---------------------------------
CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT
HOMICIDE DIVISION
REPORTFILE #1947-0407
---------------------------------
Date: April 7th, 1947
Time: 08:12 AM

Location: Chicago Police District 21, Chicago, IL
Detective: Adam Cole
Partner: Margaret Dawson
CASE DETAILS: Homicide - Unknown Female Victim
Location of Murder: West Kensington Avenue, Chicago

The precinct buzzes with its usual chaos—phones ringing, typewriters clacking, voices overlapping as detectives discuss their cases. But for the two of us, it's oddly quiet as we walk side by side toward the exit. The weight of unspoken thoughts hangs heavy in the air. I keep my hands tucked in my coat pockets, glancing sideways at Dawson.

She's keeping her face calm, expression steady, her stride measured. But there's a glint in her eye—a faint, betraying twinkle that I've seen too many times before. That subtle crack in the armor. I remember it vividly from the Pacific, etched into the faces of fresh recruits stepping off the boats into hell. The look of fear trying to masquerade as resolve.

I've been there, and I know that feeling like the back of my hand.

"No need to be so nervous," I say calmly, keeping my tone low and even, not wanting to make a spectacle of the moment. "Deep breaths. We're in this together."

She glances at me sharply, her steps faltering just slightly before she recovers. "I'm not nervous," she says quickly, her voice steady but clipped, as though she's trying to convince herself as much as me.

I stop walking, turning to face her. She halts too, clearly caught off guard. I look her over, taking a slow breath before speaking again. "Look," I start, keeping my voice soft but firm, "I've seen that look before. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but don't try to tell me it's not there."

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, she doesn't respond. Finally, she exhales sharply, crossing her arms in a small defensive gesture. "It's not fear," she says, quieter now. "It's... anticipation. I don't know what to expect out there. This isn't a traffic stop or a parking ticket, and I know it."

"That's good," I say, nodding. "Means you're taking this seriously. That'll keep you sharp." I glance around the precinct briefly before lowering my voice further. "But listen to me—fear's not a weakness. It's a tool. Keeps you alive when things go south. Don't ignore it, but don't let it take the wheel either."

Her gaze softens, her arms dropping back to her sides. "Is that how you do it?" she asks, her voice carrying a genuine curiosity now.

I give a faint, humorless smirk. "Something like that," I say. "Fear and I... we've learned to live together. You will too."

Dawson nods, taking a moment to let my words settle before stepping forward again. "Thanks," she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

"Don't mention it," I say as we resume walking. "We've got work to do."

The silence that follows isn't as heavy this time, the tension between us easing as we reach the precinct doors and step out into the cold Chicago morning.

The parking lot outside the precinct is alive with the usual activity—cars coming and going, officers milling about, the distant hum of the city rising behind it all. As Dawson and I step outside, I spot two familiar faces stepping out of a patrol car parked near the entrance. My stomach knots, and I let out a heavy sigh, already bracing for the encounter. Dawson catches the sound and glances over at me, her brow slightly furrowed in silent question.

"Well, look who we have here," one of them says, his voice oozing mockery. Officer Briggs, tall and broad-shouldered, with a perpetual sneer etched into his thick jawline. His uniform is neatly pressed, but his presence is anything but professional. His brown hair is slicked back, shining unnaturally in the morning light, and his dark eyes gleam with mean-spirited amusement.

The second officer, Smith, follows close behind, a wiry man with a face that reminds me of a rat—narrow and pointed, with beady eyes that never seem to stay still. His uniform hangs a little loose on his lanky frame, giving the impression he doesn't quite fill it out. He's the type who talks big only when someone else has his back, and in this case, that someone is Briggs.

"If it isn't the precinct's newest sensation and her babysitter," Smith chimes in, his grin sharp and smug.

I stop walking, pulling out my cigarette pack from my coat pocket and shaking one loose. "If it isn't Officer Briggs and Smith," I say, lighting the cigarette with a flick of my lighter. The metallic clink cuts through the tension. I take a slow drag, letting the smoke curl around me as I exhale. "How's traffic today? Not too busy, I hope."

Briggs' face tightens, his sneer faltering for just a moment. Smith shifts on his feet, glancing between Briggs and me, clearly waiting for a cue. Then their attention shifts to Dawson, who's standing just behind me, her face impassive.

"And you," Smith says, pointing at her, his voice dripping with disdain. "Bad enough we've got this joker in the precinct," he gestures toward me with his thumb, "but now we've got you. What a joke."

"You don't belong here, tuts," Briggs adds, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why don't you turn around and go back to filing papers and taking coffee orders?" He chuckles, the sound grating.

Dawson doesn't flinch, her expression a perfect mask of calm, but I can see the tightness in her jaw, the way her hands curl slightly at her sides. She's holding it together, but just barely.

"How about you two go back to being useless cops elsewhere?" I say, my voice cutting through Briggs' laugh like a knife.

The grin vanishes from Briggs' face as he steps toward me, his bulk casting a shadow in the morning light. He's taller than me, more built too, but I don't flinch. I know Briggs—he's all bark, loud and intimidating for show. Smith, his lackey, quickly joins him, his beady eyes darting nervously.

"The fuck you say?" Briggs growls, his voice low and threatening.

"You heard me," I say evenly, taking another drag from my cigarette. I let the smoke out slow, right between the two of them. "Got nothing better to do than pick on rookies, eh? Maybe traffic is too good a job for you."

Briggs' face darkens, and his hands twitch like he's about to take a swing, but before he can say anything, the precinct door opens with a loud creak. Captain Wilson steps out, buttoning up his overcoat as his eyes land on us.

Wilson's the kind of man who carries authority like a badge itself. Late forties, maybe early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly and a thick mustache that adds to his no-nonsense demeanor. His uniform is spotless, the bars on his shoulders gleaming even in the overcast light. His sharp eyes, the color of storm clouds, dart between us, taking everything in.

"Something wrong, gentlemen?" Wilson asks, his tone measured but with an edge that demands honesty.

I force a faint smile, gesturing with my cigarette. "Not at all, Captain," I say smoothly. "Briggs and Smith were just congratulating us on our promotion. Right, guys?"

Briggs' lips curl into a tight, forced smile. "Of course. Congrats," he says through gritted teeth. Smith nods quickly, his smile even less convincing.

Wilson eyes us all for a moment, then sighs. "Whatever. Get back to work," he mutters, brushing past us as he heads toward his car.

As soon as Wilson's out of earshot, Briggs turns back to me, his face twisted with barely restrained anger. I take a slow, deliberate drag from my cigarette and exhale the smoke directly into his face.

"Save it, traffic cop," I say, my voice low but sharp. "Next time, the Captain won't be there to save you."

Briggs scowls, his fists clenching, but he doesn't respond. I flick the cigarette butt to the ground, grinding it out with my heel, and turn away. "Come on, Dawson," I say, heading toward my car.

She catches up quickly, walking beside me in silence. As I unlock the car and open the door, she looks over at me, her brow furrowed. "Thank you," she says quietly, her voice tinged with both gratitude and lingering frustration.

I glance over at her, shrugging as I slide into the driver's seat. "Don't mention it," I say. "Just remember—this place will chew you up if you let them get to you."

She nods, her gaze thoughtful as she settles into the passenger seat. We pull out of the lot, leaving the precinct and its lingering tension behind.

The drive is quiet, the only sounds coming from the low rumble of the engine and the faint crackle of static on the radio. Dawson sits with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the passing streets. The morning sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the city. Pedestrians bustle along the sidewalks, their coats pulled tight against the chill, their faces set with purpose. A streetcar rattles past on the tracks, its bell chiming as it slows to pick up a small crowd. Delivery trucks rumble by, their drivers shouting greetings or curses to each other over the din of the city. Chicago is alive, a constant symphony of movement and sound.

Dawson finally breaks the silence, her voice calm but taut, as if she's holding back a scream. "Who were they?"

I don't need to ask who she means. I let out a long exhale, keeping my eyes on the road. "Briggs and Smith. Not Chicago's finest," I say flatly. "They used to be Narcotics, same as me. But they fucked up big time and got demoted to traffic cops."

"What did they do?" she asks, her tone edged with barely restrained anger.

I shrug. "The story always changes, but my best guess? They got caught stealing from the evidence locker. Couldn't prove it outright, but there was enough to get them booted down a few pegs."

Dawson scoffs, her hand tightening into a fist on her lap. "And now they just... hang around, harassing people?"

"Briggs is just a bully," I say, glancing over at her. "And Smith? He follows Briggs around like a lost puppy. They're harmless, as long as you don't let them get to you."

She nods, her expression still tense but slightly more controlled. She looks back out the window as the city continues to unfold around us. We drive past rows of mom-and-pop shops, their windows filled with everything from clothing to household goods. A bakery's awning flutters in the breeze, the faint smell of fresh bread mingling with the city's usual cocktail of exhaust and damp pavement. A butcher shop displays cuts of meat on ice, and a hardware store boasts a window stacked with tools and paint cans.

Eventually, we turn onto Kensington Avenue, and the tone of the street shifts. It's quieter here, the hum of commerce replaced by the buzz of a crime scene. Patrol cars line the curb, their red-and-blue lights casting flashes of color against the brick buildings. Uniformed officers keep a firm line, holding back a growing crowd of curious bystanders and nosy reporters. The smell of fresh newsprint mingles with the faint aroma of coffee from a corner diner.

The alley itself is cordoned off with bright yellow tape, fluttering slightly in the breeze. Inside the perimeter, detectives and officers move methodically, their voices low and purposeful. A photographer kneels beside a cluster of evidence markers, his camera flashing as he captures the scene.

I pull the car up as close as I can without blocking the other vehicles and cut the engine. For a moment, we sit in silence, staring at the scene ahead. I glance over at Dawson, who's still gripping her hands tightly. "You ready?" I ask, my voice even.

She nods, her eyes steady as she meets my gaze. "Yeah," she says softly.

We step out of the car, the cold air biting at my face as I adjust my coat. The crowd murmurs, a low buzz of speculation, as we approach the alley. Dawson walks beside me, her shoulders squared and her expression unreadable. Time to get to work.

The murmur of the crowd grows louder as we approach, a chorus of speculation and half-baked theories swirling through the cool morning air.

"Must've been a robbery," someone mutters.
"Nah, too clean for that," says another.
"Bet it's mob-related," a voice chimes in, hushed but confident.

Their faces blur together, a mix of curiosity and unease, as Dawson and I cut through the throng. The crowd parts reluctantly, their eyes darting between us and the commotion ahead. As we near the police barricade, a uniformed officer stands at the forefront, arms outstretched to hold the line. His face is flushed, and his hat sits slightly askew, a clear sign he's been dealing with the growing crowd for far too long.

I reach into my coat pocket, pulling out my badge. "Detective Cole," I say, holding it up for him to see.

The officer nods briskly, stepping aside and gesturing for me to pass. "Go on through," he says.

I step beyond the barricade, glancing back to make sure Dawson is following, but the officer steps in front of her, holding out a hand.

"Sorry, miss," he says sharply. "No reporters beyond the barricade."

Dawson sighs, clearly irritated, and pulls out her own badge. "I'm not a reporter," she says firmly.

The officer barely glances at it before scoffing. "Nice try," he says, his tone dripping with condescension. "I've seen my share of fake badges. Now step back." He places a hand on her shoulder, trying to push her back toward the crowd.

I stop and turn, my voice cutting through the commotion. "She's a detective," I say evenly, locking eyes with the officer. "Like me. Now let her go."

The officer hesitates, his disbelief clear as his eyes dart between me and Dawson. Finally, he steps back, muttering an apology. "Sorry, Detective," he says, his tone begrudging.

Dawson shakes him off, her expression unreadable as she adjusts her coat. Without a word, she walks past him and joins me.

We step into the alley, and the scene hits like a punch to the gut. The stench of garbage and blood mingles in the air, heavy and nauseating. Lying near one of the large rubbish bins is the body of a woman, the red of her dress striking against the gray and grime of the alley. The fabric clings to her lifeless form, the sequins catching faint traces of light, a cruel echo of a life once vibrant.

Her pale skin is almost luminous, her blue eyes wide and unseeing as they stare blankly at the sky. Blood pools around her, curling in jagged streams from the bullet holes in her chest and the single, fatal wound in her forehead. Her golden hair, once styled with care, now lies in a disheveled mess around her head, dirt and alley grime tangled in the strands.

Nearby, her purse lies discarded, its contents scattered across the ground—a compact mirror, a tube of lipstick, and a few crumpled bills. The scene feels staged, the randomness too perfect, too deliberate.

Several officers stand nearby, their faces grim as they survey the area. A forensic photographer kneels by the body, the click and flash of his camera punctuating the oppressive silence. He moves methodically, capturing every angle of the woman and the surrounding scene, the harsh light of the flash illuminating the gruesome details in stark relief.

I stop a few feet from the body, taking it all in. My stomach tightens, but I've been here before. Too many times. I glance at Dawson, who's standing just behind me, her eyes fixed on the woman. Her jaw is tight, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

She nods stiffly, but I can see the unease in her posture. "Yeah," she says, though the word sounds more like a whisper.

"Stay sharp," I say. "This one's gonna be messy."

Dawson nods again, her gaze never leaving the body. I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and step forward to get a closer look.

Adam takes a moment to let Dawson focus on the body, her sharp gaze darting over every detail as she crouches beside the forensic photographer. I step away, scanning the scene until my eyes land on an officer standing a few feet away, clipboard in hand. He's stocky, with a weathered face that looks like it's spent years squinting against the Chicago sun. His uniform is crisp, though his boots are scuffed, a sign of someone who spends more time working the streets than behind a desk. A thin scar runs from his temple to just above his left ear, barely visible beneath the brim of his hat.

I approach him, pulling out my badge as I do. "Detective Adam Cole, Homicide," I say, gesturing toward Dawson. "And that over there is my partner, Detective Margaret Dawson."

The officer straightens slightly, nodding respectfully. "Detective," he replies.

"What happened here?" I ask, flipping open my notebook and readying my pen.

The officer glances at the body briefly before meeting my eyes. "Woman appears to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties," he begins, his voice steady but tinged with weariness. "No ID on her. No jewelry, either, and not much cash in her purse. From the looks of it..." He pauses, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. "She walked down the wrong alley at the wrong time. A robbery gone bad."

"Who found her?" I ask, jotting down his words in shorthand, the pen scratching against the paper.

"Garbage men," he says, gesturing toward the back of the alley where two men stand, clearly shaken. Another officer is with them, speaking softly. "Found her about an hour ago during their morning rounds. Called it in right away."

I glance toward the garbage men, noting their pale faces and nervous postures, before returning my attention to the officer. "Anyone hear any gunshots last night? Any witnesses?"

The officer shakes his head. "Not yet. We're still canvassing the area. Most of the shopkeepers around here wouldn't have been open that late, and the ones who live nearby haven't come forward yet. Still early."

I jot down more notes, then snap the notebook shut. "Spread out," I say firmly. "Search the area. Question the local shopkeepers, see if they heard or saw anything out of the ordinary."

The officer nods. "Understood, Detective," he says before turning to relay the orders to his colleagues.

I take a deep breath, the faint smell of blood and garbage mixing unpleasantly in the air, and glance back at Dawson. She's still by the body, her hands hovering above the evidence without touching anything, her face a mask of concentration.

With one last look at her, I make my way toward the two garbage men. They're standing near the back of the alley, their uniforms slightly dirty and their faces pale. One is older, with a wiry frame and a shock of gray hair poking out from beneath his cap. The other is younger, maybe mid-twenties, his wide eyes darting nervously as he speaks to the officer. Both hold their hands tightly in front of them, their discomfort clear.

"Morning," I say as I approach, pulling out my notebook again. "Detective Adam Cole, Homicide. I need to ask you both a few questions."

The older man nods stiffly, his voice hoarse as he speaks. "Sure, Detective."

"You're the ones who found her?" I ask, gesturing toward the body.

"Yeah," the younger man says, his voice shaky. "We were doing our rounds, checking the bins, and—" He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "There she was, just lying there. Thought it was some drunk at first, you know? Then I saw the blood..." He trails off, shivering slightly despite the morning chill.

The older man places a steadying hand on his colleague's shoulder. "I told him not to touch anything," he adds gruffly, his own voice steady but quiet. "Called it in right away."

"Did either of you hear or see anything unusual last night? Gunshots, maybe someone running from the alley?"

The older man shakes his head. "No, sir. We weren't on shift last night, and this street's usually quiet by then. Can't say we've seen anything out of the ordinary."

The younger man nods quickly in agreement. "It's just... it's horrible," he mutters, glancing toward the alley again before looking away just as fast.

I nod, jotting down their statements. "Thank you," I say, my tone softening slightly. "I know this isn't easy, but you've been helpful."

The younger man gives a shaky nod, while the older man offers a tight-lipped, grim expression. I glance back toward the alley, where Dawson has now risen to her feet, watching me from a distance. Time to compare notes.

The alley stretches further than I first thought, twisting sharply to the left before opening onto another street. The faint morning light barely reaches the bend, leaving the far end in shadow. I notice a faint pair of tire tracks near the edge where the alley curves. They're too small to belong to a garbage truck. Narrower, more precise.

I retrieve a pair of leather gloves from my pocket, slipping them on as I kneel to examine the tracks more closely. The tread marks are faint but distinct enough to catch my attention. A sedan, maybe? The pattern suggests something lighter than a work vehicle. I glance back toward the garbage men, standing where I'd left them.

Rising to my feet, I approach them again. "Which way do you usually come in to pick up the garbage?" I ask, gesturing to the alley.

The older man points toward the direction of the dead woman. "We come in from that end," he says.

I nod, then gesture toward the opposite end, where the alley twists into the street. "So you don't come in from there?"

The two men exchange glances and shake their heads. "No, sir," the younger man says. "Never have."

I jot the information into my notebook, underlining the mention of the unusual tire tracks. It doesn't fit, not yet, but it's a piece of the puzzle. Closing the notebook, I make my way back toward Dawson, who's still crouched near the body, her gaze sharp as she studies the scene.

"What did you find?" she asks, looking up as I approach.

"Not much yet," I say, lighting another cigarette, the flick of the lighter echoing faintly in the enclosed space. I take a slow drag before kneeling near the body. "Garbage men found her. I've got officers asking around, but so far, no one's heard or seen anything. What about you?"

Dawson sighs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just what that officer told you earlier. What doesn't make sense is why the killer took her ID."

"To make it harder to identify her, of course," I say, exhaling a cloud of smoke that dissipates into the cold air. "Do you have gloves on you?"

She shakes her head.

"Then don't touch anything," I say, slipping my cigarette between my lips and adjusting my gloves. I tilt the woman's head slightly, carefully examining her pale skin for signs of trauma. No lacerations. No bruising around the neck. "She wasn't strangled," I murmur to myself.

The dress catches my eye next. At first glance, it's a bright, striking red, but closer inspection reveals faint stains—a thin layer of dirt that someone tried to wipe away. The smudges are subtle but undeniable.

"She's got dirt on her dress," I say aloud. "Looks like someone tried to clean it up. Sloppy work."

Dawson peers closer, her brow furrowed. I study the gunshot wounds next. Two in her chest, one in her forehead. Small caliber—likely a 9mm, maybe smaller. The wounds are clean, precise. I gently tilt her body to examine her back. As I expected, there are two entry wounds.

"What do you make of this?" I ask Dawson, pointing at the marks.

"She was shot from behind," she says immediately.

"Exactly," I reply, nodding. The dirt on her back and the back of her head is heavier, more pronounced. I glance at the ground near her and notice faint drag marks cutting through the filth and grime of the alley. I trace them back toward the bend in the alley where I found the tire tracks.

"She was dragged," I say, glancing at Dawson. "Whoever killed her brought her here. But why?"

I kneel again, checking her hands. There's dirt beneath her nails, deep and uneven. "She was crawling," I say, the pieces beginning to form a grim picture. "And from the looks of it, dragged after."

"Why would they drag her?" Dawson murmurs, her eyes scanning the alley as if the answer might reveal itself.

I shake my head. "To make it look like something it's not," I mutter.

The officer I questioned earlier approaches us, looking slightly winded. "We asked the shopkeepers on this block and the next," he says. "No one heard anything. No screams, no gunshots. It's like it didn't even happen."

I frown, taking another pull from my cigarette. "Hmm," I murmur, tapping the ash into the dirt. "Thanks, Officer."

The officer nods but hesitates. "What should I tell the reporters?" he asks, glancing nervously toward the crowd gathering outside the barricade.

"Keep it confidential for now," I say firmly. "Have them disperse. And keep this area blocked off until we're done."

"Understood," the officer says. "Oh, and the coroner's here too, sir."

"We're not done yet," I reply, my tone sharp.

The officer nods again, retreating to the barricade. I glance at Dawson, who's still studying the scene with a determined expression. The answers are here. We just have to dig deep enough to find them.