If You'll Believe In Me

After an hour of email and budgeting overtime, I decide to walk the office and see the progress of cases. Kaiser is working with Detective Ingrid Hazel on a domestic assault case. The case board for the murder has some new information I haven't been briefed on. They still haven't found the sniper rifle. The assassin had two handguns; a SIG P266 and a Berretta NANO she concealed at her ankle. To round out her kit she also had a Chris Reeve knife. We also found one expended M84 stun grenade. I had to deal with Chase being nauseous all night because of it.

Black plate carrier with ammunition chest rack. That is our only indication of what rifle she could have used. On her person we found one twenty round magazine of 7.62x51mm NATO rounds. There is a long list of rifles compatible with that cartridge.

Chase said this woman was highly trained. Special Operations level of lethality. She is so proficient we don't know conclusively where she made that shot from. My money is that she sanitized it before leaving, which is why Chase was able to catch her. She took time to clean up the place and ditch the weapon. Where the hell is that rifle?

As I examine the murder board, I see Heath from the CSI lab enter with a folder. I have noticed when the CSI lab finds something potentially crucial, they come in person to brief the preliminary findings. Or they ask us to come to the basement.

"Something new?" I ask Heath who nods. Midge and Jeff both hear me, so begin to migrate over. "What do you have?"

"Only one round fired toward the courthouse stayed intact. Likely the first one. The second, fourth, and fifth shattered, while the third we never found. The one I could recover, I can confidently say seven-six-two," he explains.

"Anything else?" Jeff asks. That kind of information only helps a prosecutor. Digging after an ammunition purchase is too much of a haystack.

"The ammunition we pulled off her, all reloads," he says, and extends the file out. Midge and Jeff both reach at the same time, but Midge forgot about her belly and leans back after a brief struggle.

"Reloads?" Midge asks.

"Reused shell casings to make her bullets. Her seven-six-two, and her parabellum, were all reloads. Crimping gives it away," he explains, then points to the pictures he had printed. Jeff hands it off to Midge who examines it next.

"What do you think that means?" I ask.

"The only brass we found was from her handgun, not the rifle. She cleaned that brass up before trying to get away. Like the rifle itself, not there. That tells me she is either a sport shooting enthusiast, or a professional killer. We're still trying to identify her tattoos."

"Where did she take the shot from?" I ask.

"Chief is thinking third floor, second to left window. She preemptively saturated every room facing the courthouse with cleaning chemicals on the second and third floors. We're going off chemical dissipation to get this conclusion, and general angle trajectory. Half decent defense attorney can pick that assessment apart." That's not a coincidence.

"You were saying about tattoos?" I ask, and he requests that Midge flip to some pictures in the back.

"Her clothing obscures some of them, but she is significantly inked. We can only record the ones we can plainly see. Need a warrant for a full body examination. I have only seen this kind of ink on organized crime. This case, I'd say Russian," Heath explains, and I order them to get a warrant.

"Russian, or Soviet?" Midge asks, and Heath turns his entire body to her. "Our Lithuanian witness had tats as well. Couldn't see them in detail, but he had them. Owner of the Pub is Georgian. Lithuania and Georgia, both former Soviet."

"I'm not a Russian crime expert," Heath says, resisting the urge to make assumptions with charisma just to impress us. Being able to say 'I don't know' is healthy.

Midge hands me the pictures of her tattoos. Her hands are colored, as are her arms until they crawl up her sleeve and out of view. There appears to be rings tattooed on her fingers, as well as Russian letters on the back of her left hand. It looks like barbed wire is wrapped up her left arm, and a snarling leopard is on her forearm. On the back of her right hand is a grinning Cheshire cat wearing the Hatter's hat. Her right bicep is partially obscured, but I can see the point of a blade with several drops of blood dripping.

"Do we know what these mean?" I ask, and Heath shakes his head.

"I'd recommend sending them to the FBI. Look at her hand, that script is Cyrillic. Russian. I did a little research, and the cat makes me assume Russian organized crime," Heath says. What the hell does a cat have to do with anything?

"I'll just trust you on that. Thanks," I say, and he quietly dismisses himself. "Tattoo warrant, now."

"Is that even a thing?" Midge asks.

"Call legal, find out," I say, then return to my office.

--

Tuesday -- October 13, 2026

-Derek Whitaker-

I hate my days when my officers are in the midst of a high-profile murder case. Not because of the victim, but because of the circumstances. I start and end my day with a presser, which means full blues and stars and my stoic face as I try not to tear apart reporters who ask stupid questions. Election years make it worse because Maxwell is up my ass more than he usually is.

After this morning's presser, I enter my office and immediately dress down to my suit. I place my uniform neatly on hangers and return to my desk when my phone rings.

"Jared?"

"You have an unscheduled visitor sir," he says, and I pause for a moment. "He says his name is Wallace Trapper."

My least favorite campaign advisor. He stopped by my office, along with several other campaign surrogates, several times in the last few months to convince me into endorsing a candidate for mayor. I gave them all the same answer; no. I am not politician, and I have no interests in getting involved, even to endorse someone.

"Let him in," I say. Let's just get it over with.

Wallace is a white-haired gentlemen with a portly body squeezed into a suit too small. Talks fast and can convince a stripper to tip him for the conversation. Thankfully, I am not a stripper.

"My opinion hasn't changed," I say from my desk as he walks in and has a seat.

"Mine has," he says, and I raise my eyebrows. "This election is going to be a disaster."

"When your candidate is caught in an affair with his daughter's cheerleading team, that tends to happen," I say. They were eighteen, so the most we investigated was if they were underaged at any point of the affair. Peter Nicce isn't completely stupid, at a bare minimum.

"My former client. That's choice A. Choice B is the incumbent who wrongfully convicted five men in a single year. And likely covered up the fact his nephew murdered a girl. Those are the options right now; a corrupt politician and a pedophile."

"And you want me to endorse one of them?" I ask.

"No. Like I said, former client, and my opinion has changed. What the city needs, is a dark horse," Wallace says, and suddenly I realize why he's here. He wants me to be an independent candidate.

"Firstly, I'm not a politician. Secondly, what the hell makes you think I'm a viable candidate less than a month away. Am I even eligible?" I ask.

"You let me worry about that, I wouldn't be here if you were ineligible. You wouldn't ask those questions if you weren't interested," he replies. He is good, but I still doubt I would have a chance if I were interested.

"You already jump off Nicce's ship?" I ask, and he confirms a third time. "I'm not viable."

"I've been doing a bunch of focus groups, to gauge public perception. When asked Maxwell, Nicce, or anyone else, seventy percent of respondents said anyone else. When asked to decide amongst a group of possible contenders, I added your name. You're popular. Extremely popular. Sixty seven percent said they'd back you."

Wow.

"Six thousand likely voter sample size. Thirty thousand people voted in the last election. I'd say that's pretty goddamn representative," Wallace says, and watches my reaction. Do I have a shot at being mayor? Do I want that?

"I'm not a politician."

"Everyone says that until they're a politician. That's part of your appeal. Military veteran. Police officer, and not a politician. A no nonsense doer, not talker. Youngest police chief in the city's history, crime is going down, minus the occasional sniper, but people trust you to handle it."

Do not get me started on that goddamn sniper. I have a bad feeling about her. She is a ghost, and I do not like what that implies. I'm honestly surprised the CIA or something similar hasn't shown up to collect their rogue asset.

"I'll think about it," I say, and he smiles. "That's not a yes."

"I have until Friday to file the paperwork," he says, standing up from his seat. "Look what you've done with this job. Hand pick your successor and get the red tape out of their way."

That does sound like something I could get behind.

--

Tuesday -- October 13, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

It took a little convincing, but I did talk Jenn and Midge into letting me interview the assassin before we lose her. I study the case board for an hour to gather the information I need, then call her from holding to put her into a room. Secured to the table by steel chains.

I am already leaning against the two-way mirror when she arrives. Her expression does not change when she sees me. The officers secure her to the table, and in the process of her lifting her arms, I see a tattoo of hands holding her sides, with an eye in the palms. The woman's eyes find mine, and we begin a staring contest. After a minute, she looks at the table, and keeps her eyes there.

"Who trained you?" I ask, and she keeps looking down. "Most people in the military have their DNA on file. Nothing for you. No prints either. I double checked with SOCOM, just asked for a yes or no. Didn't ask for details, just, do you know her? They said no. No facial recognition, nothing. You don't exist anywhere in the United States military or law enforcement data bases. Your tattoos suggest Russian."

The assassin says nothing.

"Foreign?" I ask. Nothing. Next pivot.

"Knife handling technique was good. I did a lot of looking last night. Marine Corps style, right?" I ask, and her head tilts up, just a little. That is a response. I'm getting somewhere.

"Maybe not a Marine, but you were trained by one," I say, and she fidgets in her seat. Getting warm. "Dad was a Marine if I had to believe something."

"If you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you," she mutters to herself. She speaks.

"What was that?" I ask. Her head rises, and our eyes lock.

"If you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you," she says, then slowly grins. I want her to keep talking so I can nail down an accent.

"What's your name?" I ask. Back to the silent treatment.

'If you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.' That is cryptic, but weirder still, is that I have a burning feeling I know that phrase. What the hell triggered that response? It sounded almost Pavlovian. Something tells me this woman is not playing with a full deck mentally.

The door opens behind me, and I see Midge gesture for me to leave for a moment. I do and close the door.

"What?" I ask. "I got her to say something, just let me keep going."

"I just searched that phrase. It's from Alice in Wonderland," Midge says, and shows me her phone. I resist correcting her phrasing of the title.

"Well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn, "If you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you..." That's not from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; that's from Through the Looking-Glass. The Cheshire-cat is from the former.

"What does that mean?" I ask, and she shrugs, admitting she also has no idea.

"Does she seem like she isn't all there?" Midge asks while touching her temple.

"Oh yeah," I say, and look at the door over my shoulder. "Should I play to Alice in Wonderland?" Great, now she has me saying it too.

"That's the only time she's spoken. Worth a shot," Midge suggest.

I return to the room and sit down across from her. She has not moved an inch.

"May I call you Alice?" I ask, and her head shoots up to me. We make eye contact again, and she smiles.

"Yes," she replies. Holy shit.

"Where did you put the rifle Alice?" I ask, and she shrugs. "Don't remember?"

"Down the rabbit hole," she replies. I am comfortable with saying American accent. Slight twang to it.

The door opens behind me again, and this time I see a man with a briefcase. What now? A middle-aged man with thin hair and a suit that is wearing him. He looks rather silly with a tie covered in red hearts.

"This is my client and she will no longer agree to interview without my presence," the man says, and I rise from my chair to face him.

"She hasn't asked for a lawyer. She's barely said a word."

"He is my lawyer," Alice says. Fuck me.

"Unless one of those words was waiving her rights, I'd like the room with my client," the lawyer says, and I look through the glass and motion to cut the cameras and microphone. I exit the room and slam the door shut behind me.

"What the hell just happened?" Midge asks.

"The assassin has a lawyer."

--

Wednesday -- October 14, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

That rifle just straight up vanished. At best we have Alice for the attempted murder of a police officer. Until we find that rifle, we cannot prove she killed Marlene Black and Hugh Willard. We believe we found the rabbit hole she mentioned. The building used to be a residential structure before the city gentrified the area and remodeled it. The laundry chute was in the halls and led to the basement laundry room. She takes the shot, cleans up, and drops the weapon to the basement. After searching it and finding nothing, we assume she had an accomplice who smuggled it out. I want to interview Saul again, but the FBI is shielding him now.

Today she was charged with the attempted murder of a police officer and is being held on bail for one hundred thousand dollars. The first thing I suggested was looking into the lawyer who showed up. Anthony Young. At best he has a case history of being an ambulance chaser. We're not sure about the worst.

Silverlake still has not been found. No one has seen him. Our initial theory that he was the real target is looking more correct. Silverlake himself seems to know those bullets were meant for him. The questions we need answers for are, who wants him dead, and why? I guess we'll know more if we ever find him.

Jeff had the officers do a surveillance walk around the block, so we know where cameras are and who to request footage from. McGee's on the ground floor is our priority. There are two ways in and out of that basement; the alley and the kitchen. The footage from the pub could provide us with some leads on the accomplice. Snipers do not work alone after all.

The pub handed over their video without a fuss, and that is the extent of my day. There are a dozen cameras and hours of film, before and after the shooting. Jeff is working the courthouse cameras, and the officers are working on nearby businesses. I scale it back an hour before and an hour after and focus on the two internal cameras after we see no one leave or enter through the alley. Jeff cannot help much because the courthouse camera is canted too low, so the best he can see across the street are the tires of a car parked on the curb. The car belongs to Saul.

Anyone carrying a bag out of the building is a priority. There are no patrons because McGee's was not open. The cooks and Saul are preparing food and tables. Three people in the building besides the shooter. I can identify the cooks by their white coats, and Saul is wearing a green shirt with a black vest. There is small blind spot at the space between the kitchen and dining area. The doors leading upstairs and to the basement are both in that blind spot. Saul was in the basement when the shots were fired. I see his shoulder when he returns. It is hard to conclusively say when because of that blind spot.

I spend hours watching and re-watching the footage again and again. Is the rifle still in the building? Did Saul hide it in the basement, and we couldn't find it?

"Shots go off, staff ducks and covers," I narrate to myself. This camera is above the door and shows the entire seating area.

"Here's Chase, three minutes later," I say. I'd say no more than two minutes to disassemble the rifle, pick up the brass, sanitize, throw a bag down the chute, and then escape. The second interior camera is in the kitchen and has a narrow angle that does not have the basement door in view, creating that blind spot. Not so narrow that it would not catch someone leaving after two or three steps.

"Anything?" I hear a voice ask and turn my head over my shoulder. Chase is prowling around with nothing to do either.

"Does your girl...Lieutenant Ito know your hanging around?" I ask.

"She can pull rank on me later. Anything good?" he asks.

"Three hours before and after. Nothing conclusive." I say.

"Go back further."

"How far?" I ask. Time is too critical to waste.

"Snipers can hold a position for days at a time in the most difficult environments. I'm sure she could hold down an airconditioned room for longer than three hours," Chase says. That is a good point. "Could she have entered off camera somehow?"

"Sure," I say. "You can get to the roof from the fire escapes. Do it a few buildings down, cross the roofs, come back in through the escape above the camera."

"That's good. You're a cop, she's an assassin. If you thought about it, she probably did to. You guys do a surveillance sweep?" Chase asks.

"You know we did, hence the map," I say, pointing to the case board which has a map around the area. I stand up and wobble to the board to show him. We had put a diamond on the board for every camera with dashed lines to show approximate field of vision.

"This is just one giant jigsaw puzzle. Each camera is a piece. You check this one?" Chase asks, putting his finger on a camera across the street and facing the alley. The opposite opening from where Chase and Sergeant Donner entered. Labeled camera five.

"Who has camera five?" I ask the officers, and a hand pops up. "How far back are you going?"

"Two hours before," the officer replies.

"Back it up further. Like midnight," I say, and the officer groans at me. "Officer?"

"You got it detective," he says dismissively.

"How about you do it without the attitude," a voice says from the door.

"I said I got it..." the officer starts to say, then sees the person who said that is Chief Whitaker. His face twists, like he shit himself.

"On your feet," Lieutenant Ito shouts from her desk.

"As you were. I need an update before I go to the press. What do we have?" he asks and then looks at Chase and sternly says, "Sergeant Kramner, unless you're here to give your statement, get out."

"Yes sir," Chase says and leaves the room.

"Jeff?" Lieutenant Ito asks.

"Sir, I'm going to be straight; we got dick," Jeff says.

"Describe the dick," Chief says with a straight face. I pretend to cough to hide my snort.

"We can't even conclusively say where she took the shot from. Each room facing the courthouse, was cleaned recently with the same chemicals. We know the angle of the shot suggests it couldn't have been higher than the third floor, and the first is just not in the equation. Third floor is most likely, but the second is still possible" Jeff explains.

"So, second or third floor. Find the rifle?" Chief asks.

"No." The Chief looks incredibly frustrated we haven't. "We're working a few more angles."

"Work them fast. Did the name Alice narrow anything down?" he asks.