Chapter Twelve

Imogen shifted in her desk chair, leaning closer to the monitor. It wasn't like three inches closer to the lineup of mug shots from the shooting that morning would reveal some grand new clue, but old habits died hard. It made her feel better. Somehow it tricked her mind into believing she hadn't missed anything.

"You're lucky Moretti's not here."

Jay's sudden words made Imogen jump. Grabbing her forehead and massaging her temples, she turned right to see Jay and Hailey turn the corner from the interview rooms. She scoffed.

"Oh, please." Imogen stretched her arms above her head. Her chair wheeled back a few inches. "Is Perez talking?"

Hailey shook her head. "No. But Voight and Atwater seem to be getting closer on the other one." She placed a file folder down on her desk. "Who's Moretti?"

"Detective Gianna Moretti," Imogen said. "Jay and I worked with her over at Organized Crime. She loves me," she added, directing it at Jay.

It was Jay's turn to scoff. "Moretti liked to say Imogen would kiss the files if it meant getting an answer."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs down to the front desk. Ruzek waved a manila folder in the air. "Got more info on the girl."

Jay, Hailey, and Imogen gathered around their white board, currently covered in mug shots, dry erase scribbles, and taped up surveillance stills. Ruzek pulled out a school photo of a Latino male, early twenties, smooth black hair on his head and not even the shadow of a mustache on his face. A radiant smile offered a stark contrast to the lifeless, bloody photo it now sat beside. Jasmine Vasquez, cause of death, two GSW's to the chest.

"This is James Vasquez. He's currently a student at UChicago." He tapped the girl's photo with his knuckle. "He's Jasmine Vasquez's older brother."

The slamming of two doors interrupted Ruzek. It didn't take long for Voight, Antonio, Burgess, and Atwater to come into the main office, the former two arguing. Imogen backed away from the board and took her seat again.

"Tell me we have something," Voight said.

Ruzek nodded. "Yeah, Boss. Think we do." He restarted his explanation into James Vasquez as the rest of the team quieted down and circled up by Jay's and Imogen's desks. "Now, James doesn't have a record except a few parking tickets and one for speeding. But I noticed that one was for a blue pickup truck three months ago."

Shifting his weight to his left, he turned away from the board. "The license plates don't match. But." He pulled another photo from the folder. Slightly grainy, nothing could be made out of the passengers, but as he taped it next to the photo from the earlier crime scene, several grunts and half laughs sounded from around the group. "Same car."

Imogen smirked. Front right bumper dent, same place in both. If only they could identify anyone else in the truck. The two men they had in custody weren't talking.

Hailey nodded. "The plates registered to Donald Mulligan, then. Different car?"

Ruzek pointed to the truck. "Registered to a different blue Toyota Tacoma. This was planned."

The room silenced for a moment. Imogen had to give these guys credit. They did good work.

"So who pulled him over?" she said.

Ruzek dug into the file. After a moment, he said, "Officer Ryan Summers."

"You've got an idea?" Voight said.

Imogen nodded. "It's a long shot. But could he have been wearing a body cam?"

"It's possible," Antonio said. "They started testing them six months ago."

"Adler, Ruzek, chase it down." Voight turned back to the board. "I wanna know everything about these two. Did the girl know about the robbery? Maybe she helped plan it. I want every possibility explored. Jay, Hailey, go find this Vasquez kid."

Imogen stood from her desk and pulled in her coat in one motion. She turned to Ruzek. "Which district is Summers based in."

He flicked through the papers. "11th District. Know anyone over there?"

"Let's hope not."

She glanced over at him as they started down the stairs. He just half snorted at her comment. It wasn't really a joke though. Dealing with fallout from her pseudo death and subsequent disappearance could do absolutely nothing to help them.

Ruzek drove. From the passenger seat of his jeep, Imogen started making calls. She missed the lack of red tape that being an FBI Special Agent allowed. The bureaucracy of the CPD drove her up a wall. But by the time they pulled into the small parking lot of the 11th District's headquarters, she confirmed that Summers would meet them inside.

"We could use some of that Irish luck my mom used to go on about," Imogen said. Her door shut with a thunk and she rounded the front of the Jeep to meet up with Ruzek.

They passed a small line of disgruntled civilians when they got inside. Their front desk had been made of a darker wood than the 21st's and showed the wear and tear of time more starkly. Every scratch and scrape chipped away at the stain. It took a few moments of peering through civilians to locate an officer.

"Sergeant Rosa?" Imogen walked over the only stripes she could see, a tan skinned, black haired woman who stood just above Imogen's shoulder height. 5'2" maybe. A stern expression on her face, she turned at Imogen's question and beckoned them both over towards a chipping, white side door.

"Detective Imogen Adler, Intelligence. We spoke on the phone a few minutes ago," she said. Imogen extended a hand.

Rosa shook it. "Yes. Good to meet you."
Ruzek offered his hand as well. "I'm Officer Adam Ruzek. Also Intelligence."

"Sergeant Abigail Rosa."

With pleasantries taken care of, she ushered them through the white door and into the hallway. Several rooms branched off at regular intervals. A kitchenette on the right, on the left two offices currently in use with three people each. They reached the end of the hall and took stairs up to the second floor.

The second floor had a more open concept. Padded light grey cubicles held black faux wood desks and dull, grey filing cabinets. Most were occupied. Imogen received barely a glance as Sergeant Rosa led them along the wall towards some conference rooms at the back.

"Officer Summers should be here in a few minutes. He and his partner were out on patrol," she said. Rosa opened the glass door to let them inside. "There's coffee and water out here while you wait. In the meantime, we're checking to see if Summers had a body cam on that day."

Imogen led Ruzek inside. The room couldn't have sat more than seven comfortably. The top half of the far wall was made of windows. Below it, a scuffed up wall with an old, metal radiator. As she thanked Sergeant Rosa, Imogen took a seat in one of the black desk chairs. Not as nice as her own back at 21, but not terrible. She swiveled.

"Hopefully this won't take long," Ruzek said.
He didn't sit. Instead, he rounded the smooth black table to the window. He looked down at the streets.

Fortunately for all parties involved, it didn't take long. Summers arrived a minute later, uniform slightly wrinkled but still in better condition than a lot of the patrolmen Imogen had known. He looked oddly familiar. She couldn't help but stare at the sunburn on his pale cheeks. Impressive that he'd gotten one this early in the year. He couldn't have been older than 25. Maybe he'd been having fun on vacation in the tropics or something.

He ran a hand through his well groomed light brown hair. Standing loosely at attention, hands behind his back. For a moment, Imogen couldn't speak. She realized who he reminded her of. Mouse. Greg Gerwitz. Imogen made a mental note to check up on him after this case.

"Listen, I see a lot of people every day," he told Ruzek. "I don't remember them all. So I don't know if I can help."

"Just look at the picture," Ruzek said.

Summers nodded. As Ruzek pressed a few buttons on his phone, Imogen sat up straighter in her chair. She offered Summers a half smile when he glanced her way. She wondered if he'd served in the military. He carried himself like that.

The picture didn't seem to ring any bells. He confirmed that he'd seen James Vasquez's face before, but couldn't recall any further details of the speeding ticket.

"I am part of the body cam testing, though," he said. "Hopefully it helps."

By some miracle, it did.

Imogen glanced down at the surveillance stills they'd gotten from Summers' body cam. They'd hit the jackpot. Perez had been in the back seat. The passenger, a tall, skinny Latino man missing his front tooth and with a tattoo that read 'Sophia' scrawled along the neck, had enough identifiers that they figured a positive ID was in the bag. They just had to get back to 21 to do it.

She settled in the passenger seat of Ruzek's Jeep in silence. Imogen tucked the stills away. A yawn escaped her as the sun began to sink in the sky. Ruzek turned on the car radio, opting for Blackhawks pregame. Mindless chatter between hockey analysts did little to distract Imogen from the memories that pressed in on her.

Mouse had been there for Jay when she couldn't. Some days she wished she'd quit college to help him after his medical discharge. But she'd had less than a year to graduate.

She only formally met Mouse in person a month after their arrival in Chicago.

Jay had always said her letters brightened up the hearts of his whole unit. Anything. Care packages, letters, words of encouragement through the grapevine, that had been what kept them going. But Mouse hadn't had anyone writing to him. So she'd offered to do it.

The box of letters tucked in the corner of the drawer she'd taken over at Jay's contained every back and forth with Mouse and with Jay. When he'd slipped into self-medicating the PTSD, grown more and more distant and erratic, it had broken her heart.

Imogen wondered if he'd shown up to her funeral.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Imogen squirmed in her seat. The taste of bile built up on the back of her tongue. She pushed it down. The queasiness subsided for a moment.

"Hey, you alright?"

Imogen focused on the soft seat beneath her legs and hands, away from the sweaty chill across her brow and rocking in her stomach. She risked a glance over at Ruzek. He kept looking between her and the road. His brow furrowed.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good." Imogen could hear the quivering in her voice. She cleared her throat. Holding up the file folder, she forced a smirk. "Five bucks says we ID this guy."

"I don't wanna lose money, so you're on your own," Ruzek said. But he took another moment to look her over. "You sure you're good?"

"Yes."

They pulled into the 21st as the sun went down. A firm breeze blew Imogen's dark hair across her face and into her mouth. Reds and oranges and pinks painted the sky like a watercolor. Imogen took a deep breath. She calmed her stomach and her nerves. No need to think about her own funeral. No need to think about the betrayal on the faces of the men and women she'd known.

Jay knew she was alive. That could be enough. Imogen felt her stomach tying knots again. Pushing her door closed, she let the almost slam reverberate around her for a moment before following him inside. It had to be enough.

Imogen didn't know how she got up the stairs. One foot in front of the other, she'd wandered the stairwells and hallways as a ghost, a phantom in her memories and sickness. Burgess and Atwater sat silent at their desks. Handing over the file folder with their surveillance stills, Ruzek joined them in running facial recognition and the other tech tools at their disposal.

So many pictures had been taped up on their old, scuffed up white board. The bloody face of Jasmine Vasquez beside the smiling photo from her Instagram profile caused Imogen to pause. Instead of knots in her stomach, Imogen couldn't help her tending fists. She would get justice.

Imogen turned away. Facing Jay's desk, her gaze darted around his relatively sparse space. He only had one picture beside his monitor. Imogen recognized a few of the faces from the unit standing around him: Ruzek, Atwater, Antonio Dawson. She recognized Alvin Olinsky, too. Beside Jay, his arm around her shoulder, stood a woman Imogen didn't recognize. And there, on the side, stood Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz.

A bustling noise, footsteps against the wooden stairs, caused Imogen to look up. Even with a chill creeping across her spine and face as nausea set in again, she couldn't resist turning to face them. Jay and Hailey flanked James Vasquez, the Latino boy frowning. Imogen quickly flipped the board to hide their evidence.

She followed them to the interview rooms. As Jay deposited James Vasquez in the empty grey cell-like space, she stepped into the central room. The switches were turned off for all three interview rooms. She turned on the one for Vasquez.

Voight and Antonio traded places with Jay. Imogen slid over. He took his spot in the dark with her.

"You good?" he said.

Imogen glanced up. If she'd been honest with herself, the answer was no. She needed to sit down. But she just shook her head. "I'm fine."

Switch off the emotions.

"Imogen. You look like you're gonna faint."
Waving him off, she reached forward and gripped the ledge of the two way mirror. Forget them. Forget Mouse, forget Gianna Moretti in Organized Crime. Forget everyone.

James refused to speak. He didn't ask for a lawyer, by some miracle. Or maybe not a miracle. Maybe the boy was just that stupid. No matter Voight or Antonio's harshness, he wouldn't speak.

Maybe it wasn't a matter of threats.

Imogen pushed past Jay as they came into the hallway, frustration palpable. She flagged them down.

"I have an angle," she said. "Where's the case file?"

Voight didn't say much. He just narrowed his eyes, watched for a moment, then offered the file they'd put together for the interview. Turning back to Jay, she nodded. He nodded back.

Maybe it wasn't a matter of threats. Maybe it was a matter of guilt.

A slight draft in the room kept it cold. Imogen didn't spare the young man more than a few glances as she slid into the metal seat across from him at that stainless steel table. She could feel him watch her only briefly. Then his gaze trained on Jay. He closed the door gently with his back, leaning against it with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the boy.

Imogen took a deep breath. Then she glanced up at him. "Do you believe in God, James?"

"What?"

"Do you believe in God?" She returned to flipping through the file, even though she knew which photos she needed. "I'm just curious. I'm Irish. Catholicism comes with the territory."

"Why does it matter?" he said. Vasquez continued to split his glances between her, the concealed files, and the imposing figure of Jay Halstead cutting off his exit. "I didn't do nothing."

Imogen flashed him the saddest smile she could muster. Pity. Something she didn't feel for him, but an easy enough emotion to fake.

"See, if I had to guess, I'd say you were Catholic too. Most Latinos are."

Imogen grabbed the first photo: the surveillance photo of Vasquez driving the blue truck. She gently placed it in front of him.

"Ever heard of Catholic Guilt?"

The second photo. This time, of the blue pickup truck at the crime scene. He still didn't speak. But Imogen didn't expect him too. His silence meant she'd been right.

"Jay ever heard of Catholic Guilt?" Imogen turned to look at him. Of course he did. They all did, having attended Catholic school.

"Explain it to me," he said.

Imogen nodded. She turned back to Vasquez, catching a glimpse of sweat beading on his brow below his black hair. So she took out the next photo. Bloody floors and bodies from the back of the bakery. Ruzek's joke that hiding cocaine around powdered sugar as either the smartest business move or dumbest filled her mind for a moment. But she controlled her smile.

"Catholic Guilt can be hard to explain unless you know what it is." Imogen leaned back in her chair a bit. "It's that gnawing pain in your stomach after you lie to your mom. Or when you've punched your sister."
Taking a deep breath, she leaned across the table. "James. Have you ever punched your sister? I bet you went to Confession for that."

He only watched her now. She held sole control over his glistening brown eyes. With a tiny, pitying frown, she leaned closer. "If you want to save your soul, you're going to have to confess to a priest, James. I'm not a priest. But you can start your penance here."

One more photo. Without breaking eye contact with Vasquez, she pulled out the photo of his sister's bloody, lifeless body. She slid it over to him.

"I know what it's like to live in the shadow of guilt," Imogen said. She lowered her voice, leaning a bit closer. "It eats away at you. It twists you into knots until you can't breathe. You killed her, James. You killed your sister." She slid it closer to him. "Can you live with that?"

If a pin had dropped in that room, she would've heard it. Every muscle in her body tensed. She didn't break eye contact with him. Tears filled in his eyes as he turned from her and looked at the photo. Imogen leaned back.

"James, I can't absolve you of your sins. But telling us what you know of the hit on the bakery would go a long way to proving you're truly sorry."

"She wasn't supposed to be there!" He snapped.

Jay moved away from the door. "Okay, so what was the plan then?"

"I don't know." He refused to meet Imogen's gaze, focusing entirely on Jay. Fear radiated off him in waves. "Jas had the day off. Or she was supposed to. Perez, Soto, and Jimenez planned to hit the bakery and steal the goods, then we would split it. They wanted to get outta town."

Imogen pulled out mugshots of the men who had hit the bakery. "Them?"

"Yeah."

"They have beef with the Latin Kings?" Jay said.

Vasquez let out a tight laugh. "Man, we are Latin Kings. They heard Garcia had a side hustle in the Kings and decided to take it."

"No one else worked with em?" Jay asked.

Vasquez shook his head. "Jasmine fed me information. She didn't know we'd planned a hit. I gave them the location, and they organized the road. They was supposed to split it and leave town. Some outta the country!"

Imogen found herself nodding slowly. He curled into himself, still refusing to make eye contact with her. Guilt. A powerful motivator. She slapped a pad of paper and a pen in front of him. As she stood up from her place at the table, she offered him one last, tight smile.

"Write your statement. We'll get a priest for you in lock up," she said.

Voight entered the room. He offered her a single, firm nod and a small smile as she pushed past. Hailey stood out in the hallway. When Imogen and Jay joined her, she shook her head.

"That was impressive," she said.

Imogen didn't respond. As adrenaline began to wear off, the pain and nausea returned in waves. Jay grabbed her as she swayed. For a moment she found herself against his chest. Warmth and safety, that's what Jay felt like. But it didn't quell her sickness.

"You're sitting down. Now," Jay said.

This time, Imogen didn't argue.