Chen’s mind raced.

If Morrison had deliberately sabotaged the investigation, someone had gotten to him.

someone with enough money or influence to buy off a police captain to ensure that Thomas and Daniel Brennan’s bodies remained hidden.

“We need the names of everyone who was in those briefings,” she said.

“Everyone who worked the case, everyone who had access to the investigation,” Garrett nodded slowly.

“I can try to remember, but some of those people are dead now and others scattered across the country after they retired”.

“Try anyway,” Webb said.

“Every name you can remember”.

As Garrett began writing, Chen stepped outside to make a call.

She reached the tech unit and requested a full background check on Frank Morrison, deceased captain of the Phoenix Police Department.

Financial records, known associates, anything that might explain why he would deliberately sabotage a murder investigation.

When she returned inside, Garrett had filled two pages with names.

Chen took the list, scanning it.

Most of the names meant nothing to her, but one near the bottom made her pause.

Victor Brennan, she read aloud.

Same last name.

Relation.

Garrett looked up.

Thomas Brennan’s older brother.

He was a lawyer.

Came in a few times to push us on the investigation, see if we had any updates for Elena.

I included him because he was around asking questions.

Chen felt something click in her mind.

Did Victor Brennan have access to case details?

Did he sit in on any briefings?

No, not officially, but Morrison sometimes talked to him privately, gave him updates as a courtesy since he was family.

Where is Victor Brennan now?

Garrett frowned.

I don’t know.

He stopped coming around after about 6 months.

I assumed he moved away or just gave up hope.

Back at the station, Chen pulled up everything she could find on Victor Brennan.

The records painted an interesting picture.

Victor had been a corporate lawyer for a large Phoenix firm until 1998 when he’d abruptly left the practice and moved to Seattle.

He’d worked there for a few years, then dropped off the grid entirely around 2004.

No tax returns after 2004, the tech analyst told her.

No employment records, no credit card usage, no property ownership.

It’s like he vanished or died.

Webb suggested if he died, there’s no death certificate on file anywhere in the country.

Chen stared at Victor Brennan’s driver’s license photo from 1997.

He bore a strong resemblance to his brother Thomas, the same kind eyes and gentle features.

But there was something else in his expression.

Something harder to define.

A sadness maybe or a weariness.

Let’s talk to Elellena, Chen said.

Find out what she knows about her brother-in-law.

They found Elellena at home, her sister Clare sitting beside her on the couch.

When Chen and Webb arrived, Elena’s face showed the strain of the past few days.

She’d been told that her husband and son’s bodies had been positively identified, but Chen had held back the worst detail.

The fact that Daniel had been kept alive for days or weeks.

Now, looking at this woman who had already suffered so much, Chen found herself dreading what she had to say.

“Mrs.

Brennan, we need to ask you about your brother-in-law, Victor”.

Elena’s expression shifted.

Something guarded entering her eyes.

“Victor?

Why?

When did you last see him?

It’s been years.

20, maybe more.

After Thomas and Daniel disappeared, Victor was very involved in trying to find them.

He pushed the police, hired private investigators with his own money, did everything he could, but after about a year, he just stopped.

He told me he was moving to Seattle for work, and we lost touch.

“Did he ever seem strange to you”?

Web asked.

Did anything about his behavior stand out?

Elena thought about it.

He was devastated by their disappearance.

Thomas was his only sibling, and they were very close.

Victor took it hard, maybe even harder than I did in some ways.

He became obsessed with finding them.

Obsessed how?

Chen pressed.

He would spend hours going over police reports, mapping out theories, following leads that the police had dismissed.

He barely slept.

His wife left him because he wouldn’t let it go.

Elellena paused.

“Is Victor in trouble”?

“Do you think he knows something about what happened”?

“We’re just trying to locate everyone who was involved in the original investigation,” Chen said carefully.

“Do you have any contact information for him?

Any way to reach him”?

“No, like I said, we lost touch years ago, but his ex-wife might know where he is.

Her name is Denise Brennan, though she probably went back to her maiden name after the divorce, Denise Carver.

Back in the car, Webb pulled up records for Denise Carver.

She still lived in Phoenix, worked as a real estate agent.

They called her office and were told she was showing a property, but would be available in an hour.

While they waited, Chen’s phone rang.

It was the medical examiner.

Detective Chen, I have preliminary toxicology results on Daniel Brennan’s remains.

There were traces of bzzoazipines in his system, specifically dasipam.

Someone was drugging that boy, keeping him sedated.

Chen closed her eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea.

What about Thomas Brennan?

No drugs in his system, just blunt force trauma to the skull, consistent with being struck from behind with a heavy object.

He would have died quickly.

At least Thomas had been spared knowing what would happen to his son, Chen thought.

At least he hadn’t lived to see Daniel drugged and kept captive.

They met Denise Carver at a coffee shop near her office.

She was a polished woman in her late 50s with expensive highlights and the kind of professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

When Chen and Webb identified themselves and explained why they were there, the smile vanished entirely.

Victor,” she said, her voice flat.

“I haven’t spoken to him in 15 years.

We’re trying to locate him,” Chen explained.

“He was involved in the investigation into his brother’s disappearance, and we need to ask him some follow-up questions”.

Denise laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Good luck with that.

Victor Brennan is a ghost.

He disappeared almost as thoroughly as his brother did”.

“What do you mean”?

Web asked.

Denise stirred her coffee, not drinking it.

After Thomas and Daniel vanished, Victor lost his mind.

Not all at once, but slowly, methodically.

He quit his job, cashed out his retirement accounts, spent every dime on private investigators and psychics and anyone who claimed they could help find his brother.

He stopped sleeping, stopped eating.

He would stay up all night making charts and graphs, convinced there was some pattern he was missing.

When did you divorce him?

2000.

I couldn’t watch him destroy himself anymore.

I tried to help, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone.

She looked up at them, her eyes hard.

But here’s the thing.

Right before we split up, Victor started talking about a theory he’d developed.

He said he’d figured out what happened to Thomas and Daniel.

He said he knew who was responsible.

Chen leaned forward.

Did he tell you who?

No, he said it was better if I didn’t know.

He said knowing would put me in danger.

Denise’s hand trembled slightly on her coffee cup.

A week later, he emptied our bank accounts and left.

I got divorce papers in the mail 6 months after that, already signed.

I never saw him again.

Did he ever mention a Captain Frank Morrison?

Chen asked.

Denise’s eyes widened.

Yes, he hated Morrison.

said Morrison had sabotaged the investigation, that he was covering for someone.

Victor was convinced Morrison was dirty, but he couldn’t prove it.

Did he ever mention anyone else?

Any names of people he suspected?

There was one name he mentioned a few times.

David something.

David Martin, maybe.

He said, “This David Martin was the key to everything, but he could never find any trace of him.

It was like the man didn’t exist”.

Chen and Webb exchanged glances.

David Martin.

The fake name Michael Foster had been given by the man with the scar.

Miss Carver, Chen said carefully.

If Victor contacted you now, if he reached out for any reason, we need you to call us immediately.

Why?

What’s happened?

We found Thomas and Daniel’s bodies.

They were murdered and buried near an old rest stop.

We’re working to identify their killer.

The color drained from Denise’s face.

Oh god.

Victor was right.

He was right all along.

After they left the coffee shop, Chen and Webb sat in the car piecing together what they knew.

“Victor Brennan figured something out,” Webb said.

“Something big enough to make him abandon his entire life and disappear”.

“And Morrison was dirty,” Chen added.

“He deliberately sabotaged the investigation, steered Garrett away from the rest stop where the bodies were buried”.

So, the question is, who paid Morrison to interfere?

Who had that kind of money and influence?

Chen’s phone buzzed with an email from the tech unit.

The subject line read, “Frank Morrison Financial Records, urgent”.

She opened it and felt her blood run cold.

Marcus, look at this.

In August 1997, one month after the Brennan’s disappeared, Frank Morrison deposited $25,000 in cash into his personal savings account.

No explanation, no documentation.

A payoff, Webb said.

And look at this.

There were three more deposits over the next year.

10,000 in November 1997, 15,000 in March 1998, another 10,000 in July 1998, $60,000 total, all in cash, all unexplained.

Someone paid him to bury the investigation.

Webb said, “The question is who”?

Chen scrolled through the rest of the financial records, looking for any other anomalies, and then she found it.

A single check written by Morrison in September 1997 made out to someone named Gerald Voss for $5,000.

The memo line read, “Consultation services”.

“Who is Gerald Voss”?

she wondered aloud.

Webb was already typing on his phone.

After a moment, he looked up, his face grim.

“Gerald Voss owns a construction and excavation company, Voss Industries.

They specialize in large-scale earthmoving projects.

The implications settled over them like ice water.

Morrison paid an excavation company owner $5,000 2 months after the Brennan disappeared, Chen said slowly.

An excavation company that would have had the equipment and expertise to bury a car 8 ft underground.

We need to talk to Gerald Voss, Webb said, already starting the car.

Right now, Voss Industries occupied a sprawling compound on the outskirts of Phoenix, surrounded by chainlink fencing and filled with heavy machinery.

Excavators, bulldozers, dump trucks painted in faded yellow.

Chen and Web pulled up to the main office, a modular building that looked like it had been temporary 20 years ago and simply never replaced.

The receptionist, a young woman with bright pink nails, looked up from her computer with a professional smile.

“Can I help you?

We need to speak with Gerald Voss,” Chen said, showing her badge.

“It’s urgent”.

The smile faltered.

“Mr.

Voss is in a meeting right now.

Can I tell him what this is regarding”?

“Tell him it’s about Frank Morrison”.

The receptionist picked up the phone, spoke quietly for a moment, then hung up, looking slightly pale.

He’ll see you now.

Second door on the right.

Gerald Voss’s office was utilitarian, walls covered with blueprints and project photographs.

The man himself was in his early 70s, powerfully built despite his age, with calloused hands and the kind of deep tan that came from decades working outdoors.

He stood when they entered, his expression carefully neutral.

Detectives, I have to say, I’m surprised to hear Frank Morrison’s name after all these years.

He’s been dead what, 15 years now?

16.

Webb corrected.

But we’re not here about his death.

We’re here about money he paid you in September 1997.

Voss’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

That was a long time ago.

I don’t remember every transaction from nearly 30 years back.

Chen pulled out a copy of the check.

$5,000.

The memo says consultation services.

What kind of consultation?

I’d have to check my records.

Please do.

Chen said her voice hard.

We’ll wait.

Voss held her gaze for a moment, then moved to a filing cabinet.

He made a show of searching through folders, but Chen noticed his hands were steady.

Whatever nervousness he felt, he was controlling it well.

“Here it is,” Voss said finally, pulling out a folder.

Morrison wanted advice on a residential project.

He was thinking of buying some land, needed to know about excavation costs, soil stability, that kind of thing.

Residential project, Webb repeated flatly.

Frank Morrison, who lived in a modest house in Glendale his entire life, suddenly needed large-scale excavation consultation.

That’s what he said.

I gave him some estimates, some advice.

That’s all.

Chen leaned forward.

Mr.

Voss, 3 days ago, we recovered a vehicle that had been buried 8 ft underground in the desert.

It had been there since July 1997.

Inside that vehicle were the murdered remains of a father and his 12-year-old son.

Something flickered in Voss’s eyes.

Fear, Chen thought.

Definite fear.

I don’t know anything about that, he said.

But his voice had lost some of its certainty.

The burial site was near the old Desert Vista rest stop, Webb continued.

It would have required professional equipment to excavate a hole that deep to lower the vehicle into it to fill it back in without leaving obvious traces.

the kind of equipment your company specializes in.

I’ve never buried a car in the desert,” Voss said, his voice rising slightly.

“If that’s what you’re implying, you’re way off base”.

“We’re not implying anything,” Chen said.

“We’re stating facts.

Frank Morrison paid you $5,000 2 months after a double homicide.

A homicide that required exactly the kind of expertise your company provides”.

Voss stood abruptly.

If you’re going to accuse me of murder, I want a lawyer present.

Otherwise, this conversation is over.

We’re not accusing you of murder, Chen said calmly.

Not yet, but we are investigating a payoff Morrison made with money he received for sabotaging a police investigation, and that payment went to you.

So, either you tell us what you did for Morrison, or we get a warrant and tear through every record you have until we find the answer ourselves”.

The silence stretched out.

Voss remained standing, his hands clenched at his sides, clearly weighing his options.

Finally, he sank back into his chair.

“I didn’t know what it was for,” he said quietly.

“I swear to God, I didn’t know”.

“Tell us what happened,” Web said.

Voss rubbed his face with both hands.

Morrison called me in late July 1997.

Said he needed a favor off the books.

said someone needed some excavation work done.

No questions asked, no paperwork.

He offered me $5,000 to loan out some equipment and keep my mouth shut.

What equipment?

A backhoe.

Morrison said someone would pick it up, use it for a few hours, and return it.

I was supposed to make sure none of my employees knew about it.

Supposed to say it was in the shop for repairs if anyone asked.

And you agreed, Chen said, barely concealing her disgust.

$5,000 was a lot of money in 1997, Voss said defensively.

My business was struggling.

I needed it.

Morrison said it was just for some private property work, that the guy doing it didn’t want to go through official channels because of permit issues.

When was the backhoe taken?

July 19th, 1997.

Late at night, Morrison called me around 8:00 pm.

Said the guy was coming by to pick it up.

One day after Thomas and Daniel Brennan had been taken.

One day after Thomas had been murdered, Chen felt sick.

“Did you see who took the backho”?

Webb asked.

“No”.

I left the keys in the ignition and went home like Morrison told me.

When I came in the next morning, the backho was back, parked in the same spot.

There was mud on it, desert dirt.

I hosed it down and didn’t think about it again until Morrison paid me a few weeks later.

You never asked what it was used for.

Voss’s face hardened.

I didn’t want to know.

And for almost 30 years, I’ve done a pretty good job of not thinking about it.

But when I heard about those bodies being found near the rest stop, I knew.

Somehow I just knew.

Did Morrison ever mention who needed the backho?

Chen pressed.

Any name at all?

No.

He was careful about that, but I got the impression it wasn’t for Morrison himself.

He was arranging it for someone else.

Someone with money and connections.

David Martin, Webb said.

Did that name ever come up?

Voss shook his head.

Never heard it.

Chen stood pulling out a business card.

If you remember anything else, anything at all.

You call me immediately.

And Mr.

for Voss.

If we find out you knew more than you’re telling us, I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your life in prison as an accessory to murder”.

Voss took the card with a shaking hand.

“I really didn’t know what it was for.

You have to believe me”.

Outside in the scorching afternoon heat, Webb leaned against their car.

He knew.

Maybe not the details, but he knew something wrong was happening.

“And he took the money anyway,” Chen said bitterly.

God, how many people were involved in covering this up?

Morrison, Voss, whoever actually used that backhoe.

Her phone rang.

It was Elena Brennan.

Detective Chen, I remembered something about Victor.

He had a storage unit, a place where he kept all his investigation materials.

When we divorced, Denise mentioned he’d rented it under a fake name, so no one could trace it to him.

I don’t know if it’s still there, but the facility was on Indian School Road near 32nd Street.

Did Denise tell you the fake name?

David Martin.

He rented it under the name David Martin.

Chen felt the world tilt.

Mrs.

Brennan, are you absolutely certain?

Yes, I remember because at the time I thought it was strange.

Why would Victor need to use a fake name for a storage unit?

After hanging up, Chen turned to Web.

Victor Brennan was using the same name as the man who threatened Michael Foster.

The same name that doesn’t seem to exist anywhere in any database.

That’s not a coincidence.

Web said Victor either was David Martin or he was investigating someone using that name and adopted it for some reason.

We need to find that storage unit.

The facility on Indian School Road was a sprawling complex of orange doors and concrete walkways.

The manager, a bored looking man in his 40s, barely glanced at their badges before pulling up his computer records.

David Martin, you said, “Let me check”.

He typed, scrolled, typed again.

“Yeah, unit 247.

Been rented continuously since 1998.

Paid up through the end of this year.

Who pays the rental fees?

Chen asked.

Automatic bank withdrawal.

Same account for the last 26 years.

We need access to that unit now.

The manager grabbed a bolt cutter.

You got a warrant?

We can have one in 30 minutes or you can open it now and cooperate with an active murder investigation.

The manager considered this then grabbed his keys.

Unit 247 is this way.

They followed him through the maze of units until they reached 247.

The door was secured with a heavy padlock.

The manager cut through it and a web pulled the door up, metal screeching against metal.

Inside the 10×10 space was lined with shelves and filing boxes.

The walls were covered with maps, photographs, newspaper clippings, all connected by red string in the classic conspiracy theorist pattern.

But as Chen stepped inside and began examining the materials, she realized this was no paranoid delusion.

This was methodical, meticulous research.

“My God,” Webb breathed beside her.

Victor was building a case.

The center of one wall was dominated by a photograph of a man, tall, dark-haired, with cold eyes and a thin smile.

Beneath it, written in thick black marker, were the words, “Found found him”.

“Is that our suspect”?

Chen asked, pulling out her phone to photograph it.

Webb was examining the documents on the shelves.

“These are financial records, property deeds, corporate filings.

Victor was following a money trail”.

He pulled out a thick folder labeled Meridian Design Group.

“That’s where Thomas Brennan worked,” Chen said.

Web opened the folder, reading quickly.

According to this, Meridian was involved in some kind of scandal in the mid90s.

Something about falsified safety reports on a commercial construction project.

The project was a shopping mall.

It collapsed during construction, killed three workers.

I remember that case, Chen said.

It was all over the news, but I thought the company responsible was cleared of wrongdoing.

They were.

The official investigation concluded it was a structural failure, not negligence.

Webb kept reading, but Victor’s notes suggest Thomas Brennan knew something about that investigation, that he had evidence the safety reports were deliberately falsified.

Chen felt pieces clicking into place.

Thomas Brennan was a civil engineer at Meridian.

If he discovered the company had falsified reports that led to people dying, and if he was planning to report it, he’d be a threat,” Webb finished, a serious threat to whoever was responsible.

Chen moved to another section of the wall where Victor had assembled what looked like a timeline.

At the top, March 1995, mall collapse.

Below that, a series of dates and events, each meticulously documented.

April 1995, official investigation begins.

June 1995, Meridian Design Group cleared of liability.

September 1995, Thomas Brennan requests transfer to different department.

July 1997, Thomas and Daniel disappear.

He tried to transfer departments, Chen said.

Two years before he disappeared, Thomas Brennan tried to move away from whatever project he was working on.

Webb pulled out another folder.

This one filled with photographs.

Look at this.

This is from a corporate event at Meridian in 1996.

He pointed to one figure in the photo standing at the edge of the frame, tall, dark-haired, watching the camera with cold eyes.

It was the same man from the photograph on the wall.

Chen flipped the photo over.

on the back in Victor’s handwriting.

Lawrence Pierce, senior VP of development, Meridian Design Group.

Lawrence Pierce, Chen repeated.

She pulled out her phone and called the tech unit.

I need everything you can find on Lawrence Pierce, former VP at Meridian Design Group.

Financials, criminal record, current location, everything.

While they waited for the information, Chen and Webb continued examining the storage unit’s contents.

Victor had accumulated an staggering amount of evidence.

Bank statements showing large cash withdrawals.

Property records indicating Pierce owned a ranch property northeast of Phoenix.

Witness statements Victor had collected himself from former Meridian employees.

One statement in particular caught Chen’s attention.

It was from a woman named Barbara Kelso, dated October 2001.

Thomas came to me 3 weeks before he disappeared.

The statement read, “He showed me documents proving that Lawrence Pierce had ordered the falsification of structural calculations on the Westfield Mall project”.

Thomas said he was planning to take the evidence to the state licensing board after he got back from Boston.

He asked me to keep copies of everything just in case something happened to him.

I was supposed to deliver them to the authorities if I didn’t hear from him by August 1st, 1997.

But when the time came, I got scared.

Pierce had a reputation for being dangerous.

I destroyed the copies and kept my mouth shut.

I’ve regretted it every day since.

Lawrence Pierce ordered the falsification of reports that killed three people, Webb said.

And Thomas Brennan found out about it.

So Pierce had him killed, Chen said along with his 12-year-old son who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Her phone rang.

The tech unit.

Detective Chen, we’ve got information on Lawrence Pierce.

He left Meridian Design Group in 1998.

Since then, he’s owned several businesses, mostly real estate development.

Currently lives on a 100 acre ranch property near Cave Creek.

And detective, we found something interesting.

Pierce has a distinctive scar on his left hand between the thumb and index finger.

Burn mark from an industrial accident in the 80s.

The same scar Michael Foster had described.

We need to bring him in, Webb said.

On what grounds?

A scar in 29-year-old circumstantial evidence.

We have enough for a search warrant at least.

If Victor’s research is accurate, Pierce had motive and opportunity.

Chen was already calling the district attorney’s office.

They needed to move carefully, build an airtight case.

But for the first time since this investigation began, she felt like they were closing in on the truth.

The question was, what had happened to Victor Brennan?

Had he confronted Pierce with this evidence?

Was he still alive somewhere?

still investigating?

Or had Pierce gotten to him, too?

She thought of the photograph on the wall, the words found him written beneath Pierce’s face.

Victor had found the man responsible for his brother’s murder.

But what had he done with that information?

“We need to move fast,” Chen said.

“If Victor is still alive and Pierce knows we’re investigating, he might try to eliminate any remaining threats”.

And if Victor’s already dead, Webb added grimly.

PICE has been getting away with murder for 30 years.

It’s time to end that.

The search warrant for Lawrence Pierce’s property came through at 6:00 am.

the following morning.

Chen had barely slept, spending the night reviewing every document in Victor Brennan’s storage unit, building a timeline of events that painted a damning picture of premeditated murder and decades of coverup.

Now, as she and Webb joined a team of eight officers in the pre-dawn darkness, she felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that came before a major operation.

They parked a quarter mile from Pierce’s ranch house, approaching on foot to maintain the element of surprise.

The property was isolated, surrounded by desert scrub land and rocky hills.

The main house was a sprawling adobe structure with a detached garage and several outbuildings.

As the sun began to rise, casting long shadows across the landscape, Chen could see lights on in the main house.

“Detectives Chen and Web, you’re with me on the main house,” the team leader, Sergeant Martinez, said quietly.

“Everyone else, secure the outuildings.

Remember, Pierce may be armed and should be considered extremely dangerous”.

They moved in quickly and professionally.

Martinez pounded on the front door.

Phoenix police search warrant.

Open the door.

For a long moment, nothing.

Then the door swung open, revealing a man in his early 60s, tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair and the kind of cold assessing eyes Chen had seen in the photographs.

Lawrence Pierce looked at the assembled officers without surprise, without fear, as if he’d been expecting this moment for years.

Detective Chen, I presume, he said calmly.

And Detective Webb, I’ve been reading about your investigation in the news.

Remarkable work, really.

Finding Thomas Brennan’s car after all these years.

Lawrence Pierce.

We have a warrant to search these premises, Chen said, handing him the paperwork.

Step aside, please.

Pierce glanced at the warrant, then smiled slightly.

Of course, please come in.

I have nothing to hide.

The confidence in his voice set off alarm bells in Chen’s mind.

They’d caught him off guard with the early morning arrival.

Yet, he seemed completely at ease.

Either he was an exceptional actor, or he really did believe they would find nothing incriminating.

As officers began methodically searching the house, Chen and Webb stayed with Pierce in the spacious living room.

The space was expensively furnished with Native American art on the walls and floor toseeiling windows offering views of the desert landscape.

Thomas Brennan worked for you at Meridian Design Group, Chen said, not bothering with preliminaries.

He worked for the company.

Yes.

I wouldn’t say he worked for me personally.

He discovered that you falsified safety reports on the Westfield Mall project.

Reports that led to the deaths of three construction workers.

Pierce’s expression didn’t change.

That’s an interesting theory.

Do you have any evidence to support it?

We have witness statements, Webb said.

We know Thomas Brennan planned to report you to the state licensing board.

Thomas Brennan has been missing for 29 years.

PICE pointed out.

Anything he allegedly planned to do became irrelevant when he disappeared.

He didn’t disappear, Chen said coldly.

He was murdered along with his 12-year-old son.

And we have evidence linking you to their deaths.

Do you?

Pierce settled back in his chair, crossing his legs casually.

Let me guess.

You found some old files, some conspiracy theories assembled by Thomas’s brother, Victor.

Poor Victor.

He spent years chasing shadows, convinced I was some kind of criminal mastermind.

You know about Victor’s investigation, Webb noted.

Of course, I know.

Victor made no secret of his obsession with me.

He showed up at my office multiple times making wild accusations.

I almost filed a restraining order, but my lawyer advised against it.

Said it would just encourage him.

When did you last see Victor Brennan?

Chen asked.

Pierce thought for a moment.

It would have been around 2002, I think.

He came to my office ranting about how he’d figured everything out, how he was going to prove I killed his brother.

I told him the same thing I’m telling you.

I had nothing to do with Thomas Brennan’s disappearance.

Where were you on July 18th, 1997?

Webb asked.

29 years ago.

I have no idea.

At work, most likely.

I kept a very regular schedule back then.

One of the officers appeared in the doorway.

Detectives, you need to see this.

Chen and Webb followed him through the house to what appeared to be a home office.

The officer pointed to a locked filing cabinet, found a key hidden in the desk drawer.

This cabinet is full of financial records going back decades.

Chen pulled on gloves and began examining the files.

Bank statements, wire transfers, property records.

And there, tucked in among the legitimate business documents, she found something that made her pulse quicken.

A ledger handwritten documenting cash payments made over a period of years.

The entries were coded, but several stood out.

FM August 1997, $25,000.

FM November 1997, $10,000.

FM March 1998, $15,000.

GV September 1997 $5,000.

Frank Morrison and Gerald Voss.

The dates matched exactly.

Mr.

Pierce, Chen said, returning to the living room with the ledger.

Can you explain these payments?

Pierce glanced at the ledger and for the first time she saw a flicker of something in his eyes.

Not fear exactly, but calculation.

He was deciding how to play this.

business expenses, he said finally.

Consultation fees for various projects.

These are cash payments to a police captain and an excavation company owner, Webb said.

Both of whom have connections to the Brennan case.

Prove it, Pice said simply.

Prove those initials refer to the people you think they do.

Prove those payments were for anything other than legitimate business purposes.

Chen felt frustration building.

He was right.

The ledger was suggestive but not conclusive.

They needed more.

Detective.

Another officer was calling from outside.

You need to see this right now.

They found him standing near one of the outbuildings, a workshop or storage shed.

The door stood open, revealing a space filled with tools and equipment.

But what had caught the officer’s attention was a large plastic tarp in the corner covering something bulky.

Chen approached carefully, pulling back the tarp.

Underneath was a dark blue sedan covered in dust, clearly untouched for years.

“Run the plates,” she ordered.

While they waited for the results, Chen examined the car more closely.

There was a dent in the rear bumper, just like Patricia Vance had described seeing at the rest stop in 1997.

Her phone rang.

The tech unit.

detective.

That vehicle is registered to Lawrence Pierce, a 1988 Honda Accord.

But here’s the interesting part.

According to DMV records, that car was reported as sold for scrap in August 1997.

So Pierce claimed he got rid of it, but he actually kept it hidden on his property for almost 30 years.

Chen said, “This is the car that was at the rest stop.

This is the car used to abduct Thomas and Daniel Brennan.

>> >> They brought PICE out to the workshop.

His composure was finally starting to crack.

A tightness around his eyes, a tension in his shoulders.

This vehicle was reported as scrapped in 1997, Chen said.

Why do you still have it?

I changed my mind about scrapping it, decided to keep it for parts, and hid it in a shed for three decades.

I forgot about it.

Webb laughed humorously.

You forgot about a car that multiple witnesses saw at the scene of a double homicide.

What witnesses?

Pierce demanded.

Show me one credible witness who can place me at that rest stop.

He was right again.

Patricia Vance hadn’t been able to identify the men she’d seen, just the cars.

Michael Foster had only seen Pierce a week later, not at the actual crime scene.

But Chen had one more card to play.

We’re going to process this vehicle, she said.

every fiber, every fingerprint, every trace of DNA, and when we find evidence linking it to Thomas and Daniel Brennan.

You’re finished.

Something shifted in Pierce’s expression.

A coldness that made Chen’s skin crawl.

You won’t find anything, he said quietly.

I’ve had 29 years to make sure of that.

It was as close to a confession as they were going to get.

Lawrence Pear, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice and conspiracy, Chen said, pulling out her handcuffs.

It wasn’t murder yet.

Not without more evidence, but it was enough to hold him while they built their case.

As Martinez read Pierce his rights, Chen’s phone rang again.

It was the officer who’d stayed behind to continue searching the main house.

Detective, we found something in the basement.

You need to get back here immediately.

The basement was accessed through a door in the kitchen.

Chen descended the stairs, web close behind her.

The space was finished, set up as a wreck room with a bar and pool table, but the officer was standing by what looked like a storage closet, its door standing open.

We almost missed it, the officer explained.

There’s a false wall at the back.

Chen stepped into the closet and immediately saw what he meant.

The back wall was actually a door.

Cleverly disguised to look like ordinary paneling, it stood a jar now, revealing a small room beyond.

The room was perhaps 8 ft by 8 ft with concrete walls and no windows.

There was a bare mattress on the floor, brown stains that made Chen’s stomach turn, restraints bolted to the wall, and on a small shelf, a collection of items.

A child’s t-shirt, a discman, a small sneaker.

Daniel Brennan had been kept here.

This was where Pierce had held a 12-year-old boy prisoner for days or weeks, drugging him, keeping him alive for purposes Chen didn’t want to imagine.

On the wall, scratched into the concrete with something sharp, were two words, “Help me”.

Below it, in smaller letters, Daniel B.

Chen felt tears burning in her eyes.

This boy had spent his final days in this horrible room, terrified and alone, not knowing if anyone was looking for him, not knowing his mother was searching desperately.

And then when PICE had finished whatever sick game he was playing, he’d killed Daniel and buried him with his father.

“Get a full forensic team down here,” Chen said, her voice rough.

I want every inch of this room processed.

Every fiber, every hair, every molecule of DNA, and I want Lawrence Pierce charged with firstdegree murder, two counts.

Webb was photographing the scratched message when his phone rang.

He listened for a moment, his expression darkening, then hung up.

That was Sergeant Martinez.

Pierce just asked for his lawyer.

And not just any lawyer, he specifically asked for Victor Brennan.

Chen turned to stare at him.

Victor.

But Victor’s been missing for years.

How would Pierce contact him?

Maybe he’s not as missing as we thought,” Webb said slowly.

“Maybe Victor’s been closer to this case than anyone realized”.

Chen’s mind was racing.

Victor had spent years investigating Pierce, had assembled damning evidence, had even rented a storage unit under a fake name to hide his research.

What if he hadn’t disappeared?

What if he’d been watching, waiting, building his case from the shadows?

And if PICE was asking for Victor now, that meant he knew how to contact him, which meant the two men had been in communication.

We need to find Victor Brennan, Chen said, before Pierce does.

Lawrence Pierce sat in the interrogation room with the kind of stillness that unnerved even experienced detectives.

He hadn’t said a word since invoking his right to counsel, hadn’t so much as shifted in his chair.

He simply waited, his cold eyes fixed on the two-way mirror, as if he could see through it to where Chen and Webb stood watching.

“He’s too calm,” Webb muttered.

“Like he’s playing a game, and we don’t know the rules”.

Chen pulled out her phone and dialed the number Victor Brennan’s ex-wife had provided.

“It rang six times before going to voicemail.

The message was brief.

You’ve reached Victor Brennan.

Leave a message.

The voice was familiar somehow, though Chen couldn’t place why.

She left a message explaining who she was and asking Victor to call immediately regarding his brother’s case.

Let’s pull phone records for the storage unit payments.

Chen said, “If Victor’s been paying the rental fee for 26 years, there has to be a bank account, a phone number, something that leads back to him”.

While they waited for the records, Chen returned to Victor’s storage unit with a forensic team.

She wanted to go through everything again with fresh eyes, looking for any clue about where Victor might be now.

The photographs on the wall drew her attention again.

She studied each one carefully, noting the dates.

Most were from the late ‘9s and early 2000s, but in the corner, partially hidden behind a map, was a more recent photo.

Chen pulled it down and felt her heart skip.

It showed Lawrence Pierce’s ranch house, clearly photographed from a distance with a telephoto lens.

In the bottom corner, written in ink, March 2024.

Victor had been surveilling Pierce as recently as 2 months ago.

He was still active, still investigating.

“Look at this,” Web said from across the room.

He’d found a laptop hidden in a locked case beneath one of the shelves.

Modern, expensive.

This wasn’t here in 1998.

Chen opened the laptop.

It was password protected, but the tech team would be able to crack it.

She bagged it as evidence, already calling to have it prioritized.

Her phone rang.

It was the financial crimes unit.

Detective Chen, we traced the bank account paying for the storage unit.

It’s registered to a corporation called Sentinel Holdings LLC.

The corporation was established in 2004 and its registered agent is listed as David Martin.

There was that name again, David Martin, who didn’t exist.

David Martin, who Victor had used as an alias.

David Martin, who Michael Foster had been threatened by.

Who owns Sentinel Holdings?

Chen asked.

That’s where it gets interesting.

The ownership is structured through a series of shell companies, but we managed to trace it back.

The ultimate beneficial owner is Elena Brennan.

Chen nearly dropped the phone.

What?

Elena Brennan owns the corporation that’s been paying for Victor’s storage unit.

Has been for the last 20 years.

After hanging up, Chen stood in the storage unit trying to process this information.

Elena had claimed she’d lost touch with Victor decades ago, but she’d been funding his investigation, keeping his research space active for 20 years.

Either Elena had been lying or someone had been using her name without her knowledge.

Chen called Elena immediately.

Mrs.

Brennan, I need to ask you about Sentinel Holdings LLC.

There was a pause.

How did you find out about that?

So, you know about it?

Elena sighed heavily.

Yes, Victor set it up years ago, put it in my name for legal reasons he never fully explained.

He said it was to protect me, that if anyone traced it back, I could claim ignorance.

I have been receiving paperwork about it for years, signing whatever Victor asked me to sign.

Did you know he was using it to fund his investigation into your husband’s death?

I suspected Victor would call me every few months, never more than that, always from different numbers.

He’d ask how I was doing, tell me he was still looking for answers.

He said he was close, that he almost had everything he needed to prove what happened.

When did you last hear from him?

3 weeks ago.

He called to tell me about the construction project at the rest stop.

He’d been monitoring the site somehow.

Knew they were going to start excavating.

He said the truth was finally going to come out.

Chen felt a chill.

Victor knew the bodies were going to be found.

He knew because he’s known where they were all along.

That’s impossible, Elellanena said.

If Victor knew where Thomas and Daniel were buried, he would have told the police immediately.

Unless he had a reason not to, Webb said quietly.

Unless he was building a case so airtight that Pierce couldn’t escape justice.

Chen ended the call and turned to Web.

Victor’s been orchestrating this.

The construction project didn’t just happen to uncover the bodies.

Victor made sure they’d be found.

He’s been waiting 29 years for this moment.

Her phone rang again.

The tech unit had cracked Victor’s laptop.

Detective, you need to see this.

We found video files, hundreds of them going back years.

Back at the station, Chen sat down at a computer and opened the first file.

It was dated November 2003 and showed grainy footage of Lawrence Pierce’s ranch house, clearly filmed from a concealed position some distance away.

Victor had been conducting surveillance for over 20 years.

She skipped ahead to more recent files.

March 2024 showed Pierce loading something into his truck.

April 2024 showed him meeting with someone in a parking lot exchanging what looked like an envelope, but it was the file dated May 15th, 2024, just 3 weeks ago, that made Chen’s blood run cold.

The footage showed a man approaching Pierce’s ranch house on foot after dark.

The figure was wearing dark clothing, face obscured by a hood.

He moved with purpose, clearly familiar with the property layout, avoiding security cameras.

The man entered through a side door, disappeared from view for approximately 40 minutes, then emerged and vanished into the darkness.

He broke into Pierce’s house, Webb said.

Recently, Chen fast forwarded to the next file dated May 16th.

It showed PICE discovering something in his house, his face contorted with rage.

He was on his phone, gesturing angrily.

Victor was sending him a message, Chen realized, letting Pierce know he was being watched, that evidence was being gathered.

The most recent file was dated May 20th, just 5 days ago, before the bodies were even discovered.

It showed a figure Chen now recognized as Victor standing on a hilltop overlooking the old rest stop.

He was filming the construction equipment beginning its excavation work.

At the end of the video, the camera turned and for the first time, Chen saw Victor Brennan’s face.

He looked nothing like the photographs from 1997.

>> >> He’d aged hard, his face lined and weathered, his hair completely gray, but his eyes were fierce, burning with an intensity that spoke of decades of focused rage.

He looked directly into the camera and spoke.

29 years, 29 years of watching, waiting, gathering evidence, and now it’s finally time.

Pierce thought he’d gotten away with it.

Thought he could bury the truth along with my brother and nephew.

But the truth doesn’t stay buried forever.

If you’re watching this, it means the bodies have been found.

It means Detective Chen and her team are doing their job, and it means I can finally do mine.

The video ended.

Chen sat in stunned silence.

Victor had planned everything.

He’d known the construction company was going to excavate the rest stop because he’d researched the permits, tracked the timeline.

He’d made sure his storage unit would be found by leaving breadcrumbs for the investigation to follow.

He’d been stage managing this entire revelation.

“Where is he now”?

Web asked.

“What’s his endgame”?

Chen’s phone rang.

It was the desk sergeant, his voice urgent.

“Detective, we just got a call.

There’s been a break-in at the county jail.

Someone accessed the cell block where Lawrence Pierce is being held”.

Chen and Webb ran for their car, sirens blaring as they raced to the jail.

When they arrived, they found the facility on lockdown.

Guards searching frantically.

“What happened”?

Chen demanded.

The headguard looked shaken.

“Someone came in through the service entrance around midnight, dressed as maintenance.

They had proper ID, knew all the right codes.

By the time we realized something was wrong, they’d accessed the cell block.

Is Pierce still there”?

Yes, but someone was in his cell.

We found this on his bed.

The guard handed Chen a Manila envelope.

Inside was a thick stack of documents, bank records, wire transfers, sworn affidavit from former Meridian employees, photographs of the hidden room in Pierce’s basement taken years before the police had found it, and a note handwritten.

Everything you need to ensure he never sees freedom again.

The evidence is irrefutable.

The case is airtight.

Justice will be served.

VB.

Victor was here.

Chen breathed.

He broke into a county jail just to deliver evidence and to send Pierce a message.

Webb added that there’s no escape.

That Victor has been documenting everything, building a case for three decades.

Chen looked at the documents.

They were meticulous, professional, exactly the kind of evidence that would convince a jury.

Financial records proving Pierce had paid off Morrison and Voss.

Witness statements from people who’d been too afraid to come forward in 1997, but had been carefully interviewed by Victor over the years.

Photographs of Pierce with known criminals dated and timestamped.

Victor Brennan had spent 29 years becoming an expert investigator, tracking a serial killer, assembling evidence that no defense attorney could dismiss.

“We need to find him,” Chen said, before he does something that destroys his own case.

But even as she said it, she wondered if Victor had any intention of being found.

He’d been a ghost for 26 years, living in the shadows, dedicated to a single purpose.

Now that the bodies had been discovered, now that Pierce was in custody, what did Victor have left?

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Check Pierce’s phone records from last night.

He made a call.

That’s who you’re really looking for.

V.

Chen immediately requested Pierce’s phone logs.

One call made at 11:47 pm.

the previous night, just before Victor had broken into the jail.

The number was registered to a burner phone, but the tech team was able to trace its location.

It pinged off a tower in Cave Creek, the analyst told her.

Near Pierce’s ranch.

Who was at the ranch?

Chen wondered aloud.

Webb was already pulling up surveillance footage from the jail’s visiting records.

Look at this.

3 days ago, Pierce had a visitor signed in as his attorney, but the ID was fake.

The cameras got a partial face shot.

The image was grainy, but showed a man in his 40s with dark hair and cold eyes.

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