-
"Ross McCadden. Six years on the job," Burgess informs us as we stand in the hospital corridor, peering down at the lifeless body sprawled on the ground.
"He was my homeroom instructor at the academy," Adam gestures to himself, his voice heavy with emotion. "We were really good friends. I just... talked to him." His gaze lingers on the body, and I offer a comforting touch to his arm. "Has somebody told Jenny? Has his wife been notified, or—"
"Yeah," Roman interjects. "Street deputy and peer support team went to their house." He nods solemnly, his eyes betraying the weight of the situation, as Adam moves around to the other side of the body and lifts the sheet, revealing Ross's face. I find myself simply staring, speechless in the face of such tragedy.
"Lewellen?" Alvin inquires, his voice cutting through the somber atmosphere.
"Uh, yeah," Roman replies, leading us into the hospital room where Ross had been stationed. "The fire alarm was pulled right around the time of death. A security guard spotted a guy wearing a hoodie and a ball cap walking away."
"What condition was Lewellen in?" Al asks, his eyes fixed on the figure lying motionless on the hospital bed. "Was he out of the coma?"
"Yeah, he was responsive, talking to doctors," Roman confirms.
"Where's the security room?" Antonio's voice breaks the silence, drawing our attention.
"I'll take you to it," Sean offers, leading Antonio and me out of the room and into a small chamber filled with computer monitors. He plays back the footage, and we watch in horror as Ross is caught off guard, shot in the head by an assailant who approaches from behind.
"He never saw it coming," I murmur, shaking my head in disbelief.
"Horrible. Just horrible," the security guard remarks, his voice filled with a mixture of shock and sorrow. There are no words to adequately describe the scene unfolding before us. The shooter, obscured by a ball cap and hoodie, disappears into the hospital room, fires two shots at Lewellen, and then vanishes once more.
"Can you freeze that image?" Antonio requests, his tone firm.
"Yeah, that's it," the guard confirms, freezing the frame on the screen. The shooter's face remains mostly hidden from view.
"All right, print that out," Antonio orders, despite the limited evidence.
"Not a lot to go on, sorry," the guard apologizes, as he begins to print the image.
"We've started with less," Antonio reassures him, just as Adam enters the room.
"Hey," Adam greets, his voice tinged with sadness. "Voight wants everybody to meet at the district in two hours."
*
"All right, you all remember Detective Rollins, New York Special Victims," Voight announces, gesturing towards the blonde woman who had caught Adam's eye last time she was here. "This is Detective Amaro," he continues, indicating the man accompanying her. "They have full jurisdictional powers here, and together we're gonna end this." With a determined nod, he strides up to the board, his presence commanding attention.
"All right, this pedophile ring, they're desperate, well-connected, and clearly they'll do anything to avoid being exposed. We found the body in New York, but the head of the snake is here in Chicago," Voight informs us, his voice carrying a sense of urgency.
"Okay, so, Bob Clinton, he is our middleman from New York. Now, NCMEC tells us that he was getting victims from a youth center in Times Square. A lot of the kids were actually funneled to New York from here in Chicago, and according to our talks with Clinton, there is a higher-up, a true shot-caller," Rollins elaborates, stepping forward to provide further details.
"Clinton was gonna give us a name, but he didn't make it 24 hours in jail, was shanked in the showers," Amaro adds, his voice tinged with frustration, sharing an update from his partner.
"We like Lewellen for financing this whole thing," Voight asserts, pointing at the picture of the man in the hospital bed on the board. His image looms over us, a stark reminder of the stakes involved. "Antonio, where we at with the shooter?"
"Well, due to the poor quality of the video, there's no match in the face recognition database. Best we got is male, white, around 5'9", dark hair, 170 pounds give or take," Antonio reports, his tone serious and focused.
"So, patrol, you turn over every stone you can to get an I.D on this guy," Voight commands, directing his attention to Burgess and Roman, who sit in the corner, ready to spring into action.
"You got it, Sergeant," Kim responds promptly, her determination evident in her voice.
"Ruzek, Lewellen himself, where we at with that?" Voight shifts his gaze to Adam, seeking an update.
"Got to all his main accounts, nothing stood out except for payments to an Oakbrook Senior Community, Western suburbs, comes in at, like, 5k a month," Adam reports, his brow furrowing slightly as he relays the information.
"And that's relevant how?" O interjects, seeking clarification.
"Lewellen has no living relatives," Ruzek explains with a shrug, his expression thoughtful.
"All right, Ruzek and Amaro, go check out this home," Voight orders, his voice authoritative, before Trudy ascends the stairs, carrying black badge covers in honor of officer McCadden.
"Some black badge covers in honor of Officer McCadden," Trudy announces solemnly, distributing them to each of us. "Ross was a husband and a father and one of my patrolmen. I assigned him to that hospital protection detail, he was supposed to be off the clock, but he needed the overtime for his daughter's tuition. So when you find the animal that killed him, and for whatever reason that animal doesn't come back alive, you call me. I'll dig the ditch," she declares, her words heavy with determination as she exits the room, leaving us to absorb her resolve.
"All right. Let's hit it," Voight nods, signaling for us to move out. However, before we do, he beckons me into his office with a gentle gesture. "Jackson," he calls, his tone softer now, indicating a moment of concern.
I follow him, entering his office and closing the door behind me. "I just want to ask if you're alright," he begins, perching on the edge of his desk, his gaze fixed on me with genuine concern.
"Yeah, uh, yeah I'm fine," I reply, trying to convey reassurance, though the weight of recent events lingers. "I'm fine," I repeat, offering a weak smile to reinforce my words.
"You didn't need to come back to work so quick," Voight reminds me, his voice carrying a note of paternal concern. "You could go home and take a few days off—"
"Sarge, I'm fine, honestly, I just want to figure out this case and find the shooter," I assure him, my determination evident despite the lingering unease.
"If you feel uncomfortable at any point, you come to me. Okay? I'm here for you," he assures me, his hand reaching out to pat my arm in a gesture of support.
"Thank you," I whisper gratefully, feeling a sense of reassurance wash over me as I open the door and step back into the bustling room, ready to face the challenges ahead.
I descend the stairs to the lobby, the soft murmur of voices filling the air as people mill about, their movements a blur of activity. Platt stands by the donation bucket for Ross, her expression somber yet determined. As I approach, I reach into my pocket and extract a few bills, folding them neatly before placing them inside the bucket. Platt meets my gaze, and we exchange a silent understanding, a moment of shared sympathy amidst the bustling atmosphere.
She gestures towards the side room, and I follow her gaze to where Kieran stands. His appearance has undergone a noticeable transformation; he's shed his unkempt appearance, his hair now cropped short, his face clean-shaven. He looks different, almost unrecognizable in his newfound cleanliness.
"Hi. I heard about the police officer," he acknowledges, nodding towards the donation bucket. "I'll put some money in before I leave."
"Yeah, thanks," I reply, my tone lacking enthusiasm, my gratitude muted. Before I can react, he moves closer, his hand reaching out to my height, and in one swift motion, he leans in and presses his lips to mine.
I swiftly push him away, my hand meeting his chest in a firm motion. "What are you doing? You know I'm with Antonio now!"
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that again since you broke us off," he retorts, his tone brimming with disregard for my current relationship.
"What do you want?" I snap, my patience wearing thin.
He sighs, his expression softening slightly. "I want my first visitation with my son."
"I said I'll contact you about that on a day that's good for me. Right now," I gesture around the district, "is not a good time."
"I see that, but he's my so--"
"Kieran, do we need to have the rules discussion again? I am in charge here. What I say goes, and right now is not a good time," I assert firmly, cutting him off. He nods once, conceding to my authority, and heads towards the door.
"Tomorrow?" he asks, a note of hope in his voice.
"We'll see if I can get Burgess and Roman free, but I'm not promising anything," I reply. "Also, before the first visit, I want you to sign a few agreements."
"Like what?" His annoyance is palpable.
"Telling you what will happen if you take Lucas from anywhere without my permission, like his school--"
"That was once--" he interjects.
"It still happened," I remind him, holding firm. "Also, things like you can't leave the country with him, no overnight stays. That type of thing."
"And what happens if I break the agreement?" His tone edges towards defiance.
"Depending on which one you break, you either get a fine or jail time," I inform him coolly. "Or maybe both," I add with a shrug. He glowers at me before leaving, and I head back upstairs.
I answer my phone as Adam calls me. "What have you got?"
"Looks like Andrew Lewellen is paying for the resident Ms. Hughes," he informs me. "But she seems to be confident that Matilda Hughes, her daughter, pays for all the fees."
"Okay, I'll look into it," I reply, acknowledging his effort. But before I can end the call, he speaks again.
"Hey, Katie," he pauses, and I sense a shift in his tone.
"Yeah?" I prompt, curious.
"I'm really sorry about the baby," he says quietly, his words catching me off guard. "I'm just, I'm here for you if you want."
"Thanks," I respond sincerely, the weight of his words settling on me.
"I'll see you in a bit," he adds, ending the call.
"Hank," I interject, catching his attention as he strides past, and gather the files I've printed about Hughes.
"Yeah?" he responds, turning to face me.
"Matilda Hughes is an employee for the Department of Children and Family Services. I spoke with her boss, and he says that she's not at the office, and she's not answering her cell. This is her home address," I explain, extending the file toward him.
"Beautiful," he acknowledges my efforts with a nod, taking the file and passing it to Halstead.
"Let's get on it," Jay urges, gesturing for me to accompany him.
We make our way down to the parking lot where my car awaits. The air is cool and crisp, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves scattered across the pavement. As we approach the vehicle, I glance over at Jay, noticing the slight furrow in his brow.
"How are you doing?" I inquire, the concern evident in my voice, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.
He pauses for a moment, assessing my expression. "I should be asking you that," he replies with a hint of concern in his voice.
"I'm getting through," I respond, trying to mask the turbulence of emotions swirling within me.
There's a fleeting silence between us as we settle into the car. "Does Antonio know that it wasn't his kid you lost?" Jay broaches the delicate subject, his tone gentle yet probing.
I purse my lips, grappling with the weight of his question. "No," I admit, feeling a pang of guilt. "I haven't had the heart to tell him. He doesn't know exactly how many weeks I was."
"Surely he should know?" Jay's brow furrows deeper, his concern palpable. "He can't be angry about it since there was never any cheating. We stopped sleeping together as soon as you and he got together."
"I don't know," I confess, a knot forming in my stomach. "It still feels like it would hurt him, and I can't bear to inflict that pain on him."
Jay nods slowly, his expression softening as he takes a sip of coffee from his takeaway cup. His tired eyes reflect a mixture of empathy and sadness. "Are you sure you're doing okay?" I ask, my voice tinged with genuine concern.
He offers me a weak smile, trying to reassure both himself and me. "Of course I am, Kat."
We meet the landlord in front of Matilda's apartment building, his keys jangling as he leads us up the staircase.
"No pets, always pays the rent on time. Nice lady," the landlord informs us as we stand before Matilda Hughes's door. His voice trembles slightly, betraying his unease.
"When's the last time you saw her?" Jay inquires, his tone firm yet empathetic.
"Maybe three days ago," he shrugs, his eyes darting nervously between us. I notice a bead of sweat forming on his forehead, despite the coolness of the hallway. The both of us draw our guns, anticipating what we may find inside. The landlord's eyes widen slightly. "M-maybe she's just out of town."
"Let's find out," I nod to Jay, and he unlocks the door. As it swings open, a musty odor wafts out, mingling with the stale air of abandonment. The dim light filtering through the curtains casts long shadows across the hallway.
"Matilda Hughes! Chicago police!" Halstead's voice echoes through the apartment, breaking the eerie silence. His words reverberate off the peeling wallpaper and cracked ceiling.
"Clear," he declares after inspecting the first room. I follow suit, scanning the opposite room with cautious steps. Dust particles dance in the faint sunlight filtering through the grimy windows, adding to the sense of neglect that permeates the space.
"Clear," I confirm, my voice barely above a whisper, reluctant to disturb the solemn atmosphere that hangs in the air like a heavy shroud. With a deep breath, we proceed down the corridor to the main living area, each footstep echoing off the walls.
On the white rug, we see the girl lying down, bleeding. Dead. A gunshot wound mars her cheek, and a pool of crimson stains the once-pristine carpet. The metallic tang of blood lingers in the air, mingling with the faint scent of decay. My stomach churns, and I avert my gaze, unable to bear the sight.
We both holster our guns, the click of the clasps breaking the silence like a gunshot. For a moment, we stand in stunned silence, grappling with the gravity of the scene before us. "Voight, we're going to need to get you and a CPD photographer down to Matilda Hughes's address," I radio, my voice tinged with urgency.
"Copy," comes Voight's response as my radio beeps, the sound piercing the heavy silence that hangs in the air.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the area," I inform the landlord, my tone gentle yet firm. He nods silently, his eyes wide with shock, and quickly retreats down the corridor, seeking solace in the anonymity of the hallway.
As Voight arrives with the photographer, the tension in the air thickens, suffocating us with its weight. The camera flashes briefly illuminate the room, capturing the grim reality of the scene before us. Each click of the shutter echoes off the walls, a haunting reminder of the life that has been lost.
"So?" Voight prompts as we lead them through, his voice betraying a sense of urgency.
"Couldn't find any other evidence linking her to Andrew Lewellen. Her computer and cell are missing," I report, my words echoing hollowly in the desolate apartment.
"How long was she working at DCFS?" Voight asks, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Fifteen years," Jay replies, his voice tinged with sorrow.
"And how long was Lewellen paying for her mom at the home?" Voight inquires, his eyes narrowing in thought.
"Almost as long," Jay responds, his tone grim.
"So she was funneling kids to New York through DCFS," I infer, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place.
"I think that's the theory to beat right now, yeah," Voight confirms, his voice heavy with implication.
"She's not the shot-caller, though," Jay interjects, his words tinged with frustration. "Lindsay's brother Teddy said it was a white male that was in charge."
"This is gonna end bad, I just know it," I sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on me like a suffocating blanket.
"I'm getting everyone else over to her office at Child Services. We need to turn this place inside-out," Voight says, his voice resolute as he dials a number on his phone, the sound echoing off the barren walls of the apartment.
*
"How do you guys do it in Special Victims, working cases like this all the time?" Adam's voice cuts through the somber atmosphere as we stand in Matilda's office, surrounded by stacks of files.
"It's—" Rollins begins, but her voice trails off, her expression unreadable as she walks away, avoiding the question altogether.
"Well, there's an old saying: 'carve your successes in stone; write your failures in the sand'. Just try and think of the ones you saved," Amaro offers, his tone tinged with empathy.
"I'll remember that one," Ruzek nods, his gaze fixed on the documents in front of him.
"Oh, my God," Lindsay gasps, her voice trembling with disbelief. "Guys, my brother was in foster care with this family."
"You didn't know Teddy was in the system?" Rollins asks, her eyebrows furrowing in concern.
"Uh, no, my mom checked out on us for a couple of years, and Teddy and I lost touch. I thought he was living with his dad," Lindsay explains, her words tinged with sadness.
"Okay, so Jill and Sam Whiting, they live in Irving Park," Rollins reads from the file, her voice steady despite the tension in the room.
"And it says that he was with them for two months, right before he went to New York," Erin adds, her eyes scanning the page intently.
"Do they have any current foster kids?" Amaro inquires, his brow furrowed in thought. Erin quickly retrieves another file, flipping through its pages.
"Yeah. Amy Kleinpass, 9, and Chris Sepka, 13," Erin replies, her voice tense with anticipation.
"Let's go pay the Whitings a visit," Rollins suggests, her shoulders squared with determination. With a nod, the three of us head down to my parked car, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air like a thick fog.
As we approach the residence, a tall brick house comes into view, its imposing presence accentuated by the spiked black fence that encircles the front yard. The atmosphere is tense, a sense of anticipation hanging in the air as we prepare to confront the Whitings.
"You hear from Teddy?" Amanda's voice interrupts our conversation as we open the squeaking gate, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood, mingling with the distant hum of traffic.
"Uh, not yet," Erin responds, shaking her head as we climb up the front steps, the wooden stairs creaking beneath our weight, adding an eerie atmosphere to the scene.
"Okay," Rollins nods, her expression grave as we approach the door, the air thick with tension.
"He's not a player in the pedophile ring. He's a victim; that's all," Lindsay defends her brother to Amanda, her tone firm with conviction, her eyes reflecting a mixture of frustration and protectiveness.
"I didn't say he was a player," Amanda replies kindly, her voice filled with understanding, and Erin lets out a sigh of relief, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
"You're right; you didn't. I'm sorry," Erin apologizes, her words tinged, her gaze meeting mine briefly before she presses the doorbell, her hand trembling slightly with anticipation. "I'm just trying to keep my head on straight."
"It's okay," Amanda assures her, her voice gentle and reassuring. "Lean on me, or lean on your team." She gestures towards me, and I offer Lindsay a reassuring smile, silently acknowledging the bond that has formed between us amidst the chaos of our work. "Rollins," Amanda answers her ringing phone as the door opens, revealing a man in a grey vest and tan trousers, his posture tense and guarded.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice cautious as he scrutinizes us, his eyes darting between our badges.
"Sam Whiting?" I inquire, flashing my badge so he knows we're the police, the metal glinting in the dim light filtering through the doorway.
"That's right," he confirms, his tone wary, his grip tightening on the door handle, his reluctance palpable.
"Chris Sepka and Amy Kleinpass, are they your foster children?" Erin questions, her voice firm and authoritative, her eyes fixed on his face for any sign of deception.
"Yes," he replies tersely, his gaze flickering nervously between us, his demeanor guarded.
"Are they home?" I press further, my tone betraying the urgency of our mission, the weight of responsibility heavy on my shoulders.
"No, they're out," he responds, his voice tinged with unease, his hand still firmly on the door, his reluctance to let us in evident.
"Okay, we'd like to come in and talk to you," Erin informs him, her tone leaving no room for argument, her resolve unwavering in the face of his hesitation, her gaze unwavering as she meets his eyes with unwavering determination.
"Um, let me just put the dog out first," he says, his voice faltering slightly, his eyes darting around nervously as he retreats back into the dimly lit interior of the house, the sound of his footsteps fading into the silence.
"Mm. Yeah.. okay, copy that," Rollins ends her phone call, her expression serious, her brow furrowed in concentration as she absorbs the information, her mind already racing ahead to the next step in our investigation. "That was Ruzek. Jill Whiting, she died nine years ago," she informs us, her voice somber, her words laden with significance, the implications of her revelation sinking in slowly.
"If his wife's dead, why does DCFS still have her listed as a foster parent?" Erin wonders aloud, her brow furrowing in confusion, her voice tinged with frustration, her gaze fixed on the file in her hand as she searches for answers amidst the chaos of our investigation.
"Sam?" I call out as we enter the threshold, my senses on high alert as I draw my gun, the weight of the metal reassuring in my hand, the familiar feel of the grip grounding me in the present moment, the adrenaline coursing through my veins heightening my senses to the danger that lurks within the shadows of the unknown.
"Sam?" I repeat, scanning the first floor cautiously before we head upstairs, staying one behind the other as we climb the twisting flight of stairs, the air heavy with anticipation, the tension mounting with each step we take, the sound of our footfalls echoing in the silence, the dim light casting long shadows along the walls.
"Gun," I alert my teammates as we enter one of the rooms on the third level, spotting Sam seated in a chair with a gun in his hand, the metal glinting ominously in the dim light, the weight of the weapon heavy with the promise of violence, the air thick with tension as we confront the imminent threat before us.
"I'm sick," he mutters as we enter the room, our guns raised and trained on him, his voice trembling with desperation, his eyes hollow with despair, the lines of fatigue etched deep into his weary face, the weight of his burden evident in every line and contour.
"Put the gun down," Erin warns him firmly, her voice commanding and authoritative, her eyes locked on his with unwavering determination, her resolve unshaken in the face of danger.
"I hate that I was made this way," Sam replies, his voice filled with regret, his words tinged with self-loathing, the anguish in his tone palpable as he grapples with the demons that haunt him, the darkness of his past looming large in the present moment.
"Put the gun down," Erin repeats, her tone urgent and insistent, her gaze unwavering as she meets his eyes with unwavering resolve, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife, her words a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation.
"I tried, but, uh—" he trails off, his grip tightening on the weapon, his knuckles white with tension, his hands trembling with the weight of his decision, the lines of fear etched deep into his furrowed brow, the mask of composure slipping away to reveal the raw vulnerability beneath.
"Hey, Sam," I interject, my voice soft and reassuring, my heart pounding in my chest as I approach him cautiously, the adrenaline coursing through my veins heightening my senses to the danger that lurks within the shadows, the weight of responsibility heavy on my shoulders.
"You can make this better," I assure him, my words a lifeline in the darkness, my voice a beacon of hope amidst the chaos, my gaze locked on his with unwavering determination, my resolve unshaken in the face of uncertainty.
"I'm sorry," he shakes his head, his voice filled with despair, his eyes brimming with tears, the weight of his guilt crushing him beneath its suffocating embrace, the darkness of his past threatening to consume him whole.
"You hear me? You can tell us where Chris and Amy are," I plead with him, my voice tinged with urgency, my heart aching with empathy, my words a desperate plea for redemption, my gaze locked on his with unwavering determination, my resolve unshaken in the face of despair.
"I'm sick," he repeats, his voice hollow and distant, his words a whispered confession, his gaze fixed on the gun in his hand, his fingers trembling with the weight of his decision, the darkness closing in around him like a suffocating shroud.
"Sam, she's right," Rollins speaks up, her voice gentle yet firm, her eyes filled with compassion, her words a gentle reminder of the hope that still lingers in the darkness, her presence a beacon of light amidst the chaos, her resolve unwavering in the face of despair.
I holster my gun and take a cautious step forward, my senses on high alert as I approach him, the adrenaline coursing through my veins heightening my awareness to the danger that lurks within the shadows, the weight of responsibility heavy on my shoulders.
"Sam, I'm gonna come over to you. I need you to give me the gun," I say softly, my voice a soothing whisper in the darkness, my heart pounding in my chest as I inch closer to him, the distance between us narrowing with each step, the tension mounting with each passing moment.
"Give me the gun, Sam," I repeat, my voice trembling with urgency, my gaze locked on his with unwavering determination, my hands outstretched in a silent plea for mercy, my heart aching with empathy for the pain that haunts him, the darkness that threatens to consume him whole.
He looks up at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to comply, the glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes like a dying ember, the weight of his burden lifting ever so slightly, the promise of redemption beckoning him towards the light.
But then, in a split second, he raises the gun to his own mouth, the metal glinting ominously in the dim light, the weight of his decision heavy in his trembling hand, the darkness closing in around him like a suffocating shroud.
"No!" I scream, but it's too late. The gunshot reverberates through the room, the sound echoing in my ears like a thunderclap, the world spinning in slow motion as his blood splatters on the white curtain behind him, the metallic tang of copper filling the air, the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering in the aftermath.
His hand holding the gun drops limply to his side, his head slumping forward in defeat, his eyes vacant and lifeless, the weight of his burden finally lifted as he succumbs to the darkness that has plagued him for so long, the silence of death descending like a shroud over the room, leaving us to stare in shock at the tragic scene before us, the echoes of his final moments haunting us long after the sound of the gunshot fades into the silence.
*
"All right, DCFS employee funnels kids to foster parent, who, with the financial help of Lewellen, funnels kids to New York, where this guy photographs and organizes the abuse," Jay explains, gesturing to a series of photos pinned to the board, their glossy surfaces reflecting the soft daylight filtering through the windows of the precinct.
The images, stark and chilling, depict scenes of horror and exploitation, each one a grim testament to the depths of human depravity. "Now, is this hired muscle? The man in charge?" he questions, his voice tinged with frustration as we grapple with the complexity of the case.
"Well, we're still looking for Amy Kleinpass and Chris Sepka, believed to be abducted," Amaro interjects, holding up the pictures of the missing children, their faces illuminated by the gentle morning light, their fate hanging in the balance.
"These are all the people that are in Matilda's office. I already interviewed about half of them, but none of them had a clue what she was up to," Atwater adds, gesturing to a second board adorned with ID photos of various individuals, their faces bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun, their unwitting involvement in the unfolding tragedy a stark reminder of the insidious nature of evil.
"What about the guy Matilda was seeing? Gary Miller," Voight inquires, his voice low and gravelly, his eyes narrowing as he considers the possibilities.
"No, I got her phone records. There's no calls to a Gary Miller. I checked her cloud, there's nothing there either," Adam responds, his tone resigned as he dismisses the notion of finding Miller amidst the chaos of the investigation, his frustration evident in the furrow of his brow and the tight set of his jaw.
"All right, got it," Antonio announces, entering the room with purpose, his phone held aloft as he delivers the latest update. "Here we go. That was Burgess. She and Roman ID'd the shooter from the hospital. Target's name is Todd Ledbetter. I ran his sheet; he's got a boat-load of violent priors. There's an active warrant for his arrest on a violation of registration as a sex offender. The witness says he dropped off some HGH to Ledbetter on the corner of West Huron and Leavitt and saw him walk into a house half a block up."
"Let's gear up," Hank declares, his voice brimming with determination as we prepare to confront the darkness that lurks within the shadows, our resolve unwavering in the face of danger, our hearts pounding with anticipation.
We head down to our cars and drive to the house that has been identified for us, the streets bathed in the soft glow of daylight, the air crisp and invigorating. A few of us take up positions around the perimeter of the house, moving with practiced precision and silent determination, our senses on high alert as we prepare to confront the unknown, our hearts pounding in our chests with the promise of resolution and justice.
"On the roof!" Amaro's urgent voice crackles over the radio, slicing through the tension of the chase as we watch a man leap from one rooftop to another, his silhouette a fleeting shadow against the backdrop of the skyline painted in hues of dusky orange and purple.
"Squad, this is George 50-21. We're chasing an offender through the 300 block of Leavitt. He's running west along the roofs," Halstead's voice follows, steady and determined, as we sprint in pursuit, the rhythm of our footsteps echoing in the narrow alleyways, punctuated by the occasional clang of metal fences and the distant hum of traffic.
Ledbetter lands gracefully on the ground, his figure a blur of motion as he dashes towards a tall metal gate, his breath coming in ragged gasps visible in the crisp evening air. With a burst of adrenaline, I hurdle over the fence behind Halstead and Amaro, my muscles burning with exertion, the metallic tang of sweat lingering in the air.
He pushes through a second gate, the metal clanging loudly in the stillness of the street, his footsteps echoing against the pavement as he races forward, the distant wail of sirens punctuating the air like a discordant symphony of urgency.
My lungs ache with every breath, but I push through the pain, my focus honed on the figure ahead, determination driving me forward as we navigate the maze of streets lined with rows of weathered brick buildings.
"Go, go, split up!" Halstead's command spurs us into action, Amaro veering off in another direction while Jay and I continue the pursuit, our footsteps echoing in the empty alleyways like a rhythmic drumbeat urging us onward.
As we reach a weather-beaten house, its faded facade looming ominously in the darkness, we converge on Ledbetter. I seize him from behind before he can reach the stairs, slamming him into the shut gate at the bottom with a jolt.
Ledbetter twists, pinning me against the cold wall, his breath hot against my face as I struggle to maintain my grip. But Jay's punch forces him to release me, the sharp crack of impact reverberating in the crisp air.
Their struggle intensifies, the sound of blows echoing off the surrounding buildings. Ledbetter makes another dash for the stairs, Jay grabbing him from behind once more. But this time, Ledbetter anticipates the move, delivering a brutal kick that sends Jay staggering back into the gate.
Undeterred, I pursue Ledbetter up the stairs, the metallic clang of our footsteps reverberating in the narrow stairwell. Halstead and Ruzek join the chase, our collective pursuit spiraling upward toward the roof.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as we ascend the staircase, each step bringing us closer to our quarry, the metal railing cold beneath my fingers, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell.
As we emerge onto the rooftop, the gravel crunches beneath our feet, the wind whipping against our faces as we navigate the uneven terrain. Scaling concrete walls with practiced ease, we press on, our determination unyielding.
I watch as Ledbetter leaps from another edge, the ground disappearing beneath him in a dizzying blur of motion. I expect it to be another wall and keep chasing him quickly.
In a moment of horror, I hear Ledbetter's scream and in a heart-stopping moment, I realize the edge is sheer drop, with nothing below. My momentum carries me forward, too fast to stop in time.
Without hesitation, Jay grabs the back of my vest, pulling me back from the brink of disaster, his strength a lifeline in the darkness. For a moment, I cling to him, my heart racing with fear and relief as I gaze down into the abyss below, the distant roar of the city rising to meet us like a symphony of chaos.
"Thank you," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper, my gratitude mingling with the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
"No worries," Jay replies, his voice calm and reassuring as we make our way back to safety, the echoes of Ledbetter's fall still ringing in our ears, a haunting reminder of the dangers that lurk in the shadows of the city.
Voight instructs Erin, Amanda, Antonio and Kevin to breach the house that Ledbetter fled from.
We drive back to the station, the familiar sights of the city passing by in a blur as we make our way to where Amy Kleinpass is. She was inside the house that the others breached. Amy informs us that Chris was taken away a few days ago, likely headed for New York.
"Ready?" Antonio's voice breaks through my thoughts as I gather a stack of files and rise from my seat.
"Yeah," I reply, and we head back to my apartment, where my mom is seated, engrossed in a story with Lucas nestled beside her.
"Hi, Mommy," Lucas greets me with a sleepy yawn as I settle beside him, his small frame curling up in my lap.
"Diego's in the shower," Mom informs us, and Antonio and I exchange surprised glances. "Laura dropped him off, said he wanted a sleepover with his new little brother. Although, she didn't seem too thrilled about it. In fact, she seemed pretty angry."
"Have they eaten?" I inquire, already thinking ahead.
"Yeah, I cooked them pasta and veggies," Mom confirms, and I express my gratitude with a kiss on her cheek before she takes her leave.
After settling Diego into Lucas' room, ensuring their comfort, I smile at the sight of them together, their budding brotherly bond bringing warmth to my heart. Antonio's arm finds its way around my shoulder, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the whirlwind of emotions.
"It's nice that they get along," he remarks, and I nod in agreement, turning to face him.
His lips meet mine in a tender kiss, and I melt into his embrace, savoring the moment of connection. "I love you," he whispers, a smile playing on his lips as I pull away slightly, planting soft kisses along his neck and hand that he's extended in front of me.
"As do I, Mr. Dawson," I reply, my voice filled with affection as we share a moment of quiet intimacy, the world outside fading away in the warmth of our love.
*
"Listen, if you need anything, you let me know, okay?" Platt's voice echoes through Intelligence the next morning, her presence commanding attention as she stands at the top of the stairs.
"Thank you. Take care of yourself," Olivia Benson replies with a nod, her gaze steady.
"Welcome to Chicago, Sergeant," Halstead adds, offering a reassuring pat on her arm.
"Thank you, Detective," Olivia acknowledges, her eyes scanning the room as we each take turns greeting her.
"Hey," she nods at her two detectives from New York, her focus shifting to the young girl seated in the kitchen with Nadia. "So, that must be Amy."
"Yeah," we confirm with nods.
"Who owned the house that she was found in?" Olivia's question cuts through the air, her tone a mix of professionalism and concern.
"An old-timer in St. Louis. Turns out Andrew Lewellen, from the hospital, was paying rent in cash once a year for the last five years. No telling how many more stash houses could be in the city," Halstead explains, his words laced with a sense of urgency.
"Okay, did she give you anything else?" Olivia inquires, her experience from NYPD's Special Victims Unit evident in her focused demeanor.
"No, in terms of what she went through in that house, she didn't say, and we haven't asked. Yet," Al responds, his voice tinged with gravity.
"Anything from the missing boy?" Olivia's concern for him is palpable, her gaze shifting to Amaro as he takes her hand luggage from her hands.
"Well, we're working on it," Amaro assures her before she heads over to Voight to greet him.
"This is it," Erin gestures with open arms, inviting her brother, Teddy, into the office. "Hey, guys," she addresses us, turning to introduce Teddy. "This is Teddy."
He settles into Erin's chair, his eyes wide with curiosity. "How's it going, Teddy?" Jay asks, breaking the silence.
"Oh, you know," Teddy responds with a nod, his awkwardness palpable as he takes in the surroundings. His gaze lands on the suspect board, his expression shifting with recognition. "Oh, my God," he breathes out, his attention drawn to a particular photo.
"What?" Jay prompts, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"That's him," Teddy points decisively, rising from the chair and heading to Kevin's board of people who worked at Madison's office. "That's the guy who's in charge," he declares, his voice filled with certainty.
Alvin and Kevin move swiftly to bring him back to the cage for Voight to question him.
After what feels like an eternity of waiting, Olivia and Hank manage to extract Chris' location from him, and we waste no time driving straight there.
It's a detached house with a spiked gate surrounding it, casting ominous shadows in the fading light of the evening. We spread ourselves out, each member of the team poised for action, ready to retrieve Chris from the darkness that lies within.
With a swift kick, we burst through the door, our movements purposeful and efficient as we scour every inch of the interior. In the dark basement, we find Chris, huddled alone and scared. Erin and Voight escort him to safety, leading him into their waiting car, while the rest of us make our way back to mine.
"You can drive," I say, handing Antonio the keys to my Jaguar. He accepts them with a hint of surprise, perhaps not expecting such a gesture from me. Adam and Kevin settle into the back seats, leaving me to rest my head against the headrest, closing my eyes briefly to process the whirlwind of events.
"McCadden's wife and kid are here," Adam's voice interrupts my thoughts, his attention drawn to a text on his phone. I glance out the window to see the entire district, along with members of other districts and even the general public, gathered outside. The sheer number of people makes it impossible to park near the district, forcing us to walk to the entrance where Intelligence, having solved the case and inadvertently caused McCadden's demise, stands in solemn tribute.
As Trudy emerges from the front door, followed by McCadden's wife and children, a sense of reverence falls over the crowd. The nearest officer takes the box of Ross' belongings from her arms, offering a silent gesture of support.
Jenny, Ross' wife, stands before us, her expression a mixture of shock and sorrow, her emotions palpable as she gazes out at the sea of faces gathered to pay their respects.
"Attention!" Trudy's command cuts through the air, and we snap to attention, our movements synchronized as we stand with shoulders back and feet together. "Present Arms!" In unison, we raise our arms in salute, a solemn tribute to a fallen comrade.
We maintain this posture as Jenny and her children walk down the aisle we've formed, Adam offering a comforting embrace before she enters the car. As the vehicle pulls away, we lower our arms, returning to a stance of solemn reverence until the car disappears from sight.