Chapter 1: The Nuisance Call
The digital clock on the dashboard of my Ford Explorer Interceptor read 2:00 AM. It was a Tuesday in late January, and Chicago was currently being strangled by a polar vortex that the weathermen had been panicking about for a week. They called it “The Hawk,” but to me, it just felt like the air was made of broken glass.
The temperature outside was hovering somewhere around fifteen degrees below zero. That wasn’t counting the wind chill coming off the lake, which pushed the “feels like” temperature down to a life-threatening minus thirty-five. My heater was blasting at max capacity, rattling the plastic vents, but the cold still found its way in through the door seals. It settled in the footwells, freezing my toes despite my thermal socks.
I was exhausted. My eyes burned from the dry, recycled heat and the twelve hours of staring at snow-blind streets. I was Officer Jack Miller, a fifteen-year veteran of the force, and tonight, every single one of those years felt like a weight on my shoulders. I was exactly ten minutes away from clocking out. I was already fantasizing about the hot shower waiting for me at home, the kind that turns your skin pink and scalds the numbness out of your bones. I could almost taste the whiskey I was going to pour myself.
Then, the radio crackled. The sound shattered the silence of the cabin and my hopes of an early exit.
“Unit 4-Alpha,” the dispatcher’s voice sounded tinny and tired, distorted by the static of the storm.
I groaned, dropping my head back against the headrest for a second before reaching for the mic. “Go ahead, Dispatch.”
“We have a nuisance call at Washington Park,” she said. “Caller reports a pile of trash or debris left on a bench near the south entrance. Wants it removed before the city plows come through in the morning.”
I gripped the steering wheel tight, my leather gloves creaking. My knuckles turned white.
“A nuisance call?” I repeated, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. “Dispatch, it is twenty below zero. The roads are sheets of ice. You want me to go play garbage man for a pile of laundry?”
“Sorry, 4-Alpha,” she replied. She sounded sympathetic but firm. We were all tired tonight. “Complainant is persistent. It’s a resident across the street. Says it looks suspicious. Just do a drive-by, clear it, and you’re free to go. Sergeant wants the board clear.”
“Copy,” I sighed, rubbing my temples where a headache was starting to throb behind my eyes. “I’m en route. Probably just kids leaving their winter gear or someone dumping household junk.”
I flipped on the blues. The lights bounced off the swirling white powder, creating a disorienting strobe effect against the dark brick buildings passing by. The streets were empty. Sensible people were inside under three blankets. Even the criminals were taking the night off. The city looked abandoned, like a movie set after the crew had gone home.
I navigated the cruiser through the unplowed slush, the tires crunching loudly. As I turned toward Washington Park, a strange feeling settled in my gut. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was a heaviness. A premonition. I told myself it was just the cold, but I couldn’t shake it.
Chapter 2: The Boy in the Snow
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