Chapter 4
579words
The abandoned cannery hulked against the hazy sky like some massive rusted predator. We shouldered through the groaning iron door and got slapped with the reek of mold and something worse—a sickly-sweet stench that made my stomach clench. Our flashlight beams cut through darkness, illuminating dust motes and scattered debris across the concrete floor.
The primary crime scene dominated the center of the workshop.
A blackened bloodstain had dried into the concrete, surrounded by scuff marks and partial footprints that told the story of a desperate struggle. Forensics recovered a handkerchief from one corner, still reeking faintly of ether. This was how they'd subdued a terrified girl who just wanted to go home.
My flashlight caught something in the filth—a small school badge bearing Brooklyn Tech's emblem. It had been trampled into the grime, its edges bent and tarnished. I could see it happening: the badge tearing loose from Amy's uniform as she collapsed.
The ME's final report arrived with brutal efficiency.
Cause of death: Mechanical asphyxiation with cervical fracture.
Prior to death, victim suffered assault by multiple perpetrators.
Mei Lin's words—"I killed her"—echoed in my skull. That rigid mother who loved her daughter in all the wrong ways. While she'd waited anxiously at home, her daughter had endured hell.
Rage burned in my chest like liquid nitrogen—not the hot flash of impulse but something colder, more deliberate. The kind of hatred that could reduce bones to ash.
Surveillance pulled footage from cameras near the factory. On the night in question, an old Ford had exited the complex, headlights briefly washing across the lens. Two silhouettes occupied the front seats, with indistinct shapes crowded in back. As they drove off, cigarettes flared to life inside the car—tiny crimson eyes blinking in the darkness.
I needed names. Needed faces.
I dialed a number I knew by heart. "Bug" Jimmy—my longtime informant who'd made a career peddling Brooklyn's secrets to the highest bidder.
"Mike, my man. What profitable venture you got for your old pal today?" His oily voice slithered through the receiver.
"Cut the bullshit, Jimmy. East Brooklyn, last week. Gang of lowlifes in an old Ford." I gave him the bare bones. "They grabbed a high school girl."
Silence stretched for several seconds.
"Kevin O'Brien and Tony Rosa's crew," Jimmy finally said, voice dropping. "Real bottom-feeders. Do anything for cash. Jack Thompson's tight with them—pays them to 'teach lessons' to people who cross him."
O'Brien and Rosa. Names I knew well—their rap sheets filled folders in our system. Assault, robbery, drug distribution. The works.
"Where can I find them?" I asked.
"That's the thing, Mike." Jimmy hesitated. "These guys? Gone. Vanished last week. Not a trace. Word on the street is either they pissed off someone with serious juice and got 'disappeared,' or they scored big and skipped town. Either way, nobody's seen 'em since."
I hung up and drifted to the window, watching the city pulse below.
Delivery uniforms. Steel wire. Industrial garbage bins.
Thugs who'd evaporated into thin air.
A mother humming lullabies in an interrogation room.
All the threads converged on Mei Lin. She hadn't waited for police or courts. She'd begun dispensing her own brand of justice on the world.
