The desk wasn't meant for spectacle. It was a standard-issue steel frame with a laminated surface, scarred by years of indifferent use. Coffee rings ghosted the corners. A stack of outdated forms leaned slightly to the left, never fully straight, no matter how often someone corrected it. The overhead light was never silent, even when the room was.
Clementine Rosenberg stood on the opposite side of it, coat still on, badge clipped neatly at her belt. She didn't sit. She rarely did when she was being handed something that she didn't want to be handed over.
Across from her, Hugo Bendi looked like a man who hadn't slept properly in months. His tie was knotted too tightly, as if he'd been pulling on it without realizing. His eyes were sharp but dulled at the edges, the way seasoned detectives' eyes always went when a case outgrew them.
Between them sat three boxes.
Not evidence boxes, those stayed sealed, cataloged, reverent. These were administrative storage crates. The kind that held reports, timelines, cross-references, and the quiet weight of institutional failure.
"Twenty-seven," Bendi said, clearing his throat, "Confirmed."
Rosenberg didn't react. She'd already read the intake summary twice on the drive over, once more in the elevator. Numbers meant nothing until they were contextualized.
"Across five states," Bendi continued, "First confirmed victim eight months ago. Last one…" He hesitated, "Three days."
Rosenberg reached forward and opened the top box. The smell of paper and toner rose immediately. Inside were folders color-coded, numbered, precise. Someone had tried very hard to keep control.
She pulled the first file at random.
Male. Mid-thirties. No fixed address. Found near a service road outside Bakersfield. Cause of death: blunt force trauma followed by post-mortem branding.
Her fingers paused on the photograph.
Not the body.
The mark.
It was crude and unmistakable. A single letter, burned deep into the skin. Not carved and definitely not cut.
Stamped.
Rosenberg looked up, "This was done with heat?"
"Yes," Bendi said, "Livestock branding iron, according to forensics. Industrial-grade."
"Consistent across all victims?"
"Every single one."
She set the file down carefully, as if the desk itself might absorb the implication.
"How did this stay local for eight months?" she asked.
Bendi gave a tired, humorless smile, "It didn't. It just looked like it did."
Rosenberg finally sat.
The chair creaked beneath her weight, protesting the decision. She ignored it.
"Walk me through the delays," she said.
Bendi exhaled and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face, "Different jurisdictions. Different priorities. Some victims are classified as transient. A few were misfiled as unrelated assaults. Two counties didn't flag the branding because they assumed it was gang-related."
"And no one cross-checked."
"They did," Bendi said quietly. "Just not together."
Rosenberg nodded once. She had seen this before. Not often, but enough to recognize the shape of it. Crimes didn't need to be hidden when bureaucracy could bury them just as effectively.
She opened a second folder.
Female. Early forties. Suburban. No criminal record. Found in her garage. Same mark.
Rosenberg frowned.
"This one doesn't fit," she said.
Bendi shook his head, "Neither do the next six."
She flipped through more files. Different ages. Different backgrounds. Different cities. No consistent victimology beyond one thing.
The mark.
"What letter is this officially being logged as?" she asked.
Bendi hesitated again.
"That's… part of the problem."
Rosenberg's gaze sharpened, "Explain."
"Forensics labeled it as a 'G' based on curvature and depth," he said, "But some departments argued it could be a stylized symbol. Or incomplete."
Rosenberg closed the folder.
"Has all the data been matched with other states?" she asked.
The question landed heavier than it sounded.
Bendi straightened, "As of last week, yes. Fully integrated. That was my final push before they reassigned the case."
"And what did it show?"
"That whoever's doing this understands timing. Response windows. Jurisdictional lag," He paused, "They know when to move and when to wait."
Rosenberg folded her hands on the desk.
"So this isn't escalation," she said.
"No," Bendi agreed, "It's calibration."
Silence settled between them, thick but controlled.
"Why me?" Rosenberg asked.
Bendi met her eyes, "Because you don't chase patterns. You test them."
She accepted that without comment.
A knock came at the door.
Neither of them turned immediately.
Then the door opened anyway.
"Clementine," came a familiar calm, authoritative voice, impossibly unhurried, "I thought I'd find you here."
Gilbert Manroe stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
Police Chief. Immaculate suit. Silver hair combed back with military precision. His presence filled rooms the way systems filled lives quietly.
"I wanted to welcome you personally," Manroe continued, smiling, "This case has needed your level of discipline."
Rosenberg stood.
"Sir," she said.
Manroe's eyes flicked briefly to the boxes on the desk.
"Unfortunate volume," he remarked, "But order is restored through diligence."
Rosenberg studied him attentively.
"Has the task force been briefed on the cross-state findings?" she asked.
"Continuously," Manroe replied, "I receive updates around the clock."
Bendi shifted slightly in his chair.
Manroe placed a reassuring hand on Rosenberg's shoulder, "You have my full confidence," he said, "And my full oversight."
As he turned to leave, Rosenberg glanced back down at the open folder on the desk.
At the stamped letter.
A G.
Clean. Centered. Intentional.
Not a message.
A designation.