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CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT
NARCOTICS DIVISION
REPORT FILE #1947-0407
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Date: April 7th, 1947
Time: 06:34 AM

Location: Detective Adam Cole's Apartment, Chicago, IL
Detective: Adam Cole
Partner: Richard O'Connor
CASE DETAILS: ---------------------------------
Case Title: Narcotics Theft Investigation Summary: Ongoing investigation into the theft of 10 cases of morphine stolen from three hospitals within the past week. No signs of forced entry at any of the facilities. Possible ties to black market operations. Detective Cole and O'Connor are following multiple leads.

Inside, the precinct is already buzzing with life. The air smells faintly of coffee, ink, and sweat—the usual. Desks are lined up in neat rows, each one manned by a cop either typing up reports, taking calls, or giving orders. The phone lines ring off the hook, and the sound of typewriters clacking fills the space. There's a sense of organized chaos, the kind that feels normal after years on the job.

I head over to my desk. It's in the narcotics division, tucked near the back, just out of earshot of the main floor but close enough to feel the pulse of the precinct. Sitting across from me is Richard O'Connor, my partner, reading through the morning's sports section.

O'Connor's a tall, lean guy, always wearing a loose tie and a shirt that looks like it needs a good pressing. He's got a mop of dark brown hair that he never bothers combing, and his green eyes are sharp, always taking in more than he lets on. We've been friends since we were kids, grew up in the same neighborhood, and somehow managed to serve in the same unit in the war—the 1st Marine Division. The guy came back without a scratch. Me? Not so much. I'll admit, there's a little jealousy there, but it's hard to hold it against him.

"Morning," O'Connor mutters, eyes still on the sports section.

"Morning," I grunt, slouching down into my chair. I take the ashtray from my desk, which is already half full, and dump it into the trash can—a daily routine. It'll fill up again soon enough.

"How'd the stakeout go?" O'Connor asks, finally glancing up.

"No show," I mutter as I pull out my pack of cigarettes and lighter from my coat pocket. I slip a cigarette between my lips and flip open the lighter—clank. The familiar sound of the lighter snapping open and the flame sparking up. I light the cigarette, take a deep drag, and exhale slowly, feeling that familiar calm settle in as the smoke curls around me. "Waste of my fucking time. If I get my hands on Michael..." I trail off, stuffing the lighter and cigarettes back into my pocket.

"Easy, Cole," O'Connor says, lowering the paper to eye me. "The tip might've been solid. They probably got spooked."

"Maybe," I say, taking another drag and letting the smoke out slowly. "But I'm still gonna get my hands on him."

"What about you?" I ask, flicking ash into the tray. "Any luck questioning our suspects?"

"Nope. No luck either. They've all got iron-clad alibis. It doesn't make sense."

I sigh, reaching for a clean sheet of paper and sliding it into my typewriter. "Someone's not telling the truth. I still believe it's an inside job. Maybe we should go back, question the staff again. See if one of them cracks or slips up with their alibi."

O'Connor leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but I notice the sports section still in his hand. "Are you still on about the Cubs?" I ask, eyeing the newspaper. Have you even started on your report yet?"

"Already typed up my report," O'Connor says with a grin. "And yeah, I've got a good feeling about them. This is the year, Cole. I'm telling ya."

I roll my eyes, drawing from my cigarette again and letting out another puff. "I recall you saying that last year, and the year before."

"This year's different. They've got a solid lineup. Mark my words."

I smirk, shaking my head. "We'll see about that."

Before O'Connor can respond, an officer walks up to my desk, hands in his pockets. "Cole, Chief wants to see you."

I raise an eyebrow, half-smirking. "Yeah, sure. Nice try."

"I'm not joking," the officer says, smirking back. "Chief really wants to see you."

Before I can argue, the Chief's voice comes over the intercom, cutting through the noise of the precinct: "Cole, my office. Now."

I glance up at the ceiling, then back at the officer, who shrugs. "Told ya," he says, before walking away.

O'Connor leans back in his chair, grinning. "What'd you do this time?"

"No idea," I mutter, standing up and grabbing my coat. "Guess I'll find out."

"Good luck, Cole," O'Connor calls as I make my way toward the stairs. "Try not to get canned."

I roll my eyes and take a deep breath before heading to the third floor. The precinct is alive with its usual hustle and bustle. Phones ring constantly, their shrill tones cutting through the air, followed by quick exchanges of clipped words as officers answer and relay information. The rhythmic clatter of typewriters blends into the background noise, each keystroke rapid, filling out reports that no one enjoys writing but everyone has to do.

As I walk through the rows of desks, officers are hunched over, busy with their own worlds. Some are talking on the phone, their voices low, eyes narrowed in concentration. Others are sifting through stacks of paperwork, flipping through files that seem endless. The precinct is always like this—a machine that never stops running, always buzzing, always working.

I pass the bullpen, the heart of the precinct, where most of the officers are stationed. Desks crammed together in an open space, each one stacked with papers, radios, and half-empty cups of coffee. Officers are typing up reports, taking phone calls, or in deep conversation about their latest cases. The air is thick with the sounds of cops exchanging information, shouting across desks, and the occasional laugh when someone cracks a joke to break the tension. The bullpen's always loud, chaotic, but it's where the real work gets done.

To the left, I pass the booking area, where a couple of officers are hauling in a disheveled man, his wrists cuffed behind his back. His eyes are bloodshot, and he stumbles slightly as they lead him toward the holding cells. He's muttering something, but it's hard to hear over the noise of the station. An officer stands at the booking desk, filling out forms, nodding as his colleagues bring the suspect in.

Further down, I pass the interrogation rooms, the doors closed but you can hear muffled voices through them—sharp questions being asked, followed by the low, nervous responses of whoever's sitting on the other side of the table. Behind one of those doors, some unlucky soul's sweating it out, knowing the walls are closing in.

The floor creaks beneath my feet as I make my way to the stairs. Every step echoes slightly, blending into the cacophony of the precinct—shouted orders, ringing phones, the scrape of chairs against the wooden floors. An officer walks by, holding a stack of evidence bags, filled with what looks like bottles and papers—just more pieces to a puzzle someone else will have to put together.

As I reach the stairs, the air feels different, a little quieter. The third floor is where the brass work, the ones who make the decisions and push the papers. It's not as loud here. Fewer people, more closed doors. I pass by rows of offices, each door marked with nameplates, the glass fogged over just enough that you can't make out what's going on inside. Some rooms have muffled voices behind them, the hum of quiet conversation where real power resides.

The floors up here are quieter, the chatter replaced with the soft click of heels or shoes against the hardwood. A few secretaries sit behind their desks, quietly typing away or answering calls with an efficiency that says they've been doing this for years. Their faces are set, professional, as they handle whatever's thrown their way without missing a beat.

I pass one of the conference rooms, where a group of detectives is huddled around a table, pointing at photos spread out before them—probably working a homicide or a robbery case. Their voices are low, serious, the kind of tone that says this case is going to be a long one.

I continue down the corridor, the air heavier now. The Chief's office is at the far end, the nameplate on the heavy wooden door gleaming in the dim light: Chief Thomas Callahan. His door is always closed, but you know things are being decided behind it—things that trickle down to the rest of us, the ones who have to carry out the orders.

I stop in front of the door, take a deep breath, and knock.

"Come in," a gruff voice calls from behind the door.

I push it open and step inside, immediately struck by the smell of cigars. Behind the large, polished oak desk sits Chief Thomas Callahan, the kind of man who could strike fear into even the toughest cops in the precinct. He's a no-nonsense figure, mid-fifties, his hair slicked back with streaks of gray running through the black. His face is etched with deep lines, the kind that come from years of hard decisions and tougher battles, both on the streets and during his time in the Great War. The medals on the wall and the old black-and-white photo of soldiers standing proudly in uniform confirm what everyone knows—Callahan's not just a cop, he's a war hero.

His office reflects the man. No frills, no excess—just the essentials. Framed commendations line the walls, awards from his time on the force. A couple of pictures sit on the desk—one of his wife and kids, another of him in his younger days, shaking hands with the mayor. A large ashtray sits on the desk, already holding the remnants of a half-burned cigar. Behind him, a row of filing cabinets and a few scattered case files. The office might seem ordinary, but the weight of authority here is undeniable.

Across from the desk, in one of the chairs, sits Margaret Dawson. Even without the uniform, I know who she is. First female detective in the precinct—it's been all over the papers for weeks. The place has been buzzing ever since her promotion, and it's ruffled more than a few feathers. Dawson must've had a tough time settling in, but looking at her now, you wouldn't know it. She's calm, collected, her dark hair pinned neatly back, not a strand out of place. She wears a well-fitted gray suit jacket over a white blouse, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. Her blue eyes don't reveal anything, but you can tell there's a sharp mind behind them, observing everything.

"Have a seat," Callahan says, gesturing to the empty chair next to Dawson.

I glance at her as I sit down, and for a brief second, I catch a flicker of something in her expression. But it's gone just as quickly as it came.

"How's it going over at Narcotics, Cole?" Callahan asks, picking up the lit cigar that had been resting against the ashtray. He takes a long puff, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Mind if I smoke, Chief?" I ask, reaching into my pocket for my cigarette pack.

Callahan nods, waving his cigar in approval. I pull out a cigarette, offering the pack to Dawson, who shakes her head and declines with a quick wave of her hand. I shrug, flipping open my lighter with that familiar metallic clank and lighting up. This time, the cigarette isn't for the habit—it's to calm the nerves. Something's off about this meeting.

"We've hit a minor setback," I say after taking a deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling. "Nothing O'Connor and I can't handle."

Callahan nods, but I can't shake the feeling that something doesn't add up. He's never shown this kind of interest in our cases before, and from the looks of it, Dawson feels the same way. She's too quiet, too still, and that tells me there's something bigger going on.

"What's going on, Chief? Why are we here?" I ask, taking another drag and leaning back in my chair. The tension in the room thickens as I wait for his response.

Callahan doesn't waste time. "I won't beat around the bush. Everson has retired, and his partner's been transferred to another precinct. I need you, to take their place."

Everson? Not a name I've heard often around here, but it clicks after a second. "You mean Everson from Homicide?" I ask, the realization hitting me.

Callahan takes another puff of his cigar and nods. "The very one. Congratulations, Cole. You've been promoted to Homicide."

I let out a slow exhale of smoke, feeling the weight of the words sink in. Homicide? I've spent years avoiding that unit like the plague. Sure, I've seen my share of death in Narcotics, but it's different when it's criminals dying, men who knew what they were getting into. Homicide's different. Innocent people, lives cut short. I've seen enough of that in the war. The last thing I want is to be knee-deep in it again.

"I don't have much of a choice in the matter, do I?" I mutter, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray on Callahan's desk.

"No, you don't," Callahan says, his voice firm.

"And her?" I gesture toward Dawson, trying to keep my tone neutral, but the frustration is creeping in. It's not that she's a woman. It's the responsibility, the change.

"She's your new partner," Callahan says simply.

I don't like this. I glance at Dawson, and she meets my eyes, but there's no reaction, no flicker of anything. I can't tell if she's sizing me up or just waiting for me to slip up. Either way, it's unsettling.

"Chief, with all due respect," I start, leaning forward, "I'm not sure this is a good idea. Narcotics is where I've put in the work. This is what I do. Homicide's... not my thing."

Callahan leans back, puffing his cigar, the smoke curling around him. "You think I'm asking you, Cole? I'm telling you. You're in Homicide now, and you'll report to Captain Wilson. Dawson's your partner. Get used to it."

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to argue further. There's no getting out of this. Not unless I want to end my career right here and now. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

"And what about Dawson?" I ask, gesturing toward her again. "She's new to the department. She's barely settled in—"

Callahan cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Dawson's more than capable. She wouldn't be here if she wasn't. Now suck it up, Cole. You've got a job to do. Now get out of my office."

I stand up, stubbing out the last bit of my cigarette, and straighten my coat. The room feels heavier now, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. I glance at Dawson again, but she's already standing, ready to go. No hesitation, no sign that this is getting to her.

Guess I'm the only one with a problem.

"Let's go," I mutter, heading for the door. Dawson follows in silence, and the door closes behind us with a firm click.

Dawson and I step out of the Chief's office. She hasn't said a single word since I walked in—seems more like the observing type than a talker. That's fine by me. I'm not in the mood for small talk.

"I'll meet you at our desks," I say, glancing at her.

She gives a curt nod, her face still unreadable, and we part ways. I head back toward my old desk in Narcotics, the buzz of the precinct filtering back in as I move through the rows of desks. The usual noise—phones ringing, typewriters clattering, cops yelling across the bullpen—but I feel out of step with it all now. Like a piece of me doesn't belong here anymore.

When I reach my desk, I spot a mess of files strewn across O'Connor's desk. It's our usual pile—suspects from the morphine case, names we've been chasing down for weeks. I slump into my chair with a heavy sigh, reaching for my cigarettes. O'Connor looks up from the files, his green eyes sharp under his mop of dark hair, one brow arched in curiosity.

"I know that look," O'Connor says with a smirk as I pull out a cigarette and light it. The clank of my lighter echoes in the air as I take a deep drag, trying to steady the tremor in my hand. "How bad was it? How badly did you fuck up?"

I exhale a thick plume of smoke, leaning back in my chair. "It's not that," I mutter, the cigarette barely calming me down. "I've been moved to Homicide."

O'Connor's smirk fades, replaced by a look of surprise. "Seriously? Congrats, Cole."

I flick the ash from my cigarette into the ashtray on my desk, giving him a sideways glance. "Oh, shove it up your ass. You know how I feel about Homicide."

O'Connor chuckles, leaning back in his own chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Come on, Cole. It's not the end of the world. Hell, it might be good for you. You've got a knack for finding clues, piecing things together. You'll do fine."

I grit my teeth, taking another drag from the cigarette, the nicotine doing little to help my nerves. "I don't want to deal with it, Rich. You know me—I handle crooks, lowlifes. Not... innocent people. I've seen enough dead civilians to last a lifetime."

O'Connor's face softens a little, but he doesn't let up. "Look, man, I get it. I really do. But you're one of the best detectives in this precinct. Homicide's a tough gig, but you've got the brains for it. And hey, maybe this'll be a fresh start."

I grunt, flicking more ash into the tray. "Yeah, well, you try taking orders from Captain Wilson. Bet you'd be singing a different tune."

He grins, shrugging. "You'll manage. And besides, you'll get to work with Dawson. That'll be interesting."

I raise an eyebrow, looking at him sideways. "How are you gonna handle it? Getting a new partner?"

O'Connor shrugs again, but there's a hint of wistfulness in his eyes. "I'll manage. Don't worry about me. You know me, Cole—I'll break in the rookie just fine."

I let out a short laugh, more out of frustration than anything else, and put out my cigarette, grinding the butt into the ashtray. I flick the last of the ashes, then glance around my desk. Time to gather my things.

It's not much. A notepad with scribbled notes from our cases, my pen, and my ashtray—one of the few personal items I've kept on this desk. There's an old coffee mug with the precinct's insignia on it, a small reminder of the first week on the job when things were simpler. I pick it up, shaking it slightly to hear the clink of a few coins I've dropped in there over time.

O'Connor watches me, a crooked grin on his face. "Don't forget to type up that report," he says, nodding toward the typewriter on my desk.

I nod, settling back into my chair one last time, and pull the half-finished report from under a stack of papers. I slide a fresh sheet into the typewriter, my fingers moving quickly over the keys. The clatter of the typewriter fills the small space around me as I wrap up the loose ends from the stakeout, even though it feels like it was a lifetime ago.

Once the report is typed, I pull it out, sign it, and hand it over to O'Connor. "All yours," I say, standing up and slipping the notepad into my coat pocket.

O'Connor nods, taking the report and giving me a small salute. "Good luck, Cole. Don't be a stranger."

I smirk, nodding back. "You too. Try not to get yourself killed with that new partner of yours."

He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "I'll be fine. Go on—Captain Wilson's waiting."

I take one last look around the narcotics division, the familiar desks, the noise, the sense of belonging I've had here for the past few years. But now... it's different. It's not my place anymore. I grab my coat, sling it over my shoulder, and head toward my new desk in Homicide, feeling the weight of change settle in.

When I reach the Homicide Division, it's clear things are changing fast. Outside the door to what's now my office—or rather, our office—someone's already at work, replacing the old detectives' names on the glass with new ones: Cole and Dawson. The guy glances at me as I pass, giving a quick nod before getting back to scraping off the old names.

I push open the door and step inside. The office isn't much, but it's far nicer than the cramped, smoke-filled room I shared in Narcotics. Two desks sit in the center of the room, facing each other like an uneasy truce. Each one is outfitted with a rotary phone and a typewriter, the kind that clacks loud enough to wake the dead. A window stretches across the far wall, offering a view of the city—a gray, bustling mass of steel and stone blanketed in a fine haze. It's the kind of view that reminds you why Chicago is called the Second City, though it feels like the first in everything gritty.

To the side of the room, a pair of filing cabinets stand like sentinels, already waiting to be filled with reports and unsolved mysteries. The place has an air of quiet expectation, like it's holding its breath for the next big case.

Dawson's already here. She stands by the desk facing the door, a cardboard box in her hands. I stop just inside the room, watching her for a moment. She's unpacking, placing her belongings with care, her movements steady. First, a small framed picture—looks like family, maybe a couple of siblings or cousins, judging by the smiles. Next, a simple coffee mug with some cartoonish pattern on it. Then a neat stack of pencils and pens she sets in a holder. Nothing extravagant, just the basics. She works without hesitation, her expression calm, almost unreadable.

I watch her a moment longer, trying to get a read. She doesn't seem shy, and she's definitely not nervous—at least not on the outside. Maybe she's just good at hiding it. If the rumors are true, she'd have to be. Promoted by the Commissioner himself. That kind of move has already set the precinct on fire with gossip. I can picture the sideways glances and hushed conversations. A woman in Homicide? Not an easy gig for anyone, let alone someone without years of groundwork.

Hell, I've been here three years, barely got comfortable in Narcotics, and now I'm here. She's probably got more enemies in this building than friends, and she hasn't even had time to hang her coat.

I drop my box onto my desk and start unpacking. Not much to it. A couple of well-used notebooks I slide into the desk drawer. An ashtray—mine from Narcotics—finds its spot near the corner. I pull out a framed photo of me and my old unit, the boys smiling like we weren't about to face hell. It goes next to the ashtray, a quiet reminder of how far I've come—or maybe how much I've tried to leave behind. The last thing out is a few case files I've kept from Narcotics, mostly to remind myself of jobs well done.

I glance over at Dawson again. She hasn't said a word. Her focus is unwavering as she sets her things in place, though I can't tell if she's ignoring me or just doesn't know how to start. Either way, the silence is getting heavy, and I figure I better break it before it becomes unbearable.

I clear my throat. "I'm Adam. Adam Cole," I say, sitting down in the creaky chair behind my desk.

She looks up at me then, her hands pausing mid-movement. "Margaret," she responds, her tone straightforward. "Margaret Dawson."

"Nice to meet you, Margaret," I say, leaning back slightly. "How long have you been with the force?"

"A while," she says simply, going back to unpacking.

"How long is a while?" I press, my curiosity getting the better of me.

She stops then, turning toward me with a sigh. "Look," she begins, her voice even but carrying a faint edge, "I've gotten plenty of crap from the other officers already. I know you doubt me—because I'm a woman, because I have no prior experience as a detective, because—"

I hold up a hand, cutting her off. "The only doubt I have," I say firmly, "is whether or not you have my back when things go sideways. What you'll do if you get shot at, or confronted. That's all I care about. I don't give a damn that you're a woman."

She blinks, her posture shifting slightly, and for the first time, she looks more at ease. She pulls out the chair behind her desk and sits down, meeting my gaze. "Fair enough," she says. "What about you? You don't seem thrilled to be here either."

I exhale, leaning forward and resting my arms on the desk. "I'm not. I tried to avoid Homicide for as long as I could."

"Why?" she asks, genuine curiosity in her tone.

"Because I've seen enough death," I say quietly. "During the war. I was happy in Narcotics."

She tilts her head, studying me. "You served?"

"Yeah," I say, my voice clipped. "1st Marine Division. From Guadalcanal to Okinawa."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she nods. "That's a hell of a stretch," she says softly. "Why'd you become a cop after all that?"

I pause, glancing at the photo on my desk before answering. "A good friend convinced me I should," I say finally, leaving it at that.

She doesn't push further, and I'm grateful for it.

Then, there's a knock on the door. A detective in a brown suit steps in, his face neutral but hurried. "Captain wants you two in Conference Room 2," he says, giving a quick nod before disappearing back into the hall.

Dawson and I exchange looks—just a flicker of recognition, no words—and we both stand. I grab my notebook, while she adjusts her jacket, and we head out toward the conference room.

As we walk, the sound of the precinct is just as lively as always—phones ringing, cops talking shop, officers walking briskly through the halls. We make our way to Conference Room 2, and I push open the door.

Inside, the conference room is functional but cramped. A large wooden table sits in the middle, surrounded by chairs. On the far wall, a chalkboard is filled with scribbled names, dates, and locations of ongoing cases. There's a small table in the corner with a coffee pot, half-empty, and a stack of mugs. A few chairs are pushed back from the table, left behind by the last group of detectives who were probably here all night.

Around the table sit eight other homicide detectives, all of them either deep in conversation or waiting for their next case. Captain Wilson stands at the head of the room, a man in his late forties with a thick mustache and a no-nonsense look in his eyes. He holds a file in one hand, the other resting on the edge of the table as he surveys the room.

"We've got a few cases to go over," Wilson says as Dawson and I take our seats. He glances around the table at the assembled detectives. "First off, Johnson and Parker—you're still on that domestic homicide over on North Avenue. Keep me posted on any developments."

He flips open the file, scanning through a few more pages before addressing the room again. "Carter and Evans—there's been another shooting at the pool hall on Lake Street. Same M.O. as the last one. Get over there, talk to the witnesses again, see if we can pin something down."

One by one, the cases are assigned, and soon the rest of the detectives are busy jotting down notes, ready to head out to their respective scenes.

Then Wilson turns his attention to Dawson and me. "Cole, Dawson—you've got a murder down on West Kensington Avenue. Woman, no ID on her. Looks like a robbery gone wrong. Head out there, see what you can dig up."

I nod, scribbling the address into my notepad while Dawson listens quietly, her expression focused.

Wilson closes the file, giving the room one last look. "Alright, everyone. Let's get to it."

Dawson and I exchange a brief glance, then we stand and head out, ready to tackle our first case together.