Chapter 14 The Weight of Missing Pieces
The evening sun hung low over the city as Adrian pulled out of the station parking lot.
Traffic was building as commuters filled the roads, buses paused to pick up passengers and shop owners pulled down their shutters for the day. It was the familiar rhythm of another evening in Derlingham.
Adrian realized he had missed it. Since joining Homicide, he rarely had time to notice the city around him. His mind was almost always occupied by another investigation, another dead end waiting to be untangled.
Maybe that was the price of being a homicide detective, he thought.
His thoughts returned to Arthur Cole.
The reassignment order proved one thing beyond doubt. Arthur had existed.
Yet every official trace of his career had vanished, leaving behind a single document that had somehow escaped being erased.
Adrian tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
As he approached the next intersection, his eyes went towards the road leading to Henry Lawson's neighbourhood.
He slowed slightly.
Henry had spent years following the same investigation. If anyone could explain Arthur Cole's disappearance, it was probably him.
His hand drifted toward the turn signal before his eyes fell on the dashboard clock. It was late. Henry was retired, and Adrian had already taken enough of the man's time over the past few days. Turning up unannounced that evening didn't feel right.
He let his hand fall back to the steering wheel.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself as he drove straight ahead.
There would be time to speak with Henry in the morning.
For now, there was little either of them could accomplish at the end of a long day.
The decision brought him no relief.
Somehow, someone had managed to erase almost every official record that proved Arthur Cole had ever served in the department.
Adrian had investigated enough cases to know that people disappeared but records hardly do.
Adrian drove to a stop at a small neighbourhood grocery store a few streets from his apartment.
He wandered through the aisles, picking up a loaf of bread, eggs, pasta, a carton of milk and a few vegetables. Living alone, he rarely cooked anything complicated after work.
The cashier greeted him with a polite smile as she scanned the items.
She handed him the receipt, wished him a good evening.
Ten minutes later, he unlocked the door to his apartment.
The familiar silence greeted him.
He placed the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and loosened his tie before pouring himself a glass of water.
Halfway through it, he paused.
The dull ache behind his eyes had returned.
It always started the same way.
Only when an investigation reached a point where the evidence refused to make sense.
His mind kept circling the same facts, searching for the one detail everyone else had missed. Leaving the station never stopped it.
Adrian rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked toward the stove.
He should make dinner.
Instead, his eyes wandered to the investigation board in the corner of the living room.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Then, almost without thinking, he picked up his glass of water and walked toward it.
Dinner could wait another few minutes.
He studied it in silence.
The board had filled steadily over the past several days. Photographs, witness statements, timelines and handwritten notes were linked by coloured pins and lengths of string, each connection representing something Adrian had been able to prove.
He started where he always did. His eyes moved from Daniel Mercer to the Blue File before he added two new cards to the board.
Michael Donovan and Arthur Cole.
Below them, he made notes:
Blue File Access Denied.
Personnel Archive Box 146 Removed.
Adrian stepped closer.
He removed one of the strings connecting Michael Donovan to Daniel Mercer and pinned it instead between Michael and Arthur Cole. He stood back to study it, then shook his head and returned it to its original position.
It still wasn't right.
He tried again, moving two photographs and a timeline to another section of the board.
For a brief moment, the arrangement looked promising.
Then another question appeared.
If Arthur had died before Michael inherited the investigation, who had Arthur been investigating?
Adrian frowned.
He rubbed his forehead, took another slow look across the board and searched for a connection he hadn't already considered.
Every lead eventually circled back to the same place.
Nearly an hour passed before Adrian finally stepped away from the board. Nothing has changed.
Only the headache had become worse.
Adrian let out a slow breath and lowered himself onto the sofa.
He leaned back, closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his fingers against his temples.
He opened his eyes again.
The investigation board stood a few feet away, illuminated by the warm glow of the floor lamp.
The names seemed to stare back at him.
He looked toward the kitchen. The grocery bag still sat untouched on the counter.
He had meant to make dinner.
"I'll cook in five minutes." he murmured.
He rested his head against the back of the sofa with his eyes fixed on the investigation board.
He replayed the day in his mind one final time. He tried once more to imagine who could have authorized something like that.
No answer came.
His eyelids grew heavier. The board slowly blurred out of focus.
Without realizing it, Adrian drifted into sleep.
One moment Adrian was staring at the investigation board.
The next, he was standing in the police archives.
Rows of shelves disappeared into the darkness beneath cold fluorescent lights. The archive looked exactly as it had earlier that day. Adrian walked without hesitation until he reached the familiar shelf.
He stopped.
Box 145.
Then, Box 146.
He frowned. The missing box was back.
It rested neatly on the shelf as though it had never been removed.
Adrian reached for the box. Before he could pull it free, another hand gripped the opposite side.
It was large. Strong.
The sleeve of a dark suit covered the forearm, ending in the crisp white cuff of a shirt.
Nothing else was visible.
No face. No voice. Only the arm.
Adrian tightened his grip and pulled.
The box didn't move.
He planted both feet firmly against the floor and pulled harder.
The unseen figure answered with even greater force.
The shelf groaned.
The box bent slightly beneath their hands.
For an instant, Adrian thought the box was coming loose.
Then the arm gave a violent tug.
Box 146 slid back across the shelf.
Adrian lunged forward, refusing to let go.
His fingers slipped.
The box disappeared into the darkness beyond the reach of the lights.
"No!"
He threw himself after it. Then everything went black.
Adrian's eyes flew open.
He sat upright on the sofa, breathing hard, his body covered in sweat.
For several seconds, he remained completely still, listening to the silence inside the apartment.
He looked around the room as he wiped a hand across his face and let out a slow breath.
"It was only a dream," he whispered.
Yet the image refused to leave him. The strong hand and Box 146.
