Chapter 2 – "The Investigation Begins"

After I left the scene last night, I went home for a couple of hours of sleep—not that it did me any good. I should have just gone straight to the office and gotten paid for three hours of chasing my own tail. By 0700, I accepted that sleep was as likely as winning the lottery, so I got dressed and headed downtown. But first? I needed coffee. Lots of strong, black coffee.

I hated squad room coffee. It was more like used motor oil—thick, bitter, so strong my grandma would say it would walk away if it had legs. So I stopped by UDF for a cup of Highlander Grogg, black, of course, and a Krispy Kreme. The donut and coffee combo was as classic as a badge and a sidearm, a cop’s version of a morning prayer.

I pulled into the rear lot of the building around 0815. The parking lot was alive with movement. The first relief guys lingered—some finishing up paperwork in their cruisers, others shivering in the cold as they made plans to head straight to the pub. These days, most guys favored The Brass Shield in Belmont. I shook my head, smiling as I walked by. I missed those days—nothing hit like beer and wings at 0830.

Second relief had wrapped up roll call and they were already debating where to grab breakfast as they headed to their cruisers. I chuckled—some things never change.

I walked through the back door and made my way to the old prisoner elevator—a relic of past abuse more than a way to reach the upper floors. If this thing could talk.

I stepped off the elevator, the gears groaning like a beat-up old detective getting out of his chair, and made my way down the hall to the office. The place was half-lit, stuck in that early morning limbo—night shift lingering, day shift not fully settled in. I flipped on a few more lights, something more suitable for actual work. Detectives from other squads drifted in, and the stench of burnt coffee followed. Nobody would admit it, but it was probably the same coffee from yesterday. Maybe three days ago.

Graham wasn’t in yet, but Sergeant Jenkins was at his desk, already flipping through paperwork with the same dead-eyed look I’d seen on him for years. He glanced up as I walked in, “MacLaren! Why the hell didn’t you answer my call?” His voice cut through the squad room like a bad transmission—loud, grating, and slightly distorted by irritation. “I need to know what’s going on.” I thought about explaining. Thought about making up something halfway decent. In the end, I just didn’t have the energy. “Good morning to you too, Sarge,” I shot back. “I must have left my phone in the car. Anyway, there was nothing to tell, last night or now. So far, we’ve got nothing.”

I dropped into my chair—probably the same one that had been here since the ’60s—and powered up my desktop.

The photos I took last night were still on my camera’s SD card, so I plugged it in, downloading the images to the hard drive. I pulled a fresh manila folder from my drawer, scrawled Hassan Al-Khatib — 900 Pruden on the tab, and grabbed a few sheets of printer paper.

A few minutes later, the first image began to appear from the office printer—a crisp black-and-white reminder of the precision hit on Hassan. The printer was ancient—slow enough that I could hit UDF for another coffee and still come back to find it halfway done.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. Damn, I was tired. I didn’t hear Graham come in. Must’ve dozed off. He took care of that when he kicked my chair. Kicking a 60-year-old office chair is like slapping a sleeping bull—you might get away with it, or you might end up on your ass.

Cracking one eye open, I looked up at Graham as I tried to rub some life back into my face. Graham stood over me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cheap suit pants—the same damn pants I was wearing. Our circumstances were different—Graham had three kids and a stay-at-home wife; I had two ex-wives and a daughter. Neither of us had a dime for luxuries like nice clothes. Graham looked down at me with a face I had seen a hundred—hell, a thousand—times before. A familiar mix of irritation and mild amusement. "Rough night?" I straightened in my chair, still rubbing my eyes. "You could say that." I nodded toward the printer, which was still wheezing out the last of the crime scene photos. "Not that it did me any good."

Graham pulled up a chair and sat down with a groan, leaning forward to grab the first photo from the tray. He studied it for a moment, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "Hell of a shot." He flipped the photo onto my desk and looked at me. "Classic whodunit." I nodded as he continued, "You think he was targeted for a reason? Gang hit maybe?" I picked up the photo and studied it for a moment before shaking my head. "I don’t know, Graham. Maybe. But what if it was random? That would be so much worse."

"Damn," Graham muttered, sorting through the photos as they came off the printer. "We need a place to start. Lab send anything yet?" I grunted in agreement and stood to stretch. My back’s shot—like any cop with thirty years on the job. "Nothing back yet—too early for that."

I kept looking at the photos, spreading them across my desk. Adjusting the angle of the old desk lamp, I killed some of the glare. Hassan lay dead center in the frame, limbs twisted like a discarded marionette, frozen in the last moment of his life. One hole, right in the chest—almost too precise to be real. Clean. Quick. Efficient.

I was struggling to find a starting point. A man, dead in the street. One perfect shot. No casings. No footprints.

This wasn’t a typical Dayton homicide. This was professional.

Graham leaned over my shoulder, eyes flicking over the images. “Hell of a shot,” he muttered. I nodded. “Whoever pulled the trigger knew exactly what they were doing.” I tapped one of the wider shots, showing the full length of Irwin Ave. “The shot came from this direction. This wasn’t close-range,” I said, “It could have been from anywhere between the warehouse and the tracks – maybe farther.”

“High-powered rifle,” Graham said, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

“Has to be.” I studied the image, my finger hovering over the small entry wound. “Clean entry, minimal exit damage. Not a cheap round either. And whoever fired it? They knew exactly what they were doing.”

Graham exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Not a street shooter, then.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to. The lack of evidence and the precision said it all. This wasn’t some thug settling a score. This was methodical. A calculated assassination. Whoever did this was surgical—like a ghost with a rifle.

Graham turned to his computer and started typing. The antiquated MIS system crawled like rush hour traffic in the rain before finally spitting out Hassan Al-Khatib’s file. The screen flickered like a dying neon sign, struggling to piece together the story. The file wasn’t thick, but every detail was more damning than the last. “Now this is very interesting," Graham muttered. I leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the screen like an old man reading a prescription bottle. Where were my damn readers?

Hassan Al-Khatib, a twenty-five year old male from Syria. He entered the U.S. illegally five years ago, arriving in Dayton to work in the family markets. “Suspected trafficker,” I said, scanning the notes. The screen revealed that the vice squad picked him up three months ago while serving a search warrant at an apartment complex on N. Main Street. Graham continued to scroll through the records, brow furrowing. "Damn," he said. "Vice located several missing, underage girls in that apartment. They charged Hassan with kidnapping, but something went wrong. The charges were dropped."

I exhaled, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Of course they were.”

We both skimmed the case summary, looking for the answer we already knew would piss us off. Sure enough, there it was. The warrant was faulty. The defense had filed a motion to suppress, arguing it was an unlawful search. The judge agreed, and the case was tossed. Hassan had likely been right back to business, but somebody stopped that permanently. Now, I almost hated to find out who. But I would. It was my job. I also still believed that although some people may deserve to die, killing them can never be condoned.

Graham let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “Guy gets caught with three underage victims and still walks on a technicality.” I didn’t say anything right away, just stared at the screen. I’d seen it too many times before. Bad warrants. Sloppy procedures. Good cops doing the best they could but getting outmaneuvered in court. Still didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

“A dangerous human trafficker who should’ve been behind bars but wasn’t,” Graham said, stretching back in his chair. “The list of people who might’ve wanted this guy dead will be pretty long.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Fortunately, the skill needed for this hit should shorten that list, a lot.”

I started listing them off. “First possibility—business deal gone bad. Traffickers don’t work alone. Maybe he pissed off the wrong guy.”

“Possible,” Graham admitted. “But if it was a cartel or mob hit why make it look so clean? They usually go for spectacle. This wasn’t a message, this was a hit.”

I nodded. He wasn’t wrong. Those groups always sent messages. This was surgical.

“Second possibility—one of his victims’ families.”

Graham exhaled through his nose. “You ever seen a grieving father pull off a long-range shot like this?”

I didn’t answer, but I had to agree.

There was a third option.

I tapped my fingers against the desk. “Could be a vigilante.”

Graham scoffed. “One body doesn’t make a vigilante.”

I didn’t argue, but I wasn’t so sure. If this was a vigilante, they weren’t some reckless citizen with a handgun. This was a professional. And if they’d gone to the trouble of setting up this shot, making it clean, making it untraceable...

They are probably just getting started.

Graham rubbed his hand across his forehead and sighed. “Alright detective, what’s next?”

“We find out who was investigating Hassan before the case got tossed,” I said. “See if Vice has anything they never got to use.”

“And we check for cameras,” Graham added. “Anything that might’ve caught the shooter or their vehicle.”

“Call the lab,” I said, glancing at the clock. “If we’re lucky, they’ve identified that round, or can at least let us know when.”

Graham turned back toward his desk as I grabbed my coat. “I’ve got to go to court for awhile,” I said. “I’ll see you after lunch, and we’ll make a plan.” Graham nodded as he started to dial his phone. I grabbed my notebook for court and headed down the hall. Sitting in court for a typical street shooting seemed to be a waste of my time today.