(EAST VILLAGE – KINGSTON AMUSEMENT PARK)
MAY 29TH – 1:46 PM
The Kingston Amusement Park, once alive with children's laughter, now sat eerily silent behind rows of yellow police barricades. The carousel spun idly in the wind—empty, creaking. A trio of NYPD cruisers flanked the entrance, their lights cold and unblinking in the overcast afternoon.
Detective Scott stepped out of the black sedan, his dark gray coat flapping slightly in the breeze. His sharp eyes scanned the park like a predator entering foreign territory. Stephanie followed beside him, her expression a mix of focus and unease. She wore a tight ponytail, slim-fit jeans, and a leather jacket that clung to her like armor.
"This place gives me the creeps now," she muttered, raising her camera to snap shots of the deserted grounds.
Scott walked slowly across the brick path, his boots crunching over littered popcorn and lost balloons. He stopped near the central fountain and looked up—a security camera was mounted on the pole nearby, aimed straight toward the play area.
"Camera's dead," said a voice behind him.
Scott turned to see a scrawny security guard in a wrinkled uniform, shifting on his feet like a kid caught cheating. "CCTV glitched out that day," the guard added, eyes darting nervously. "Whole system crashed."
Scott didn't say a word. He just stared at him for a moment—long enough to make the guy sweat—then turned back to the camera and scribbled something into his notebook.
They checked other locations with surveillance access, but according to the case reports, it was the same story—"technical issues," "unusable footage," "nothing caught on cam."
(GROCERY STORE – 3:02 PM)
A small bell rang as Scott and Stephanie stepped into the narrow corner store. The smell of onions and cheap detergent hung thick in the air. A middle-aged woman with a tired face stood behind the counter.
"I already told the other officers," she said without prompt, wiping her hands on her apron. "The lady bought her stuff and walked out. The cameras picked nothing up."
"No other surveillance nearby?" Scott asked, stepping toward the back office.
"Just ours. But... there was this truck—big white refrigerator truck—parked out front. Blocked the camera view when she left."
Stephanie flipped through the files in her hand. "That lines up. The footage shows the truck blocking the lens right when Helena left. When the truck pulled away, she was gone."
Scott's eyes narrowed. "Let's talk to the driver. Just to make sure the officers didn't miss something."
(RESIDENTIAL LOT – LATER THAT AFTERNOON)
The trucker looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Greasy tank top. Five o'clock shadow. A grumble in human form.
"I already told the other cops," he growled. "I didn't see no lady. Can I get back to my day now?"
"We won't be long," Scott said calmly. "Why'd you park in front of the store?"
"Was makin' a call."
"You could've pulled across the street. Lotta space over there."
"I tried. But some cop told me to move. Said I'd block traffic."
Scott's eyes sharpened. "A cop?"
"Yeah, bald-headed guy. Looked a bit... rough. He told me to park where I did."
Scott's jaw tensed. "Anything else you remember about him?"
The driver scratched his neck. "Nah. That's it."
Back in the car, Stephanie looked over. "You think that cop was trying to block the camera?"
Scott leaned back, eyes fixed out the windshield. "Yeah. That road's not even busy. He wanted the camera blocked."
"What's next?"
"Let's visit the rest of the crime scenes."
(MULTIPLE LOCATIONS – EARLY EVENING)
They scoured the other sites—school grounds, party venue, street corners. No cameras. No witnesses. Every scene clean.
Back at the station, Scott dropped his notes onto the table. The rest of the Special Violence Unit looked up.
"Anything new?" he asked.
Ray, arms folded over his chest, shook his head. "Nada."
Frank leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers. "I dunno if I should say this but... hell, screw it."
"Say it," Scott prompted.
"Dickson's friend—kid who was with him before he vanished—said a bald-headed cop gave him cash. Asked him to buy a pack of smokes. When he came back, both the cop and Dickson were gone."
Scott's fingers tapped the desk slowly. "A police officer... again."
Stephanie's eyes widened. "Sir, it matches. The truck driver described the same thing."
Ray blinked. "Wait—you think a cop is behind all this?"
Scott didn't answer. He just turned to Frank and Ray. "Find the security guard from the amusement park. Bring him in."
"You got it," Frank said, grabbing his coat.
Stephanie waited till the room emptied. "Why him?"
Scott's voice lowered. "What if he lied about the CCTV failure?"
"You think he's part of it?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he was forced to lie."
Stephanie tilted her head. "How?"
Scott looked her dead in the eye. "His name's Jerry Mike. Twenty-five. Ex-con. Gambling addict. Still in debt."
"If our cop knew that, he could've used it," Stephanie realized aloud. "Blackmail. Jerry wouldn't risk prison."
Scott nodded slowly. "Exactly. That makes him either an accomplice—or a pawn."