By the end of the first week, Clementine Rosenberg understood the real size of the case. It wasn't measured in victims or states or files stacked neatly on her desk. It was estimated in delays. Thirty minutes here, two hours there. A report was sent but not read. A call was logged but not returned. The system didn't resist her. It absorbed her.
That was worse.
She stood at her desk at 6:12 a.m., coat draped over the chair, sleeves rolled just enough to mean work had already started. The building was quieter at this hour, but never empty. Somewhere down the hall, a printer spat out forms. A door closed. Footsteps passed and faded.
The case timeline glowed on her monitor.
Twenty-seven entries. Each one was tagged, timestamped, and color-coded. She had stripped the narrative language from every report and reduced them to action points: time of death, location, response window, transfer delay, and closure date.
Patterns didn't announce themselves. They waited to be cornered.
She clicked through the first cluster: State One.
Victims one through six. All discovered within twelve hours of death. Media attention contained. Case priority downgraded after week three.
She shifted to State Two.
Victims seven through twelve. Discovery times longer. Two were misclassified. One was never officially linked until Rosenberg's forced integration last week.
She exhaled slowly through her nose to find comfort.
Each department had done just enough to feel finished.
A knock came at her desk.
Detective Mara Ionescu stood there, tablet tucked under her arm. Early thirties. Sharp posture. Still new enough to believe competence alone could solve things.
"You wanted the inter-state audit," Ionescu said.
Rosenberg nodded, "Anything stand out?"
Ionescu hesitated, "Depends on how you define 'stand out.'"
Rosenberg gestured to the empty chair, "Sit."
Ionescu did, placing the tablet between them.
"Every state followed protocol," she said, "Not identically, but within acceptable deviation. Response times, evidence handling. All autopsy standards."
"And?" Rosenberg prompted.
"And every deviation favored the same outcome," Ionescu said, "Delay."
Rosenberg leaned back slightly, "Quantify."
"Average cross-jurisdictional data transfer took twelve days," Ionescu replied, "Except when federal oversight was requested, then it dropped to three."
Rosenberg's eyes narrowed, "How many times was it requested?"
"Once."
"By whom?"
Ionescu scrolled, "You. Last week."
Rosenberg said nothing. She raised her eyebrows.
Ionescu shifted, "It's like the case kept stopping just short of escalation. No one obstructed. They just… didn't push."
"Because pushing requires justification," Rosenberg said, "And justification requires pressure."
She stood and walked to the board mounted on the wall. No photos or red string yet, just columns of names and dates.
She wrote a single word at the top.
Access.
"Who had it?" she asked.
Ionescu frowned, "Access to what?"
Rosenberg turned, "Information flow, status reports, cross-state summaries, decision authority?"
Ionescu thought, "Task force leads. Department heads. Oversight."
"And?"
"And… the chief of course," she added.
Rosenberg nodded once.
"Pull every communication routed through his office," Rosenberg said.
Ionescu blinked, "All of them?"
"Yes."
"That's thousands of documents."
"Then start with timestamps," Rosenberg replied, "When updates went out. When responses came back. I want them all."
Ionescu hesitated, "You think..."
"I'm not forming conclusions," Rosenberg said, "I'm collecting possibilities."
Ionescu stood, "I'll get started."
As she walked away, Rosenberg returned to her desk and opened the forensic appendix.
The branding.
Every report described it clinically. Heat application, uniform depth, consistent placement, but no one had asked why it was so precise.
She enlarged the image on her screen.
The letter G. It was not jagged, and not rushed. Centered on muscle mass, and never bone. No hesitation marks, no overburn.
This wasn't a signature meant to be seen.
It was meant to be recorded.
Her phone rang.
Manroe.
She answered immediately, "Sir."
"Clementine," he said, voice smooth as ever, "I wanted to check in. See how the transition is going."
"Productive," she replied.
"Good," Manroe said, "I had concerns about overreach. This case is… sensitive."
Rosenberg watched the screen as she spoke, "Sensitivity is why integration matters."
"Of course," Manroe agreed, "Just remember, public confidence depends on restraint."
Restraint.
The word settled uncomfortably.
"I'll keep you updated," Rosenberg said.
"I know you will," Manroe replied, "I receive everything."
The call ended.
Rosenberg didn't move for several seconds.
Then she opened the last folder in the bottom box.
Victim twenty-seven.
Found three days ago.
Male. Late twenties. Rural outskirts. Discovered by a sanitation worker.
She scanned the report once.
Then again.
Time of death: estimated forty-eight hours prior to discovery.
Response time: six hours.
Evidence logged: complete.
Case status: pending escalation review.
She checked the timestamp.
The escalation request had been filed.
Approved, then rescinded.
By whom?
She scrolled.
Authorization: Gilbert Manroe.
Her phone buzzed again.
A message from Ionescu: You need to see this. Now.
Rosenberg grabbed her coat and headed for the analysis room.
Ionescu stood at the terminal, face pale.
"I pulled the timestamps like you said," she began, "Every time the killer crossed state lines, there was a briefing sent to the chief's office within two hours."
"And the response?"
"Always within fifteen minutes."
Rosenberg's jaw tightened, "That's fast."
"There's more," Ionescu said, voice lowering, "After each response, something happened."
"What?"
"Procedural slowdown," Ionescu said, "Paperwork loops, resource reallocation, but nothing illegal. Just enough to delay momentum."
Rosenberg stared at the screen.
Dates. Times. Responses.
Perfectly timed.
Controlled.
"This isn't a leak," Ionescu whispered.
"No," Rosenberg said.
"It's coordination."
Rosenberg straightened.
Outside the room, footsteps approached.
She recognized them before the door opened.
Mr.Manroe stepped inside, hands clasped behind his back.
"Ladies," he said calmly, "I hear progress is being made."
Rosenberg met his eyes.
"Yes," she said, "It is."
Manroe smiled faintly, "Excellent. Keep me informed, will you, Rosenberg?"
He turned to leave.
As the door closed, Ionescu exhaled sharply.
Rosenberg didn't.
She was staring at the screen.
At the response time.
Fifteen minutes.
No matter the hour.
No matter the state.
No matter the distance.
Someone had been awake for all of it.