Graham was not supposed to be at the precinct so early. Hell, he wasn't supposed to be there at all. The department owed him those free days of vacation since they had him working on both Christmas and New Year's Eve. But he could not refuse a direct order from the Captain — especially since he was already knee-deep in shit.

When Graham received the call at 3 a.m, he was explicitly told that he had to be in the captain's office first thing in the morning. It was now 10 O'clock, and not only was the Captain running late, but he was the only detective around. Most of his co-workers had taken days off for New Year's, so the precinct felt deserted. 

Graham didn't mind — after all, he hated working in those cramped offices. Fewer people meant more room to breathe. And yet, it all felt eerily quiet. Too quiet for a police precinct. With nothing else to do but wait, he decided to brave the winds and get a cigarette. 

Even though he loved the cold, Graham could hardly stand the bitter wind that particular morning. It made his dark skin dry and ashy, more prominently on the corners of his mouth. He cursed himself under his breath for forgetting his gloves and scarf at home. If it weren't for the cigarette between his fingers, his hands would be shivering. 

Save for the occasional jogger, the avenue in front of the precinct was completely empty. At this point, everyone was either on Sunday mass, or still hungover from partying the night before . His only company was a flock of fat pigeons fighting over the crumbs of a discarded pretzel lazily thrown near a garbage can. He tried getting into a nearby coffee shop where he usually ordered his morning cup of Joe, only to find it closed for the New Year's break. The only thing inside was darkness, and his reflection on the windows. 

Even on the semi-reflective surface, he could clearly see he looked like hot shit. Bloodshot eyes popped against his coarse skin, a product of years of cheap razor blades, and being too busy to apply aftershave. His slouched posture was a new sight thanks to many uncomfortable nights sleeping on a springy couch that made him more tired and sore by the night.

He was angry, and hungry, and most importantly for him: sleep-deprived. He was about to send everything to hell and return home when the bobbing red mane of Captain Dara Lynch signaled her arrival. She was clutching a brown paper bag, swinging merrily as she walked by. As soon as she saw Graham freezing outside the precinct, she doubled her steps, yelling at him from across the street as she approached.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya, Dunne! Have you been waitin' here this whole time?"

"Me? Nah," he lied with thinly veiled sarcasm, "just got here. Decided to get a smoke before you came in."

The Captain placed her bag on the floor, fiddling with a big keychain dangling from her belt. "Went up the scenic route to get some Dunkie's. All stores around here seem to be closed or somethin'. Figure ya be waitin' like the good boy ya is."

There was one thing, and one thing only, that could make Graham Dunne mad in an instant, and that was other people making him waste his precious time. Did he wait for hours because of some shitty donuts? If it were anyone else, he would have told them where to shove those donuts, but he wisely chose to bite his tongue and endure it.

"Ya gonna stand there all day, or ya gonna get some warm in ya?" said the Captain, opening the door for Graham to get in.

It was a short walk from the entrance to the Captain's office, deep in the middle of the first floor, past the dusty, empty desk of the other detectives on leave. Opening a rusty metal door, they both entered the little office, taking their respective seats. 

Graham hated being in that office. He could swear the Captain's chair was adjusted to be a little higher than the opposite chair, making him feel small and emasculated every time he was called in.

The Captain took a glazed donut from her paper bag, nibbling it like a toddler with her big buck teeth. Dara Lynch was a Southie girl to the bone, both brawny and catty. The freckles on her face were often obscured by the red locks of messy hair she refused to keep in a bun, with her bulging green eyes peering curiously at Graham.

"Where are my manners? Want one, Dunne?" she said, pushing the bag slowly towards Graham. He pushed it back just as slowly, his pride getting in the way of a perfectly good breakfast. He could feel the pastries still warm through the paper.

"Suit yourself," she scoffed, licking her fingers before wiping her hand on her pants.

Graham was getting impatient, tapping his shoe aggressively to get the Captain's attention. When that failed to produce a reaction, he piped up. "So...why was I called, Captain?"

As if remembering there was, indeed, a reason to be there, she got up, rummaging through a pile of folders piled up on a desk in the back of the room. "Told the guys at the leather district to take some cases off my hand. Everyone deserves some vacation days, even this little girl in blue. But, well, here we are, and duty calls. Got a case for ya."

She placed a single manila folder in front of Graham. The case number was taped on the tag of the folder. Case Number 27-223987; Geber, Z.

The first page was the case report. It was a fairly recent incident and one that he remembered clearly. "Wasn't this the lady that wrecked that expensive-looking car a few days ago? I remember watching this in the news."

"Yah huh, the very same," replied the Captain, fidgeting in her seat impatiently. "It was supposed to be an open-and-closed case. Ya saw how fucked up everythin' was on TV. The body turned to mush, the car turned into a heapin' ball o' nothin'. An awful accident."

Graham's attention was glued to the photos attached to the case file. Bits of flesh and blood scattered on an icy highway. A gory sight to be sure. Something was off, though.

"But it wasn't an accident, wasn't it? If it were, I wouldn't be here," he stated.

The Captain clapped once, throwing him some finger guns for emphasis. "Bingo. The body was a dead end for us, seein' that it was more chowder than people. But we managed to salvage the car with some interestin' results. Flip the page."

Graham did as requested, showing a picture of a disassembled car, some parts melted or damaged in some way. Stapled to it was a report, detailing their findings.

"I'll save ya the read. Someone cut the brakes. Or at least that's what the pencil pushers at central think. They didn't snap, or broke on impact, no nothing. Definitely cut with some precision tool. We need someone to dig into this."

"Says here that's only a possibility. It might be the result of the crash. Also, I don't read anything about motives, suspects, or anything else. Are you sure you want me to look into this?"

The Captain became uncharacteristically skittish, picking at her dirty fingernails with a lead pencil. "Yeah... there ain't much to go with, I know, but this whole thin' smells wicked shiesty. Also, this is an order from central, so we can't refuse."

Graham chuckled dryly. "You mean, I can't refuse."

"More or less, yeah."

"But," said Graham, "why me? Why can't you call Eriksson, or Mendez?"

He was met with silence. The deep green eyes of the Captain met his own hazel ones, maintaining eye contact for a second. Graham felt there was something she wanted to tell him, but she wouldn't. Couldn't, even.

"Ya know ya owe me one. And ya need the case too. See it as redemption from yer previous fuck-up."

He went slightly cold at the brief mention of said mistake. 

"Heck, Dunne, don't look so pale," snorted the Captain, lightening up the mood, "think of it as a friend throwin' you a bone. Helpin' ya get back to yer feet."

"Well, thanks, I guess." 

"No biggie!" said the Captain, giving him a pat on the back while walking towards the door. "Now, move that tush the hell outta here and get to work. Take the file with ya. I would start with the husband, findin' out anythin' you can from him. I sent Johnson and Williams a few days ago to interrogate 'im. The notes they took are in the files. Anythin' else you need, ya can call me. Go on."

Needless to say, his vacation days were over. 

FIVE DAYS AFTER THE DISASTER