Erin pushed open the metal door to the interrogation room. It was cold, lit by bright white light. In the center stood a gray table with two chairs facing each other, and a large one-way mirror. Ethan grabbed the kid by the shoulders and sat him down in one of the chairs.
Erin set a glass of water in front of him and spoke in a calm tone.
—Are you hungry? ¿Do you want something to eat?
—No, I don't want anything from you.
—Suit yourself, —Erin replied, noticing how the kid was trying to act tough.
About ten minutes later, Antonio and Julia walked in, greeting with a nod. Ethan and Erin left the room and went straight to the observation room behind the wall.
That room had a large one-way window that prevented anyone in the interrogation room from seeing inside.
—Hey, —Ethan greeted.
Only Hank was there. Ethan pulled up a stool and sat down.
—Where's Olinsky?
—At the police academy, —Hank said with resignation. — Halstead isn't cut out for undercover work, he's too eager. It's not the first time something like this has happened.
I asked Olinsky to find someone we can train.
Ethan nodded silently. He wanted to watch how the detectives handled the kid.
The boy threw a nervous glance at Julia, who sat across from him with a kind, almost motherly expression.
—What's your name? —she asked, leaning forward slightly.The boy fidgeted with his hands, avoiding her gaze.
—Kenneth… —he murmured, barely audible.
—Alright, Kenneth, —Julia said with a soft smile. — Tell me, what were you doing at Rafe's house?
Kenneth swallowed hard and glanced sideways at the one-way mirror, aware someone was watching from the other side.
—I heard Rafe was looking for errand boys… you know, —he stammered, — to buy him cigarettes, food, lottery tickets, stuff like that. I went by today to see if I could get a job.
Julia nodded slowly, her voice warm but steady.
—Sure… Now tell me exactly what happened next. —She smiled wider, trying to ease the tension. —
Seeing her smile, the kid relaxed a bit.
—While we were talking, someone knocked on the door and a fight broke out. I got scared and hid in the closet. I didn't see anything…
—Don't lie to us, Kenneth, —Antonio said, tapping the paper. — We know you work for Rafe. So you'd better start telling us the truth.
The boy, hunched over the table, pressed his lips together and clenched his fists when he heard Antonio's words. His gaze wavered.
Julia leaned closer.
—Did you see what happened to Rafe?
—No, —the boy replied, trembling, eyes filling with tears. — But I heard it.
—Just tell us what happened, —Julia asked, giving his hand a reassuring pat.
—What exactly did you hear? —Antonio tapped his notebook. —
Through the one-way mirror, Ethan watched as his colleagues played the classic good-cop, bad-cop routine —a bit cliché for his taste, but it seemed to be working on the kid.
—There were three guys, —the boy said after hesitating for a moment. — I couldn't understand what they were saying, but they were probably Latinos by the way they talked.
Julia nodded.
—Did you see what they looked like?
—No, when I heard the yelling, I hid in the closet.
—Did they mention any names?
—No… no names —the boy said after thinking for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on the metal table.— But Rafe… Rafe wouldn't stop shouting the name "El Pulpo."
From behind the observation glass, Ethan saw the atmosphere in the room shift instantly. The name dropped like a stone into water. Antonio and Julia exchanged a quick glance —barely a second— but it was enough. That silent look said it all: they both knew exactly who the kid had just mentioned. El Pulpo.
—Let's go, —Hank said.
Once they had the lead, he lost interest in watching and motioned for Ethan to follow him out of the observation room.
Antonio pulled up El Pulpo's file in the database and printed his photo. Erin and Halstead confirmed it was the same man who'd opened the door when they tried to make the buy.
Antonio rolled a whiteboard over and set it up in front of the Sergeant's office. He pinned the photo in the center and wrote the name with a marker:
—Adres Díaz, a.k.a. El Pulpo,El Ocho Manos. Dual citizenship: Colombian and American. Juls and I tracked him about five years ago, when he started expanding his operations.
—That's right, —Hank said, sitting down at a nearby table. — I remember his name. ¿He killed two people back then, didn't he?
—Yeah.
Julia jumped in:
—Two key witnesses were murdered.
—Did he already have that habit of decapitating people back then? —Erin asked, tearing open a snack bag and crunching on a chip.
Ethan noticed Hank's look and quietly spun his pen between his fingers.
—No, —Julia said, shaking her head.— That must be something new he picked up later with his Colombian friends.
—What kind of player are we talking about? —Halstead asked, grabbing a handful of chips from Erin's bag.— Which neighborhoods does he hang around? Where can we find him?
—That's the problem, —Antonio said, capping his marker and pointing at El Pulpo's photo.— He doesn't belong to any clear faction, and very few people know anything about his activities.
—From what I can see, he's not in it for the money, —Ethan said in a low tone, studying the suspect's photo pinned to the board.— That's just a means to an end. What he really enjoys is violence. Everything else is secondary.
Even though Ethan hadn't been there long, he already knew that people without fixed territory were the hardest to deal with —they had no predictable patterns to trace.
—Now we've got a name, —Hank clapped his hands once.— Everyone, get moving! Reach out to your informants, see if anyone's heard something.
As the others got to work, Hank walked over to Ethan's desk.
—Come on, we're going for a ride.
The black Cadillac SUV sped through the streets of Chicago.
—Basically, we rely a lot on informants, —Hank said, turning the wheel.— These people can be prostitutes, junkies, or even gangsters. You know, one hand washes the other. Small-time offenses in exchange for information. The department sets aside a fund every year just to keep them paid off.
—We're meeting one of my regulars now. He's the leader of a local gang —he should know something about Rafe or the people working for him.
As the car moved deeper into the neighborhood, the scenery steadily worsened. Trash littered the sidewalks, and street vendors were everywhere. Soon they pulled up beneath an overpass, with the train rattling loudly overhead —quite the sight.
Calling it a subway was a stretch. Chicago's "L" mostly runs at street level or on elevated tracks; the underground sections are actually few and far between.
—Let me do the talking, —Hank said, killing the engine and taking out the keys.— You just watch.
Next to the tall bridge pillars, there were a few old couches, and several Black men with floral bandanas on their heads were talking and laughing. In the middle of the sofas, a tipped-over plastic crate held a few beer bottles and a radio blasting loud music.
—Hey, —Hank approached with his usual arrogant swagger and greeted them.— What's up, Maurice?
—Let me guess, —said a big man in a black leather jacket, standing up and speaking in a deep voice.— Rafe's dead?
Hank smiled and nodded slightly.
—Stupid rookies, —the heavyset man, Maurice, said mockingly, one hand in his pocket.— These idiots wanna drive a race car before they even learn how to handle a steering wheel.
—Did he get involved with the cartel? —Hank's eyes scanned the area.— Does the name Pulpo ring a bell?
—Who's this guy? —Maurice pointed cautiously at Ethan.— Never seen him before.
—Don't worry about that, —Hank said, tilting his chin up.— Just answer my questions.
Maurice looked at Ethan, his eyes gleaming. After a short pause, he said:
—Colombians.
—You ever heard of Pulpo?
—No.
—Who among Rafe's men might know something?
—There's this one guy. Rafe used him for transport —a white guy named Cooper. Handles distribution for him. Maybe he knows something.
—Last name or first name? Give me the full name.
Maurice spread his hands with a grin.
—Do your own homework. You want me to do your job for you?
—Do I look like I'm joking? —Hank's face hardened.— Three teenagers OD'd on the crap Rafe was selling. I need the name, Maurice.
—Eric Cooper, —Maurice said reluctantly, shaking his head.
—Thanks. —Hank bumped fists with him and turned to leave.
—Hold up, —Maurice stopped him, then looked at Ethan.
Hank pressed the car key, and the Cadillac's lights flashed.
—Go back to the car and wait for me. Call Antonio, tell him to find Eric Cooper's address. If he's got priors, there'll be something in the system.
Ethan looked at both of them, then turned and walked toward the car.
He already had everyone's contact info saved. Once inside the Cadillac, Ethan immediately called Antonio.
By the time he hung up, Hank had finished his own talk.
After leaving the underpass, they found a quiet spot. Hank parked, lit a cigarette, tapped the steering wheel, and said:
—It's not that I didn't trust you before. I just kept you out of certain things to keep your hands clean.
—Phillips told me you've got shares in an Indian casino, right?
—That's right.
—I know you've got money, —Hank said, pulling a roll of cash from his pocket.— But you're one of us. This is your cut. Maurice is under my protection, so I do him a few favors now and then. And he's not the only one —there are others who pay me a weekly fee.
Hank snapped off the rubber band, counted a stack, and handed it to Ethan.
—This is your share. Alvin and I take ours.
Seeing Hank's steady hand and firm stare, Ethan exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his face.
—So this is protection money?
—You could call it that.
Hank watched Ethan, who was still smoking, a bit tense. He had planned to wait longer before showing this side, but decided it was better to be clear from the start.
Ethan looked at the envelope, then at Hank. He didn't need to ask what it was. The sergeant's expression said everything —taking it didn't mean corruption, it meant belonging.
Ethan smiled and took the roll of bills.
—Call it whatever you want, even "cleaning expenses." —Hank laughed, turning the wheel.
—I like that name better.
Ethan unfolded the money. It wasn't much —maybe fifteen hundred dollars, which would add up to around six grand a month.
—Not a lot, I know, —the sergeant said in a lower tone.— But we're in this together. If I take a cut, you take one too.
Ethan nodded, pocketing the money naturally. Hank glanced at him, satisfied. Ethan was officially one of them now.
—Fair enough, —he said simply.
Once Ethan had taken the cash, Hank relaxed.
On the street, six police officers in bulletproof vests advanced in formation. It took Antonio a while to locate Eric Cooper's address. The team regrouped at the site, continuing the hunt for El Pulpo.
Following Hank's directions, Erin and Halstead circled to the back door, while Ethan and Antonio climbed the front steps to the main entrance.
The afternoon sun glinted off Antonio's badge, making it shine gold. He stopped cautiously by the door and knocked firmly.
—Eric Cooper, Chicago Police Department! Open up!
The radar activated, but no lights were visible inside. Ethan glanced at the lock and noticed damage along the doorframe. He patted Antonio's shoulder and pointed at the weak spot.
Both men turned toward Hank, who gave the order without hesitation:
—Back up!
Antonio raised his shotgun, loaded with breaching rounds, and aimed at the lock. Once Ethan had stepped back a few paces, he pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The blast echoed, and the lock blew apart. Antonio kicked the door open.
—Chicago Police! —he shouted, identifying himself as he rushed in with the shotgun raised.
Ethan knew the place was empty but kept his gun at the ready as he followed.
—Clear! —someone called from the bedroom, and the two advanced toward the living room.
Indeed, no one was there—except for a severed white head resting grotesquely on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Next to it lay a decapitated body.
Ethan carefully avoided the blood and stepped closer. The sticky texture told him the victim had been dead for hours.
—Next time I see a head —Hank grumbled, frustrated by yet another dead end— I hope it's El Pulpo's.
Back at the precinct, they printed out every photo from the crime scene. Ethan held the images while Antonio pinned them to a whiteboard in a specific order using magnets. Ethan studied them quietly, committing every detail to memory. He knew his limits; the others were far more experienced, and he could learn a lot from them.
As they organized the evidence, hurried footsteps echoed up the stairs. Alvin entered, followed by a white guy in khakis and a brown jacket. He looked about Ethan's age, with short, messy brown hair and a mix of nerves and excitement in his eyes.
Both men stepped into the bullpen, and the newcomer stared eagerly at the board.
—Wait here —Alvin told him, signaling to stop, and walked toward Hank.
—Hank —he said, taking the toothpick from his mouth— found a promising one. Fresh out of the academy.
—Adam Ruzek —he added.
Hank looked him over and took a step forward. Ruzek, quick to react, straightened his clothes and walked over.
—Ruzek —Alvin said, introducing him— this is Sergeant Voight.
Ruzek extended his hand and shook Hank's firmly.
—Nice to meet you, sir.
—Ruzek —Hank repeated, releasing his hand and glancing at Alvin— that name sounds familiar.
—My father's Bob —Ruzek replied with a smile— he was a patrolman, spent his whole life in the 26th District.
—That so? —Hank smirked— yeah, I remember now.
—Just to clarify —Alvin said with a shrug— I picked him from the graduates. His father had nothing to do with it.
Hank just smiled.
—What? —Ruzek asked, surprised— You knew my dad?
—Yeah —Alvin began, until Hank cut in with a half-smile— weekend softball team.
—Right, that's it —Hank nodded— even made team shirts together, if I recall.
—No problem —Hank clapped Ruzek on the shoulder— stick around and let's see how far you get.
—Thank you, sir —Ruzek replied, clenching his fist with excitement— really, thank you.
With Ethan's help, Antonio finished arranging the board. He tapped it with his pen.
—Gentlemen —he said— the kid was telling the truth. He heard three voices coming from the closet.
Antonio drew two black lines under El Pulpo's photo and added a question mark.
—From what we know, El Pulpo brought at least two guys from Medellín.
—Good —Hank nodded— gather everything and send a copy to Lieutenant Belden from Violent Crimes.
—By the way —he asked— any updates from him?
Antonio shrugged dismissively.
—Not that I know of, Sarge.
Hank cursed under his breath.
—Damn it.
Ethan, flipping through files, knew the overdose investigation was being handled jointly by two divisions of the 21st District: Intelligence and Violent Crimes.
Even though Intelligence carried more weight, Hank ranked below Lieutenant Belden, who commanded Violent Crimes. They'd already sent over several leads, but that unit hadn't responded.
Ethan turned to Julia and whispered:
—What's up with Violent Crimes?
—Lieutenant Belden —Julia said, nodding toward Hank's office— thought he'd get Intelligence. Now he just tries to screw with us.
Hearing that, Ethan understood immediately. Another power struggle. Still, using an active case to vent frustration was low.
Just then, Erin's desk phone rang, and she picked it up.
—Guys, this is Officer Adam Ruzek —she announced— he's joining Intelligence.
The man who had arrived with Olinsky stepped forward and greeted the team. Ethan found it amusing — he'd only been there two days, and they already had another new recruit.
—Hi, Ethan Morgan. —He shook Ruzek's hand— Welcome aboard. I joined Intelligence yesterday.
—Seriously? —Ruzek grinned, shaking his hand tightly— what are the odds? Maybe we should grab a drink.
Olinsky facepalmed.
—Maybe you should call him Detective.
—Detective? —Ruzek froze, letting go quickly.
—I've got a new lead —Erin said, hanging up and walking over to the board. She glanced at the call log in her hand, grabbed a marker, and added— According to the victims' call records, both Rafe and Cooper contacted the same number yesterday. It was a prepaid burner phone, but we traced it — bought at a shop in Greektown.
—Alright, you and Ethan check it out —Hank patted her arm— He just got to Chicago, needs to learn the neighborhood.
—I'm driving —Erin said, looking at Ethan, still chewing on fries.
—Sure, I have no clue where Greektown is, Lindsay —Ethan replied, grabbing his coat.
On the way there, Erin glanced at him a few times.
—If you've got something to ask, just say it —he said, breaking the silence.
Ethan was still comparing streets on his phone map, trying to memorize landmarks as fast as he could.
—How did you meet Hank? —Erin asked directly.
—At a café in Paris —he replied casually without looking up— having drinks with him and three Victoria's Secret models.
The car went dead silent. Ethan noticed Erin's knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.
He smiled.
—Anything else you want to ask?
—I get that you don't want to talk about you and Hank —she said through gritted teeth— I'm not prying, but if we're gonna work together, we should at least get to know each other.
—Hank said you're his adopted daughter —Ethan hung up his phone and asked curiously— How'd that happen?
—Uh… —Erin coughed awkwardly— Let's just say we'll get to know each other over time.
—I've got info on the store owner, might come in handy later —she said, pulling a paper from her pocket and handing it to him— take a look.
They soon arrived, and Erin parked. Both got out and walked toward the phone shop.
—Hey, nice ass, sweetheart, why don't you shake it my way sometime —said one of the guys near the store, where several men were fixing cars.
Another, a white man with long hair and a wrench, whistled at her.
Erin rolled her eyes and kept walking.
Ethan flashed his badge at the man.
—Anything else you want to say?
—Nope —the man said, raising his hands dramatically— message received, officer.
The others laughed.
—Let's go —Erin muttered, shaking her head.
Ethan followed her to the entrance.
—Cops aren't too popular around here —she said— we get this kind of crap all the time. They're just cowards looking for attention.
—Yeah, I get it —he replied.
—Just ignore them —she nodded finally, pushing the door open. The bronze bell above jingled sharply.
The shop was small, shelves behind the counter packed with phone accessories. A white man in a red sweater stood behind the register.
—Good afternoon. How can I help you? —he asked.
—Chicago Police Department —Ethan said, lifting his coat to show his badge and gun— Someone bought a prepaid phone here yesterday. We'd like to know who it was.
Erin pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the counter.
—This is the number.
—One moment —the man looked at it and typed it into the computer— Yeah, that was me. According to the sales record, it was purchased by a man named Juan García. Paid cash.
Erin tapped the counter.
—Can you tell us more?
—Sorry, the law doesn't require me to do background checks —the man said smugly, raising his hands—.
—That's true —Erin smiled— but that name's a bit too common. Doesn't sound real. If I shouted "Juan" outside, half the block would answer. Not very helpful.
—Not my problem —the man said impatiently, handing the paper back— That's your job, not mine. I gave you what you wanted.
Erin and Ethan exchanged looks.
Ethan pulled out another note.
—You're Glenn Pearson, right? —he asked, comparing the photo with the man in front of him— The owner of this store.
—That's right —the man nodded.
Before going in, Ethan and Erin had already planned their move: if the store owner got stubborn, they'd use a bit of persuasion to make him cooperate.
—What a coincidence… —Ethan said calmly—. You know, I remember the name Glenn Pearson. He's wanted in Gary, Indiana —he continued with a faint grin—.
Charged with fraud and selling stolen goods.
The shopkeeper looked up, nervous.
—Really? —Erin chimed in, pretending to be surprised as she took the note. She held it up to the light and let out a whistle—. Wow, that carries a twenty-five-thousand-dollar fine.
The man swallowed hard. He tried to keep his composure, but his hands fidgeted restlessly on the counter.
—What do you think? —Ethan asked, leaning toward Erin as he glanced between the paper and the man—. Height, weight, eye color… I'd say it's a pretty good match.
—You think we should arrest him to make sure? —Erin said, folding her arms in mock doubt.
Ethan looked at her with a barely visible smile.
—I don't like to make hasty decisions —he said, turning that mischievous grin toward the shopkeeper—. Especially when it comes to people who might help us in an investigation. You know… Indiana isn't our jurisdiction.
The silence that followed weighed heavier than any formal threat.
—How about this, I'll give you the security footage from the day that guy bought the phone —the clerk finally gave in—. Will that do?
—Perfect, thank you —Erin replied, flashing him a sweet smile.
The surveillance footage gave them a clear picture of the man who had bought the phone. Erin snapped a photo of it with her phone and sent it to the station.
—Nice work back there, you're adapting fast, rookie —she said with a small smile.
As they left the store, heading toward their car:
—Hey gorgeous, when you get a minute… wanna come by my place?
As they passed the street, a provocative voice rang out behind them. A loud crash followed, and shards of glass rained down at their feet. The guy had thrown a beer bottle.
They stopped and turned. It was the same long-haired man in the denim jacket.
—Hey baby, don't you want some of this? You'll love it, I promise —the man said, scratching his crotch with a mocking grin.
Seeing the shattered beer bottle on the sidewalk, Ethan licked his lips. He couldn't remember the last time someone had thrown a bottle at him.
He reached out, pulled out his badge and his gun, and handed them to Erin.
—Would you hold this for me, please?
Besides the long-haired guy, there were three other men fixing up a car nearby. Erin shook her head.
—Forget it, it's nothing.
He walked straight toward them with a firm step.
—Hey asshole, why don't you come over here and say that again?
He planted himself in the open space and made a taunting gesture.
—I'm not that stupid —the long-haired man shot back, raising another bottle—. You're just trying to provoke me so you can arrest me for assaulting a cop.
—Do you see a badge? —Ethan lifted his jacket and turned slightly—. Relax, my partner won't say a word.
—By the way —he added, pointing at the others—, all of you come at once. I'm in a hurry.
Erin watched with her hand on her sidearm, intrigued. She hadn't expected that rookie to be so cocky, especially when outnumbered. Still, those guys wouldn't dare go too far. Maybe a little lesson wouldn't hurt Ethan. Two of them dropped their tools and stepped forward, smirking coldly.
The long-haired guy threw down his wrench and bottle.
—You asked for it.
—Stop talking crap —Ethan growled, lunging forward.
He grabbed the man by the head and shoved him back with brutal force.
Thud!
The guy's skull slammed against the car door, leaving a dent that echoed through the alley. The two who had stepped up froze, fists half raised.
After two quick punches to the face, Ethan let go of the guy, who collapsed to the ground, dazed.
The other two immediately raised their hands and backed against the wall in surrender.
—Come on, guys —Ethan said, tilting his head slightly—. I haven't even warmed up… let's play a little longer.
Both shook their heads quickly.
Ethan sighed, visibly disappointed, and stomped hard.
—Ahh! —the long-haired man groaned, clutching his abdomen as the others instinctively closed their legs.
Ethan pressed his boot down on him just enough to make him tremble.
—Well, buddy… —he said with a mocking grin—, got something to say to the lady?
—I'm sorry —the man whimpered, face red with embarrassment.
—Sorry what? —Ethan pressed again.
—I'm sorry —he repeated, looking at Erin—. I'm really sorry, ma'am.
—You're so boring —Ethan muttered, lifting his foot and turning away.
—Thanks… my hero —Erin said sarcastically, handing back his badge and gun—. And just so you know, that kind of thing doesn't work on me.
Ethan looked at her, puzzled.
—What do you mean?
—Guys who play the hero just to show off —Erin said with a smirk and a shake of her head—. I'm not a damsel, I don't fall for that.
—You might not believe me —Ethan replied, shrugging as he adjusted his holster—, but I just really hate when people throw beer bottles at me.
He paused, then looked at her with a sly half-smile.
—Besides, you're not my type. —Ethan smirked—. And being Hank's adopted daughter… that's a few points off. You're like, an eight. I only date nines and up.
—An eight? —Erin shot back, elbowing him playfully as she straightened up, deliberately showing off her figure—. Do you even hear yourself? I'm a sexy woman, and everyone knows it. Obviously, I'm a perfect ten.
—And what if I am Hank's adopted daughter? —she added with a sly grin and a raised brow—. Who I'm with or not with has nothing to do with him.
Ethan tilted his head, eyeing her slowly from head to toe with that confident look he used to provoke people.
—Mmm… you're right —he finally said, voice low—. So… your place or mine?
Erin burst out laughing, shoving him lightly.
—Go to hell, Morgan —she said between laughs, while he smiled, knowing he'd gotten exactly what he wanted: to make her blush.
After a long stretch of banter, the tension between them finally eased. Back at the station, they had already recovered the information on the man who bought the phone —one more step closer to El Pulpo.