Martinez stared at the photographs for several more moments, his academic mind apparently working through the logistics and technical requirements of the murders they were investigating. "The precision of this work," he said slowly, "suggests an enormous investment of time, resources, and technical expertise."
"What are you thinking?" Miles asked.
"Whoever did this isn't just someone with chemistry knowledge," Martinez continued. "They have access to professional grade equipment, unlimited supplies of high-quality gold, and the kind of workspace where they could operate undisturbed for hours at a time. This is the work of someone with serious financial backing and institutional support."
Vic gathered the crime scene photographs and returned them to their folder. Miles thought she looked both irritated and excited at the same time. "Dr. Martinez, you'll be charged with manufacturing controlled substances, but based on your cooperation and your reaction to these murder investigations,we don't believe you're involved in the homicides we're investigating. But we’d appreciate it if you’d continue to be cooperative if we have further questions."
Martinez nodded, his relief palpable despite the drug charges he was facing. "I hope you catch whoever's doing this. What they've done to these people is an abomination of everything chemistry and scientific knowledge should represent. It’s…well, it’s just messed up."
As they concluded the interview and arranged for Martinez's transfer to face drug charges, Miles again felt the crushing weight of investigative failure. Another dead end, and he didn’t think Hayes was going to be satisfied with an unrelated small-time drug manufacturer being caught. The truth of the matter was that their real target remained as elusive as ever. And his periodic table theory was proving inadequate for catching an active killer. The analytical approach that served him well in laboratory settings was failing to produce actionable intelligence in the field. As they left the interrogation room, Miles couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something fundamental about their killer's methodology and motivation. He felt like there was something right in front of their faces and his inability to see it was wearing on him.
Hayes would want an update soon, and Miles had no idea what he was going to tell him this time. They'd eliminated several suspects and gained insights into the victims' business practices, but they still had no leads that might prevent a fifth murder. And with their twenty-four-hour clock ticking before they were pulled from the case entirely, Miles wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so helpless.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Vic…I hate to ask this, but could I take a breather? Just an hour or so to step away from all this?"
They were in the conference room again. Vic had just reached out to a small team with the local PD to sort through all the processing and paperwork headaches that came with transferring Dr. Martinez to the drug crimes unit. Miles was slightly embarrassed to have asked the question, but he could feel…hell, he didn’t knowwhathe was feeling. The overwhelming weight of failure, the emotional strain that came with very little sleep, and the threat of Hayes pulling them off the case. It was all just too much—a level of stress and wear that he wasn't used to. He wasn't sure he'd ever been this tired in all his life.
Vic studied his face, and Miles could see her evaluating his request with the experience of someone who had worked with agents under stress before. "Of course," she said. "This whole thing can be overwhelming for someone not accustomed to this sort of case. Take an hour or so. There’s a park about two blocks to the west if you need to just get out and breathe it in.”
Miles felt embarrassed by his admission of weakness, but the crushing sense of being in over his head was becoming impossible to ignore. He appreciated Vic for understanding.
"I'll meet you back here in an hour," he said, grateful.
"Take your time.”
Miles left the conference room and as he made his way to the front lobby, he felt incredibly alone. He stepped through the doors and headed for the park Vic had mentioned—which turned out to be Golden Gate Park. It stretched out before him, a huge expanse of green where trees lined the walking paths, creating pockets of shade that filtered the afternoon sunlightinto dappled patterns on the ground. Families with children occupied playground areas while joggers and cyclists moved along the designated paths.
He found a bench near the park's eastern edge and sat down, pulling out his phone to call Elena. The familiar ritual of calling her provided some comfort, a connection to the life he knew he was blessed to have. The phone rang only twice before she picked up.
"Hey," Elena's voice was warm and concerned when she answered. "How's the case going?"
"Not the best," Miles admitted. "We just arrested a guy who turned out to be cooking meth instead of murdering people. Every lead we follow turns into a dead end, and I'm starting to think Hayes was right about me not belonging in the field."
"That doesn't sound like you," Elena said. "You've been out there for less than a full day. Is that really enough time to make that kind of statement?”
“It might just be,” he said. “Maybe you were right. Maybe I don’t belong out here.”
“Now, I don’t think I ever saidthat. Besides…you’re too stubborn to give up this early on.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“You know what I mean. Are you okay? You sound down.”
“I guess I am,” Miles said. He watched a group of children playing on swings while their parents sat nearby, and he realized how far removed his current reality was from normal life. "Four people are dead, Elena. This killer…they’re not just murdering people, they’re turning them into these weird golden statues. And they are clearly smarter than we are. I'm supposed to be helping catch this killer, but instead I feel like I'm just getting in Agent Stone's way."
“Is Stone as good as you thought she’d be?”
“I think so. But I came in expecting this superhero, you know? And she’s sort of normal, you know? And I mean that in the best way possible.”
"Tell me about the gold," Elena said. "What's the significance of using that specific material?"
He smiled because he knew what she was doing. Usually, whenever he was facing a problem—be it at work or even just trying to figure out a paint color at home when they’d been doing some remodeling—she would ask him questions as if he was being interrogated. It helped him to analyze and process, to come to the best decision for the situation.
"The killer is making some kind of statement about wealth and corruption,” he said. “Gold represents greed, the way these victims used their money to exploit others." Miles paused, realizing how obvious his analysis sounded when spoken aloud. "It's symbolic, but I feel like there's something deeper I'm missing. The killer is literally plastering the reason for their deaths all over them."
“Could be just a local insult, right?” Elena asked.
