"What still puzzles me about this case is that we have zero leads on Aiden Reeves or on where the hell these tapes even came from," Special Agent Carla Ramirez said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed tight over her chest. The fluorescnt lights in the FBI's New York field office conference room buzzed overhead, throwing stark shadows across the cluttered table: towering case files, grainy stills from security footage, cold coffee cups, and a laptop frozen on a blurred frame that no one wanted to look at too long.
The room carried that particular heaviness that settled in when agents spent too many hours staring pure evil in the face.
Lead Investigator Marcus Hale rubbed his temples, loosening the knot of his tie like it was strangling him. "No leads?" he echoed, voice rough from too little sleep. "We've got over two hundred tapes, Carla. Two hundred. Girls aged seven to sixteen, drugged senseless, assaulted in his exam room like it was just another Tuesday. Some of them barely conscious, mumbling, delirious. And the good doctor vanishes into thin air weeks ago?"
Agent Tom Ellis, the youngest at the table, flipped through a folder of victim profiles, his face ashen. "These kids trusted him. Parents brought them in for routine checkups, vaccinations, whatever. And he…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "We've positively ID'd thirty victims so far. More are coming forward every hour since the story broke. But Reeves? Nothing. His upstate property looks like he stepped out for milk. Went to work one day and never came back."
Ramirez tapped her pen against the table, eyes flicking to the paused security footage on the wall screen: grainy black-and-white of a figure in full black, hoodie, gloves, mask, even shoe covers, calmly setting a plain box on the field office's front desk in the dead of night.
"And this guy," she said, nodding toward the screen. "Same cautious bastard caught at three separate drop points: here, major media outlets, even local PD. Every inch of skin covered. No prints, no vehicle in frame. Walks in, leaves the package, melts into the dark. Traffic cams, street cams, we've got teams tearing them apart, but he's a ghost."
Hale leaned forward, elbows planted hard on the table. "So if this wasn't Reeves mailing his own greatest hits and why the hell would he self-incriminate like this? then who did? And where is he now?"
Agent Lena Wong, the cyber specialist, scrolled rapidly through her laptop. "The tapes are old VHS conversions, digitized, but scrubbed of metadata. Whoever compiled them knew exactly how to leave no digital footprint. Systematic. Years of hidden abuse right under St. Brielle Memorial's nose. We're cross-referencing patient records now. Some of these girls are adults today. Traumatized. One woman already came forward, said she always suspected something but was too afraid to speak, and now it's all flooding back. Like her mind had buried it so deep she almost convinced herself it was a nightmare."
Ellis drummed his fingers restlessly. "What if he's not alive anymore? There's chatter, unconfirmed about foul play. Maybe someone found out and decided to handle it themselves. Vigilante style."
Ramirez gave a short, humorless laugh. "A vigilante this organized? Packaging evidence and hand-delivering it to us with a bow on top? That's not revenge; that's calculated exposure. Someone wanted him ruined, not just dead. But if he *is* dead… who benefits?"
Hale stood, pacing to the whiteboard scrawled with timelines, victim names, and glaring question marks. "We double the manhunt. Reeves is already on the Most Wanted list—airports, borders, the full net. And the delivery guy? Enhance every damn frame. Facial rec's useless, but gait analysis, height, build—something's got to give. If Reeves is dead, we need a body. If he's running, we need him in cuffs before another victim remembers."
Wong nodded. "I'll tear deeper into the hospital's network. If any staff suspected or looked the other way, that could blow this wide open."
The room fell quiet for a beat, the weight of those tapes pressing down like a physical thing.
Hale exhaled hard. "Let's move. These girls deserve justice. And if Reeves is still breathing… we make damn sure he never touches another child."
As the agents filed out, Ramirez lingered, staring at the frozen image of the masked delivery man.
"Whoever you are," she muttered, "you just destroyed a monster's life. But if you killed him first… why not just tell us?"
Three sharp knocks rattled the door.
"Come in," Hale barked.
The door swung open to reveal a young analyst—early twenties, tie crooked, face flushed from sprinting. In gloved hands he carried a plain brown box, same dimensions as the previous deliveries, sealed with clear tape. The printed label read: FBI – ATTENTION: DR. AIDEN REEVE CASE – EVIDENCE.
"Sir," the analyst said, catching his breath. "Front desk sent it up. Dropped off twenty minutes ago. No return address, outer wrapping already checked, clean so far. Different courier this time. Female. Legit uniform."
Everyone froze.
"Where is she?" Hale demanded, snapping on fresh gloves as he stepped forward.
"Downstairs in holding," the analyst replied. "Uniforms grabbed her the second she signed the log. She's confused, says it was a standard prepaid pickup from a locker at Penn Station. No client name, just a code and cash in an envelope taped inside the locker door."
Hale's eyes narrowed. "Bring her up. Full interview setup. I want every detail—who paid, how the locker was accessed, every camera angle in that station. Wong, pull Penn Station feeds now."
Wong's fingers were already flying across her keyboard.
Ramirez stood, pulling on gloves. "Open it here. Same protocol."
The analyst set the box carefully on the table. Hale sliced the tape with a steady hand.
Inside: five more VHS tapes, each labeled in the same precise black marker, dates stretching back fifteen years and a thin manila folder sealed with red evidence tape.
No note.
Ellis lifted the folder. Ramirez logged the tapes one by one.
Hale opened the folder.
Medical records. Intake forms. Billing invoices. Forged consent signatures.
At the very top, a single highlighted name sucked the air from the room.
Patient: Genesis Caldwell (ages 9–16)
Guardian signatures: Monica Caldwell
Below it, a photocopy of a check made out to Dr. Aiden Reeve—memo line: "Private consultation fees – ongoing."
Then another page: a handwritten log in Reeves' own neat script.
"Patient G.C.—highly responsive to midazolam. Sessions recorded 2009–2015. Guardian requests 'memory fog' protocol. Extra compensation received quarterly."
Ramirez's voice came out a haunted whisper.
"Holy shit."
Ellis stared at the page as though it might lunge at him. "Genesis Caldwell… that's the girl who inherited the entire Caldwell estate, right? It was splashed across every paper a few months back."
Wong glanced up from her laptop, eyes wide behind her glasses. "She was mute for fifteen years. Trauma-induced, wasn't it?"
Hale's knuckles bleached white around the edges of the folder.
Ramirez met his gaze across the table, her voice low and edged with steel.
"I think we just found our crack."
For one suspended heartbeat, the room held its breath—no one moved, no one spoke. The fluorescent hum felt suddenly louder, the air thicker.
Then Hale snapped into motion.
"Get me everything on Genesis Caldwell-Blackwood. Now. Marriage records, current address, known associates, financials—whatever we have access to. And pull the stepfamily files: Monica Caldwell and anyone else who signed those forms. I want them in interview rooms by tomorrow morning."
He scanned the table, letting the weight of it settle over every agent like fallout.
"Someone didn't just expose Reeves," he said quietly. "They're handing us the people who enabled him. On a silver platter."
Ramirez's eyes drifted back to the highlighted name one last time, the black ink stark against the yellow marker.
"And if Genesis is the connection…" She exhaled slowly. "Whoever sent these boxes just painted a massive target on her family's back."