Captain Gillis paced the fifth floor, smoke trailing from the cigarette clenched to his lips. His scowl was carved deep and his jaw tight.
"Who leaked it?" he asked.
Uniforms and detectives shifted uneasily, weight moving from one foot to the other. Eyes darted, never landing. A throat cleared in the back. No one spoke. No one cracked.
"I'll ask once more," he said, voice raised. "Someone grow a spine. Who tipped off Perez?"
Bullock scratched behind his ear. "Street's got a mouth, Cap."
Gillis turned to him, glare narrowing. "How'd she know about Iverson's crew?"
Bullock shrugged.
"No one—no one—feeds the press," Gillis snapped. "If I find out different, I'll staple your ass to a desk until you're fucking retired. Clear?"
A wave of muttered affirmatives.
The Chief stood by the stairwell in a thick black coat, tapping his watch. Gillis gave a sharp nod.
"Syd's in charge until I get back."
As Gillis and the Chief vanished down the stairs, all eyes shifted to Fritzy. He stared at the floor, shoulders hunched, waiting for the blows.
"You stupid fuck," Bullock growled.
"What did it, huh? The brown eyes or the cheekbones?" said Chen.
"I thought it was off the record."
"Did you say it was?" Rusty asked.
"No…but she knows we're not supposed to talk."
A few laughs cracked through the tension.
"Housebreak your fucking rookie, Pollack," Bullock muttered, then pointed a finger at Fritzy. "Always tell that little pepper it's off the record."
As the herd shuffled downstairs, Bullock noticed Gordon, sitting at his corner desk, typing. He dragged a chair over and sat, tapping his knuckles on the desk.
Gordon glanced over at his hand, then leaned back.
"Yes?"
Bullock smirked. "If it ain't fucking obvious, Rusty and Chen agreed to keep you on the squad."
Gordon glanced back at the pair, who were now at their desks, working.
"But that shit doesn't matter if you're still planning to bolt to the sticks."
"I'm not," Gordon resumed typing.
"So we're fucking stuck with you and the freak then?"
"Would seem so."
Bullock nodded, then plucked a sheet of Gordon's desk. "So this from him?"
Gordon nodded.
"This psycho and his bold font," Bullock said, reading the paper, "Preliminary analysis of the venom confirms, it's the toxin that killed Annh Le…Christ, this guy loves to write. Does he always type out a damn essay?"
Gordon smirked then pulled off his glasses, setting them on the desk. He rubbed his eyes. "Yes. He's thorough and precise. His theories are spot on too."
Bullock set the paper down and picked up Gordon's glasses. "You know they're all scratched up?"
Gordon snatched them back from him. "I know."
Bullock watched him clean the glass with his shirt, then yelled, "Rusty! Lun's brother is an optometrist, right?"
"In Little Saigon," Rusty replied.
Chen turned. "Near that Chinese spot with those bomb-ass egg rolls."
Johnson stepped out of Gillis' office, stepping into the middle of the floor. "Listen up. Just got off with Lee. He's with the pathologist they brought in from the mainland. Twenty skulls were pulled from the pit,"
"Shit," said Rusty.
"How are we going to identify them?" asked Chen.
"The Captain and Chief are headed to the FBI field office in Newark to see if they'll give a hand in identifying the remains," said Johnson, "And, since everyone knows what went down. The chief is having Gillis do a press conference this evening, need to know if we have a timeline?"
Rusty spoke first. "Earliest missing person's report is from '74. Just one girl, here and there at first. In '78 Iverson started working with Carter, more girls started going missing after that."
"We still don't know how Iverson got into this satanic shit," added Chen. "We know they thought Killer Croc—I mean the suspect—was a demon called Bael, but we don't know where the lizard guy came from."
Johnson turned to Gordon. "I heard you got another report? Does it add anything?"
Gordon stood from his desk, stepping closer to the group. Bullock followed close behind.
"Blood analysis suggests our suspect suffers from two extreme birth defects. The first, lamellar ichthyosis—a skin disorder present from birth. The second, infant caudal appendage—a very rare congenital malformation that causes a tail to form." Gordon handed Johnson the report. "These two disorders are not usually found together, but it's what caused him to appear the way he does. As for the venom, Croc, as he's being called, must have an unknown disorder that causes his salivary glands to produce a lethal toxin."
"And based off the photographs," said Bullock, "the girls were alive and conscious while Iverson and his guys did all that nasty shit. The freak thinks when they finished up with the girls, they fed them bread or water laced with that venom, then tossed them down the well."
"And Annh Le was a rushed killing," Gordon continued. "The guys might have been worried about Carter making a deal, so they hoped to gain favor with their demon by giving it another sacrifice. But she escaped and fled to the surface."
"So, the one question everyone's gonna ask is the one we can't answer," said Johnson. "Where this Croc character came from."
Everyone was silent.
"Alright, keep at it," he added. "Chief is pulling some blues to help field calls. They'll send us what they get. Next couple of months will be busy."
Right then, Dent strode in, eyes locked on Gordon.
Bullock yelled across the room, "Did you smell the cameras?"
But Dent didn't banter back. His first words were, "Loeb's on his way."
The room stiffened. Rusty and Chen glanced over at Gordon. Everyone knew.
"Shit," Bullock muttered.
"He wants a word," Dent said to Gordon.
"I'm sure he does," Gordon said calmly.
"This is serious, Jim," Dent pressed.
Chen and Rusty moved from their desks. They closed in around Gordon.
"He bringing backup?" Chen asked.
"No clue. Just that he's coming."
"Maybe it's got to do with the case," said Johnson.
"No. I've got good intel. He's coming to see Jim."
Gordon still didn't seem fazed, which annoyed Bullock.
"This is serious, Jim. That fat fuck doesn't come to Uptown."
"Harv's right," said Dent.
"If the Commissioner is coming here, it's to fuck shit up."
Gordon nodded. "I'll tread lightly then."
A cough cut through the room.
Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb stood in the stairwell. He was three hundred pounds of power wrapped in a dark coat. Taller than Bullock, older than Johnson, younger than Bronson. Jowls sagging. Eyes pale and lifeless.
"Detective Gordon," he said, voice gruff and deep. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Commissioner. What brings you to Uptown?"
"Oh, I think you know," Loeb gestured toward Gillis' office. "A word. Alone."
He strutted over and left the door ajar.
Bullock grabbed Gordon's arm. "You're not going in alone."
"Harv's right, again," said Johnson.
"Loeb's a conniving shit. Take someone who can play his game. Take Dent," Bullock said.
Chen and Rusty snorted.
"Thanks, Harv," Dent said flatly. "But he's not wrong."
Gordon looked at Dent. Then nodded.
"Fine."
Dent followed him in. The door clicked shut behind them. And for a long moment, the squad room held its breath.