Squad cars. Fire trucks. Construction rigs. Tow trucks. Gordon had called in every resource he might need to deal with the aftermath. It was chaos.
Asphalt torn up, cars crumbled and caved in, metal groaning as chunks were hauled onto truck beds. News crews clambered on van roofs, filming the wrecks as pieces were dragged off.
Traffic snarled in every direction, rerouted down clogged side streets. EMTs worked the sidewalks, checking shaken pedestrians slumped on curbs or crowded into the diner.
But beneath it all, in the catacombs homicide and forensics rummaged through the crime scene. Dusting and snapping photos of every inch. While crews from Uptown's water district worked to clear out water from the sewers and the well.
Gordon trusted Lee to keep the site tight. When he dropped back into the sewers, a forensic tech met him at the blown hole in the wall. The man laid out the rules. No stray prints, no careless steps, scrubs over shoes, badges visible. Order and precision. Gordon appreciated that.
A steel door lay twisted on the floor, crumpled across the black symbol of Bael. By the shelves, Rusty and Chen stood in plastic shoe covers, sifting through shoeboxes crammed with photographs. Chen slapped one to the ground.
"Alright. I've had enough," he muttered.
"That makes two of us," Bullock said, stepping away and catching Gordon's eye.
"Push it aside and keep digging," Gordon said as he passed.
He didn't wait for a reply, but kept moving to the chamber with the well. Lee stood with a camera in hand, flash popping, while a pump roared, sucking water from the pit. A man from the water district lingered near the edge, watching the levels drop.
"At least twenty-five feet," the worker shouted over the pump. "There's a crack—sea water's bleeding in. Don't know if we'll ever drain it clean."
"Could explain how the hand floated up," Bullock yelled over the noise, standing beside Gordon who didn't answer.
The stench hit hard, sour and thick, but his eyes stayed on the well. The walls were gouged with deep scratches, long claw marks carved in frantic patterns. As the water sank lower, the truth surfaced. Bones rose from the dark water. Piles of them. Skulls with scraps of flesh still clinging, corpses stacked and discarded like waste. And thick iron chains snaked through all of it.
Lee's camera popped, rapid, relentless.
A hand gripped Gordon's elbow, firm enough to jolt him, though he didn't flinch. Chen gestured sharply, signaling him and Bullock to follow.
They stepped out of the noise and found Rusty scowling. Plastic gloves creased tight around his fists. He clutched a stack of photographs, his jaw set hard.
"We got the bastards," he said, shoving one up.
Gordon took it.
Nine men loomed in the flash, their faces caught in mid-laugh, mouths open wide. At the center sat the girl, bound to a chair. Blood ran down her face, matting her hair to her cheeks. Her eyes swollen shut, lids purple and crusted. The gag in her mouth was soaked through, pulled so tight it split the corners of her lips.
"Everyone's in it—except Pham." Rusty said, "He's probably the one taking the photo."
Gordon didn't waste a second. He hauled himself out of the tunnel, Bullock, Rusty, and Chen close behind.
The street above pulsed with the movement of flashing lights and reporters swarming for angles. Behind the barricades the crowd pressed closer, swelling at every corner, hungry for spectacle. At the front, Captain Gillis stood before cameras, feeding the press a polished statement, careful to remind the public the investigation was ongoing.
In front of Milner's, Chief Bronson stood by the evidence van, handkerchief pressed to his mouth as he spoke with Dent and Johnson.
Gordon interrupted them mid-conversation.
"I'm hitting Newtown tonight and arresting all of them."
Bronson lowered the cloth. "We've got rules, Jim."
"I don't care," said Gordon. "When Loeb calls, tell him I did it on my own."
Dent smirked.
Gordon handed over the photographs. "Your judge. Will he sign a warrant on this?"
Dent looked. His jaw tightened, a wince flashing across his face. "Consider it done."
Gordon turned to the others. "No hard feelings if you sit this one out. I understand how things run."
Bullock didn't hesitated, "You know my answer."
"Fuck it," Chen muttered. "I'm in."
Rusty's eyes burned. "Let's roll."
Johnson drove Dent to get the warrant while Bullock gunned it across Tricorner Bridge. Chen and Rusty close behind. Lights flashed erratically, but when they reached the forest, Bullock killed the sirens. They moved in silence, engines low, slipping past the deserted rest stop where Gordon had his fist fight with Flass.
Gordon grabbed the radio receiver, "Start with Westcox then move to the others."
"Copy," said Chen.
By the time they hit the end of the road, Dent's voice crackled through the radio. The warrant was signed, and a handful of cruisers were on their way. When Bullock asked which idiots were dumb enough to volunteer, Dent replied with Pollack, Fritz, Brownshoe, and Tenspeed.
Newtown felt like another world. Quiet streets with fresh paint on tidy houses, and front lawns trimmed neat. For a moment it almost pulled Gordon back to the suburbs of Chicago, before the city had chewed him up.
Outside Robert Iverson's home, a black-and-white idled at the curb. Two uniforms sat inside, coffee steaming in their hands. When they noticed Gordon and Bullock approaching, they stepped out.
"Who're you with?"
"GCPD. We're here to make an arrest," Gordon said.
"You got a warrant?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"It's been issued," Gordon said flatly.
"You need it in hand."
"No, we don't." Gordon pounded on the door. "Robert Iverson!"
No response.
"I'm kicking it in."
"He's got a family," one officer warned.
"He should've thought about them," Gordon muttered, then kicked.
The door cracked open. The stench hit instantly.
"Holy shit!" Bullock gagged, staggering back. The uniforms stumbled, coughing and retching.
Gordon didn't flinch. He'd smelled death before, but this was dense and thick. He drew his weapon, moved forward.
The living room opened on the left. It was spacious, with a long couch facing a television and a cold fireplace set into the wall. Past the staircase, the hallway stretched on. A swinging door broke the line to the left, another room waited at the far end.
"Jesus, the smell," Bullock choked, following.
The kitchen came next. Pots and pans were still on the stove, dishes stacked high in the sink, flies swarmed thick over food left rotting on the counter. Gordon moved to the room at the end of the hall.
He pushed through the door.
"Ah, fuck—" Bullock gagged, turning away with a hand over his mouth.
The stench hit Gordon, crawling down his throat. He might have buckled like Bullock if it weren't so familiar. But the odor wasn't the worst of it. What hollowed him out was the scene itself.
The table was still set for dinner. A rotting ham leg sat at the center, side dishes crawling with flies. A family of four remained in their chairs, white cloth napkins draped neatly across their laps. They were slumped, swollen, and bloated. Before them, plates of food sat half-eaten, the meal abandoned mid-bite.
Gordon holstered his gun.
The radio at his hip crackled.
"Gordon?" Rusty's voice.
"Everyone's dead over at Westcox's?"
"How'd you know?"
Gordon raised his sleeve to his mouth as he stepped closer. Two teens, neither older than fifteen, slumped in their chairs, motionless while flies droned over them. The sight landed harder than the stench ever could.
"I've got a feeling that they're all dead."