Snapshot

Maria’s cubicle was in the rear half of the large workroom. Chaz and Davis settled into the cubicle doorway, looking in at her as the sounds of whispers, even tears, began around them.

Maria was a prim woman in her early fifties, with glasses and hair she kept dyed black. She looked at the two of them over her spectacles—a sign of her stubbornness, as she’d always refused surgery to rid her of them—and focused on the badge in Chaz’s hand.

“How’d you fake that?” she asked, turning back to her cubicle wall, which had a few virtual screens hovering before it.

“No faking, Maria,” Davis said, taking the spare seat in the cubicle. Chaz loomed overhead like a lighthouse beacon, badge in hand. “I’m afraid you’re a dupe. We’re in a Snapshot.”

She grunted, but otherwise didn’t seem bothered. She knew, despite what she’d said, that they weren’t faking. Dupes always knew. But she always reacted this calmly, which was one reason she was who they came to for information. Some people were reliable even after finding out that nothing they did mattered in the slightest.

“There was a call,” Davis said, ignoring Holly Martinez as she stepped up, pulled Chaz around to get a look at the badge, then stumbled back, hand over her mouth. “About an hour ago now, to an apartment complex over on Fourth. For some reason, it isn’t logged into my database when I check precinct call records.”

“That means you aren’t authorized to see the case,” Maria said dryly. “You know the database is dynamic, based on clearance.”

“I’m supposed to have full clearance.”

“You do. There are just levels beyond ‘full clearance.’ ”

“Well, fortunately, in here I have all those levels too.” Davis reached up and tapped the badge that Chaz was holding.

Maria looked at it, momentarily transfixed. What did they see?

“I’ll have to check with the chief,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the badge.

“Check what?” Davis asked. “In here, I have ultimate authority. What happened at that apartment on Fourth?”

“Let me call the chief.”

“No need,” Chaz said, pointing as Chief Roberts barreled down the aisle between cubicles. He wore a suit; probably had meetings with politicians today. He never looked right in a suit, no matter how well it was tailored—they always ended up too tight on him.

He stormed right up to Chaz and took the badge from his fingers. The chief stared at it, then shoved it back at Chaz and barreled away without a word.

“Chief?” Maria said, standing up.

“Wait for it. . . .” Chaz said.

Davis sat back. He hated this part. He heard the door to the chief’s office slam at the rear of the room.

The gunshot came a second later. Maria gasped, stumbling back against her desk, eyes widening.

“Looks like you’re on your own,” Chaz noted. “Feel free to go check if he’s really dead. You do it about half the time.”

She looked at him, her mouth moving silently. Then she sank down into her seat.

“How often?” she whispered. “How often do you do this?”

“Every six months or so,” Davis said. “It’s easier than trying to get information from you people IRL.”

“I . . .” She took a deep breath. “What was it you wanted to know?”

“The call about an hour ago?” Davis prodded, speaking gently. “To Fourth Avenue? I think it was from some realtors.”

Maria called up another screen, which popped into existence hovering above her desk. She tapped her fingers on the desktop, typing on an invisible keyboard. “Oh,” she said. “Oh . . .”

“What?” Chaz said, leaning down beside Davis, both of them reading the screen. Information was coming in directly from the police investigating the old apartment building. Eight bodies. All presumed dead by drowning.

Fits previous pattern, one note said.

“Previous pattern?” Davis demanded. He reached over and tapped on her desk, calling up information. Pictures floated into the air—dead bodies with blue lips. Three people found suffocated, washed up on the shores of the city, in bags. They’d been preserved after death using chemicals.

The second discovery had been five bodies, this time found floating off the coast. They’d been in plastic bags, much like the first, though this time the deaths hadn’t been from suffocation. Instead the victims had been poisoned.

“Daaamn,” Chaz whispered.

“What connects these two sets to the corpses the group just discovered?” Davis asked, frowning and dragging some of the holo-pictures through the air above the desk.

“Looks like embalming fluid,” Maria said, reading. “Discovered by detectives on the scene—which is important.”

“It means finding these eight today was a lucky accident,” Davis whispered, narrowing his eyes. “The others were dumped in the ocean, but these were found while the killer was still preparing them. Soaking them first, before dropping them off. So this is a chance to crack the case.”

A quick scan of the files showed that detectives had been spinning their wheels until now. They were facing a meticulous killer who chose victims easy to miss: the homeless, prostitutes. It was sometimes shocking how the right people could vanish without anyone noticing—at least, not anyone who could make the cops or politicians pay attention.

He’s clever, Davis thought, feeling a chill as he read the notes on those cases. He’s very clever. In fact . . . Something struck him about it all, something that made him feel sick deep inside.

“This is Gina’s case,” Maria said. “She’s leading, at least. We’ve got a ton of people on it. I’ve been following it too, for obvious reasons.”

“Obvious?” Chaz asked, reaching across Davis and helping himself to some M&M’s on Maria’s desk.

Maria frowned, then zoomed one of the windows, showing a report Gutierrez had written, dubbing the murderer “The Photographer.”

“What?” Chaz asked. “Why that name? Does it have something to do with Snapshots?”