Wednesday sometime before 8:00 in the evening."

"Jesus Christ! Are you telling me..." Larry trailed off. I nodded.

"Yeah, I wasn't the first person to find the bodies. But the person or persons left them for me to find the next day. Keep that in your hat for the moment."

"Any idea what they were looking for?" Larry asked. Before I could answer, however, he said "Don't answer that. I don't want to know."

"No, and I want you to know I have no idea."

"Okay. So, then, I can give you some info. Thornton owned a woman's clothing business at Ford City Mall, and worked as the normal manager. Thornton's business did well, but he did better. I'm not sure what his numbers are, but he had a one bedroom at the Aqua, on Lakeshore, plus a pretty nice place in Streeterville. How a clothes store manager can afford Streeterville and the Aqua, I don't know. And that's after he's paying maintenance on an ex-wife and child support for two kids. He's got some coin."

"Inherited?"

"No. Supposedly a self-made man. Perhaps emphasis on 'made'?" Larry observed.

"Any known ties, then?"

"Not that I've found. Yet. But... if he and Bree were having an affair, that would perhaps explain both parts of what's going on. You might be compromised by blackmail. Bree may have just been an innocent... well, not innocent, but a victim of an end of employment contract for Thornton."

I pondered that thought for a moment. I wasn't sure that solved the mystery of why Bree was with Thornton, but it did potentially solve the motive for her death. "If that's true, then who was he in bed with? Besides the obvious." It hurt when I made the inadvertent pun. "And... could that be the real reason for the Search Warrant?"

"Not sure. As for the who, I've got a few questions out among some of my old contacts. So far, none have gotten back with me. And I've got the ear of a few of yours and my friends on the Force. You aren't going to get anything from the direct approach; I imagine Rosen and Turner wish they could actually have you helping, but... well, you know they can't. But that doesn't mean I can't have a few beers with Brian and Bill. If we happen to talk shop while shooting the shit... well. Nothing IA can say about that. At least not directly. But you... you're radioactive somehow."

"This is the first solid bit of news I've heard, though. So it helps. Thanks, Larry."

"No problem. I'll keep working this as long as I can."

"How much do I owe you? We never agreed on a price." I asked.

"Let's see, you pick up the tab here... and every time we meet. And at the end, you and I finish this case at Gibson's Steakhouse. We'll get a few guys together, crack open a few bottles of Bourbon from the bar, and you pick up the tab for the steaks and booze. It's a hell of a lot less than I charge for any other case, but for you... Maybe I need to pick up the tab for the booze. Then we'd just about be even. You still pay for those steaks, though!" Larry laughed.

We spent the next thirty minutes catching up... well, catching up with what was going on in Larry's life. For me, it was obvious that I was in a bad time, and even a bad frame of mind. Larry didn't seem to mind; he probably felt that it was a challenge, to try to put a few rays of sunlight into my day and into my thoughts. At the end, I paid the bill, we shook hands, and as we were starting to leave, Larry grabbed the napkin that I had left on the table. "Call her. If you don't, I may need to charge full price. And if I do, then you'll really need her." I pocketed the napkin.

I walked across Broadway to the CVS a half block down and bought a cheap cell phone. I didn't know how long I'd need it, but these days, I knew I did. After activating it, I immediately texted Larry the number; after a moment's thought, I also texted Brian and Bill's cell phones with the number. If they needed, or wanted, to get hold of me, they would be able to during the interim before my phone was released.

Thinking about it, I realized that I had made a mistake turning my phone in. At the time, I hadn't known about the IA investigation. As such, turning in my phone would be simple; they'd do a routine sweep, then pull the video off. The video was the only evidence useful, and it wasn't so much evidence as an account of what I observed. I had more or less expected it back by today. However, with the IA investigation, things were a bit different. Now that it was in custody, IA would be loathe to release it. If I was an actual suspect, they'd want to get a warrant and search it for any evidence; even if I wasn't, they'd want to hold on to it for as long as possible, "just in case".

I took an Uber over to Ford City Mall, to see what I could see at the mall. I was looking through the directory listings when I heard him. "You don't want to be here, Rob. Go back to your hotel. We've got this for you."

I recognized Sean's voice immediately. Turning, looked at him. "You've got... what? What, Sean? I hear I'm under investigation. I hear there was a search of my house Thursday." Sean's eyes got big at that. "I hear..."

"Yeah, you hear. And so have I. Which is why you cannot be here. I was hoping you hadn't heard the rumor. It's... bad. Makes the whole department look bad." Sighing, he lowered his head a bit. "Ok. Come on, Rob, I think I owe you breakfast..."

"Just came from Stella's." I stared at him with a dead look in my eyes as I said it.

"Ok, then how about lunch? Go over to Potbelly or something."

"Little early for lunch." I answered, watching him squirm a bit.

"Damn it, Rob. Let me buy you a coffee and we can sit for a few minutes." I let him off the hook.

"Lead the way."

We ended up in the food court with two cups of Mickey D's finest Colombian. As I sat, waiting for it to cool, I stared at Sean. After a moment, he looked away.

"I don't know all the details. What I do know is this. When Johnson was shot and killed, the upper brass went nuts. Murder capitol of the world... we couldn't even protect our own. The kid, he was a nothing, a dead end. But the meth he had on him... it wasn't run of the mill stuff. Something different. And a lot of folks blamed it on the drugs. A lot of folks high up. So the Narcotics squad has been given a lot of rein to go after the dealers, but most importantly, the suppliers."

"Thornton was involved, then. Which level?"

"Both, but discretely. He only handled certain customers, and he pushed it to his dealers to move the bulk."

"His store? And Ford City Mall seems an odd place to push meth."

"More than just meth. We think that he supplied certain drugs at the store. But only to a select few. We also think that, maybe, he works to get certain folks hooked from the store. Gives them a dose, maybe with their knowledge, maybe not."

"Bree. After Johnson's death, she bought clothes at his store..." I realized.

"No one knows for sure. Thornton wasn't on anybody's radar when Johnson was shot. We didn't pick up on him for four, maybe five months. But yeah... the wife of the head of the CSI department would be a bit of a coup if he could control you through her. He's the guy making sure she gets what she needs. She finds some way of getting info from you, or getting you turned."

"Doesn't explain the sex."

"By the time they twigged Thornton... I'm sorry Rob. They were already... it was too late to stop Bree from having sex with him. We don't know when, or how, it started, but she's been seeing him at least three times a week for four months that we know of."

I stared at him as once again, my world collapsed around me. Bree had been knowingly cheating on me. She had been doing it for months. It wasn't rape, it wasn't a one time indiscretion. She'd been stabbing me in the back, and now in the heart, for months. Yet, at that same time, she'd been begging me to agree to the adoption. Sure, maybe she had been basically forced at first.... but she could have come to me.

"Rob... I don't want this to come between us, but I have to ask, as your friend first... are you clean? Are your shirt tails clean?"

I glowered at him, and I could see him shrink back, not from fear, but the unfamiliar sight of pain in my eyes. "My first inkling anything was wrong was when I couldn't get hold of Bree by telephone while I was in Atlanta. That's it. Everything since... you know more than I. Which begs the question..." I suddenly angered, "when, exactly, did you learn this information?"

"Last night, I swear, Rob, they read me in last night. I shouldn't be talking with you... this may end up causing me to take an early retirement. But they only read me in last night."

"Who were the sons and daughters of bitches that left Bree and Thornton for me to find, then?"

"I don't know. I was appalled when that came out. It was glossed over, but I pulled them back to it, forced them to admit that they'd seen the bodies on Thursday."

"Jesus, does Capone still run the damn city? Who? Who read you in, then?" My voice attracted a lot of attention as my anger built.