Blood of Gato

Karl sat at the desk, chin propped on his fist, dragging the same glossy photographs around in circles. The room smelled of cold coffee and overheated wiring; the white lamp light pressed against his temples, stinging his eyes. In the photos, a charred staircase clawed at empty air like a fish's skeleton. Blackened walls, stains where the carpet used to be—and in every frame, silence hung like the aftermath of a scream too loud to bear.

According to the fire report: gas leak. Everything looked standard—predictable burn patterns, obvious point of origin. Clean. Too clean. Especially after his last conversation with William. Karl didn't believe in coincidences this perfect. Something twisted inside his chest: they'd been beaten to the punch.

He set the photos aside and opened another folder—"Mateo House. Evidence." The crackle of plastic evidence bags sounded like dry leaves underfoot. One bag bore a faint, shaky scrawl: "13-B. Bullet." Holding it by the corner, Karl tilted it in the light. Metal gleamed dully beneath the plastic; a smear of dark red lingered on the ridged casing. Blood. The lab's note: "Potential contact with second suspect (Gato)."

If only the sample hadn't been compromised. Then he could have run it against William's saliva. Still, there was another trace—a blood smear taken from the stairwell landing. If that matched William's DNA, it wouldn't exactly be a smoking gun, but it would be leverage. Enough to push the captain for a round-the-clock surveillance order. Maybe even squeeze a warrant from a judge to search the boy's house.

"Boy…" Karl sneered a little at the word. More like a young man. But a young man with eyes that looked far too old.

Flipping through the files, a familiar rectangle caught his eye. A photograph: a woman, wide-eyed, startled, as though someone had stolen her private thoughts mid-breath. The clipped note beneath the paperclip read: "Gomez, Dalia." The only witness who could still talk. And she was silent.

Yesterday he'd called her number twenty times. Sent patrols to the addresses—nothing. Motel manager offered only a helpless shrug: confidentiality rules. A neighbor waved it off: "I think she left." Dead ends everywhere.

And then—flash. An interview. Cassie Vann. Reporter, Eastern Shore Gazette. If anyone knew where people crawled off to hide after their world went up in flames, it was the reporters.

Karl shoved himself up from the chair, rubbing his face, the rough bristle of stubble scratching like sandpaper. The phone felt cold in his hand as he dialed from memory—fingers moving in an order his body already knew by heart.

"You've reached the Eastern Shore Gazette. If you have news you'd like to share with the world…" The chirpy automated voice dropped away into a woman's smooth, trained customer-service tone.

"Detective Karl," he cut in, his tone sharp enough to slice. "I need your journalist—Cassie Vann. Urgent."

A small hum, then sugar-coated politeness: "Please hold."

Music spilled into his ear—cheap, bubbly synth-trumpets. The kind of sound track that made you want to laugh or put a fist through the receiver. Karl grunted, wedged the phone against his shoulder, and glared out the window. A greyscale world moved outside: cars inching like snails under the rain, streaks of water slanting across the glass. He found his heel tapping to the cursed rhythm, resenting himself for falling into its pull.

"Hey, Karl, you won't believe what I just dug up!" Sam burst in like a draft, loose papers slithering from his arms. On top, bold letters screamed: "Excerpt from Report…" His cheeks were flushed, his eyes burning with manic triumph.

Karl raised a palm—wait. Sam bit his lip, freezing mid-step, though his knee still jittered restlessly.

A minute passed. Then another. Five. The jingle cycled twice and snagged, looping like a taunt.

Click.

"Cassie Vann. Speaking." Her voice. Low, smooth, carrying a half-smile tilted on just one corner of her mouth. In the background, the newsroom's buzz bled through—someone laughing, someone swearing at a copyeditor, the clatter of keys nonstop.

"Good afternoon, Miss Vann. Detective Karl, Bergental Police Department," he shifted into his official voice—measured, brisk, contained. "I'm calling about Dalia Gomez. Her late partner Mateo's house burned down—you're probably aware. We've been trying to reach her, with no luck. My understanding is she gave you an interview about his killer. Did she reach out again afterward? Did she mention where she might be?"

"Why so formal, Kar…" she purred, dragging out his name like velvet.

He coughed, sharp and dry, louder than necessary, and glanced sideways at Sam.

"My partner's here. We're pressed for time. If you can help, you'll save us hours."

"Alright." Her tone flattened, the smile gone. "No, she didn't contact me again after the interview. Back then she was like a rabbit caught in headlights—I didn't want to push her. But…" A pause, the soft rustle of paper. "Some time later, a letter showed up. A real letter, on paper—can you believe it? Addressed to the newsroom. Signed by Dalia. She said goodbye, said she was leaving the States. No details. Just—'I need to disappear.' Quote."

"Was the envelope kept? Return address, postmark, type of paper?" Karl caught himself pressing too hard, reined it back. "Sorry. Do you think you could send me a copy? The letter, the envelope—anything."

"If I can find it." Her reply carried no enthusiasm. In the background someone yelled, "Kes, layout in ten!" and she gave a low, dismissive laugh. "We're not the FBI archives, detective. But I'll look. Where do I send it?"

Karl rattled off his fax and email details without hesitation: "Fax: 555… Email: karl.det…"

"Thank you, Miss Vann."

"For you, just Cassie," she corrected with a smile he could hear. "Keep me posted."

Click. A spark of hold music squeaked back into his ear for a half-second, then silence. Karl lowered the receiver.

He turned toward Sam and exhaled through his nose, like purging the remnants of noise from his head.

"Well? What've you got?"

Sam grinned wide, dropping a thick folder onto the desk with a slap.

"Remember I told you Tommy and I went drinking at that Irish pub—the one tied to those five bodies?" He was already sifting through reports, fingers quick, restless. "Turns out that place is tight-knit—everyone knows everyone. Outsiders stick out. And all five of those men? Irish Brotherhood. Retired. Not active anymore. Fridays they'd gather—just old rituals, making sure no one fell off the wagon."

Karl nodded, saying nothing.

"And here's the kicker—right before those five vanished, a stranger started showing up. Looked way out of place. Ordered nothing but tomato juice. Ate fish and chips. Never touched liquor. The owner noticed him—tall, built like Apollo, black jacket, motorcycle. No cameras, so no photo. But—" Sam's eyes glittered as he raised a finger—"the bartender jotted down his license plate. On the back of a receipt. And he gave it to us."

"Hand it over," Karl stretched out his palm.

Karl skimmed the report until the registration details surfaced like a fish breaking water.

Cain Blackwood.

The name sounded contrived, almost theatrical—something a rock musician might dream up, or the cardboard villain in a dime-store thriller. Karl raised an eyebrow at the page, then at Sam.

"Anything else I should know?"

Sam's grin widened. "Oh, plenty." He dug deeper into the folder and pulled out a thick packet covered with the stamps of the city's planning department—leases, permits, construction contracts. He opened them like a dealer laying down cards. "Blackwood's more than just a nameplate on a mailbox—he's got property. Multiple parcels. Fresh purchases of concrete, machinery rentals, private security details. And on a couple of those plots…" Sam tapped the paperwork with satisfaction. "Work's going on right now. Permits approved in the last few weeks."

He spread a map across the desk, a bold circle scrawled in red marker around one particular lot.

Karl leaned over it, eyelids lowered, waiting for the connection to sharpen.

"I'm not seeing it yet," he said quietly.

Sam tapped the map again, restless energy all over him. "Lia examined the clothes from those two Italians we pulled out of the river. Cement dust on the shoes. Traces of quartz sand. Little flecks of expanded polystyrene—they mix that into concrete flooring these days. But here's the problem: three hours before they vanished, both men were at a restaurant for a gala dinner. Waiters saw them, cameras saw them. No chance they tracked dust in from there. Which means they picked it up later, in captivity. Now—where do you get a mix like that?" He rapped his knuckles over the thick red circle. "On a construction site."

Karl's eyes narrowed as the directions tangled into a straight path. Sam leaned back, triumphant.

"So what do we have? A stranger who suddenly shows up at the pub where those Irishmen used to gather… and that same stranger owns active construction sites. Two plus two, partner."

Karl's laugh came out sharp, a burst of rare lightness. "Christ almighty, Sam. You're a goddamn Sherlock Holmes." He clapped a heavy hand on his partner's shoulder, the kind of gesture men in their trade didn't pass around often, and the smile that ghosted across Karl's face vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

Sam squared his shoulders like a boxer called into the ring, pride tugging at his mouth. "Nice to hear someone values my brain. Marie just keeps calling me an idiot."

"Don't let it go to your head," Karl muttered, reaching for his jacket. He shook it out, slid his arms into the sleeves, tugged the collar into place. "So. What do you say we go knock on Cain Blackwood's door?"

He tossed the keys in an easy arc.

"You're driving. I want to keep an eye on the road."

Sam caught them neatly one-handed, the grin refusing to fade. "Holmes at the wheel, Watson riding shotgun."