[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/kp75986.png?1[/img][/center] [b]Baltimore Sixteen Months Ago[/b] “You are a walking enigma, my friend.” Detectives Burke and McNeil were studies in contrast. McNeil was young, black and handsome with a well-trimmed beard. Burke was short and fat with pasty Irish skin and white hair that had probably once been the color of fire. Despite their differences they both wore the same department store suits, and they were both BPD homicide detectives. To Tresser they as well have been identical twins. McNeil was doing the talking as the two of them sat across the metal table from Tresser. They were waiting for him outside his rowhouse when he got home from the club. Burke leaned against the hood of the unmarked police car with a cigar clamped between his teeth while McNeil played on his phone. A short ride later and they were here, in an interrogation room on the sixth floor of the BPD building. “We did some digging into you,” said McNeil. “Or at least we tried to. We know a Thomas Tresser matching your description and DOB was born in Baltimore and graduated from Edmondson.” “Impressive,” Burke chimed in. “I bet you were the only white kid in your class.” “One of three,” said Tresser. “Mommy and daddy couldn’t afford parochial school?” asked Burke. When that didn’t get a rise from Tresser, McNeil pressed on. “You joined the Navy, Tom, right out of high school. Up until yesterday that was all we knew. Took awhile, but the NCIS boys got us your file. I have to say I am impressed by what I read, you know from the few parts that weren’t redacted.” “You’re a real fucking G.I. Joe, Tresser. You kill Bin Laden?” “I got an alibi for that one,” said Tresser. “But it got me and Joe here wondering,” said McNeil. “Your Navy records end in ‘12. You pop up on BPD’s radar two months ago. That’s a gap of almost five years. Five years and there’s no travel records, no employment history, no tax filings. For all intents and purposes, Thomas Tresser did not exist until he reappeared as muscle for Jimmy Kappas.” “It don’t work like that,” grunted Burke. “Not in today’s world. Everyone leaves a footprint.” “There a point to this?” said Tresser. “Or are the two of you just working on your patter?” “I think the black hole was created,” said McNeil. “Someone out there erased your history because you did something bad, so bad they couldn’t have it getting out. So they swept it under the rug and you were left out in the cold.” “I was in Vietnam,” said Burke. “An MP during the tail end of the war. I ran into a couple of spooks when I was there. The way they carry themselves, the way they look at you, look through you, it’s how you look, Tresser. Like you’re figuring out all the ways you can kill a guy.” “Jimmy Kappas started really taking over the west side about the time you show up,” said McNeil. “The Greek’s war with the goombas was brief and very one-sided. What was it, Joey? Six bodies?” “Seven,” said Burke. “Every single one of them Carlo’s guys.” “So it begs the question,” McNeil said as he leaned forward and placed his palms against the metal table. “Why is a killer like you working for a greaseball like Kappas? It’s like Babe Ruth playing little league.” “If you got anything besides bullshit and conjecture, let me know,” said Tresser. “If you’re going to charge me with something, then do it and I’ll get a lawyer. If not, then I guess I’m free to go.” “We’re watching you, Tresser,” McNeil said as he stood. “You don’t get to commit six murders in my city and get away with it.” “Seven,” said Tresser. “At least, according to Detective Burke.” A few minutes later Burke led Tresser down the halls of the Homicide Unit. They passed by the big whiteboard with names written on it in marker. Each homicide detective headed a column with a list of names and cases underneath it in different colors. There were a few written in black, but the overwhelming amount of names were in blood red. Tresser caught a glimpse of McNeil and Burke’s columns and the names underneath it. “Lot of red, detective,” said Tresser. “Maybe too much.” “They go black,” said Burke. “They always do eventually. Nobody gets away for good. Escape is just an illusion. Just remember that, Tresser.” Before Tresser could respond, he turned when he saw motion out the corner of his eyes. Leaning against a watercooler, a paper cup in his hands, was Sarge Steel. Steel winked at him before going back to his water. “You don’t have to tell me that, Detective,” he said with a sigh. “I know it myself. Too fucking well.” [hr] [b]Hub City Now[/b] Tresser pulled over to the side of the street and turned the car off. He sat in silence for a long time, dwelling over the events of the last hour. Killing wasn’t new to Tresser. He’d done it as both a SEAL and spy, and he’d gotten used to doing it during this assignment to maintain his cover. But the difference with those murders was that he had always killed some kind of criminal, be it a terrorist or rival trafficker or muscle. They were always someone whose actions had warranted murder in some shape or form. But the body in the truck of the car wasn’t a criminal. It was a cop who was just doing his job. To some killing was killing, but not to Tresser. A line had been crossed and he felt like he was living in a new era now. He made sure the coast was clear before popping the trunk and getting out of the car. He was somewhere in the city’s industrial section. Half-full during the day, it was a ghost town at night. He’d be able to do his business without any interruptions. With a flashlight in one gloved hand and a pair of pliers in the other, he looked down at the body resting in the trunk of the car. The body stared back up at him with lifeless eyes. With the flashlight Tresser got his first good luck at the cop. He was young, twenty-eight his driver’s license had said, with rust color hair and the stubbly makings of a beard. Tresser thought back to that cop in Baltimore. The one who had all the answers, but yet still never asked the right questions. His ID said he was Officer William Janko with the drug enforcement unit. Tresser tossed the ID and badge over a bridge on his way here. No wedding ring. That gave him some consolation. At least Tresser wasn’t tearing a family apart. “I’m sorry, Janko,” he said aloud as he gripped the pliers. The Hub PD would move heaven and earth to find a missing cop, and they would zero in on the body found in the car as their likely candidate. But Tresser would do whatever he could to slow them down and buy himself more time to get out of here. Screwing up Janko’s dental work would slow the identifying of the body down. The alias he used for this trip was now burned. The rental car was tied to it so he was in no real danger. The problem was that same name had a return ticket waiting for him in Chicago. He would have to get out of the country another way with another name. After nearly fifteen minutes of pulling and tearing, Janko’s teeth were scattered through the trunk of the car. Tresser dropped the pliers on Janko’s chest and retreated to the backseat of the car. He came back with a canister of gas. He poured part of it over Janko’s body before he closed the trunk. The rest of the canister he emptied across the car’s front and back seats before leaving the can in the back. He pulled a rag from his pocket before removing the gas cap and stuffing the rag into the fuel tank. He pulled out a metal lighter and put flame to the rag. It would act as a slow moving wick. Tresser started to walk away. He was halfway down the block when the gas tank caught fire and the car exploded, the extra gas turning the car into a ball of flames. Tresser could feel the intensity of the heat on the back of his neck. He turned and looked back to watch the mini-inferno roar. The side of the fire covered up the noise of feet scuffling across pavement until it was too late. Tresser started to turn, only for something hard to crash against the side of his head. He fell to the ground and winced as he was kicked in the stomach. A big man in a black turtleneck stood above him with a shotgun in his hands. Just behind him stood Broker with a look on his face that was somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “Janko was one of my best men,” he said with a tut. “It’s a shame I’m gonna have to take it out on you.” The man in the turtleneck brought the butt of the shotgun down on Tresser’s head and it all went to black.