Don't Order Dog_ 1(61)

There was a brief pause on the line before Joe acquiesced with a loud sigh. “Hold on, I’ve got to walk over there and look. It’s not like I take the time to remember some Russia goddamn city.”

“Thanks,” Tom replied.

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe replied sourly. “Let’s see here, it says Ka… Kaliningrad.”

“You mind spelling that for me?” Tom asked as he picked up his pen.

“K-a-l-i-n-i-n-g-r-a-d. Now is there anything else I can do for you?” Joe said sarcastically.

“Do you mind telling the date written on the letter?”

“November 12,” Joe replied tersely, “and if you want to know anything else, you can come down here and look for yourself. We’ve got three dollar beers on tap tonight.”

The line went dead before Tom could respond. He set the phone down and immediately re-opened the global map on the Petronus Energy website. As expected, a red dot was located over the city of Kaliningrad. Without looking at the details, he opened his summary and typed in the newest location.

Kaliningrad, Russia:

Letter written – 11/12

Incident - ?

Tom leaned back in his chair and stared again at the short summary with a growing feeling of excitement. Just what the hell had he stumbled onto? He glanced again at his watch. Today was the 14th – just two days after the letter had been sent. This obviously meant the author of the letters was sending them express mail.

It also meant something else. If the pattern of deaths was real, and this mysterious letter writer was in fact involved, there was still time to act before another incident occurred in Kaliningrad.

The question that plagued Tom now was the “if” itself. Did any of this actually mean something, or did it mean absolutely nothing at all? From his days in the Phoenix PD, Tom had quickly learned that the biggest errors in any investigation were often caused by the bias and prejudices of the investigator himself. Given enough time and resources, any investigator can find circumstantial evidence against a suspect, but it’s their motivations for doing so that determine the methods and value of what they find. Tom knew that even “good” investigators could be driven by prejudices, even ones they weren’t aware of, while in the pursuit of justice. It was a key reason why investigators almost always worked in teams.

Despite the information that was now staring at him, Tom had to consider whether his own motivations had brought him to this conclusion. After all, he had been looking for a homicidal connection to the mysterious letter writer when he found it. This fact by itself represented a significant bias. He also had to consider the potential consequences for himself. Pursuing an unsanctioned investigation sparked by the drunken rant of an old man and driven merely on a “hunch” could land him in one serious shitpile of trouble.

But his days on the force also taught him to trust his gut, and Tom’s gut told him this situation was different. This wasn’t a coincidence. The circumstances were too well aligned, the odds too far against it. Biased or not, Tom was convinced he knew what he was looking at, and what he saw was the trail of an international killer. He nodded his head as the certainty of it washed over him.

The only question was what to do about it.

Tom knew that if he had any desire to climb the ranks within the Department of Homeland Security, this could easily be his ticket. Of course, he had no such desire – nor any intention – of giving up the most important information he had ever stumbled upon to an organization that would most likely give him a promotion and a pat on the back before kicking him into another life-sucking desk job. On the other hand, not communicating knowledge or information pertaining to criminal – let alone terrorist – activity to his superiors was in itself a criminal offense.

Tom stood up from his desk and began pacing. His office felt even smaller under the droning hum of the fluorescent lights as he moved back and forth considering his next move. He needed to deliver the information to the appropriate authorities quickly before another homicide or “accident” occurred, but he had to find a way to do so in his favor. He continued moving, deep in thought, when suddenly an idea struck him and stopped him in his tracks. He stood motionless for several minutes, his mind turning over the idea, until his mouth slowly curled into a broad grin.

He bolted back to his laptop and opened his email.

Tom’s fingers punched rapid-fire across the keyboard as he glanced at his notes and typed the email he’d quickly composed in his head. Five minutes later, he read the finished draft, fixed a few typos, and hit the “send” button. He then sat back in his chair and smiled at his incredible good fortune.