After leaving the precinct, Ethan moved slowly through the congested lanes of the Windy City. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other on the armrest beside an iced Starbucks coffee sweating against the plastic cup.
Traffic barely moved, but Ethan seemed to take it calmly. "War Pigs" by Black Sabbath played on the radio, filling the interior of the Ford Interceptor.
Ethan whistled over the song, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat as the lights from the cars reflected across the windshield.
Until Ethan's phone vibrated against the dashboard, the caller ID showing Job's photo with his middle finger raised.
—How's my favorite small-town boy?—
Job's voice filled the Ford Interceptor with that mix of mockery, venom, and familiarity Ethan knew far too well.
Ethan let out a low laugh without taking his eyes off the traffic.
—Stuck in the middle of Chicago traffic. It's almost the same as being dead.—
—Oh, sweetheart, don't be so melodramatic,— Job replied instantly.
Ethan took advantage of a small gap between two cars and calmly changed lanes.
—I miss you too, Job.—
—Don't turn this into something emotional. You'll ruin my makeup with all that whining.—
Ethan smiled sideways, resting his elbow against the door as the Ford moved only a few more feet.
—What's going on?—
—What's going on?— Job repeated, as if the question had personally offended him. —What's going on is that I'm calling so you can mark your calendar.—
Ethan arched an eyebrow.
—Your birthday?—
—My birthday,— Job confirmed with absolute solemnity. —And before you open your mouth to say some cheap stupid thing like "happy birthday" or "I'll send you something," I'm going to spare you the embarrassment. I'm celebrating myself in a damn big way. New York style, baby.—
Ethan let out a low laugh.
—I wouldn't expect anything else from you.—
—It's going to be fucking spectacular,— Job said on the other end of the line. —Music, lots of alcohol, beautiful people… and me throwing the whole damn house out the window. So don't even think about making up an excuse, because you're going to be there.—
Ethan let out another low laugh, glancing at the traffic stopped in front of him.
—With you… I don't think it could be any other way.—
—Of course not, damn it. It's my birthday, not some miserable office gathering.—
Ethan laughed again, this time unable to hide it.
—I'll be there. I promise.—
—Great. I'm going to send you the flight itinerary.—
Ethan frowned slightly.
—Flight itinerary?—
—Because, guess what, bitch… we have our own private jet now.—
Ethan fell silent for a second.
—What?—
—You heard me. I made an Arab sheikh an offer he couldn't refuse.—
Ethan looked through the windshield. An endless row of red lights blinked beneath the gray Chicago sky.
—Fuck…— he muttered, letting out an incredulous laugh. —Alright, just try not to go too crazy with the money.—
—No, sweetheart. Now I'm finally living the life I deserve. I'm tired of doing small jobs for idiots with more ego than brains. You're my damn lucky rabbit's foot, Ethan.—
Ethan exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself.
—When is it?—
—In a month.—
Ethan placed one hand on the steering wheel and allowed himself a faint smile.
—Then I'll be there.—
In the distance, patrol lights began reflecting off the windows of the buildings.
—I'm arriving at a crime scene… I have to work,— Ethan said.
—Of course you do. Because God forbid you have a normal conversation for more than five minutes.—
—Job.—
—Fine, fine,— he gave in, though he still sounded far too pleased with himself. —Go play detective, but listen to me, Ethan: New York. It's my birthday, and I want you there.—
The call ended just as Ethan turned the corner and traffic closed in around him again.
The intersection was cordoned off with yellow tape. Several officers were beginning to set up barricades and mark the perimeter, while others held back the curious bystanders gathering on the sidewalks.
At first glance, it looked like a traffic accident—messy, but ordinary. Ethan didn't understand why they had called Hank.
Vehicle debris was scattered across the asphalt, mixed with fragments of glass and twisted pieces of metal.
Two fire trucks had arrived at the scene. Their crews, carrying hydraulic and cutting tools, worked quickly around the most damaged vehicles. An ambulance remained parked a few yards away, its red and yellow lights flashing over the scene.
Ethan joined Hank, following only a few steps behind him.
—Sergeant, over here.—
The voice came from the side.
Burgess immediately straightened and waved them over. Atwater stood beside her, both of them behind a black Volkswagen Jetta.
The vehicle's trunk was deformed, pushed upward by the impact.
As he approached the back of the Volkswagen, Ethan immediately understood why a simple multi-car collision had ended up in Intelligence's hands.
Inside the trunk was a large bundle, wrapped in transparent plastic and covered in bloodstains.
Through the sheet, the gray hair on a human chest could barely be seen.
Ethan and Antonio reached into their pockets at the same time and put on gloves. Then they grabbed the slippery edges of the plastic and carefully began to open it.
The smell hit them immediately.
It was a thick mix of blood, trapped dampness, and decomposing flesh, so dense it seemed to hang beneath the cold afternoon sun.
A firefighter passing nearby turned his head out of pure curiosity.
—Ugh…—
Kelly Severide, from Squad 3, with his gloves still on, stopped for barely a second and wrinkled his nose.
—That's not something I want to see before lunch.—
Beside him, Joe Cruz immediately looked away, bringing a hand to his stomach.
—No, no, no… I did not need that image in my head.—
Mouch, a few steps behind them, let out a restrained gag and raised one hand as if asking for distance.
—Can someone cover that before I start reconsidering my entire career?—
Ethan didn't look away. He simply held his breath, observed the body for another moment, then stepped back a few paces, letting less contaminated air fill his lungs.
—Caucasian, male,— Antonio said, studying the torso with a hardened frown. —Judging by the hair color and the condition of the skin folds, he doesn't look young.—
Ethan nodded without taking his eyes off it.
Antonio carefully removed his gloves and dropped them into a bag.
—Tell the medical examiner's office to take the body,— Hank ordered in a hoarse voice, without taking his eyes off the torso. —Without limbs or a head, we're not going to get much more here.—
The body had been reduced to little more than a mutilated torso. At first glance, any conclusion was barely more than an educated guess.
Hank turned his head toward the two patrol officers keeping the area cordoned off.
—What happened?—
Burgess checked the notebook in her hands.
—An older woman lost control of her vehicle and caused a multi-car collision,— Burgess explained, consulting the notes in her notebook. —During the crash, this sedan slammed into the SUV in front of it. The driver was trapped inside. He looked injured, or at least that's what everyone thought at first.—
Atwater stepped forward, picking up the explanation.
—The firefighters arrived, secured the area, and opened the door to get him out. But as soon as they freed him, the guy reacted. He hit one of the firefighters, shoved another, and ran through the crowd before we could stop him.—
Hank narrowed his eyes.
—He ran after a crash like that?—
—Yes, sir,— Atwater replied. —Pretty fast for someone who was supposedly trapped and injured.—
Burgess pointed at the car with the end of her pen.
—That's what made us take a closer look at the vehicle. The driver didn't ask for help or assistance. He didn't try to explain anything. He just wanted to get out of here, so with the firefighters' help, we managed to open the trunk,— Atwater added. —It was deformed by the impact, but not badly enough to keep us out.—
Burgess glanced briefly toward the torso before continuing.
—And that's where we found that.—
Hank remained silent for a few seconds. His face didn't change, but the atmosphere around them seemed to tighten.
—Alright,— he finally said. —And what about the guy who ran?—
—It's already been called in over the radio,— Burgess answered. —Dispatch sent the description to nearby units.—
—Patrol officers in the area are searching by grid,— Atwater added. —They're also checking alleys, transit stations, and businesses with cameras near the accident.—
Hank gave a slight nod, but he didn't look satisfied.
—Driver's appearance.—
Burgess turned a page in her notebook.
—Male, Caucasian, approximately mid-thirties, dark hair, gray jacket, jeans. He had blood on his face, but we don't know if it was his or from the crash.—
Atwater added:
—He was limping a little at first, but then he started running normally. Maybe it was adrenaline from the crash.—
Hank looked at the car again, then at the open trunk, and finally at the torso half-covered by a tarp.
—So he wasn't a victim,— he murmured.
Ethan, who had remained silent until then, studied the inside of the vehicle with a slight frown.
—No. From the looks of it, the guy was on his way to get rid of the body. He just didn't count on grandma behind the wheel.—
—Firefighters Cruz and Mouch were the ones who saw him. Maybe they can give a better description for a sketch artist,— Burgess added.
—Write down the license plate number and look up the owner's information.—
Hank placed his hands on his hips and began giving orders quickly.
—Talk to the medical examiner's office so they can run DNA on the body and confirm the victim's identity as soon as possible. Also, have them pull fingerprints from inside the car. That way we can look for matches in the database.—
Everyone answered and began getting to work.
The situation moved quickly, and there was no point in staying any longer, so they prepared to return to the precinct.
—Detective.—
Taking advantage of the moment when Ethan was alone, Burgess whispered:
—Hey…— Burgess said, lowering her voice a little while Ethan finished checking the vehicle. —Is it true about Detective Halstead?—
Ethan didn't look up right away. He took out his phone, opened the photo he had just taken of the license plate, and sent it to Jin with a brief message.
Track the owner of this plate. Priority.
Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and glanced sideways at Burgess.
—You already heard?—
—Half the district heard,— she replied, shrugging.
Ethan let out a small, humorless laugh.
—That's bullshit.—
—Yeah.—
For a moment, neither of them said anything. A few yards away, the medical examiner's team kept working around the open trunk, while the patrol lights painted the street red and blue.
—How bad is it?— Burgess asked, this time with less curiosity and more concern.
Ethan finished sending Jin the photo of the license plate and slipped the phone into the pocket of his jacket. For a moment, he didn't answer. He simply looked toward Voight, who was talking to Antonio, both of them wearing that closed-off expression that never announced anything good.
—Halstead knows how to take care of himself.—
Burgess didn't seem convinced. She lowered her voice even more, making sure Atwater and the other patrol officers couldn't hear too much.
—I understand.—
Kim stepped a couple of paces closer, just enough to be part of the conversation without making it too obvious.
Burgess looked at Ethan seriously.
—If you need anything, you can count on Atwater and me.—
—I'll keep that in mind,— Ethan said.
From the other side of the scene, Voight turned his head.
—Morgan.—
The hoarse voice cut through the conversation like a knife.
Ethan took a step toward him, but before walking away, he lightly tapped Burgess on the top of the head with his knuckles.
—Do your job, Officer.—
Burgess brought a hand to her hair, half-indignant.
—Again with that? I'm not a rookie, Detective…—
—I know, but it keeps you humble.—