[CENTER][COLOR=dimgray][sup]________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/COLOR][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/4jUBzVmMj8FRUjTKcOqgTn?si=5982e0577de3402b][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/dc/5e/48/dc5e48025d7a347a91ee42cc92a81504.jpg[/img][/url][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=silver][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [I]Bureau Unit Offices[/I] - [I]Winnipeg, Manitoba[/I][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=silver][b]Times of Trouble #1.009:[/b][/COLOR] [I]Victims[/I][/right][/sup][/indent][COLOR=dimgray][SUP][sub]___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sub][/SUP][/COLOR][INDENT][sub][color=silver][B]Interaction(s):[/B][/COLOR] [I]None[/I][/sub][/indent]
[indent][color=gray][color=black][sub][b]“Four in Sixty-Three.”[/b][/sub][/color]
Solomon twitched and dropped his pencil mid-stroke, looking up sharply and scanning the room. It was dark and empty and nothing moved. He turned bodily to the doorway and saw the hallway, too, was absent of any individual. He seemed to take a longer look, peering for something in the dark beyond his lamplight, before emitting a subtle sigh and returning to his note-taking. 
[color=#8B4513]“Working. No distractions.”[/color] He announced to the empty study; and then his head was once again buried in the thick tome laid open on his desk, eyes flicking across the page as the pencil scurried back and forth in his hand making notes shorthand and erratic. 
[right][color=black][sup][b]"Four dead, more taken."[/b][/sup][/color][/right]
This time Solomon's sigh wasn't subtle, more a protracted, passive-aggressive exhalation. Theatrical, almost. He stood, tucking his pencil neatly into the spine of the book to save his place as he folded it closed. He scanned the room again, making another sweep around the empty darkness and the hallway beyond before stepping over to the light switch. The overhead bulb flickered to life with an audible hum that quickly faded away, the new light drowning out the small oil lamp he'd been working by. With a deep pull from a mug of long-cold coffee, Solomon moved to a set of bookcases that spanned the full wall, shelves bowing from the weight of the ledgers atop. He traced fingers across spines, reading worn and faded stickers in search of-
[color=#8B4513]"Hmm."[/color] 
Ledgers were missing. Nineteen sixty-one to sixty-four. Solomon sighed again.

He marched hastily down the corridor, head down and stride hitting a strong rhythm. He wasn't sure where they might be, but he had a good idea; the other offices were nearby, and often unlocked. Just a quick shortcut via the break room and he'd soon figure out which colleague had purloined his case files, and then he could decide what he wanted to 'borrow' in return. 

With his head down and mind distracted, Solomon didn't see the break room door opening before him and Senior Special Agent Hart step out into the hallway. Solomon barrelled forward, not keen on being dragged into small talk. He'd intended to finish his current book this evening, and this was already an unwelcome side-track. Hart was quicker and more agile than Solomon anyway, which he deftly proved by a sharp pivot to step out of Agent Winter's track as he pushed past to cut through.
[color=white]"Oh, Sally. I didn't realize you were still he-"[/color][color=black][sup][sub][b]"Twenty-one ruined."[/b][/sub][/sup][/color]
[color=#8B4513]"I really don't have time for you."[/color] Solomon muttered back to the hidden voice, but Hart caught it and his nostrils flared. It was hard to sneak anything past Hart. Brow furrowed, he reached out to take hold of Solomon's forearm.
[color=white]"A little politeness wouldn't hurt, Special Agent Winters."[/color] He said, his voice firm, a tone of hierarchy creeping in. Solomon paused now and turned on his heel to look at Hart, their faces equally indignant. He yanked his arm back and there was an infinitesimal stand-off between the men.
[color=#8B4513]"Busy."[/color] Solomon said, impatient. 
[color=white]"[i]Everyone's[/i] busy, Sal. But we all find time to stop and say 'hi'. Especially to our seniors."[/color][right][color=black][sub]"Innocence lost. Never reclaimed."[/sub][/color][/right]
[color=#8B4513]"Case files. '63."[/color] Was the only response given, and now was Hart's turn to sigh.
[color=white]"Another little episode is it, Sally? Your 'voices' are a pain in the unit's ass, which makes [i]you[/i] a pain in [i]my[/i] ass. Won't be my problem much longer though."[/color]
[color=#8B4513]"Looking forward to it. Case files."[/color] He sneered, not veering off-course for a second. It'd be so easy to be lured into a sniping match with Hart, but if another re-assignment was already in play, it'd just be wasted effort. Save it for the next guy. 
[color=white]"You're an asshole, Winters."[/color] Was Hart's response, and then he left. Solomon just frowned and pushed through the door into the break room, setting his stained mug in the sink on the way past.

The other offices were on the other side of the building, and they were actual offices designed to be worked in, ergonomic and well-lit and laid out efficiently. Solomon didn't have one of these, mostly because he'd deliberately chosen to roughly convert a back-storage room, preferring its separation, dimmer light, the quiet it achieved via isolation, and the already-in wall-to-wall shelving on one side, but also because his transfer into this unit had been preceded by his reputation, and the Resident Agent in Charge had been advised that the engraving on the door nameplate would probably take longer to arrive than Solomon would be stationed with them; when Solomon turned up, he'd brought with him an old-school desk plate, embossed "DR. SOLOMON WINTERS" and forgoing the usual rank affectation underneath. Volunteering to tuck himself away in a dusty corner suited the RAC just fine.

Here, Solomon paused. There were seven offices, six lining either side of the corridor and a final larger office at the end. They went in largely-hierarchical order, the office at the end reserved for Supervisory Special Agent Moreno - the RAC for the unit - and the others filtering down from Senior Special Agent through to the singular Probationary Agent. Solomon grunted. He hadn't been aware trainees had started getting offices. Wolf was particularly wet-behind-the-ears; he should have suspected it could have been a one-in-one-out scenario. It's not like he hadn't seen it before.

Solomon decided that Agent Wolf's office was the place to start. Trainees spent a lot of time with their nose in one case file or another, reading up on cold cases, closed cases, even active cases if their unit chief was feeling particularly generous. Studying the ways the world investigated things let you appreciate more how H.E.L.P. investigated their assignments; the good habits you could borrow, and the bad ones you had to discard. Solomon's 'office' was replete with case files from agencies and jurisdictions the world-over, more often than not particularly unusual, particularly violent, or particularly unsolved. It was well-known that Agent Winters spent more hours than he should diving down rabbit-holes trying to prove the impossible, coming up with outlandish but oddly-specific theories on a case's supposed hidden truths. His insight was valuable but more often than not un-asked-for.

There was a stack on Wolf's desk as Solomon entered, but the manila folders were a far cry from the dusty, well-bound ledgers he was looking for. He perused the files, sifting through paperwork and receipts and discarded food wrappers just in case, but came up empty. [color=black][sub][b]"Set free, permitted to hunt."[/b][/sub][/color]
[color=#8B4513]"[b]Right.[/b]"[/color] He announced, growing frustrated. He'd moved past all this but still the odd one wormed through, something or someone who didn't know better trying to reach out. The problem with things like this was it was only ever a one-way road and it only ever lead to Solomon Station, and every time a voice like this one whispered to him it was a sharp needle of ice pushing through his ear into his cerebellum and straight down his brain stem. It was uncomfortable and unwelcome and reminded him of vastly more miserable years. His already-lacking patience was wearing increasingly thin. Solomon marched toward the door, determined to ransack every office in the building to quiet whoever was pestering him.

He halted, hand outstretched; the very doorknob he was reaching for had a memo stuck to it.

[quote][b]Jake - took those '60s files Moreno told you to flick through - need to look at something. 
I'll give them back in a couple days. 
Sally won't miss them - just let Moreno handle him if he makes a stink.
-Hart[/b][/quote]

[color=#8B4513]"[i]Right![/i]"[/color]
Solomon thundered out of Wolf's office and bee-lined straight for Hart's. That'd be why Hart was here as late as Solomon was - for whatever reason, he'd nabbed the files from Wolf for his own purposes after the trainee had gone home for the day. Why Hart couldn't just pull rank and ask for the files, Solomon didn't know, but it made just as much sense as Moreno not telling Solomon he'd given the files to Wolf in the first place. He felt his cheeks grow hot as he chafed - [i]politeness[/i], eh? What about the common courtesy of [i]asking[/i] instead of [i]taking[/i]? 

Solomon slammed his hand down on the door handle to Hart's office and rattled uselessly. The bastard had locked it before he'd left - probably anticipating Solomon would come looking for them and not wanting to give them up before he was done with them.
[color=black][right][sub][sup][b]"Never should have happened."[/b][/sup][/sub][/right][/color][color=#8B4513][b]"I'm getting there!"[/b][/color] He practically roared, giving up all pretense at intra-office relations and delivering his foot to the door just next to the lock. With frustration boiling over channeled into the kick the door gave way under a singular blow, and Solomon marched in, immediately seeing his ledgers atop Hart's filing cabinet in the corner - he hustled over, blood pumping, snatching up the pile and tossing years '61, '62, and '64 to the floor before flipping '63 open in his hand and searching vigorously through it. With a triumphant finger, he found his quarry and stabbed the page viciously with the tip of his index.

[color=#8B4513]"[b]Here![/b] Léopold Dion! 21 raped, 4 killed, 1963!"[/color]
[color=black][b]"P u n i s h."[/b][/color]
[color=#8B4513]"Sentenced! Life! Stabbed in prison 1972! Dead for twenty years! Nothing else to be done - now, [b]leave me [i]alone![/i][/b]"[/color]

There was - nothing. Silence. A dissipation of some imperceptible energy, like someone had finally opened a particularly tight jar several rooms away - the sudden lifting of a tension you weren't even aware of. Blissful quiet...

And then Moreno burst into the office, his gaze washing over the shattered lock and splintered door frame and folders and ledgers strewn across the floor, and Solomon Winters, amidst it all, holding an old file and pointing at a 30-something-year-old closed case while shouting angrily into the ether.
[color=white]"What the [i]hell[/i] is going on in here, Winters?![/color] He demanded, eyes agog and face reddening.
[color=#8B4513]"Just tracking down an old case, Manny."[/color] Solomon answered, matter-of-factly.
[color=white]"That's [i]Resident Agent in Charge[/i] Moreno, [i]Sally.[/i]"[/color]
[color=#8B4513]"That's [i]Dr. Winters[/i], Manuel."[/color]

There was a beat. Neither man moved. Solomon didn't enjoy his episodes, and neither did he enjoy the aftermaths, or being inevitably discovered in them. This had been pretty light, all things considered. Sometimes these things went on for days.

[color=white]"Clear this up. Then clear out your desk."[/color]
[color=#8B4513]"You don't have the authority to fire me."[/color]
Moreno laughed in a short, sharp, barking sound, entirely absent of mirth. [color=white]"Don't I damn well know it. No, I can't fire you - but you're being moved on again, thank god. You can go be someone else's problem. Wasn't supposed to be until next week, but the unit's fed up of you. [i]I'm[/i] fed up of you. So I'm sending you early. Fuck off to Base Alpha and don't be coming back in a hurry."[/color] 

With his piece said, Moreno turned, nursing his temples as he walked out the room. Winters looked around Hart's office, feeling genuinely remorseful for his brash actions, but simply unable to express it. Absorbing Moreno's orders, he suddenly skipped to the door, leaning carefully out over the splintered wood to call after him:
[color=#8B4513]"If you're sending me early, how am I going to expense my accommodation?"[/color]
Moreno didn't turn around, but Solomon watched him roll his neck in frustration.
[color=white]"Expense?! You're not even a Senior! What do you think we pay you a [i]salary[/i] for?"[/color] He called back, and then he was around the corner and away.

[color=#8B4513]"Sure, a salary."[/color] Solomon muttered to himself, slinking back into Hart's office to clear up after himself, momentarily pondering if he should leave an apology note. [color=#8B4513]"But not a very [i]good[/i] one."[/color]
[/color][/indent]