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Confessions of an Efficient Cause

The Windy City is no stranger to chilling winds, but the winter of 1992 brings with it a coldness that penetrates the soul. As snow blankets the bustling streets of Chicago, a dark shadow falls upon the universities dotting the shores of Lake Michigan. One by one, young female students are discovered, their lifeless bodies eerily preserved, bearing silent testimony to the horrors they faced.

Leading the investigation is Detective Manuj Hemottia, a smart, young, dedicated officer with a relentless drive for justice. But this case proves more enigmatic than any he's faced before. The victims are varied in background and motive, but they share a singular, chilling connection: a secretive organization that beckons the young and naive with promises of enlightenment, only to ensnare them in a web of radicalism and peril.

As Hemottia dives deeper into the murky waters of conspiracy, he grapples with unsettling questions. Who orchestrates this nightmarish recruitment? What insidious end does the organization seek? And, most importantly, how many more will be sacrificed on the icy altar of their ideology?

"Confessions of an Efficient Cause" takes readers on a nail-biting journey through the frozen heart of Chicago, where every twist and turn threatens to bury the truth deeper under layers of deceit, danger, and frost.

In the windy city, can Hemottia illuminate the darkness before another life is extinguished?

Confessions of an Efficient Cause

By Paul Michael Peters

CHAPTER 1

The Windy City's grip was colder than usual in the winter of 1992, a chill that would remain etched in memory. Frosted windows of the Walgreens on North and Wells painted a picture of an inside world trying to fend off the external cold. Yet, in its backroom, surrounded by the hum of a space heater, Gene Sykes, with his embroidered name over his heart, felt the relentless cold's embrace. It was like a relentless pursuer, always catching up.

Finishing his nightly routine, Gene braced himself for the external world. As he stepped into the snowy blanket, his footsteps felt eerily lonely, the kind of loneliness felt at 1:25 am, when the world seems to hibernate, but life, with all its shadows, continues.

A GMC Suburban's aggressive stance cut through this stillness, its hurried momentum on the Lake Shore Drive exit adding a beat to the quiet night. Gene stomped and shuffled, trying to ward off the biting cold, cursing his luck for missing his regular bus.

But then came a glimmer of hope. A maroon Pontiac Parisian, its sound muffled by the thick blanket of snow, approached. Gene's heart surged with hope. Maybe tonight wasn't so bad. Maybe tonight, he'd catch a break.

The car halted, then inched backward. As the window rolled down, a voice, as cold and rough as the night, beckoned. The tone made Gene's stomach churn. "Come here."

Hesitantly, Gene approached, giving directions to Diversey. But the story was far from over. A second beckoning revealed the car's other passenger - a girl, blond, eerily still, and vulnerable.

A sinister proposition was laid out, "She's yours if you want her." The streets of Chicago, infamous for their stories of darkness, suddenly felt too real for Gene. He was trapped in a narrative he'd never wished to be part of.

Realization struck as he noticed the girl's lifelessness. But before panic could entirely consume him, the familiar growl of a bus roared to life, cutting through the tension. It was an escape route, and Gene didn't hesitate.

The bus's journey was not one of relief but of dread. The Parisian car's shadow seemed to haunt him at every turn, the driver's face etched in memory by the brief flame of a Zippo. Gene’s inner torment spoke in whispers, "Damn fool, what was I thinking?"

Disembarking at Belmont Harbor felt like a temporary respite. But the maroon Pontiac was relentless. Its driver, dressed as if time had forgotten him, performed a dark task, discarding the girl's body amidst the snow, momentarily disrupted by the treacherous ice underfoot.

Back home, the weight of the ordeal pushed Gene to seek refuge on his couch, surrendering to sleep's embrace. By dawn, the apartment bathed in a golden hue seemed alien compared to the sinister world outside. The Windy City, with all its shadows and tales, had unfolded one such story for Gene that night, one he'd never forget.

CHAPTER 2

Gene had just settled into the stillness of his apartment when an urgent knock jolted him from his thoughts. "Go away," he muttered, hoping for solitude.

But the door echoed again, louder, insistent. 

"Who is it?"

"Chicago police," a voice replied, its timbre bearing authority. "We'd like to chat."

Gene hastily opened the door, relief flooding his face. "Oh officer, you're a sight for sore eyes."

In the doorway stood Detective Manuj Hemottia. Medium height, skin kissed by the Indian sun, his appearance suggested a med school dropout rather than a detective. Beside him, the stout form of Officer Finn stood, dressed in the classic blue of the Chicago police.

"Gene Sykes?" Hemottia inquired, his dark eyes unreadable.

"That's me."

"I'm Detective Hemottia, and this here's Officer Finn. Mind if we step in? Few questions."

"Of course, come in. Coffee?"

Finn nodded. "Please."

"No thanks," Hemottia said, eyes scanning the room, fingers brushing the edges of framed photos and postmarked envelopes.

Finn's eyes followed suit, prowling, assessing. "Live here alone, do you?"

"Just me," Gene affirmed, his voice wavering.

"Ever been married?" Hemottia pressed.

"No."

"Kids?"

"No. Why all the questions?"

"We find folks usually spill more with a friendly chat," Finn said, smirking, accepting the steaming coffee Gene offered. "You seemed happy to see us."

A cloud crossed Gene's face. "Had a real weird one last night. I was coming home from the Walgreens on North and Wells..."

Hemottia produced a notebook, his pen poised. "Hold up, I need to jot things down. Helps me keep things straight."

Gene continued, voice trembling. "This car, old one, pulled up. A girl, out cold or drugged up, was in the passenger seat. The driver kept saying she was mine."

"You touched her?" Hemottia’s eyes sharpened.

"Well, yes..."

The pen scribbled rapidly. "You said she was cold?"

Gene nodded. "Next thing I know, I'm on a bus, heart pounding, trying to get as far away as possible."

Hemottia sighed, looking to Finn. An unspoken exchange. "Gene, that's a helluva tale. If it were me, I'd spill it to someone, just for peace of mind."

Finn snorted. "Peace of mind? After a night like that?"

"Why didn’t you tell someone?" Hemottia pressed.

Dazed, Gene replied, "I... I just fell asleep."

Hemottia leaned in. "Funny thing, Gene. We found a body not too far from here. We’d like you to take a look."

Gene paled. "Can I... freshen up first?"

Finn smirked, "Gotta look sharp for the fellas downtown."

Hemottia shot Finn a withering look. "Go ahead, Gene."

As Gene stepped away, Finn muttered, "Think he's the one?"

Hemottia sighed, "We'll find out soon enough."

Gene Sykes' day had turned cold, like the metal underneath his fingertips as he fumbled with the lock to his door. The unexpected presence of Detective Hemottia from the Chicago PD had seen to that. The shadows of the city morgue seemed to cling to him as he followed the detective down a hallway that smelled of antiseptic and death.

"You recognize her?" Hemottia inquired, voice laden with smoke and whiskey, as they stared down at the girl’s body.

Gene gulped. "Yeah. That's her."

The detective's sharp eyes took in Gene's every move, missing nothing. "Show me where you touched her."

Carefully, with a tremor in his hands, Gene showed him. No pressure, just a mere point. It was enough.

Hemottia’s eyes never left Gene's face. "You ever thought about getting a lawyer, Sykes?"

Gene hesitated. "I don't have one."

There was a slight movement at the door and in walked a man with a demeanor that screamed 'lawyer' more than his ill-fitted suit did. Randy Green was the name Hemottia threw around. They exchanged glances, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

"You'll want him on your side," Hemottia muttered, lighting a cigarette.

Gene felt trapped, the weight of the room pressing down on him. "I'm not made of money, Mr. Green."

"We'll figure that out later," Randy said, already assessing his client. 

Gene took a deep breath, trying to find calm in the chaos. They sat him down, the interrogation room chilling in its austerity. A game of truth and lies began.

Outside, in the precinct, officers scrambled around, papers rustling and phones ringing off the hook. Hemottia approached Finn's desk, the younger officer looking up from a call. "She's Michelle Marshall. Just a kid from Michigan. 19."

Hemottia took a drag from his cigarette. "Cause of death?"

"We're waiting on that." 

The room felt heavy with the unsaid. A student from Michigan, found lifeless in Chicago, and their only lead was a man who swore he had just brushed past her.

"If Sykes is on the level," Hemottia mused, looking out into the night, "we might need some federal friends."

The city's secrets loomed large and Hemottia knew he was just scratching the surface. Another mystery in the heart of Chicago, and it was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER 3

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Detective Hemottia descended the stairs into the basement of Motts Funeral Home. It had the antiseptic smell of death, mixed with old wood and polish. There was Ernie Motts, a man ten years older than his appearance would suggest. The gray strands on his head weren't just from age; they were from years spent in intimate company with the departed.

With a surgeon's precision, Ernie worked over Michelle's body, respecting her even in death. His voice broke the heavy silence, "Female. 19. Body's been through the ringer, Detective." His fingers hovered over the puncture on her arm, "A needle. And there's traces of powder from her fingers."

Ernie paused to switch off the old tape recorder, looking up with a practiced sadness. "Did they check her nails? They're too clean."

Hemottia nodded, “Noticed that myself. Your experience shows.”

Ernie sighed, the weight of his years evident, "I spent some time at Michigan Hospital. The rest of my life? Trying to forget." He resumed recording.

Later that evening, in the softer ambience of Ernie's private office, the detective was offered a comforting cup of tea. The quiet chink of porcelain breaking the weighty silence.

Hemottia sipped, “Thanks. For this, and for the examination. The Marshalls were worried sick about her being alone in this big city.”

Ernie's eyes clouded with memories. “The Marshalls are good people. I fear Michelle got mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

Hemottia's brow furrowed. “What’d you find?”

Ernie stared into his tea, “The needle mark. Looks like heroin. But only one mark. Her first rodeo, if you ask me.”

The detective nodded slowly, “What about the bruises?”

“Her wrists, ankles. Looks like she fought, or someone wanted her still.”

Hemottia absorbed this, rubbing his temples. “Thanks, Ernie. I need to talk to her circle now.”

Ernie looked up, his eyes dark with concern. “Mind if I break it to the Marshalls? This town's small, and they deserve to hear it from someone they trust first.”

Hemottia nodded, touched. “Thank you.”

The setting sun cast long shadows over the neighborhood, leaving behind traces of melancholy as Detective Hemottia leaned against his car, pulling out his cell to speed dial Finn. He heard the familiar chime of a voice mail and left a terse message, "Finn, Manuj here. Let Sykes loose, but keep him on a leash. Expect something from me by morning."

Inside the Marshall residence, the air was thick with grief. The kind you can almost taste. The room was cast in soft hues from the table lamp. The Marshalls sat hunched together on the very same couch where state troopers had shattered their world. Their eyes - red, raw, haunted - told stories that words never could.

Jotting down notes in his worn leather-bound notebook, Detective Hemottia's voice was soft but direct, “She was active in school, I hear?”

Mrs. Marshall's voice wavered, “Yes, always with her friends. Doing community things, fundraisers... always helping.”

Mr. Marshall added, struggling with past and present tense, “She made us so... proud. Always buzzing about projects.”

Detective Hemottia looked up sharply, “Any names? Friends she mentioned?”

Clearing his throat, Mr. Marshall ventured, “Sabrina, Stew. They were close.”

“And roommates?” Hemottia probed.

Mrs. Marshall shifted, “She had two. Moved out from one. Lived with Sabrina later.”

“Do you remember the first roommate’s name?” Hemottia’s tone was patient but persistent.

The couple exchanged glances, trying to summon the memory. “Jane? No, Janice,” Mr. Marshall recalled, adding, “They had a spat. Michelle never said much about it.”

Taking a final note, Detective Hemottia rose, “I appreciate your time. I’ll touch base tomorrow.”

Mrs. Marshall’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet, “Just catch that bastard, Detective.”

As he walked out, the world seemed just a bit heavier on Hemottia’s shoulders.

Sunlight pierced through the stained-glass windows of Mott’s Funeral Home, throwing a multicolored pattern on the pews below. As the Presbyterian Pastor concluded his somber words, the mourners began to slowly shuffle out. The atmosphere was heavy with a sense of loss that seemed to touch everyone present.

Detective Hemottia stood to the side, his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for a particular face. He stopped a young girl, who pointed him toward an attractive blonde named Sabrina Luntz. Her dress, while stylish, verged on the inappropriate for such a solemn occasion.

Approaching her, Hemottia asked, “Miss Luntz, were you Michelle’s roommate?”

Sabrina’s eyes, red from tears, shifted up to meet Hemottia’s. She dabbed the corners with a tissue, murmuring a soft, "Yes."

"I'm Detective Hemottia," he introduced himself, studying her face for signs of recognition. "Mind if we talk for a few moments?"

She hesitated for a split second, looking around at the dispersing crowd. "Now? Here?"

"How about we ride together? Talk while we're on the move." Hemottia suggested, motioning towards his unmarked car parked nearby.

Sabrina hesitated but eventually acquiesced, "Alright."

Once inside the vehicle, they trailed behind the funeral procession, the town painted in sorrow. "When did you last see Michelle?" Hemottia inquired.

"In our room," Sabrina began, her voice catching, "She was preparing for a weekend with Kevin."

"Her boyfriend?" Hemottia raised an eyebrow.

Sabrina shook her head. "No. He's the Area Director for ‘Save the Planet’, our community outreach group."

The detective nodded slowly, recalling the name. "Ah, the group that does drives and soup kitchens?"

Sabrina corrected him, "That's SCOUT’s. ‘Save the Planet’ is more about organizing rallies, mostly environmental."

Hemottia glanced over, "Popular cause nowadays. What about Michelle and Kevin? Close?"

Sabrina’s lips curled into a small smile, "Kevin's a magnet. Brave, passionate. Everyone's drawn to him. But he wasn't at the funeral."

The detective's gaze sharpened, "Where is he?"

"He's been off the radar for a few weeks now," she replied, a distant look in her eyes. "He's from around, Green Bay I think. Always talking about the Packers and his love for cheddar, despite being a strict vegan."

Hemottia chuckled, “A vegan cheddar-head? Interesting mix.”

As the car moved smoothly through the town, the detective knew he had another thread to follow in the tangled web that was Michelle’s life.

Detective Hemottia stepped into the dusky precinct. Lighting up a cigarette, he mused to Officer Finn, "Sykes isn't our guy. The timeline doesn't match. Plus, no car. How would he even move the body?"

Finn glanced at him, intrigue in his eyes. "You got another suspect?"

Pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes, Hemottia replied, "Just a gut feeling. I'm off to Kalamazoo to sniff around." Before Finn could retort, Hemottia was on his way, flipping his phone closed with a resounding click.

CHAPTER 4

In the heart of Western Michigan University, Hemottia stood by a semicircular desk, chatting with a young co-ed. She gestured down a corridor, and he followed her cue, passing students lost in their youthful ambitions.

A door with the label 'Dr. Susan Goodrich' greeted him. He hesitated briefly before entering. Susan was a stark figure, her brown blouse contrasting sharply against the sterile office ambiance. Their exchange of greetings was formal, punctuated with Hemottia’s sardonic humor about the perpetual mispronunciation of his name.

"Detective, what brings you here?" Susan inquired, her voice measured.

"Thank you for making the time, Dr. Goodrich," he began, setting down his notes. "I'm looking into the death of Michelle Marshall. Rumor has it she was quite the force on this campus."

Susan's lips tightened. "She had potential. But like many bright flames, she burnt out too fast."

The conversation shifted to Michelle's involvement with 'Save the Planet', a national organization with mysterious roots and objectives. Hemottia's line of questioning seemed to hit a nerve, as Susan's patience began to wear thin. Her answers grew more defensive, echoing legal statements she'd clearly recited countless times.

Hemottia leaned in, trying to decipher the enigma before him. "When I was in school, it was all about getting high and living free. Now, it seems there's more at play."

Dr. Goodrich let out a tired sigh. "If only drugs and booze were the only problems young adults faced today."

His final query regarding the elusive Kevin from 'Save the Planet' elicited a sudden change in Susan's demeanor. She became curt, practically ushering him out of her office.

Exiting, Hemottia lit another cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he pondered. He approached the co-ed at the information desk once more, seeking direction. As she gestured to the basement, Hemottia's gut feeling intensified. He knew he was about to uncover deeper layers of the mystery.
The basement of the Student Activities Center was a dank labyrinth filled with the echoes of student group activities. An unmistakable scent clung to the air, a mix of sweat, leftover food, and maybe something a little illicit. As Detective Hemottia made his way through the maze, a sign caught his eye: ‘SCOUTS’, stitched together with pieces of McDonald's wrappers and other recycled materials. 

Upon reaching the door, Hemottia spotted a young man, lean but muscular, with a nametag that read 'Stew'. The detective cleared his throat. “Stew?”

“Yeah? Who wants to know?” Stew's eyes met the detective's with a guarded look.

“Your shirt,” Hemottia pointed out, “Michelle’s mom said you were close. Pity you didn’t show up to the funeral.”

“Funerals aren’t my scene,” Stew muttered, shrugging, “Too gloomy.”

Hemottia motioned towards a weathered couch in the room. “Mind if I?”

“Go ahead,” Stew relented, his eyes still wary.

As Hemottia sat, he took a moment to study the young man. Stew was no gym rat; his toned physique bore the marks of outdoor activities - climbing, biking, maybe some manual labor. As the light hit Stew just right, a scar, jagged and vicious, became visible on his arm.

“Michelle. You two were an item?”

“We spent time together,” Stew replied, hedging.

“Met through SCOUTS or ‘Save the Planet’?”

Stew's brows knitted in confusion. “Who are you?”

“Detective Hemottia, Chicago Police.”

Stew snorted. “Wrong state, take a hike.”

Hemottia ignored the remark. “We believe Michelle died in Chicago. I’m just tying up loose ends.”

Stew crossed his arms defensively. “Let me guess, doing it between donut breaks?”

Hemottia chuckled, unfazed. “You know, there's a lot of truth to that stereotype. Though I personally would choose curry over glazed.”

Stew raised an eyebrow, a touch surprised by the response. However, Hemottia’s next comment caught his attention. “You don’t seem too fond of the police. That scar, rubber bullet?”

Stew looked away, his face grim. “Yeah, something like that.”

The detective leaned in, sensing an opening. “Back to Michelle. Where’d you meet her?”

Stew's gaze became distant, the memories replaying behind his eyes. He recounted the first time he met Michelle in a campus cafeteria, her charismatic energy, and how she breathed life into SCOUTS, recruiting a record number of members. But the good times didn’t last. Her ambition led her to ‘Save the Planet’ and a certain Kevin.

“Kevin Jacobs,” Stew hissed, his demeanor turning cold at the name.

Hemottia sat forward, sensing the underlying tension. “What’s your beef with Kevin?”

Stew’s voice trembled with anger. “You’re here poking around, asking about Michelle, bringing up that scumbag. What are you implying?”

Hemottia remained calm, the consummate professional. “I’m not implying anything. But if he hurt her, I need to know.”

Stew let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the memories bearing down on him. “Kevin gave her assignments. Challenges to prove herself. But then... it got twisted.”

Hemottia leaned in, his interest piqued. “How so?”


Stew described an incident from that summer. In the humid air along the Grand River, hordes of dedicated individuals were out, filling bags and removing the waste that marred the scenic beauty. Somewhere amid this environmental push, Michelle found herself in a heated altercation with a figure — Kevin Jacobs. Michelle, frustrated, threw up her hands, and turned to face the river, her face twisted in anguish. As if drawn to her, Stew's gaze met hers from across the distance, and when she approached him, tears stained her cheeks.


"It was never enough for Kevin," Stew's voice, roughened by emotion and memories, reached out from the past. "I told her to cut him off, to move on. But she had other plans. Talked me and a few others into heading to a so-called 'wilderness retreat' out in Colorado."


The vast expanses of the Colorado high plains speckled with tents and enthusiastic environmentalists from all across the country seemed innocent — a camp for idealists. A commune. Arts, crafts, and the melodic hum of songs around a campfire.

Stew's voice echoed again, "For the initial weeks, it was great. New faces, a camaraderie — and notably, Kevin was absent."

Yet, the harmony was broken by the rumble of an old Ford truck. Kevin was back. He brought with him supplies and a new order. The once innocent campers morphed into units, each group training rigorously in various, and quite suspicious, 'specialties'.

"They got serious, real fast," Stew's voice took on a hardened edge. "Some were learning how to break barricades. Others, they learned to combat the police, to throw back tear gas canisters. That wasn't the education I thought I was signing up for."


In the present, within the gloomy confines of the SCOUTS office, a shadow of what it once was, Detective Hemottia probed further, trying to piece together this intricate puzzle. "And what was the ultimate goal?"

Stew hesitated, then began, "A lumber camp, at first. We halted their operations, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. There were rallies, protests, endless causes. Animal rights, civil rights, prison reforms, you name it. We were everywhere."

The detective nodded, absorbing the information. "You were covering everything. But was there a central focus?"

Stew leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "The WORLD TRADE. Kevin wouldn't shut up about it. Discussions about trade, tariffs, international affairs, workers rights. But more than anything, it was about destabilizing the money. Make the World Bank shaky, and everything else would crumble."

Detective Hemottia's eyes sharpened, "You're describing acts of terrorism."

Stew's face paled, realization dawning. "My God, Kevin... What have I gotten involved in?"


Detective Hemottia, his pulse still racing from the grip of the case, sat in his car, the cold air of the icy parking lot seeping in. The breaths he took were jagged, a rare sight, for Hemottia wasn't easily shaken. With a trembling hand, he started the engine and locked the doors, seeking a meager sense of security. He fished out his cell phone from his pocket, intending to call Finn. 

"Just a few more hours, Finn," he whispered, his voice heavy with unease. But as he began to speak, a knock on the window interrupted his call. The sudden sound made him drop the phone in surprise.

Regaining his composure, he looked up to find a familiar face — the girl from the front desk who had provided him directions not long ago. "I'm alright," he reassured her, although he was anything but. "Dropped the damn phone. I'll feel better once I'm back in the city."

She lingered, her face hinting at something more. "You're looking into Michelle Marshall's death, right?"

He tilted his head, intrigued. "Who might you be?"

"Janice Abernathy. Michelle's former roommate."

The name sparked recognition in Hemottia's memory. "Ah, Mrs. Marshall mentioned you. Coffee?" he asked, sensing she held pieces to the puzzle he was trying to solve.

In a moody lit coffeehouse, a thick cloud of smoke permeated the air — one of the last refuges for nicotine enthusiasts. The two found a booth near the back. As Janice began her tale, Hemottia made notes in his black, worn-out notebook.

"The coffee's good here," he remarked, taking a sip.

Janice grimaced, "Hate the smoke, but the coffee's a saving grace."

He prodded her further about Michelle. "You two were close?"

"We were inseparable," Janice replied. "Then, one day, she just...changed."

"Changed how?" Hemottia inquired.

She looked distant, recalling the past. "After a weekend with 'Save the Planet', she came back a different person. I never joined that group, but Michelle was passionate about it. We both wanted to make a difference from the moment we set foot on campus."

Hemottia leaned forward, sensing the importance of what she was about to say. "Tell me about that weekend."

"She went for some leadership seminar," Janice began. "There was this guy, Kevin Jacobs. Michelle was... innocent, saving herself for marriage. But something happened that weekend with Kevin. He was her first. From then on, she'd do anything he said."

Hemottia's brow furrowed, digesting the implications. "And what about Stew?"

Janice smirked, "That puppy-eyed boy? Had a crush on Michelle from day one. But after Kevin? He never stood a chance."

The detective leaned back, feeling the weight of Janice's revelations. "And how did things spiral from there?"

CHAPTER 5


The cold, sterile room of the police station was poorly lit. The scent of stale coffee and old reports lingered in the air. At a large, worn-out conference table, Detective Hemottia sat with Officer Finn and a man whose appearance was as sharp as a razor's edge: Agent Steve Williams. Williams, with his sleek blond hair and a ruggedness that hinted at tales of yesteryears, oozed charisma that made even the dark room seem a tad brighter.

Hemottia began, his voice heavy with concern. "Abernathy paints a grim picture. Jacobs seems to be pulling strings, manipulating Michelle to the point she'd leap off a cliff if he said it was a challenge."

Finn leaned forward, trying to piece things together. "So, she just gives up who she is, like some sort of... cult?"

Hemottia nodded, "Exactly like a cult. They prey on those feeling out of place, promise them acceptance, a new family. Before you know it, you're dancing to their twisted tunes."

Williams, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow, "And what are we looking at here? A bunch of tree huggers?"

"Not quite," Hemottia replied, the weight of the investigation evident in his tone. "These guys are more radical. They've got a touch of mercenary in them. They're gunning for the big fish, like the WORLD TRADE."

Williams scoffed, "Militants who're out to save the planet, recruiting fresh college kids to take on world leaders? It's a tall tale, detective."

Hemottia hesitated, "It's a stretch, I know. But there's something there, something dark."

Williams looked unconvinced. "Even if I were to take you seriously, Hemottia, there's nothing concrete here. No reason for me to haul in Jacobs."

Finn interjected, a hint of hope in his eyes, "That weekend Abernathy mentioned? Michelle came back changed, and not just mentally. She was under 18 at the time."

Williams looked at them both, sensing their desperation. After what felt like hours, he finally nodded, "Alright. I'll see what I can dig up on Jacobs. There's a story here, let's see where it leads."


Agent Steve Williams sat in the lit Chicago FBI office, the clock ticking away late into the night. His eyes darted from one computer screen to the next. On one, images of angry young faces flashed: college students, their eyes red from pepper spray, their bodies chained in protest. Flags burned, cars overturned, and the lines of defense from the city's police force were constantly broken. 


His eyes narrowed as he clicked on the website for 'Save the Planet', noting a contact address in Oshkosh. The adjacent screen, meanwhile, had been running a name search for Kevin Jacobs. It finally yielded an alert. Among several names and aliases, one entry stood out — a report from an investigation in Wisconsin. Steve's brow furrowed as he read about an interview conducted with Kevin Jacobs at his farm. No group activities, no evidence, merely a recommendation to cease further probing into the matter, signed by one 'JAMES HUNT.'


Morning light sneaked its way into the room. Steve had hardly slept, but coffee was his salve. Holding a steaming cup, he stood tall in the doorway to Agent Hunt's office. Hunt, a man who looked more like he should be crunching numbers than chasing criminals, looked up.

"Agent Hunt?" Steve's voice was cool, his tone formal.

"Yeah?" Hunt responded, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

"I'm Agent Williams. Mind if we chat about a file you worked on a while back?"

Hunt gestured to the chair opposite him, "Always time. Please, sit."

Williams, however, moved towards the window, savoring his coffee. "Impressive view. How long have you been with the agency?"

"Um, 12 years," Hunt replied, somewhat taken aback by the shift in conversation.

"12 years, huh? Mostly desk work, or do you hit the field often?"

"I've had my share of field assignments," Hunt said defensively, "Though, never had to draw my weapon."

Steve turned slowly, fixing his gaze on Hunt. "I came across a file on Kevin Jacobs from Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Ring a bell?"

Hunt swallowed, "Oshkosh? Oh, yes. There were rumors back in '86 about him being part of a militia."

"But you found nothing on him," Steve pressed, his presence now dominating the room.

Hunt shifted uncomfortably, sinking slightly into his chair, "No. Just an environmentalist. People got their wires crossed."

Williams stepped closer, the weight of his scrutiny causing Hunt to shrink further. The story was unraveling, and Steve was determined to pull at every loose thread.
In the office, Steve Williams pressed on, the weight of his questions making the atmosphere in the room almost suffocating. "Did you see the farm?" Steve asked, not letting a hint of emotion creep into his voice.

Hunt looked away for a moment, as if retrieving a distant memory. "Oh yes, a quaint place. Nothing electric except for those windmills. No animals, but they had their fill of vegetables and crops. A charming dirt driveway leading up to a rustic farmhouse."

"And Jacobs?" Steve probed, observing the reactions on Hunt's face.

Hunt shifted slightly. "Decent fellow. Very articulate, detailed in his responses. Quite the charmer, really."

Steve leaned in, planting both hands firmly on the edge of Hunt's desk, making Hunt noticeably shrink back in his chair. "The visitors at the farm, the ones you mentioned. How old were they? What did they seem like?"

Hunt hesitated, looking more trapped by the second. "Young folks mostly. College kids. Had a sort of neo-hippie 60’s vibe about them."

Steve's eyes were sharp, predatory. "Did they have a uniform of sorts? A dress code?"

Hunt's face twisted, showing a hint of discomfort. "Well, they did have a... a certain style. Matching, in some ways."

Pushing the boundaries of personal space, Steve was now almost in Hunt's face. The atmosphere grew heavier, the tension palpable. "Did they sing, Hunt?"

"Yeah," Hunt responded, almost in a whisper, "sang quite a bit, actually. While working the fields, sitting around campfires, taking walks. What's that got to do with anything?"

Steve straightened, taking a moment to let his gaze linger on Hunt before moving to the door. "Just a word of advice, Jimmy. Stick to your desk. The world's a big place and not all stories are as simple as they seem." With that, he exited, leaving Hunt in the echoing silence of his own inadequacies.

CHAPTER 6


On a cold day, Detective Manuj Hemottia made his way down a tranquil side street in Chicago's Gold Coast, the privileged neighborhood where he had grown up. Every footstep crunched in the snow, echoing memories of childhood. He clutched a small bag as he approached his parents' apartment building, nodding to the familiar doorman who greeted him warmly. Shaking off the cold, Manuj entered the familiar surroundings of his parents' home.

His mother, a petite and traditional Asian Indian woman, stood waiting for him. Before he could get a word in, Mama Hemottia engulfed him in a warm embrace. "Mama," he murmured, trying to convey his feelings without words.

"Manuj, how are you?" she chided, her voice tinged with gentle reproof. "I haven't heard from you all week."

He tried to explain, but she cut him off. "I saw the news. Troubling events. You couldn't have spared a moment to call your mother?"

Caught in the face of maternal guilt, he replied, "I was out of state on a case."

"More reason to check in," she countered. Seeing the bag in his hand, she inquired, "What's this?"

"Some of that cooking oil you love but can never find," Manuj replied, hoping the peace offering would ease the tension.

His mother's face softened. "So thoughtful of you," she cooed, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Now, go say hello to your father."

In his office, Dr. Hemottia was engrossed in patient files when Manuj hesitated at the doorway. On the desk was a photo of two boys - Manuj and a strikingly similar older boy.

"Father?" Manuj began, unsure of his welcome.

Dr. Hemottia looked up. "Manuj. Good to see you."

"I didn't want to intrude. Just letting you know I'm here for dinner."

His father waved a dismissive hand. "Keep your mother company. I'll be out soon."

Later, at the dinner table, the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken words. Dr. Hemottia broke the silence. "Your mother mentioned you weren't on the news this week."

"On a confidential case," Manuj replied, trying to change the subject. "Ran into Alka recently. She's still single."

Manuj stiffened slightly. "She's lovely. But she had reservations about dating a detective."

The conversation turned to their community, with Mama Hemottia singing Alka's praises. Dr. Hemottia, though, focused on Manuj's career choice, bringing up his other son - the one in the photo, the one who'd chosen medicine.

Manuj's voice turned cold. "Father, I am not my older brother."

His father's face darkened. "He went to medical school."

Manuj's patience snapped. "He's gone, father. I'm still here."

Dr. Hemottia's voice rose in anger and pain. "He's missing, not dead. Don't you dare remind me!"

The room's tension was palpable. With a final, desperate plea for understanding, Manuj thanked his mother for the meal and left the room. Mama Hemottia chided her husband, fearing the wedge being driven between him and their remaining son.

As Manuj's footsteps faded, the silence in the apartment was deafening.

CHAPTER 7


Three weeks had drifted by since they discovered the body. Oshkosh, Wisconsin, was no longer covered in the pristine blanket of snow that had once painted it white. Now, it had melted, morphing the land into a treacherous terrain of icy mud, reflecting the dreary flatlands that surrounded it.

Agent Steve Williams was perched inside his unmarked blue truck, parked discreetly at the intersection of two dirt roads. He felt the weight of the cold seep through his plaid shirt, jeans, and vest jacket. Beside him on the passenger seat lay an array of equipment: binoculars, maps, and a handheld tape recorder, each telling a part of a story that was yet to be concluded.

He watched carefully as a white van made its way down the road. As it passed, a spray of mud splattered onto the side of his truck, a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. Williams noted its trajectory with a practiced eye. The van made a right at the crossroads, heading straight for about half a mile, and then took a sharp left, pulling into the driveway of what appeared to be a fortified farm. All of this, he could see clearly from his well-chosen vantage point.

Lifting the tape recorder to his lips, Williams's voice was firm and low, barely above a whisper, "White van returns 10:48 a.m." He noted, cementing the event in the timeline of his investigation.



Before the hustle of Chicago’s morning rush hour could truly kick in, the aged trio of cement trucks, each patched and worn from time, began their journey northward along the I90/I94 freeway. Simultaneously, another trio rumbled south, creating a peculiar symmetry on the usually uneventful stretch. As these trucks moved in harmony, a large delivery truck, as unremarkable as any other, backed slowly into the lower level of the towering Sears Tower.


Nine men emerged from it, all donned in identical brown Carhart winter jumpers, each sporting an orange vest stamped with "Allied Communications". Their synchronized exit seemed eerily rehearsed. But their purpose was still unclear.

More cement trucks spilled onto the freeway, their movement seemingly coordinated. The mystery deepened.

At the tower's loading dock, carts and bags were hastily unloaded. As security approached, the apparent leader of the pack exchanged some words, nods, and a few jests. They were let in.

Meanwhile, the ebb and flow of the city's traffic was disrupted by the calculated move of a lone semi-truck on Lake Shore Drive. It strategically stalled, causing chaos and confusion. Drivers honked and yelled, but the chaos was just beginning. The semi's driver emerged, slashing his own truck's tires, rendering it immobile, a blockade on the drive. A familiar white van soon whisked him away from the scene.

In another orchestrated act, a white van emerged beside the northbound cement trucks on the freeway. It was like watching a complex ballet on asphalt, trucks moving and merging, creating an impenetrable wall across the lanes. Again, the drivers quickly abandoned their vehicles after slashing the tires, retreating to the safety of the ever-present white van.

High above the city, the nine men from the delivery truck were busy inside the Sears Tower. Their mission became clearer when enormous banners unfurled, cascading messages of protest down the building's sides: "Stop Corporate Greed" and "Stop the WORLD TRADE". 

Below, Chicago was in chaos. Cement trucks blocked major roads and highways in and out of the city. News teams struggled to convey the scale of the disruption. The city was locked, paralyzed.

But back atop the tower, another revelation: as the nine men discarded their jumpsuits, they revealed sharp black suits and ties underneath. Splitting into pairs, they began to descend through the tower, blending seamlessly into the crowds. The world watched in rapt attention as the news spread, broadcasting the audacious message of the protesters and the morning Chicago would never forget.

CHAPTER 8


Lakeshore Drive had that kind of winter grayness, the one where it was easy to miss the sun. The traffic seemed like a jigsaw, confused and blended, but Officer Finn's squad car stuck out like an odd puzzle piece. Beside him, Gene Sykes sat, peering out the window, a grown man yet as wide-eyed as a boy on his first trip to the city.

"What a weird day," Finn muttered, breaking the silence, a wry smile playing on his face.

Gene shifted in his seat, trying to fit into the role of a passenger in a cop car. "Tell me about it."

The officer glanced at Gene. "Detective just wanted to chat with you some more."

Gene frowned, concern lining his features. "Did he think what happened today had anything to do with me?"

Finn shrugged. "The Detective's a peculiar sort. Likes his quiet moments, lost in thoughts. Then suddenly he'll have an angle to chase."

Gene tried to imagine him. "He seemed kind."

"You won't find a more polite man," Finn agreed. "Sharp too. Studied medicine once upon a time."

"Medicine?" Gene's eyebrows lifted. "Why'd he quit?"

Finn's eyes clouded. "Lost his brother.” 

A heavy silence enveloped the car. Gene tried to change the topic, pointing at the computer nestled between them. "What's that for?"

"Just a tool of the trade," Finn said, tapping the screen. "Type in a plate, see if there's dirt on it."

Suddenly, a black GMC Suburban sped past them, the roar of its engine echoing in their ears. Instinctively, Finn's fingers went to the lights, alerting the dispatch over the radio. The SUV seemed to sigh as it gradually came to a halt by the side.

Gene's voice trembled slightly. "I saw one of those, that night."

Finn's eyes narrowed. "Which night?"

"The night of the murder," Gene clarified. "Before the car with the girl, that same beast nearly took me out."

Finn's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "You didn't mention this earlier."

Gene's voice was almost a whisper. "Do you think it matters? The city's full of these trucks."

Finn studied the vehicle for a moment. "But this one's different. Thick tinted windows. Reminds me of those official rides."

The two exchanged a long, pregnant glance, realizing that their journey together was far from over.
Gene watched as Officer Finn stepped out of the squad car, boots crunching softly on the gritty Lakeshore Drive asphalt. A black GMC Suburban, as ominous as the night itself, waited just ahead. 

"Could just be a yahoo," Gene murmured to himself.

The window of the Suburban lowered. Gene watched as Finn spoke to the driver, catching a glimpse of his profile. The two talked, Finn seemed to provide instructions.

From his vantage point, Gene couldn't quite see the drivers face directly, but he sensed a nervous energy.

There was an exchange of paperwork through the window. Finn looked it over, and returned it with a nod, and a smile. Finn pointed to Gene, and he could see the head of the drive move. Their eyes locked in the rearview mirror. Gene felt an icy chill race across his arms and neck. 

Finn continued the exchange. His face wrinkled with a question. Before his right hand could make it to the holster, Finn was falling backward. The world shattered. Two loud pops, the sound of tires screeching, and Finn collapsing road. The GMC roared away, leaving chaos in its wake.

"Officer down! Officer Down!" Gene shouted into the radio, his voice desperate, not knowing if the radio even worked. "Officer Finn's been shot on Lakeshore Drive!" 

Cars piled up. Horns blared. Panic. Gene rushed to Finn's side, cradling the bleeding officer.

"DeWitt," Finn managed, blood gurgling from his lips.

"Hold on, Finn," Gene whispered, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

But Finn's eyes, once bright and full of life, grew faint. "DeWitt did it," he gasped out with his dying breath.

Gene's heart pounded, his mind racing. "DeWitt?"


Inside the police station, Detective Hemottia leaned over his desk, lost in a sea of paperwork. The soft shuffle of footsteps and a shadow across his doorway pulled him back to reality. He looked up, finding Gene's shaken figure. Stains of blood marred the young man's hands and shirt, bearing silent testimony to the day's events.

Gene hesitated, swallowing hard. "Finn... Finn's dead," he stammered. "He said... DeWitt did it."

Hemottia's eyes hardened, a cold glint replacing their usual warmth. "Who's DeWitt?"

"I don't know," Gene admitted, shoulders slumping.

Drawing a deep breath, Hemottia stood, taking control. "Gene, you've just become a crucial witness. We can't risk losing you. You're going into police protection."

Gene nodded, overwhelmed. "Okay. Okay."

With a sympathetic gesture, Hemottia draped an arm around Gene, leading him through the maze of corridors in the precinct. They made their way to the men's locker room. The detective rummaged through his locker, pulling out a fresh shirt and helping Gene change.

"Thanks," Gene mumbled.

"No need to thank me," Hemottia replied, his voice soft.

As Gene buttoned up the shirt, he ventured, "I don't have family."

Hemottia raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

"Only child. Older parents," Gene added, his voice laced with regret.

"Families are blessings," Hemottia said wistfully. 

Gene tried to divert the topic, "Are you married?"

Hemottia chuckled, "To the job, you could say. My mother, though, she's always trying to play matchmaker. Thinks she's found the perfect woman for me."

"Why don't you date her?" Gene prodded, genuinely curious.

Hemottia smirked, "She's not fond of the badge and the life that comes with it."

Gene remembered something, "Finn mentioned you're smart. Said you could've been anything."

Hemottia took a moment before replying, "Passion and promise, Gene. They're not the same thing. I might have potential elsewhere, but this... this is where my heart is."

Gene looked up at the detective, a hint of admiration in his eyes, "I'm just glad you're on my side."

Hemottia nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Me too, kid. Now, let's get you somewhere safe."

CHAPTER 9


On a cold Oshkosh night, in a dive bar just on the outskirts of town, Steve Williams sat with a clear drink cradled in his hand. The long wooden bar, stained with the tales of many late-night patrons, was barely lit, giving the place an ambiance of mysterious allure.

Agent Williams, always one to keep an eye out for trouble, had his back against the wall, affording him a panoramic view of the establishment. Four husky men shot pool, their laughter occasionally cutting through the smoky air. The bartender moved about, wiping down counters and arranging bottles.

A gust of wind from the door brought in a new patron—a man, wrapped tightly in a green arctic jacket. Once inside, he shrugged off the cold, pulling back the hood. Underneath was Kevin Jacobs: a handsome fellow in his early thirties, with raven-black hair, a fit frame, and an unmistakable limp.

He made his way to the bar, settling three stools away from Steve. "Rick," he called to the bartender, "beer for me."

Agent Williams glanced at Kevin from the corner of his eye, sizing him up. Kevin, feeling the weight of solitude, decided to strike a conversation with the closest person that looked halfway decent. "Chilly out tonight," he said.

Williams, ever the man of few words, responded with a simple, "Yep."

"Don't think I've seen you around," Kevin prodded.

"Nope."

"New in town?"

"Yep."

Kevin chuckled, sensing the pattern. "Quite the talkative type, huh? Rick, another one for my friend here."

Williams raised his glass in acknowledgment as the bartender poured. "I'm managing Stevens' farm now."

Kevin raised an eyebrow. "What happened to Slim?"

"Don't know. Don't care. They offered a good deal."

Jacobs looked thoughtful for a moment. "You drive that blue Chevy outside?"

"That's right."

Kevin seemed curious. "Saw you near 15 and Spruce this week."

"Just waiting for a water survey team. Checking out Stevens' water table."

Jacobs' interest piqued. "And?"

"High nitrate levels."

Silence hung between them for a moment before Kevin finally said, "Anything to be done about that?"

"A special filter for the water pump should do."

Kevin smirked, "Fascinating," his voice dripping with irony.

Steve just looked at him, a silent retort in his eyes.

"And you? Kevin, was it? What's your story?"

Kevin leaned back, looking proud. "Recruiter for a national environmental group. Live on the family farm around here, got an office too. You should meet Jake Wells, who manages our place. Been with us for twenty years."

Steve's eyebrow shot up, "Really?"

"Yeah," Kevin continued, pulling out a card, "Give us a ring sometime this week."

Steve took the card, nodding. "I'll do that."

CHAPTER 10


Inside a nondescript safe house in Chicago, the light from a vintage black and white television flickered, casting an eery glow on Gene and Detective Hemottia. The two were settled around a card table, remnants of a bucket of chicken scattered in front of them. An old dresser supported the TV, evoking an atmosphere reminiscent of simpler times.

Gene, wiping grease off his fingers, observed, "You know, I rather enjoy this black and white television. Makes everything seem like it's from the 40's or 50's — a more romantic era in America."

Hemottia, nodding slowly, replied, "Our family always had the luxury of color." 

"But everyone's favorite, Lucy, she was timeless in monochrome, no matter the kind of set," Gene added with a hint of nostalgia.

Hemottia conceded, "Never really thought of it that way."

Their relaxed banter was interrupted by an unexpected knock at the door, freezing them in place. A second series of knocks, followed by a rapid four, allowed Hemottia to relax just a touch. He cautiously approached the door, peeking through the peephole. After a beat, he opened it to reveal Detective John Kane.

Kane, an Asian-American detective in his prime years, cut a sleek figure. His sharp features suggested a man who'd seen much, yet his demeanor was calm. Hemottia’s eyes betrayed a touch of admiration and respect as he let Kane in.

"Manuj, always a pleasure," Kane greeted Hemottia, using his first name.

Hemottia smiled thinly, "How have you been, Detective Kane?"

Kane's face turned somber. "Seen better days. Reviewed the footage from Finn's car camera. Traced the plates. The owner? Congressman John DeWitt."

Gene's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "DeWitt?"

Hemottia echoed, his voice filled with surprise, "DeWitt?"

Kane took a breath, "DeWitt was a godsend during the labor movement of the '70s. Saved a lot of jobs when Chicago was in the dumps."

Hemottia asked urgently, "Have you confronted him?"

Kane responded, "I owe my career to him. He's no killer. The car was reported stolen that very morning, and he was nowhere near the scene."

A heavy silence settled. Hemottia's frustration was palpable. "So we're back to square one?"

Kane, taking a drag from his cigarette, remarked, "They never said it'd be easy."

Hemottia leaned back, eyes clouded with thoughts, "Your next steps?"

"We're broadening the search - local, state, neighboring states. We’ll find the culprit."

Gene, feeling vulnerable, interjected, "What's the plan for me?"

Hemottia's gaze hardened, "Lay low. I’ll get more officers on this. I need to head back to Michigan. Can't let any lead go cold."

CHAPTER 11


The pale light of dawn was barely breaking over Oshkosh, Wisconsin when Agent Williams steered his truck towards the intimidating gates of a farm that had occupied his thoughts for weeks. The gates stood there, tall and defiant, a clear warning to any undesired visitors.

As Williams leaned over to reach the call box, conveniently placed at his window level, the buzz of the intercom cracked the morning stillness. A voice, as indistinct as the morning fog, muttered, “Yes?”

“Hi,” Williams began, his voice betraying a hint of unease, "Steve here, manager of the Stevens farm. Kevin said I should come by today."

Silence. It was thick and hung in the air like a shroud. But from the corner of his eye, a subtle flicker caught his attention. A security camera, cold and unblinking, had him in its gaze.

The gates begrudgingly admitted him with a sharp metallic clink, followed by the whir of machinery as they split down the middle. Driving through, Williams took in the expanse hidden behind those walls. The driveway was flanked by fields, teeming with lean, hard-working folks with sinewy arms and sweat-streaked faces. The age on their faces suggested youth, but their eyes whispered tales of long, hard days.

Three red barns stood sentinel near the main house, each with its own tale. The first was the kind of barn you'd see in a heartland postcard, redwood and timeless. The second was modern, its roof sloping in a way that hinted at dreams of solar panels. The third was puzzling, brand new but unobtrusive, its only distinctive feature being the satellite dishes on top.

Williams’ truck ground to a halt in front of the family home, its engine echoing in the quiet morning. As he stepped out, uncertainty weighed him down, his next move not quite clear.

The heavy front door swung open, revealing Kevin Jacobs, a smile plastered across his face and a hand outstretched in greeting. Close behind him, with a predatory gleam in his eye, was Jake Wells.

Williams took in a deep breath, "You have quite the setup here."

Kevin chuckled, "Been in the family for generations. And this," he motioned to Jake, "is my right hand, Jake Wells."

The pleasantries were brief. Williams, ever the agent, was quick with his questions. "Nice to meet you, Jake. Who are all these folks working the fields?"
Jake Wells looked out over the fields, a steely resolve in his eyes. "They work the farm," he said flatly.

Williams frowned, his eyes scanning the vast fields. "No machinery?" he asked incredulously. "No tillers, no tractors?"

Kevin Jacobs, the proud owner of this vast operation, shook his head with a grin. "Everything here is done the old way. Hand sown, hand grown, and hand harvested."

Williams couldn't mask his surprise. "With that kind of manual labor, the produce must be expensive. Do you get a good price for it?"

Kevin let out a hearty laugh, "You've got a head for business. No wonder Stevens brought you on board."

Williams shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. "It's in the blood, I guess."

Kevin's face turned serious as he looked over his land, pride evident in his eyes. "These people, they depend on this farm. They work it by day and find shelter in that middle barn come night."

Williams' eyes narrowed, always on the job. "What about the surplus? You must be making a profit by selling it off."

Kevin motioned towards the fields. "We give it away. Charities mostly. Helps with the taxes."

As they walked, the looming shadows of the barns on their left, Kevin continued, "This place... it's more than just a farm. It's a testament to our beliefs."

Williams couldn't help himself. "What is this? Some kind of cult?"

Kevin laughed again, louder this time. "Not at all. Ever heard of 'Save the Planet'? I head their operations here in the Midwest."
Williams raised an eyebrow, the vast farmlands stretching behind him, casting a long shadow on the house. "Is 'Save the Planet' something like Green Peace?"

Jake Wells smirked, a hint of derision in his voice. "Green Peace? Those lightweights? Hardly."

Williams merely nodded, taking in Jake's fervor. 

Kevin leaned closer, a fire in his eyes. "You're a farmer, Williams. What's your take on the federal government?"

"I've been too busy with the land to give D.C. much thought," Williams admitted.

Kevin's voice grew intense. "The way I see it, Uncle Sam's always ready with outstretched hands, grabbing money and land that isn’t rightfully his. Picture this: A man breaks his back all his life, dreaming of leaving something behind for his son. But then, the man's gone, and the feds swoop in, crying 'taxes'. Just like that, a lifetime's labor goes down the drain."

Williams took a moment, processing. "I never looked at it that way. But if you found a way to get them off our backs about those damn taxes, you'd wear a halo in my book."

Kevin's lips curved into a knowing smile. "You know who I consider a real hero? John Brown."

"The Civil War abolitionist?" Williams questioned, taken aback.

"The very same. With a single act at Harpers Ferry, he managed to shake up a divided nation, drawing lines in the sand. That's what I call heroism."

"But some would argue he just fanned the flames of the Civil War," Williams countered. "Made folks pick a side, stirred the pot."

Kevin leaned in, eyes gleaming. "But when the dust settled, what were we left with? One united nation, under God."

Jake, perhaps sensing the intensity of the conversation, jumped in. "Enough history lessons, Kevin. Let's not bore Steve here." He changed the topic, pulling Williams into lighter conversation.
The truck's engine rumbled as Steve drove away from the imposing gates of the farm. He couldn't help but feel a sense of unease mingled with curiosity about the place he had just visited.

Jake Wells's questions had stirred up memories Steve had tried to bury in the recesses of his mind. He reached for the tape recorder in the center console, his fingers running over the worn buttons.

"Jake Wells background check," Steve began, his voice steady as he recorded the details. "Five foot ten inches to six feet in height, dark hair, has worked for Jacobs' family for roughly 20 years." Steve's mind wandered back to the farmhands laboring in the fields. 

The three barns, each with its own unique character, tugged at his curiosity. "Three barns," Steve continued, his eyes on the road but his thoughts fixated on the farm. "One is a dorm, one is new with high-tech equipment, third could store vehicles or large equipment."

As he spoke, Steve couldn't shake the sense of secrecy that hung over the farm like a shroud. "Roughly 200 people on the farm, all between 18 to 28 years in age." He paused to let the information settle in.

The memory of the electrified perimeter fence sent shivers down his spine. "Perimeter fence had wire, and electric deterrence."

The encounter with Kevin Jacobs had left a mark. "May know I am a federal agent," Steve mused, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Treated me well but showed me nothing." 

The final detail came to him as he navigated the road back to his own life. "Drive is paved, and there is now electricity on the land."

Steve sighed and turned off the tape recorder. He had more questions than answers, and the feeling of unease still clung to him. The farm, its enigmatic inhabitants, and its purpose remained a mystery he was determined to unravel.

CHAPTER 12


Sabrina Luntz, the voluptuous sophomore, eyed Detective Hemottia with a mix of suspicion and annoyance. Her dorm room was a cacophony of youthful chatter, and she stood there in her underwear, unabashedly comfortable in her own skin.

Hemottia had knocked on her resident hall door, but it was ajar, offering him a glimpse into her world. The room was alive with voices and the sounds of college life, but Sabrina's attention was occupied by a phone call.

"I will, I’ll be careful. No, no. If he comes I’ll call you. I will. I love you - just say it once, for me," Sabrina murmured into the phone, her voice a delicate whisper. Her eyes were distant, lost in the conversation.

Hemottia cleared his throat and knocked louder, jarring her back to the present. Startled, she let out a sharp scream before regaining her composure and hanging up the phone.

"Oh my god! You scared me," she scolded him, her irritation evident.

"I am sorry," Hemottia replied, his tone sincere. "I knocked, and the door was open."

Sabrina didn't seem overly concerned about her nearly bare state. Instead, she focused on the unexpected visitor. "What do you want?"

Detective Hemottia introduced himself, reminding her of their previous encounter in Chicago. "You remember me? Detective Hemottia, of Chicago?"

"Of course," Sabrina replied, her curiosity piqued. "What are you doing here? Michelle overdosed. Isn’t that enough for you in Chicago?"

Hemottia sighed, the weight of the case heavy on his shoulders. "Well, we had some other questions about this. Can we talk, or should I come back?"

The dorm room remained alive with youthful energy, but a sense of unease hung in the air as Detective Hemottia waited for Sabrina's response.

Sabrina Luntz disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Detective Hemottia alone in her dorm room. He took a moment to glance around, noting the cluttered, yet surprisingly cozy, atmosphere of a typical college student's life. There were textbooks strewn across the desk, posters on the walls, and the faint scent of something floral in the air.

As he settled into a chair, Sabrina's voice came from behind the bathroom door, "Oh? Well, sit down while I get dressed."

Hemottia leaned back in the chair, his eyes surveying the room once more as he waited. The muted sounds of college life drifted in from the hallway, a stark contrast to the heavy questions that weighed on his mind.

When Sabrina emerged from the bathroom, now fully dressed, Hemottia began his inquiry. "Do you know Janice Abernathy?"

Sabrina's reaction was immediate, her tone laced with disdain. "Yeah, I know that bitch."

Hemottia leaned forward, his interest piqued. "You are not fond of her, I take it?"

Sabrina's reply was sharp. "Why would I be? She is always taking credit for SCOUTS and gave Michelle all this shit for joining Save the Planet."

Detective Hemottia pressed further, seeking more information. "Do you know her well, or just through Michelle?"

Sabrina shook her head. "Well? No. I just know that she was giving her all this shit about, stuff."

Hemottia continued to piece together the puzzle. "Then?"

Sabrina's gaze turned thoughtful. "Then Ms. Goodrich tells me that Michelle is having problems with her roommate and can arrange for her to move in with me."

Hemottia's detective instincts were on high alert. "Did you have a roommate before Michelle?"

Sabrina shook her head. "No, I was in here alone. They didn't assign anyone."

The mention of Ms. Goodrich, the one who made room assignments, triggered another thread in Hemottia's mind. He could feel the pieces of the puzzle shifting into place, but there were still missing gaps.

Detective Hemottia leaned forward, his eyes locked onto Sabrina's, searching for any hint of deception. He didn't beat around the bush, his voice steady and direct. "What is your relationship with Kevin Jacobs?"

Sabrina, caught off guard by the question, hesitated for a moment. "What? Why?"

Hemottia reminded her of their previous conversation, his tone unwavering. "We talked about him at length last time."

Turning back to his notepad, Hemottia recited Sabrina's words from their previous encounter. " 'Wonderful, passionate, brave, everyone loves him,' your words."

Sabrina nodded, a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. "Yeah."

Detective Hemottia probed further, peeling back the layers of her emotions. "Everyone loves him? Or you love him?"

Sabrina's cheeks flushed slightly, her defenses rising. "What kind of question is that?"

Hemottia continued, unfazed by her reaction. "Were you on the phone with him when I came in?"

Sabrina's response came quickly, her voice defensive. "What? - no, that was, was Stew."

Detective Hemottia leaned back in his chair, studying her carefully. "You are in love with Kevin? Maybe a crush you never mentioned to Michelle?"

Sabrina's eyes darted away for a moment, avoiding his penetrating gaze. Hemottia could sense there was more to this story, hidden beneath the surface of her words.
Sabrina Luntz sat on her futon, her eyes filled with uncertainty, her emotions on the brink. Detective Hemottia, unyielding and determined, had brought her to the point where the truth was her only refuge.

"I don't have to tell you anything," Sabrina declared, her voice wavering but defiant.

Detective Hemottia rose from his chair, his movements deliberate, radiating a subtle aura of intimidation as he slowly closed the distance between them.

"That's right," he acknowledged, his tone steady and authoritative. "You don't have to say anything. You have the right to remain silent. And for that matter, you can call an attorney. If you were unable to hire an attorney, the court would appoint one for you."

A brief pause lingered in the room, heavy with unspoken implications. Sabrina was on the precipice of a decision.

"I can call the local sheriff's department," Hemottia continued, his gaze unwavering. "They know I am here. I just have to ask them to come by, and we can arrange for you to be appointed an attorney."

Sabrina's resistance began to wane. She sank back onto her futon with a gasp, the weight of her choices pressing down on her.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted, her voice trembling.

Detective Hemottia remained unyielding, offering a lifeline of truth. "That's fine. Usually when I don't know what to do, I find the truth is the best answer. The truth will set you free."

Sabrina took a deep breath, her emotions in turmoil. "I do. I love Kevin. We had been seeing each other for a long time. He kept telling me that he was going to break up with Michelle, but before he could, she OD'd."

Hemottia pressed further, his questions direct and unwavering. "Have you had relations with him?"

Sabrina's tears began to flow. "Relations? We slept together, is that what you're asking?"

Detective Hemottia nodded in confirmation. "Yes."

She continued, her voice filled with longing and sorrow. "All the time. He said I was the best he'd ever had. I just miss him so much."

Detective Hemottia, having gleaned the information he needed, shifted his focus. "When was the last time you saw him?"

Sabrina's voice quivered as she recalled the painful memory. "Right after the funeral, I met him in Chicago for a weekend."

Detective Hemottia probed further, seeking clarity. "He wouldn't come here?"

Sabrina shook her head, her tears unabated. "No, he said it was out of his way, and he had to visit some other campus on his route."

With a firm resolve, Detective Hemottia helped her to her feet. "Here is what we are going to do. You are going to pack. We are going to go to the police station here, then call your parents."

Fear and uncertainty still etched on her face, Sabrina asked, "Am I under arrest?"

Detective Hemottia offered reassurance. "No, but I am worried about your safety. There is no need for you to follow Michelle to the grave."

CHAPTER 13


In the safehouse, Gene and an off-duty officer were seated at a worn-out card table, engaged in a casual game of cards. The officer, his uniform conspicuously absent, quipped about the ongoing game. The clinking of poker chips and the occasional chuckle punctuated their conversation.

A secret knock echoed through the room, sharp and precise, followed by a few moments of uncertainty.

"Who could that be?" the officer mused aloud, raising an eyebrow.

Gene, focused on the cards in his hand, responded with a touch of nonchalance, "Pizza."

A brief pause hung in the air as the officer contemplated the possibility. "Oh, yeah, pizza," he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair.

However, as he moved towards the door, there was a sense of unease. He questioned the familiarity of the knock, and doubt crept into the room.

"So, it's not the pizza?" Gene remarked, his curiosity piqued.

The officer, now standing near the door, couldn't hide his growing hunger. "I wish it was," he confessed. "I'm getting kind of hungry."

As he opened the door slightly, revealing a hint of recognition, the tension in the room escalated. The officer's voice betrayed his unease. "Oh - it's you. We thought it was the pizza."

As the officer turned back towards the room, ready to explain the situation to Gene, an unexpected twist unfolded. The silence was shattered by the abrupt emergence of a silencer from beneath a man's jacket. Two deadly shots pierced the air, and an attached baggie deftly caught the ejected shells, concealing the evidence. The silenced pistol was now pointed at Gene, who had no time to react. A third shot, another click, and Sykes managed to make a desperate dash for the hallway. He barely escaped the room before the fourth click came from the silenced weapon, ending Gene's futile crawl to safety. Blood seeped from Gene's wounded leg as he lay motionless on the floor.

With chilling composure, the unknown assailant calmly closed the front door behind him and proceeded down the hallway. He was on a mission, and his cold, unfeeling demeanor contrasted starkly with the violence he had just inflicted.

Meanwhile, a knock resounded at the front door, but this time, the expected pizza delivery had taken a back seat. The assassin turned to the door, his hand shifting the silencer to align with the peephole. Slowly, he opened the door, revealing Congressman DeWitt, a man whose connections ran deep, and whose presence here was no mere coincidence.

"I know you can take care of this," DeWitt asserted confidently, his voice tinged with a mix of assurance and complicity. "Just like you took care of my Suburban. Just like we took care of each other in '68."

Detective John Kane, the man behind the silenced weapon, remained enigmatic, his motives shrouded in secrecy as the sinister plot continued to unfold.

The room seemed to tighten around Detective John Kane as the past was dredged up, a past he'd rather forget. He glanced at Congressman DeWitt, a man with secrets as dark as the night, and his expression was one of reluctance.

"You said we wouldn't talk about that," Kane retorted, his voice low and tinged with a hint of bitterness.

DeWitt, seemingly unfazed, leaned forward, his words slicing through the air like a sharpened blade. "What's wrong, John? Ghosts haunting you at night?"

Kane's eyes bore into DeWitt's, a silent plea to let the past remain buried. "No, no," he muttered, his voice strained. "We just don't need to bring that year up ever again. I have more than returned the favor for your help at the convention."

Congressman DeWitt, a man who operated in the shadows and thrived on secrets. He had a way of making the room feel even darker, the weight of his presence almost suffocating. "John, these bodies start to pile up if not taken care of," he remarked casually, as if discussing the weather. "No one found out about the last one. You're fine. Where is Sykes?"

Kane turned towards the hallway, his body tensing as he prepared to reveal the grim sight. "Over here," he replied, beckoning DeWitt to follow.

But as Kane shifted his gaze, his vulnerability exposed, DeWitt's sinister intentions became clear. In a flash, DeWitt produced a silenced gun and pressed it against the base of Kane's neck. The room was filled with a chilling click, a harbinger of impending danger, and the line between ally and adversary blurred in that tense, uncertain moment.

CHAPTER 14


The Kalamazoo police station was a stygian and foreboding place, its walls adorned with faded posters of wanted criminals and the air heavy with the weight of unspoken secrets. Detective Hemottia, a man well-versed in the shadows of human nature, followed a local police officer down a corridor. Beside him, Sabrina Luntz walked with a mix of anger and bewilderment etched on her face.

They entered a small, secure room, where Janice Abernathy sat waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, like a coiled snake ready to strike.

"What the hell?" Sabrina exclaimed, her voice a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Detective Hemottia, his expression stoic, turned to Sabrina. "Janice is also in this situation, Sabrina. Did you think you were the only one?"

Unable to contain her rage, Sabrina lunged at Janice, her fists flying. Her punches landed with fury, and her words were a mantra of possession. "You bitch! He's mine, he's mine. Kevin's mine."

Janice fought back, a desperate instinct for self-preservation. In a stroke of luck, she delivered a punch to Sabrina's jaw, sending her crashing to the floor, unconscious. The room fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of those within.

A local police officer rushed in, his presence a welcome interruption to the chaos. He assisted Sabrina to her feet and spoke to Detective Hemottia.

"Ms. Goodrich is here. I'll separate these two," he offered, ready to diffuse the situation.

Detective Hemottia nodded his gratitude, his mind racing with the complexities of the case and the tangled emotions that had just erupted in that dark, unforgiving room.


The private room at the Kalamazoo police station was far from inviting, with its one-way mirror, plain table, and an uncomfortable chair. Susan Goodrich, her emotions barely contained, sat there, her eyes filled with contempt.

Detective Hemottia, a man who had seen his fair share of interrogation rooms, offered a polite apology. "My apologies for such an uncomfortable place to talk, but I thought it might be less distracting away from the office."

Susan, her voice laced with indignation, demanded her rights. "I have rights. I want a phone call. I want my lawyer here now!"

Detective Hemottia leaned back, considering her words. "Of course you do. And we can go that route if you want. You should know, however, that if you choose to do that, the results will be that you remain here much longer, waiting for him, then the paperwork, and of course, I couldn't let you run around while I check out your story. You might be here two or three days when all I need is a few hours of your time." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Should I get you a phone?"

Susan, now more composed, shook her head. "No. May I have some water, please?"

Detective Hemottia obliged, handing her a paper cup filled with water. He then retrieved a small notepad from his pocket and opened it to a specific page, ready to continue their conversation.

Detective Hemottia leaned in, his gaze unwavering. "You are a former or current lover of Kevin Jacobs."

Susan Goodrich, taken aback by his directness, hesitated for a moment before replying. "Current."

Detective Hemottia continued his line of questioning. "You have known him for how long?"

Susan answered, her voice tinged with a mix of emotions. "Ten years. He was an undergrad at the first school I worked for."

The detective didn't let up. "When did he first begin to ask you to assign certain students together?"

Susan couldn't believe the direction of the conversation but decided to cooperate. "When we first met, he began to ask me to put people together."

Detective Hemottia pressed on, his tone unrelenting. "When did he ask you to put Janice Abernathy and Michelle Marshall together?"

Susan was startled. "How did you know?" After a brief pause, she continued, "After they had gone through high school orientation on our campus."

The detective's questioning remained focused. "When did he ask you to split up those two girls and assign Michelle to Sabrina Luntz's private room?"

Susan replied, "Halfway through last year."
Detective Hemottia's voice remained firm and unyielding as he continued his questioning. "Do you know where Kevin Jacobs is?"

Susan Goodrich shook her head, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "No."

Hemottia pressed on. "Were you aware that Kevin Jacobs was having sexual relationships with Michelle Marshall, a minor?"

Susan's shock was evident in her response. "What? No, he wouldn't do that, they were close but—"

The detective interrupted her. "Were you aware that up until last month, Kevin Jacobs was engaging in a sexual relationship with Sabrina Luntz, a minor at the time?"

Susan, still bewildered, stammered, "Last month? I haven't seen him since Christmas?"

Detective Hemottia's gaze remained unwavering. "Were you aware of this?"

Overwhelmed, Susan began to cry. "No, no, I was not."

Hemottia nodded and thanked her before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. He entered the next room, where local authorities and recording devices had captured the entire conversation.

Detective Hemottia addressed the others in the room. "Is that enough in this state? Or do you need more?"

A local cop nodded firmly. "That's enough."

In the private room, another local officer read Susan her rights and proceeded to handcuff her. Her once-composed face was now red and swollen, with streaks of mascara running down her cheeks.

Meanwhile, Manuj's cell phone began to ring. He quickly located it and answered the call.

Detective Hemottia spoke into the phone, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. "Hemottia. Yes. Yes. All three? I understand. Who is?"

As he listened to the voice on the other end, his expression grew more serious. "Who is picking up this one, Chief? Have you talked to Internal Affairs? I think they should. Thank you."

The local cop, concerned for Hemottia's well-being, inquired, "Are you alright, Detective?"

Hemottia took a moment to collect himself before responding. "My case has changed again. The witness in Chicago, an officer watching him, and my mentor were all found dead in the safe house."

The local cop offered his assistance. "What will you need from us?"

"These two need to be safe," Hemottia replied with determination. "I can't lose anyone else. There won't be anyone left to testify."

With that, Hemottia made his way to the door, ready to face the challenges ahead, “Stew.”

But before he could leave, the local cop asked, "Stew? Who?"


Hemottia paused, reflecting on the name. "Stew. He is in the case file. We should hold him for questioning. He's a student at the University."

As Hemottia exited the police station and descended the steps toward his car, his gaze fell upon Stew, waiting at the bottom of the steps.

Detective Hemottia's stern gaze bore into Stew as he asked, "Stew?"

Stew nodded respectfully. "Detective."

Hemottia's expression was a mix of curiosity and concern. "What are you doing here?"

Stew replied, "Janice had one phone call, it was to me."

The detective raised an eyebrow. "She's inside. The officers will want to ask you some questions too. You never mentioned Janice to me."

Stew explained, "We started to keep an eye on each other after Michelle, after the funeral. What happens next?"

Hemottia hesitated for a moment, his thoughts racing. "I'm not sure, but we will try to find this guy. Go on. Go inside and keep an eye on Janice."

Stew nodded and began to ascend the stairs to the front door of the police station. However, as soon as Hemottia's car turned the corner and disappeared from view, Stew abruptly changed course. He descended the steps, returned to his own car, and got in.

The dark and gritty mystery was becoming more complex, and Stew had his own secrets to protect.

CHAPTER 15


Agent Steve Williams was immersed in his work at the laptop, diligently typing away as his hand-held recorder played back his case notes into the earpiece. The room was common, the only source of light being the soft glow of the screen.

Suddenly, the black rotary phone on the bedside table began to ring. Williams paused his typing and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he answered.

A familiar voice crackled through the line. "Steve, how are you? It's Kevin."

Williams recognized the voice immediately. "Good, good to hear from you, Kevin. What can I do for you?"

Kevin Jacobs continued from the other end of the line, "Well, Jake and I are going over to Lake Winnebago. There's a used tiller on a farm over there."

Steve leaned back in his chair, intrigued. "Yeah?"

Kevin hesitated for a moment before continuing, "Well, Jake and I don't know much about these things, and after our conversation, we thought about looking. Can you help us out?"

Williams considered the request carefully. "When?"

Kevin Jacobs replied, "Well, the thing is, there's another buyer, and we would need to look at it tonight."

Steve Williams nodded, even though Kevin couldn't see him through the phone. "Sure, give me the address. I'll meet you there."

"Excellent," Kevin responded, and they exchanged the necessary information before hanging up.

Agent Steve Williams knew that this meeting could provide a valuable opportunity to gather more information. Little did he know that it would take him deeper into the dark and gritty world of the case he was investigating.

CHAPTER 16


Hemottia's shoes clicked sharply on the floor of a safe house turned crime scene. Yellow tape played a deadly game of tic-tac-toe, and white chalk told tales of a snuffed out life. Camera flashes punctuated the grim dark as officers worked.

Drawing near an officer, Hemottia rasped, "Who's running this show?"

A gloved hand pointed him to a poised Latina, Bettrice Hernandez, scribbling notes.

He cut to the chase. "Detective Hemottia. The dead witness? My case. The slain detective? John Kane, my mentor. Need a hand?"

Hernandez met his gaze, unflinching. "Hemottia. Heard you'd drop by. I'm with Internal Investigations."

Hemottia said, "Evening, ma'am."

"Why'd you want Internal involved?" Hernandez's voice was cool, inquiring.

"Only Kane, the dead officer, and I knew where the witness was," Hemottia said, jaw set.

Her eyes sharpened. "One of you ratted?"

Hemottia's eyes held a storm. "Seems so."

In the heart of the safe house, seasoned Hernandez sized up Hemottia, both standing on the precipice of a dangerous dance.

"Should I investigate you?" Hernandez's voice carried a sense of scrutiny as she probed the detective. "The only one still alive, the only one who could have killed the other two and the witness."

Hemottia, calm and collected, replied with a steely resolve, "I would if I were you. You will find that I have several witnesses and a time-coded recording in Kalamazoo, Michigan, proving I could not have done this. But you should check, nonetheless."

Hernandez considered his words before continuing, "Tell me, Detective—"

"Please, you can call me Manuj," he interjected.

"Manuj, tell me, what do you think happened here?"

Manuj Hemottia took a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes reflecting the weight of the situation. "I think that you will find the same gun that killed Officer Finn earlier this week also killed one or more of these men."

Hernandez leaned in, her curiosity piqued. "If it did?"

"If it did kill one of them," Hemottia explained, "that man is the one who killed the other two. If it matches all three, we have another problem."

Hernandez's lips curled into a knowing smile as she grasped the implications of Hemottia's statement. The detective turned and left the room, avoiding the marked spots on the floor—a grim reminder of the violence that had transpired.

CHAPTER 17


In the chilly room of the Stevens Farm in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, Agent Steve Williams hunched over his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keys with a sense of urgency. He paused momentarily, his eyes scanning the screen, before reaching for the phone. Fumbling with the cord, he sought to connect his laptop to the outside world, hunting for a data port that would bridge the gap between him and vital information.

After a brief struggle, he managed to disconnect the phone's wire, hoping to find a solution. Holding the cable in one hand, he reached for the computer, intending to plug it in. But as he tried to connect the two, he realized the cord was frustratingly short. Frustration gnawed at him as he contemplated his options.

Determined to proceed, he pulled the TV tray closer, trying to bridge the gap between the phone and the computer. It was a makeshift solution, but it just fell short of reaching. Steve's patience wore thin, but he refused to relent.

With a final, determined effort, he joined the cord to the computer, the connection made with a faint click. A sense of relief washed over him as he resumed his work. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he initiated a painfully slow 14.4 modem connection.

As the connection icon blinked on the laptop screen, he sighed in disappointment but didn't let it deter him. He needed to send an email urgently. With a few more decisive keystrokes, he pressed the send button and watched as the email slowly made its way through the sluggish connection.

With the message on its way, Steve knew he couldn't linger any longer. He swiftly removed his shirt, revealing a thin, bulletproof vest underneath. He dressed again, donning a sleeveless jacket and a Chicago Cubs ball cap. The urgency of his mission drove him to exit the room, leaving the laptop running in solitude.


Detective Hemottia settled into his office chair at the police station, the worn leather creaking beneath him. He leaned forward and flicked the power button on his computer, a machine that had seen better days. It whirred to life, the operating system taking its sweet time to boot up.

While he waited for the sluggish computer, he picked up the phone and dialed an out-of-state number. After a few rings, a busy signal sounded, followed by an automated request for a callback with a few cents in tow. Frustration welled up inside him as he hung up the phone.

Turning his attention to the computer screen, Detective Hemottia entered his login credentials and clicked on the email client. His inbox greeted him with a series of messages from Agent Williams, each subject line reading "Confidential - Case Sensitive." 

With a sense of anticipation mixed with trepidation, Hemottia opened the first message. The words on the screen would soon reveal the next twist in this dark and convoluted tale.

The night was draped in silence, broken only by the sound of Agent Williams' truck's engine rumbling as he pulled into the gravel driveway of the private residence on Lake Winnebago. He emerged from the vehicle, surveying the dark house ahead and the faint stirrings of life in the boathouse behind it. The crunching of gravel beneath his boots was the only disturbance.

In the pale illumination of the moon, Steve Williams ventured towards the lake, footsteps soft as he approached the boathouse.

Meanwhile, at the police station, Detective Hemottia had grown impatient with the persistent busy signal on the phone. He snatched his coat and made a hasty exit, the jingling of keys accompanying his swift departure.

Back at the private residence on Lake Winnebago, the gentle lapping of waves provided a soothing backdrop as Steve reached the half-open door of the boathouse. Inside, he overheard a conversation among three men: Kevin Jacobs, Wells, and a stranger in his sixties.

Not one to stand on ceremony, Agent Williams knocked firmly on the door, making his presence known.

"Are you guys in here?" he called out.

Kevin Jacobs turned to the door, acknowledging Steve's arrival with a nod. "Ah, here he is. Did you find the place alright?"

"Sure, not a problem," Steve replied, giving Jacobs a nod in return. "Hello, Jake."

Jacobs then introduced the third man, the stranger. "Oh, this is my Uncle Joe."

"Uncle Joe," Steve mused. "I don't see a tiller here, Kevin, just a boat."

Kevin Jacobs chuckled. "Yeah, well, it seems Joe's friend is across the lake. It's quicker to take the boat from here."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Kind of a small boat."

"That's what we were just saying," Kevin replied, his tone contemplative. "Now the question is, who will stay behind?"

The night's chill hung heavy in the air as they embarked on their uncertain journey. Agent Steve Williams, Jake Wells, and Kevin Jacobs squeezed into the small dinghy-sized vessel, a whisper of an engine beneath them. It sputtered to life, breaking the eerie silence with its whir and plug, struggling against the weight it carried.

The lake was shrouded in darkness, its surface marred by large chunks of ice that still floated about, casting an eerie, ghostly glow in the frigid water. A haunting surface fog obscured their vision, reducing it to a mere handful of feet.

Agent Steve Williams had positioned himself in the front seat, facing the others, a calculated move to maintain close vigilance. Jake Wells, arms crossed and contemplative, sat in the center, while Kevin Jacobs manned the boat from the rear.

Steve's voice broke through the stillness, carrying a note of caution. "Can't see five feet from here. Are you sure you can find it?"

Kevin, his eyes fixed on the dark expanse before them, replied confidently, "Sure, sure, no problem."

Agent Williams couldn't shake a hint of apprehension. He leaned forward, his words laced with concern. "I'd hate to get lost out here. People have died in foolish trips across half-frozen lakes."

As they ventured deeper into the lake, their engine abruptly fell silent, leaving them adrift amidst the icy waters, their vessel scraping against the unforgiving edges of the floating ice.
The frigid night held them in its icy embrace as they drifted further into the darkness of the lake. Above them, the sky sparkled with a breathtaking display of stars, a stark contrast to the grim situation unfolding beneath.

Kevin Jacobs, his voice tinged with nostalgia, spoke into the stillness, his words carrying a touch of melancholy. "I have always loved to come out here."

The surface fog danced silently around them, veiling the world in a ghostly shroud. Kevin's contemplative tone continued, "Nature is so beautiful, why would anyone try to corrupt and rob us of this? No thoughts, Agent Williams?"

Agent Steve Williams, sitting in stoic silence, gave no outward indication of his thoughts. His eyes, hidden in the shadows, betrayed nothing. "How long have you known?" Steve, his voice laced with a restrained intensity.

Kevin, seemingly undisturbed by the accusation, responded calmly, "We had our suspicions, which were verified from a friend this afternoon."

Agent Williams leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Who would be friends with a murderous flesh-monger like you?"

A wry smile played on Kevin's lips. "Oh, a much higher authority than you think."

The conversation took a sinister turn as Steve pressed further, "The girl?"

Kevin's response was cryptic, filled with dark implications. "Which one? There have been so many."

Steve's focus sharpened, honing in on one name. "Michelle Marshall."

Kevin's eyes gleamed with an unsettling mirth. "Such a nice girl, Michelle, but she just knew too much. Jake, your turn."

In the blink of an eye, Jake revealed the hidden weapon concealed beneath his arm—a gun. With the speed and precision of a seasoned gunman, he fired without a sound, catching Agent Steve Williams by surprise. Expecting the searing pain and anguish of a bullet tearing through flesh, Steve looked down to his chest, where a red dart protruded, poised ominously above his heart.

Agent Steve Williams' world blurred and spun, his senses dulled by the paralyzing substance coursing through his veins. He fought to maintain control, his head swaying erratically as if in a drunken stupor.

Kevin Jacobs, his sinister grin hidden in the shadows, leaned in closer, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "We can't shoot an FBI agent with a bullet; it draws too much attention. But finding a Steve-cicle a few months from now works best for all of us. This was your friend Michelle's fate. Not the lake in the winter, but tied down in a snowdrift, shot up with a high-ball. Must have been a slow and sleepy way to die."

As Steve's body surrendered to the effects of the drug, he began to topple over the side of the boat, a lifeless marionette pulled by the strings of his own demise. The abrupt shift in weight sent the small craft tilting dangerously to one side, causing Kevin and Jake to instinctively lean in the opposite direction. The result was a catastrophic capsizing, plunging them all into the frigid, dark waters of the lake.

With gasping breaths and splashes of icy water, Kevin Jacobs and Jake Wells began the desperate swim back to the safety of the boathouse. Their curses mingled with shivers as they navigated the bone-chilling waters, knowing that time was their merciless adversary in this numbing cold.

Meanwhile, amidst the marshland closest to where the overturned boat had vanished beneath the surface, Agent Steve Williams struggled through the thick, clinging muck. Each movement was an arduous battle against the encroaching hypothermia. With painstaking effort, he discarded his waterlogged clothes one piece at a time, starting with the jacket and then the shirt. Beneath the damp fabric, his bulletproof vest gleamed as a symbol of salvation, having saved his life when he needed it most.

CHAPTER 18

The night air hung heavy with secrecy as Detective Hemottia crouched in the shadows near Jacobs Farm, just outside Oshkosh, Wisconsin. He had been carefully monitoring the situation, waiting for the right moment to make his move.

The white van he had spotted earlier approached the electronic gate, and the glow of the keypad illuminated the night as a numerical code was entered. The massive iron gates reluctantly swung open, granting access to the clandestine domain. Hemottia, concealed in the brush and behind a brick wall, seized the opportunity, darting beneath the view of the security camera just before the gates sealed themselves shut once more.

The white van proceeded toward the imposing farmhouse, its dark windows betraying no hint of the secrets concealed within. Detective Hemottia watched as two nearly naked men, Jacobs and Wells, hastily exited the van and rushed inside the house. Their bizarre behavior left him perplexed, but he dared not hesitate.

Staying on the fringes of the porch's feeble illumination, Manuj pressed forward, his steps measured and deliberate. His destination was the first of three barns that dotted the sprawling property, each one a potential clue to unraveling the mysteries that had led him here. The night held its breath, waiting to reveal the hidden truths lurking within the shadows.

The spoiled straw beneath Detective Hemottia's boots crunched with a sickening sound as he navigated the interior of the barn. His every step was shrouded in silence, a necessary precaution for the clandestine mission he had embarked upon. The detective's senses were alert, honed by years of chasing down shadows in the darkest corners of the city.


Drawing nearer to the rear of the barn, where horses and stacks of hay lay in somber repose, Hemottia's eyes fell upon his target—a covered car that awaited behind a concealment of hay bales. With careful finesse, he lifted the drape covering the vehicle, revealing the maroon Pontiac Parisian with a Wisconsin license plate bearing the telltale characters, "5CC."

As he contemplated the implications of this discovery, the distant rumble of another car's arrival reached his ears. Quick to the shadows, Hemottia retreated to a concealed position near the barn's entrance. Peering cautiously through the door, he observed a figure clad in a dark wool coat stepping out of a black Lincoln Town Car, moving with a swiftness that left no room for a clear identification.

Once the enigmatic figure had vanished within the farmhouse, Hemottia seized the opportunity to exit the barn, his steps purposeful as he headed toward the next structure. There, he approached a window and cast a furtive glance inside, revealing a chilling tableau—an array of hundreds of bunk beds lining the walls, reminiscent of a grim concentration camp. The conditions were Spartan at best, with only the meager adornments of handmade crafts hanging from the walls.

Moving onward to the next building, which seemed the most recently constructed, Hemottia found his surroundings bereft of cover, surrounded by piles of earth that left no refuge for a lurking detective. Undaunted, he strode purposefully to a darkened window and peered within, only to find his vision shrouded in impenetrable darkness. With caution as his ally, he made his way to a nearby door and entered the enigmatic building, prepared to confront the unknown.


Inside the building, Detective Hemottia found himself facing a stark corridor, the muted hum of computers and hushed conversations serving as an eerie backdrop. As he ventured further, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the secrets and sinister dealings that swirled within these walls.

Suddenly, a snippet of conversation reached his ears, and he instinctively slipped into a bathroom just to his left. With stealth and precision, he entered one of the stalls and raised his legs, hiding in the cramped space.

Minutes ticked by, and soon the detective could hear the approach of a worker. The man entered the bathroom and began methodically checking each stall until he reached the last one, where Hemottia had concealed himself. The worker opened the door, only to find it empty, and then departed.

Detective Hemottia, having silently relocated to the adjacent stall, finally emerged from his hiding place. He moved with a cautious determination, his senses finely tuned to the clandestine world he had infiltrated.

As he ventured further down the corridor, his eyes adjusted to the light, allowing him to discern the source of the ambient noises. At the corridor's end lay a control center, a hub of surveillance and information. Monitors displayed feeds from the sprawling property, the interior of various buildings, and channels broadcasting news from across the globe.

Just as Hemottia was about to proceed, a soft ding signaled the arrival of an elevator, and he found himself bathed in sudden light from behind. He turned to face the source and was met with a startling sight—Jake Wells, Kevin Jacobs, and Congressman DeWitt, all dressed in fresh, dry clothes, their expressions marked by surprise at the detective's presence. The tension in the air was palpable as the players in this dangerous game converged in the heart of the shadows.

Kevin Jacobs sneered at Detective Hemottia, his eyes filled with a malevolent glint. The detective's presence had clearly ruffled their feathers, and they responded with a mix of defiance and arrogance.

"You must be the sage detective giving us so many problems in Chicago," Jacobs sneered, his tone dripping with mockery.

Hemottia remained steadfast, his voice unwavering as he began reading them their rights. "Gentlemen, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent."

Jake Wells, standing beside Jacobs, couldn't resist a sarcastic quip. "With a sense of humor, nonetheless."

Undeterred, Hemottia continued, "Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law."

Congressman DeWitt, whose aura of authority was now tinged with unease, interjected with a haughty tone, "Law? I am the law, son."

Hemottia proceeded with the ritualistic recitation of their Miranda rights, his words a stark reminder of their predicament. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."

Kevin Jacobs, his anger simmering beneath the surface, unleashed his frustration in a violent outburst. "Yes, good to know. Jake, where can we... beat the fuck out of this towel-headed shit?"

Jake Wells, ever the willing accomplice, responded coldly, "I've got some toys in the barn."

The exchange hung in the air, a chilling testament to the dark and twisted world that had brought these men to this moment of reckoning. Detective Hemottia stood firm, prepared to face whatever horrors awaited him in that ominous barn, as the shadows of this grim tale grew deeper.

In the oppressive gloom of Barn One, the detective's battered body hung in a cruel parody of strength, tethered to the pillars that loomed like ancient sentinels. The gritty barn walls bore witness to the brutality that had unfolded within its shadowy confines, the evidence etched onto Detective Hemottia's battered flesh.

His face and torso were marred by welts and cuts, the raw testimony of relentless torment. The pain, a constant companion, seemed to pulse with every heartbeat, a reminder of the brutal reality he faced.

Exhausted from their sadistic exertions, the three tormentors sat amidst the oppressive silence, their labored breaths punctuating the stillness of the barn.

Jake Wells, his once-confident demeanor now replaced by a wearied disposition, spoke, his voice heavy with fatigue. "I have never been so cold and tired before."

Kevin Jacobs, his spirit dampened by the frigid ordeal, nodded in agreement. "I know, I just can’t shake it."

Congressman DeWitt, the orchestrator of this gruesome mise-en-scène, contemplated the consequences of their actions. "After your little swim, I'll have to persuade some people not to look so hard here."

Kevin Jacobs, his malevolence unyielding, plotted further acts of depravity. "Get that idiot James Hunt to come back. We'll serve him tea and crumpets from the detective's polished skull; he won't think twice about it."

As the night wore on, the barn remained shrouded in darkness, its secrets hidden from prying eyes. Detective Hemottia's resilience was put to the test, for in this grim labyrinth of torment, salvation seemed ever more elusive.
Amidst the darkness and despair of that desolate barn, the conspirators huddled together, their sinister plot looming large in their minds.

Congressman DeWitt, the puppeteer orchestrating this sinister symphony, spoke with a fervent determination. "We can't have any setbacks between now and the WORLD TRADE Summit. Too much time and money has gone into it. This is the year. No more waiting."

Jake Wells, his spirit tainted by the malevolence of their actions, chimed in with a chilling observation. "Won't they be surprised to find a US President unable to control his own people."

Kevin Jacobs, a man steeped in darkness and ruthlessness, added to the conversation. "Some of the true believers have been asking about suicide runs."

The congressman, a visionary cloaked in ambition and cunning, reflected on his own journey. "If only I had this crew in sixty-eight, we would be in the White House already. I was too young, didn't have the money, just the vision."

Kevin Jacobs acknowledged the fruits of their patience and scheming. "And all that waiting has paid off."

From the depths of his weakness and torment, Detective Hemottia mustered the last reserves of his strength to interject, his voice a defiant note in the grim symphony of conspiracy.

In that dark and foreboding place, Detective Hemottia hung like a tortured soul in purgatory, his body bearing the marks of their merciless actions. Despite his agony, his resolve remained unbroken.

"You'll never succeed," he uttered, his voice a raspy whisper, defiance in every syllable.

Kevin Jacobs, the embodiment of heartlessness, mocked him callously. "What's that, Gahndi? You want a slurpee?"

Hemottia's response was unwavering. "The people will not follow you."

Congressman DeWitt, the puppeteer orchestrating this malevolent scheme, regarded Hemottia with a condescending smirk. "How little you understand the system, dear boy. History is riddled with exploited opportunities that advance a cause, a belief, or, in my case, a man. Let's leave him here to think things over."

Jake Wells, the enforcer of their unholy alliance, tightened the restraints, subjecting the detective to even greater torment. As they departed, leaving him in his torturous solitude, Hemottia's spirit remained unbroken.

In another part of the complex, the trio of conspirators entered Building Three, the nerve center of their operation. With the arrogance of complete authority, they approached a young woman, a hippie in appearance, who sat at a monitor controlling views of the property.

Kevin Jacobs, with his deceptive charm, greeted her insincerely. "Hello, my dear."

The girl at the monitor, her face reflecting a mixture of fear and submission, greeted Kevin Jacobs with a hesitant, "Hello, Kevin."

He responded with a deceptively calm tone, his facade of tranquility masking the tempest within. "Having a good night."

"It's fine," she replied timidly, her voice trembling.

"That's good, fine," he said, his words laced with an unsettling undercurrent. In a sudden eruption of rage, he seized the back of her neck and savagely slammed her head into the monitor.

"Why the hell did we just find a policeman on the property?" he seethed, his fury unabated. Then, as if flipping a switch, he reverted to a veneer of composure. "We just ask that you do your task. It's for the cause. Watch the monitor, and let us know if someone tries to get in."

The girl's nose bled from the brutal assault, and the others in the room watched in fearful silence, unwilling to challenge Jacobs's volatile temperament.

"People," he addressed the room, his voice returning to an unsettling calm, "we have a plan, a schedule to keep here. We can't be stopped just when it's getting good."

Congressman DeWitt, the mastermind behind their sinister agenda, interjected, "Okay, let's take it to the planning room, Kevin."
Kevin Jacobs, after his outburst and subsequent display of manipulation, tried to regain control of the room. "We're all doing a great job here, people. Keep up the hard work."

With these words, Jacobs, Congressman DeWitt, and Jake Wells left the room, heading into a conference room to continue their sinister plans.

Unbeknownst to them, as they exited, the young men and women in the room watched them with disdain. And in the shadows, concealed from their view, Agent Steve Williams appeared on the bloody monitor. He had managed to evade their attention, hopped the front gate, and was now making his way to barn one, determined to unravel their malevolent plot.

CHAPTER 19

Agent Williams, after freeing Detective Hemottia from his precarious hanging position, helped him down gently. The detective's body ached from the ordeal, but he was determined to press on.

Agent Steve Williams asked, "Manuj, are you alright?"

Detective Hemottia, still catching his breath, responded, "You should see the three who did this."

Agent Steve Williams rushed over to assist him and carefully released him from the chains. 

Hanging from the bale of hay, Hemottia continued, "No, but I think I have the moral upper hand."

Steve Williams understood the importance of the moral high ground in their dangerous game. "That will come in really handy. Where are they?"

Hemottia struggled to provide details, "I think they are in the third barn, it's a control center. I was a little tied up to count. I only saw the third barn, maybe twenty of those kids were there two hours ago."

Agent Williams searched the Pontiac for clothes and tossed an old flannel shirt to Hemottia. 

"Thanks. Where have you been all night? I called," Hemottia inquired.

Williams sighed, concern etched on his face. "Someone told Jacobs and Wells which agency I work for and took me for a boat ride. To our advantage, they think I am dead, but I don't know how they found out."

Detective Hemottia looked grimly at Agent Steve Williams, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and concern.

"Congressman DeWitt," he stated solemnly.

Williams raised an eyebrow, his face etched with curiosity and worry. "DeWitt? Well, that makes sense. What is his role?"

Hemottia took a moment to collect his thoughts before responding, "It seems the Congressman is the leader here. Jacobs recruits people on campus, and Wells is his muscle."

With a slow and cautious movement, Hemottia managed to stand on his feet, dressing himself in the flannel shirt Williams had provided.

Agent Steve Williams looked at Hemottia with genuine concern. "Are you going to be alright?"

Hemottia's response was measured, "We'll see. I think DeWitt killed Sykes and John Kane as well."

Williams nodded, his mind racing to make sense of the unfolding chaos. "Jacobs and Wells admitted to the murder of Michelle Marshall. This is turning out really bad. We have to stop them."

With Hemottia's newfound strength, the two men headed towards the barn's exit, ready to confront the darkness that lay ahead.


The room filled with young men and women, each absorbed in their assigned tasks. Monitors displayed surveillance feeds, and the hum of electronic equipment filled the air. With precision, Agent Steve Williams and Detective Hemottia entered, handguns at the ready.

One of the young men, seemingly unfazed by their arrival, glanced up from his monitor only to find the cold steel of Agent Williams' gun pointed at him. He returned to his duties with an eerie indifference.

Detective Hemottia approached a young woman, gently turning her in the office chair to face him. She appeared pale and weak, devoid of any spirit.

Agent Steve Williams, speaking in hushed tones, remarked to Hemottia, "I don't think we'll get much resistance from them."

Hemottia, his gaze fixed on the malnourished group, replied, "Malnutrition."

Agent Williams frowned, puzzled. "What?"

Hemottia clarified, "They are being starved so they won't resist."

Suddenly, the conference room door creaked open, and Jake Wells poked his head out. His voice echoed through the room as he spoke to the others, "Let's get some coffee in here, people."

Unseen by Wells, Agent Williams positioned himself at the side of the door, his gun discreetly lowered, the sound of the cocking mechanism serving as a silent warning.

Wells glanced around the room and, to his astonishment, spotted Agent Steve Williams. "So, you're not dead."

Agent Steve Williams, with Wells's body as a shield, cautiously stepped out of the room, revealing Kevin Jacobs and Congressman DeWitt seated at a large conference table.

Kevin Jacobs sneered, "Jake, let them get the coffee; they can feast on the coffee grounds."

Williams held Wells's body tightly, his lips close to Wells's ear as he whispered, "Let's not do anything rash here, fellas."

Congressman DeWitt, clearly surprised, retorted, "You said he was dead."

Williams commanded, "Stay where you are, gentlemen."

Under the conference table, Wells discreetly gripped a shotgun attached to a leather strap.

"Stop right there, Jacobs," Williams warned, "you'll hit Jake here, and I'll only get birdshot."

Detective Hemottia entered the room, his gun aimed at DeWitt, providing cover for Williams.

Kevin Jacobs, mocking the situation, remarked, "Oh, look, the family's all here."
Congressman DeWitt, seemingly unfazed by the guns pointed at him, tried to appeal to their sense of reason.

"Gentlemen, please, let's stop and think about what you're doing here," he implored. "You will not shoot us. Both of you believe in the law, not revenge, and the law is on our side. You do not have a warrant, or just cause. This will end in the courts, where you will both be made to look like reckless fools, and we will walk away because we can afford good lawyers."

Agent Steve Williams hesitated, uncertain about their next move. Detective Hemottia intervened, "Wait, Steve, he's right. Most of this is circumstantial evidence."

Agent Steve Williams was taken aback, "What are you saying, Hemottia?"

Hemottia continued, "Let's hear what he has to say."

DeWitt seized the opportunity, "I always knew that you were a reasonable man, just like your mentor John Kane."

Detective Hemottia was visibly shocked, "What? You and he?"

DeWitt smirked, "Oh yes, John Kane and I met long ago, during the Convention in '68. It seems the young patrolman was a little too eager with a protester, needed my help to keep it out of the paper. But he was a good soldier - he helped to keep an almost striking police force in line during the '70s. You see, putting me in a courtroom will bring down many of your department's finest."

Tensions hung heavily in the room as they contemplated their next move.

Agent Steve Williams's grip on his gun tightened as Congressman DeWitt made his persuasive argument.

"Don't listen to him, this is not how it works," Williams urged, his voice laced with frustration.

DeWitt, with a hint of calculated charm, countered, "Oh, but I'm afraid it is. Politics consumes every level of the government. I just want to put things right when I am in power, straighten these problems out, align them."

Williams scoffed, "That's a bunch of crap you're selling."

DeWitt stood up slowly and advanced toward Detective Hemottia, who kept his gun steady.

"Look at what happened to your brother, Manuj," DeWitt continued, "he was killed, for nothing. And did the law bring those men to justice?"

Detective Hemottia's expression tightened. "No. No, they got off after a few years and killed another person."

"That's right," DeWitt said, his voice resonating with a sense of righteousness. "But we can change that."

Meanwhile, Jacobs continued to stealthily reach for the shotgun under the table, his actions hidden from view.
The room was filled with chaos and agony as the firefight unfolded. Congressman DeWitt, writhing in pain on the floor, clutched his maimed hand as blood pooled beneath him. Detective Hemottia had hesitated for a moment, but the sight of DeWitt's treacherous grab for his weapon had given him the resolve he needed. With cold determination, he squeezed the trigger, and two of DeWitt's fingers were severed in a spray of blood.

Amidst DeWitt's screams, Jacobs stood with the shotgun in his grasp. Agent Steve Williams, with nerves of steel, called out, "Don't think about it, Wells." The stern warning was enough to make Jacobs reconsider, and he reluctantly relinquished the shotgun, dropping it to the floor.

In the background, the relentless thumping of helicopter blades grew louder, accompanied by the wailing sirens of approaching emergency vehicles. Williams wasted no time; he forcefully pushed Wells onto the conference table, swiftly handcuffing him to prevent any further threat.

Detective Hemottia, determined to secure DeWitt, hoisted the injured Congressman onto the same table. With a cold, calculated efficiency, he tore the phone cord from the wall and used it to bind DeWitt's injured wrist to his healthy one.

"You will not win," DeWitt hissed through gritted teeth, his defiance undeterred.

Hemottia, showing no mercy, tightened the makeshift tourniquet and retorted, "We already have. You will never be in enough power to harm another."

Agent Williams, meanwhile, focused on Jacobs, kicking away the fallen shotgun and using Jacobs' torn shirt to apply pressure to the bleeding shoulders. The room was a grim tableau of pain, betrayal, and retribution, with the sirens outside growing ever closer.

CHAPTER 20


The first light of dawn painted the Midwestern sky with pale hues of orange and pink, casting a somber glow over the farm outside Oshkosh. The farmstead, once a haven for sinister plans, was now surrounded by a fleet of rescue vehicles and black, unmarked federal cars. The chaos of the previous night had given way to a scene of organized urgency.

On the lawn, a multitude of disoriented young people, wrapped in blankets for warmth and comfort, received medical attention and care. Among them, Detective Hemottia and Agent Steve Williams sat, clutching their coffee cups, engaging in a quiet conversation with their superior officers.

Agent Williams recounted the pivotal moment: "When the Congressman went for the gun of Detective Hemottia, he fired a warning shot that removed his two fingers. Jacobs stood with a gun, and we both fired on him."

The superior officer raised an inquisitive eyebrow, his gaze probing for more details. "Is that all?" he inquired, clearly wanting to know if there was anything left unsaid.

Agent Williams exchanged a brief glance with Detective Hemottia, who shook his head in a silent agreement. "Yes," Williams affirmed.

With a stern nod, the superior officer acknowledged their statements. "Anything you would like to add, Detective?" he asked Hemottia, who remained tight-lipped.

"No," Hemottia responded tersely.

The superior officer seemed satisfied, for the time being. "Alright," he conceded, his voice carrying an air of finality. "You two should go to the hospital to get checked on. We will go over this again in the coming days."

Agent Williams nodded, a sense of weariness and relief washing over him. He helped Detective Hemottia to a nearby ambulance, and the two settled into the back compartment. As the ambulance pulled away from the scene, its flashing lights casting a red hue over their faces, they exchanged no words, knowing that they had just crossed a treacherous threshold, their lives forever changed by the darkness they had confronted.

The ambulance rumbled along the frost-covered roads, carrying Detective Hemottia and Agent Steve Williams towards the nearest hospital. Their faces, worn by the night's ordeal, were etched with the weight of their grim mission.

Williams, his eyes reflecting the weariness of a thousand sleepless nights, broke the silence. "You had a doubt," he stated, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and understanding.

Hemottia, whose gaze was fixed on the passing scenery, didn't respond immediately. He seemed lost in thought, grappling with the complexities of their mission. After a prolonged pause, he finally spoke, his voice steady but burdened with contemplation. "I had no doubt they would be brought to justice," he began. "It was only a matter of whether we would do it or if the courts would."

Williams, his grip on the coffee cup tightening, nodded slowly. "We do not do this for revenge," he emphasized, his tone firm.

Hemottia turned to face his partner, his eyes filled with a mixture of emotions—doubt, anger, and perhaps a hint of sorrow. "No?" he challenged, prompting Williams to clarify their motivations.

Williams met Hemottia's gaze head-on. "No," he repeated resolutely. "We all have our own reasons, but not for revenge."

The detective, his thoughts drifting back to the young woman they had lost, couldn't help but voice his sentiments. "Michelle Marshall just wanted to help people, make it a better place for her family and others," he said, his voice laced with a profound sadness.

Williams nodded in agreement, acknowledging the tragedy that had unfolded. "Her parents would find no pleasure in a quick death for the men who took advantage of her, then killed her," he remarked solemnly. "Nothing we did to them, nothing, would ease the pain."

Hemottia's gaze returned to the passing landscape, his expression heavy with the weight of their shared burden. "You are right," he conceded quietly. "I know you are right. I wish there was more I could do to help."

As the ambulance continued its journey through the morning light, the two men sat in silence, grappling with the darkness they had confronted and the unsettling realities that lay ahead.

Agent Steve Williams and Detective Hemottia stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the horizon, where justice was about to be served. Williams turned to his partner, his voice carrying a note of resilience. "There is. Don't give up. When you give up, they win."


The sentencing proceedings unfolded with the solemnity of a reckoning. DeWitt, Jacobs, and Wells stood before a stern-faced judge, their fates hanging in the balance. A juror, the voice of the people, stood and began to read the verdict, the weight of their decision echoing through the courtroom.

"We the jury," the juror began, "find the three defendants in the charge of the murder in the first degree..." Each word was heavy, each syllable a sentence.

CHAPTER 21


The Hemottia family apartment buzzed with the vibrant energy of friends and family gathered for a summer celebration. In the main room, a television blared, its screen filled with the somber images of the three executed men.

The new reporter’s voice resonated through the apartment, recounting the grim fate of Congressman John DeWitt and his accomplices. Detective Manuj Hemottia, once again in the spotlight, had worked alongside the FBI to thwart their conspiracy, a chilling event that had made headlines across the globe.

The apartment was overflowing with guests, spilling from the living room into the backyard. Agent Steve Williams manned a barbecue, smoke rising from sizzling chicken and patties. Bettrice Hernandez, bearing two bottles of beer, handed one to Williams, and his smile, a rare sight, spoke of camaraderie.

A homemade sign hung proudly over the back door, declaring, "Congratulations Stew." Janice and Stew, both donned in graduation robes, engaged in lively conversations with others in the backyard, the joy of the occasion evident in their faces.

Detective Hemottia stood off to the side, a solitary figure, quietly observing the day's festivities with a subtle smile gracing his lips. As he soaked in the happiness and relief that surrounded him, his father approached, a silent understanding passing between them.
Dr. Hemottia, his aging face bearing the wisdom of years, approached his son with warmth in his eyes. Manuj, the detective who had seen the darkest sides of humanity, returned his father's greeting with respect and a touch of weariness, “How are you son?”

"I am well, father," Manuj replied, acknowledging the presence of the guests gathered for the celebration.

Dr. Hemottia surveyed the crowd, recognizing the strength and resilience of those who had endured much in recent years. He couldn't help but admire their determination to graduate despite the challenges they had faced.

"These are some very nice people," he remarked, acknowledging the character displayed by the attendees.

Manuj nodded, a sense of pride evident in his voice. "They have been through a lot these last years, but still graduated."

The words grew heavy between them as Dr. Hemottia attempted to express his feelings. "That says something about character, Manuj. Your mother and I..."

Manuj sensed the difficulty in his father's words and fell silent, allowing his father to continue without interruption.

"Your mother and I are very proud of you," Dr. Hemottia finally managed to convey. "You have made a great difference in these people's lives, and starting that foundation for Michele, you are doing good."

Manuj, ever the humble detective, replied, "I was just doing my job."

But his father disagreed, his voice full of conviction. "A job? It seems more like an honored career to me, son." Dr. Hemottia put his arm around Manuj, a gesture filled with pride and affection.