Dominance, page 12
Dawson hunched over his desk, his face washed in the flat blue of his monitor. He looked up as Cooper stopped at the corner of his workstation. Dawson’s chair creaked.
“What’s got you so upright?” Dawson asked, leaning back. His tone was casual, almost bored, but his eyes flicked to the file Cooper held close.
“Sorry about the Discart thing,” Cooper said, the words deliberate and heavy. He rested a hand on the edge of Dawson’s desk, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the cool metal frame.
The room tightened. Sinclair froze mid-note, pen hovering above paper. He looked up fast, drawn by the name. “She gave that to me first.”
Cooper offered a small shrug that conceded nothing. His blazer whispered as he moved. “Orders are orders,” he said simply, his tone offering no solace.
Dawson barked out a laugh, bitterness dry at the edges. “Classic Blackburn,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair. “She keeps us spinning like tops. Throws it to me one day, tosses it to Sinclair the next, now it’s your turn.” He smiled thinly and shook his head. “She loves this stuff.”
Sinclair exhaled, the fight leaving his jaw. “Yeah,” he murmured at last, his grip tightening on the pen before he set it down with care. “Guess she does.”
Cooper turned and went to his desk. He opened the Discart file and arranged the pages in a clean grid. Crime scene photos. Witness statements. Forensic notes. Monica Discart’s smile fixed on glossy paper, out of time with everything else.
The old desktop woke slowly. Its fan complained, then steadied, a thin current of warm air brushing his wrist. He signed in, kept his eyes on the work, and pulled up New Dresden Electricals’ website. The home page loaded in corporate gray and blue, one square at a time.
He typed “street lights” into the search bar and hit Enter. The site turned over, then produced a response. A press release from March titled “Final Phase Complete: New Dresden Achieves 100% Sodium Vapor Street Lighting.” Thirteen months ago.
He printed it. The machine coughed out paper and settled. The sheet came out warm, the faint chemical smell rising from the tray. He saved a PDF, labeled it Discart_Lighting, and filed it on the shared drive and a local copy. The drawer stuck, then gave. He backed up the hard copy.
“Smart move, boss,” he muttered under his breath, admiration edged with irony.
He returned to the grainy surveillance still in Monica’s file. A hooded figure under sodium vapor glow. Purple reads dark there. Often black. The detail had weight now.
Cooper sat at his desk, the screen reflecting off his furrowed brow. He opened the Emergency Production Warrant Request. He filled it cleanly. Discart, M. Case CCTR 02781. Clothing items described as a dark hooded sweatshirt, including but not limited to hoodies, pullovers, or sweatshirt, matching the description of clothing worn by the suspect in the surveillance video recorded on April 17.
He added the exhibits in order. The surveillance still. The lighting release. A brief note on sodium vapor skewing purple toward black. No flourish. Just enough to hold.
His cursor hovered over the Emergency Request checkbox.
Time matters. Evidence walks if you let it. He checked the box and sent it.
The email chimed almost at once. Judge Martinez’s signature sat in the approval. He printed the order and set a copy aside for Records. The ink was still glossy when he stacked it.
Footsteps receded down the hall. Blackburn took the corner with her usual speed and gave a quick look back. Cooper raised a thumb. She nodded once and kept moving, expression contained and unreadable. He reached for the phone and hovered over Cindy Discart’s contact in the file.
Three rings. A tired voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Discart? Detective Riley Cooper, New Dresden PD,” he said evenly, his voice steady yet soft. “I’m calling about your daughter Monica’s case.”
Silence stretched. Paper-thin, close to tearing. He could hear the faint rasp of her breath.
“I thought Detective Dawson was handling Monica’s case.”
Cooper leaned back and set a quiet rhythm with his fingers on the desk. “I’ve been assigned to the investigation, Mrs. Discart,” he explained gently. “I’d like to meet with you to go over the case file. I know you’ve reviewed it before, but I need to get up to speed.”
“Oh.” The single syllable lingered in the room, confusion edged with thin hope. “Yes, of course. When?”
Cooper straightened in his chair, his voice dropping. “As soon as possible,” he said, smooth yet earnest. “I bringing one of our forensic technicians along.” He allowed the pause to settle. “It is standard procedure.”
“I do not understand.” Her voice wavered now.
His tone softened but remained professional, each word precise. “It’s just procedure,” Cooper assured her gently with conviction. He let those last words register before adding more lightly, “This is actually good news. It means we are leaving no stone unturned.”
Silence held. When Cindy spoke again, her voice came thin but steady, braced by months of waiting for answers. “Yes, please,” she whispered, almost pleading. “Come by anytime. I’m home all day.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Cooper replied, decisive yet kind. He ended the call with swift purpose and immediately dialed Forensics.
“Newton.”
“Newton, it’s Cooper. I have a residence to clear, warrant in hand. I am looking for clothing,” Cooper said, fingers tapping the edge of his desk. He pulled on his jacket, the worn wool a familiar weight across his shoulders. “Parking lot in five?”
“On my way.” The line clicked dead with Newton’s characteristic brevity.
Cooper moved through the precinct corridors. LEDs buzzed overhead. The low murmur of phone calls and keyboards filled the hall. His badge tapped against his hip as he pushed open the double doors and stepped into the afternoon sun.
Newton waited by the exit. Tall. Composed. The white sweater and dark turtleneck looked clean against the concrete and glass. One hand held her kit. The other rested still at her side.
“You ready?” Cooper asked, signaling to his car with a press of the key fob. The navy sports car chirped in response, sunlight flashing over its hood.
Newton nodded once. She slid into the passenger seat without comment. Cooper took the wheel. The engine rose in a low, even rumble as they pulled away. Cool air flowed through the vents.
New Dresden passed in ordered lines and mirrored glass. Light strobed off windows. Foot traffic thinned as they cut toward the neighborhoods. Cooper maintained a steady speed, eyes on the flow. He glanced briefly at Newton’s profile, neutral against the window glare.
He handed her the warrant. “Monica Discart homicide. Security video turned up clothing with a distinctive stain,” Cooper said as he guided the car onto Maple Avenue. His voice carried just above the tire hum on warm asphalt. “I have a warrant for dark sweatshirts, hoodies.”
Newton’s expression remained steady. She scanned the warrant while her free hand checked the latches on her kit, inventorying by touch. Plastic clicked under her fingers. She glanced at Cooper. “So, I’m hunting hoodies?”
“Dark ones,” he said. “Purple team sweatshirt if it’s here. With a stain on the shoulder.”
She gave a small shrug. “Makes my job simple.”
They turned onto a quiet street of trimmed lawns and balanced facades. A sprinkler traced a slow arc, mist catching the light. The hiss was faint in the heat. Cooper eased onto a cracked driveway beneath a two-story colonial. Blue paint had thinned to chalk. The white trim curled away from the grain.
They stepped into the still heat. Boots scuffed the driveway on the way to the porch. The air was dry and carried baked dust. Cooper checked the doorjamb and window locks, then rapped on the peeling blue paint. The knock sounded dull against tired wood.
The door opened. Cindy Discart stood in the shade of the frame. Her eyes were red from crying. She met Cooper’s gaze without blinking. The housedress hung too loose on her.
“Mrs. Discart,” Cooper began, voice low but firm. “I’m Detective Cooper, and this is Tanya Newton, our forensics specialist.” He indicated Newton. Newton gave a curt nod, her attention already mapping the entry and corners.
“I brought a warrant, ma’am,” Cooper said, almost apologetically. He held it where she could see the seal.
Cindy stepped aside with politeness. Cooler air slid from the hallway, detergent underlaid by damp. “Please come in. What are you looking for, detective?”
Inside, lavender tried to cover the shut-in smell. The house felt sealed for too long. Dust hung in the angled light from the front window. A vent ticked as the system cycled. Newton shifted her weight and cleared her throat.
“It’s all in the warrant. Can we sit and talk about it? Let Tanya do her job?”
Cindy looked at Newton, then took the warrant from Cooper. The paper crackled in her hands. “Monica’s room is upstairs, on the left,” she said. She waved Newton toward the stairs. “Mr. Coo— I’m sorry. I mean, Detective Cooper, let’s go into the living room. Sit. Ask your questions.”
Cooper sat with Cindy. The sofa gave under him with a tired sigh. “Tell me about Monica. What was she studying at university?” He watched Cindy’s fingers work the warrant, dog-ear a corner, fold and refold until the crease held.
“Administrative Studies,” Cindy said, eyes on Cooper as if confirming this was routine. “She had just started her first year. She even got a work placement at Lewis’s hospital.” Her voice thinned on the last word.
“Your husband works at New Dresden Medical, correct? A surgeon there?” Cooper kept his tone level.
“A brilliant surgeon,” Cindy said. Pride surfaced and receded. “He has been there for over twenty years.”
Newton’s steps sounded on the stairs, measured and light, and caught Cindy’s attention. “Are you in Monica’s room?” she called up. “Last room on the left.” She turned to Cooper. “What are you looking for, again?”
“Hoodies, sweatshirts, that kind of thing,” he replied gently.
Cindy frowned. “What does her clothing have to do with anything?”
“Since I’m new on the case, I want to be thorough. Detective Blackburn asked me to be thorough,” Cooper said as he shifted. A spring pressed into his thigh through the cushion.
“Oh yes, I called her the other day. She had Detective Dawson call. Why are you on the case? Is Detective Dawson okay?” she asked, holding the warrant out for Cooper to take back.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s fine.” Cooper watched how Cindy toyed with her wedding ring, turning it, letting it slip and catch against swollen knuckles. “And what was Monica doing at the hospital?” he asked. His gaze passed framed photos along the hall. Monica looked out from each one. Same smile, different outfits. A face held in one setting.
“Digitizing old personnel records,” Cindy said, attempting a small laugh. “She hated it, said it was boring and repetitive. But I do not know what she expected from Administrative Studies.” The humor didn’t last. She smoothed the hem of her dress instead.
Newton came down the stairs, a large paper bag in her hand. The seal strip caught the light. Paper rustled against her thigh.
“What is that? What did you take?” Cindy said, rising from her chair. She reached out without thinking. Cooper angled his forearm across her path. He stopped her without touching.
“One dark hoodie. Collected from the primary bedroom. Documented, bagged, and labeled,” Newton said.
“What does that mean? What was in our bedroom? Monica’s room is on the left.” The room went still with her. She pressed her hands together at her chest until her fingers trembled.
Cooper pulled a small receipt book from his pocket. The cover had a faint sheen of graphite from use. “I have to inventory the hoodie,” he explained. “I’ll give you a copy of the receipt.” He nodded toward the bag in Newton’s hand. “It’s just procedure.”
Cindy looked from the bag to Cooper and back again. Her fingers tightened until the joints went white. She gave a small nod. “Yes. Take it. Whatever it is.”
Cooper wrote quickly. The pen scratched through the carbon, leaving a smudge on his thumb. Case number. Date. One dark hoodie. “Here you go,” he said, tearing Cindy’s copy from the pad and smoothing the edge before he handed it over.
Cindy took it, shoulders high and tight. “Detective Dawson never took anything.”
Newton shot Cooper a look but remained silent. Cooper kept his voice steady. “We’re making progress on the case. It might be nothing, but I need to make sure.”
“Yes, yes,” Cindy said as she turned back toward the living room. “I heard all about Detective Blackburn’s need for procedure,” she said. Her mouth flattened and then eased.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Cooper said. Warmth edged his words, and Cindy’s face softened for a second.
Outside, the car smelled of old coffee and vinyl warmed by the afternoon. Heat rolled off the dash until the air started to move. Cooper started the engine. The fan whirred up from a low rattle to a steady push. Newton settled the bag across her knees with the seal turned up. Paper crackled under her palm. They traded brief smiles. It passed. The road took them toward headquarters, tires humming over patched asphalt while the sunlight flashed through the windshield in erratic beats.
The precinct sat flat against a darkening sky. Inside, noise ran constant. Phones rang. Printers clicked and fed paper. A TV muttered on mute. The air carried toner and stale coffee. They cut through to homicide down gray corridors under humming lights that flattened color and reflected off waxed floors.
Cooper stopped at Blackburn’s office. He rapped on the glass and looked in. Blackburn sat over a stack of files, hair loose around her face as she wrote on a yellow pad. At the knock, she glanced up and waved them in with a flick of her fingers.
Newton came in behind Cooper, each step quick. Blackburn leaned back and looked from them to the bag in Newton’s hands. One eyebrow lifted, the only question she allowed to show.
“Tanya Newton,” Newton said, crisp, stepping forward with contained authority. “Forensics.”
“Found this at the Discart residence,” Cooper said evenly, satisfaction edging his professional tone as he set the paper bag on Blackburn’s desk.
Blackburn’s gaze held on the bag for a beat. Then she looked up at both of them, cool calculation behind vivid eyes that gave nothing away.
“Dark purple hoodie. Stain on the shoulder,” Newton said.
Blackburn’s eyes flicked over to the bag. Her face stayed unreadable. The office phone rang, a clean, insistent tone that cut through the room. With a curt flick of her hand, she dismissed them and reached for the receiver, movements crisp and precise.
Outside in the hallway, the air felt cooler. Cooper smiled. “Lab submission form will be in your inbox in ten,” he murmured. “Work your magic.”
Newton nodded. “I’ll process this as soon as I can,” she said, her tone firm as she pivoted toward the exit. Her steps landed with steady purpose.
Cooper lingered long enough to watch her disappear down the corridor. The precinct buzzed at a low hum around him, phones trilling, the smell of stale coffee threading the air. He turned and headed for his desk. The day weighed on him. The enigma of Lewis Discart pressed for attention.
He dropped into his chair. The cushion sighed under him. His fingers found the keyboard, the keys cool beneath his fingertips. First, the submission form. He ticked through the checkboxes with efficiency. Stains, tears, DNA, blood, standard toxin and drug panel. Send.
The New Dresden Medical site filled his monitor, clinical white spreading across the screen, stark and cold. He navigated the staff directory with economy. A quick search pulled up Lewis Discart’s profile. A professional headshot showed a man in his mid-forties in surgical scrubs, his smile capable and controlled.
The bio underneath read: “Dr. Lewis Discart, MD, has served as an attending orthopedic surgeon at New Dresden Medical for twenty years. Graduated Wood Creek University Medical School in California at age twenty-six. Dr. Discart specializes in complex joint replacements and reconstructive surgery.”
Next, Monica Discart. Her profile sat under Administrative Support Staff, still active. The photo showed a young woman with a bright smile that echoed her father’s. The description read: “Monica Discart, Records Management Intern. Currently assisting with the digital conversion of historical records. Part-time position through university work placement program.”
He paused. Odd that it was still live. He typed her name into the search bar again. Another link surfaced. He clicked.
The hospital’s message appeared on-screen. New Dresden Medical Center mourns the loss of Monica Discart, a bright and dedicated member of our Records Management team. Monica’s enthusiasm and attention to detail made her an invaluable contributor during her work placement. Her tragic passing leaves a void in our hospital community. Our thoughts are with her family during this difficult time.
Cooper exhaled, air leaking slowly from his lungs. He sent the page to the printer. The machine woke with a soft whir and fed paper, steadily and rhythmically. The notice was still up months after her death. He wondered if her father had asked for that.
A shadow cut across his monitor. Cooper looked up. Sinclair hovered near the corner of the desk, hands deep in his pockets, restless energy rolling off him. LED light buzzed overhead.
“Find anything good?” Sinclair asked, rocking back on his heels with casual interest.
Cooper rubbed his eyes, the skin gritty from hours at the screen. “I sure hope so,” he muttered. “Blackburn is riding my ass on this one.”
Sinclair leaned closer, voice low with a laugh buried in it. “Man, I wish she was riding my ass.” His face fogged with the same haze he wore whenever her name came up.
Cooper snorted despite himself. The memory of Blackburn’s ice-bright stare cut through it, the clean precision of her attention. “Trust me,” he said, turning back to the screen. “Be careful what you wish for.”
