Silent Night

TWENTY THREE

‘So what do you think?’ Shepherd asked, addressing Marquez, Archer and Josh. ‘You think Gunnar’s telling the truth?’

They were outside Briefing Room 5, standing beside the railing that looked out over the lower level and detective pit. Given that Rach was already occupied, two analysts across the building were pulling up full profiles on the four names Gunnar had given them. They’d already drawn one, the man Gunnar had said was missing, Ray Creek. He had an address in his name on 33 Street in Sunnyside, Queens. Shepherd had sent Jorgensen over there with two other detectives to check it out.

‘I think he is,’ Marquez said. ‘He doesn’t know what they were up to.’

‘Agreed,’ Josh said.

‘He could be lying,’ Shepherd said.

‘He seems too smart,’ Marquez said. ‘He wouldn’t be involved in this shit.’

‘We could get a polygraph in?’ Josh suggested

‘What do you think?’ Shepherd asked Archer. ‘You were in there with him.’

‘We got the four names from him but that’s all we’re going to get. We don’t have time to chase down blind alleys. He’s a dead end.’

There was a pause. The team looked at the detective pit down below and saw Dr Kruger sitting with Maddy Flood by Shepherd’s desk. Their chairs were pulled to the side and they were close enough for their knees to touch, talking in low voices. Kruger was holding her hand comfortingly. Maddy nodded at whatever he was saying, wiping away some fresh tears.

‘Let’s take a rain check,’ Shepherd said, thinking. ‘We need to start building a web here. We have two objectives. Number one is locate this last vial. And number two is find out how the hell Bleeker knew about this virus in the first place.’

He turned to Marquez.

‘Work with Rach up here. She’s trying to find out who took Hansen into that restroom and broke his neck. The moment you have something, I want to know.’

She nodded, stepping back into the briefing room and joining Rach by her computer terminal. Shepherd turned to Archer and Josh.

‘I want you two downstairs with the doctors. Find out everything they know. Take one aside each.’

‘What about Gunnar, sir?’ Josh asked.

Shepherd thought for a moment. ‘Let him go. You’re right. He’s not involved in this.’



Dr Glover was sitting in the lab at Kearny Medical when the lift doors opened again. He saw the terrifying man and woman who had kidnapped him unloading a series of canisters from the lift, dragging them across the polished tiles towards the lab. The man with the machine pistol rose from his chair and started speaking with them on the other side of the glass. The trio talked for a moment, the woman scraping the sides of her boots on the white floor, taking off some mud.

Earlier, Glover had been given exact orders as to what was required and why he was here. He’d been informed in graphic detail of the consequences if he failed and had spent the last hour both waiting for these canisters to arrive so he could get started and also praying that police officers would suddenly appear and save him.

But they hadn’t.

He watched the trio talk. Then they simultaneously turned and looked over at him. The large man walked over to the lab, his machine pistol in his right hand. He reached into his pocket with his left and pulled out the vial containing the virus. The doors slid open and he walked towards Glover.

‘We’re ready to begin.’



Not far away, the neo-Nazi who had sucker-punched the cop was hauled into the Hoboken Police Department, his hands cuffed behind him and an officer gripping him on either side. One of them was the cop he’d sucker-punched. The guy’s nose had just about stopped bleeding, but it was going to swell up nicely by the morning. They dragged him over to the booking desk, both of them using more force than was necessary and slammed him against the counter. The cop behind the desk looked up as if he’d seen this a thousand times before. He probably had.

‘Name,’ he asked with a bored, monotone voice.

‘Listen,’ the skinhead said. ‘I need my phone call right now.’

‘Name?’

‘Will Peterson.’

The cop started writing.

‘Listen to me guys, I need to make this phone call. It’s urgent.’

‘Shut the hell up,’ the guy he had punched said, dabbing at his face. ‘You broke my nose, you a*shole.’

‘Date of birth and home address?’

‘Phone call.’

‘Date of birth and home address?’

‘Phone call.’

‘Screw you,’ the cop with the busted nose said.

Peterson cursed. ‘Listen to me. I know my rights. Just give me my call. Then you can lock me up for the rest of the month.’

‘Jesus Christ, just give him his damn phone call,’ the cop behind the counter said, rubbing his temples.

The two cops looked at each other then dragged the skinhead across the reception area to a payphone by the wall. When they got there one of them pulled Peterson around and undid the cuffs, freeing his hands momentarily.

‘One call. You’ve got thirty seconds.’

‘Enjoy it,’ the guy with the busted nose said. ‘You’re gonna be in jail ‘til next Christmas.’

Peterson pulled two quarters from his pocket quickly, tucking them into the slot. He pushed a number, fast. It was one he always dialled from memory, and one he dialled often.

C’mon. Pick up.

He was in luck. It rang twice then was answered.

‘John, it’s me,’ Peterson said. ‘Listen. I need your help and I need it right now.’