Track + Trace

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Excerpt from Track + Trace

Ten minutes.

Exactly ten minutes since Morgan Blackburn first saw the photograph of Jenna Langston in the case file. The image clung to her mind like smoke, curling around her thoughts and refusing to dissipate.

The squad room buzzed with its usual discordant symphony—keyboards clicking in uneven rhythms, phones shrilling out questions no one wanted to answer, and Detective Reeves muttering obscenities at the coffeemaker as though cursing it might improve its performance. Blackburn sat at her desk, a striking figure of calm amidst chaos, her pen gliding across the page with surgical precision as she filled out evidence transfer requests for Traffic Services.

Outwardly poised, she could have been mistaken for a woman entirely consumed by routine paperwork. But inside, a different current flowed. Each heartbeat seemed louder than the last; each breath carefully measured as though exhaling might release the questions clawing at her insides.

Why had Brynn Cassidy called her and pointed her toward Jenna’s death? What did she know? Had Brynn spoken with Jenna before her untimely collision with three tons of autonomous machinery? Brynn—a journalist whose curiosity was both relentless and inconvenient—had a way of knowing things she shouldn’t. Did she know about their night? About Gasquet? About what had happened between them just hours before Jenna’s death?

Gasquet. The username on BDSMessages, buried deep enough to shield identities even from digital crumbs. It was Jenna’s alias, not Langston’s real name, and Blackburn took quiet solace in that veil of separation. If anyone dared dig too close—or if Brynn pushed too far—Blackburn knew she could still deny everything.

“Morning, boss.”

Detective Riley Cooper appeared beside her desk like clockwork, a stack of manila folders tucked under his arm. His presence broke through the fugue, clouding Blackburn’s thoughts.

“I’ve got those personnel files you wanted from Records,” Cooper said, his tone neutral, professional.

Blackburn lifted her gaze without turning her head fully toward him; her frown was subtle but deliberate, as though deep concentration had been interrupted. “Thanks,” she said with detached efficiency, gesturing absently toward an existing mountain of documents on the corner of her desk. “Put them over there.”

Her hand returned immediately to the file in front of her, eyes locked on the crime scene photos that now stared back with unforgiving clarity: Langston’s body crumpled against jagged asphalt like discarded scaffolding, arms and legs twisted into grotesque angles that defied anatomy’s logic. Blood pooled beneath her temple and painted dark curls that glistened unnervingly under streaks of reflected light—a grotesque halo marking the moment life fled her body.

Blackburn lingered on the photo for half a second longer than intended before snapping it aside.

Next came statements: witness accounts riddled with contradictions that swirled together like oil on water—distinct yet irreconcilable. Two pedestrians claimed they’d seen the car drifting down Oak Street without a driver behind the wheel; another insisted he’d glimpsed “a shadow” moving erratically in the driver’s seat just before impact. And then there was one particularly disturbing claim: a witness who swore the vehicle reversed after hitting Jenna—rolling back over her shattered frame as if under malevolent direction.

What the fuck?

Her pen hovered just above a blank notepad as she began scrawling notes in sharp strokes: car trajectory unexplained… Witness contradictions… Driver question unresolved…

Traffic Services must’ve phoned this one in; their investigative efforts barely skimmed surface-level competency, leaving gaping holes where answers should have been. But then again, they weren’t Morgan Blackburn—and no one else brought results quite like hers.

She rose abruptly from her chair with files secured tightly under one arm and a legal pad pressed firmly beneath it—a picture of calculated determination veiling simmering frustration beneath every movement. With fluid grace honed by years navigating rooms full of egos and unspoken rivalries, Blackburn stepped into Homicide’s bullpen.

The space greeted her with its characteristic disarray—a mosaic of cluttered desks drowned beneath loose papers marked by hurried scrawls and greasy takeout cartons stacked precariously from nights stretched too long into mornings.

“Eyes up,” Blackburn commanded, slicing through idle chatter like steel carving stone. Her voice carried an edge sharper than any reprimand; it demanded attention without raising volume—a skill perfected over years spent tethering chaos into compliance.

Four heads snapped upward instantly at her directive: Sinclair lounged lazily in his chair but betrayed interest through an arched brow; Reeves froze mid-spin atop his swivel seat like he’d been caught mid-act; Cooper straightened reluctantly from his habitual slouch as though trying to escape gravity’s pull; and Dawson—the human embodiment of friction—fussed excessively over an empty stapler he pretended required urgent maintenance.

Blackburn stood still for a moment, allowing silence to coil tightly around them all before loosening its grip when she spoke again.

“This case just dropped onto our desks,” she began, her tone sharp enough to slice through the morning haze. She held up the file for emphasis as she moved into the circle of worn chairs and coffee-stained desks. “Autonomous vehicle hit-and-run on Oak Street this morning. Early. Traffic Services worked the scene for hours, but no word from the M.E. yet on whether it’s a homicide. Doesn’t matter—that’s how we’re handling it. The media will be all over this one thanks to the no-driver angle.”

She slammed the folder down onto Sinclair’s desk with a resounding thud, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot. A deliberate move—the room stilled instantly, all eyes locking onto her.

“Sinclair.” Her gaze pinned him in place as he straightened slightly, though his trademark adoration shone stubbornly in his eyes. “You’re point on anything tech-related,” she snapped, her voice as crisp as shattered glass. “Coordinate with forensics—find out what you can pull from the car’s hardware and software systems. Get Willow Adler to assist; trust me, you’ll need her.” She tapped two fingers to her temple like a metronome before throwing another task his way: “Traffic Division owes us their incident reports by noon—line-by-line analysis, and I want it on my desk today.”

“Anything else?” Sinclair asked dryly, twirling a pen between long fingers like it was a game he might actually win.

“Yes,” Blackburn said coldly, her voice sharp enough to make him blink. She leveled him with a glare that could pierce steel. “Re-interview every single witness who claims they saw something unusual at that intersection—especially those two insisting there was no driver.”

Sinclair gave her a faint nod, though his lust lingered just shy of insolence as he spun his pen absently, testing how far he could push without consequence.

Blackburn turned next to Cooper, who hunched over under his own weight—the kinds of shoulders broad enough for heavy loads but worn down by years of carrying too much anyway—and shoved another set of directives into his hands without ceremony.

“Cooper,” she began, no introduction needed, not with this group. “You’re on Jenna Langston herself: first step is family contacts—parents if they’re alive; siblings if there are any; coworkers next.” Her tone hardened, steeling itself against hesitation or excuses: “Dig into her online life too—friends, hookups…all of it.”

Cooper nodded once, short and efficient as he scrawled barely legible shorthand across an old lined pad of paper perched precariously atop coffee-ring stains from meetings long past. He glanced up briefly with a question already forming:

“Has the family been notified yet?”

“Call Sgt. Beckett in Traffic and find out,” Blackburn shot back without missing a beat. “Priority one—do it now.”

Her attention shifted next to Reeves—a man who always wore reluctance like armor these days but followed orders all the same—and locked onto him before handing off part two of the messy puzzle they’d been handed this morning.

“You’ll ride with me later today,” Blackburn told him bluntly, her words lined in steel but sparing no room for argument. “We’re heading back to Langston’s scene.” She paused long enough to gauge whether he’d push back; he didn’t—just nodded while scratching absently at his neck with the cap-end of a cheap ballpoint pen still chewing through his nerves.

“We’ll need to secure a warrant for Jenna Langston’s home as soon as possible,” she added simply—but like an iron nail hammered into stone: finality woven seamlessly behind each syllable.

Reeves barely muttered agreement under controlled breath; reluctance flickered momentarily behind weary eyes.

The room pressed on Blackburn as she leaned over Sinclair’s desk, her palms flat against its surface. The slight tilt of her posture was calculated—not threatening, but commanding enough to demand attention. “We’re treating this as a homicide until proven otherwise,” she said, her voice low and steady, each word a deliberate strike. Her words weren’t for Sinclair alone; they were meant for everyone within earshot. “A victim like this? An autonomous vehicle? The press will destroy us if we don’t control the narrative.”

Straightening, Blackburn’s gaze swept across the bullpen. She paused, waiting for someone to oppose her, to throw out an underbaked theory or question her strategy. None came. Instead, pens scratched against paper and keyboards clattered as the team dove into their tasks without protest.

Satisfied, she pivoted on her heel and strode back to her office, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. Her hand hovered over the phone for a beat before dialing Dr. Petrović’s number. She needed more than the skeletal details from the initial medical report—she needed answers.

The line hissed before the doctor’s voice crackled through, marked by the rough edges of fatigue and his thick Serbian accent. “Detective Blackburn,” he greeted. “I’m still working through the initial findings.”

“Spare me what I already know,” Blackburn said, impatience threading through her tone. “Give me something useful.”

There was a faint shuffling of papers on his end before he spoke again. “The victim—Ms. Langston—was struck by the autonomous vehicle at significant speed. Based on the impact pattern, I estimate it was traveling at approximately forty miles per hour.”

Blackburn’s fingers drummed a soft rhythm on her desk as she listened. She could almost picture Petrović’s furrowed brow as he read from his notes.

“She suffered multiple fractures along her left side—arm, leg, pelvis,” he continued. “There is also a deep cranial laceration that reached the skull. But it’s the chest trauma that stands out.” He hesitated, letting the silence stretch just long enough to amplify tension. “Massive compression of the chest cavity… ribs splintered like kindling, one lung collapsed… Some internal organs were severely damaged.”

“And?” Blackburn pressed, sensing there was more.

Petrović cleared his throat lightly, his next words deliberate. “Linear marks on both wrists. Consistent with restraints—possibly handcuffs or wire.”

Blackburn stilled.

“The bruising pattern suggests they were made well before the collision,” he added after a pause.

“How long before?” Her voice was low now—a dangerous undercurrent.

“Hours earlier, judging by the discoloration.” His tone turned cautious but firm. “I’ll confirm specifics after completing my full examination.”

“When will I have your report?”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest,” Petrović assured her before adding in a lowered tone, “But Detective—those restraint marks tell a very different story than an accidental road death.”

“That’s why I’m investigating, Doctor.”

Blackburn ended the call without ceremony and stared down at the crime scene photos splayed across her desk like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. Her jaw tightened as she zeroed in on one particular detail: those bruises around Ms. Langston’s wrists had come from her own handcuffs—a pleasure at the time, but now a secret she couldn’t afford to let surface.

She exhaled through her nose and leaned back in her chair, shoulders stiff with tension that wouldn’t dissipate no matter how hard she willed it away. One thing at a time, Blackburn told herself firmly. First step: make sure Chief Hayes officially cleared her to stay on this case. That wouldn’t be easy—Hayes was no pushover—but she would handle him when the moment came.

Her eyes flicked to the bullpen beyond her office door in search of distraction and found Dawson slouched at his desk, half-hidden behind a newspaper he seemed more interested in than his work.

Quarry.

Moving with an almost predatory grace, Blackburn rose from her chair and crossed the room silently but deliberately, every step measured and purposeful, like a lion closing in on unsuspecting prey. Adrenaline hummed beneath her skin—not frantic but cold and sharp—honing her awareness down to every detail: the faint scuff of polished soles against tile, muted conversations blending into ambient noise, and Dawson’s oblivious demeanor as he remained hunched over his newspaper.

She let herself feel it—that pulse of controlled energy coursing through her veins—as she drew near. The hunt wasn’t over yet; it had just begun.

Sinclair caught sight of her first. His body stiffened, his throat clearing once—then again—a clipped warning slicing through the ambient noise. Dawson, oblivious to Sinclair’s subtle alert, lounged in his chair, eyes glued to the newspaper in front of him.

“You coming down with something?” Dawson muttered without glancing up, his voice casual.

“No,” Blackburn’s voice cut through the space like a slow blade, smooth and low. “He’s trying to tell you I’m standing right behind you.”

Dawson froze mid-turn of the page, his fingers trembling as he crinkled the paper in his grip. Slowly, he lowered it until his wide-eyed face was exposed—a mixture of shock and apprehension etched into his features. Blackburn moved closer, circling behind him like a lioness stalking an unwitting gazelle.

“Boss,” he stammered as he straightened awkwardly in his seat. “I was just checking for, uh… any media reports on Deonte Mills’s death. You know, in case any witnesses talked to reporters instead of us.”

Blackburn stared down at him, her eyebrow arched—a silent indictment that made Dawson shift uncomfortably in his chair. “A solid plan,” she said coolly. “Except Mills wasn’t playing defense for the Eagles last I checked.” Her gaze flicked pointedly to the bold “SPORTS” header at the top of Dawson’s newspaper before locking back on him.

Dawson flushed deep crimson as realization dawned. He scrambled to fold away the paper but managed to crush it further in fumbling embarrassment. The sound of rustling newsprint seemed deafening in the now-still office air.

Sinclair sat frozen nearby, his eyes darting between Dawson and Blackburn like a spectator at a gladiator match. A flicker of admiration crossed his face—admiration tinged with relief that he wasn’t this round’s victim.

Dawson’s shoulders sagged under Blackburn’s unrelenting gaze. “Come on,” he pleaded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Cut me some slack.”

Blackburn leaned forward slightly, just enough for her words to hit their mark like daggers tipped with ice. “Slack?” she murmured, her tone dangerous and razor-thin. “Dawson, you’ll be lucky if I don’t snap you in two.”

Her threat lingered heavily in the air until even Cooper and Reeves—seated across the room—deliberately avoided looking up from their paperwork. The tension sprawled out over the bullpen like an electric charge waiting to spark.

“Crime scene photos from Mills’s murder,” she declared after an agonizing pause. “Copies on my desk—now.”

She turned without further acknowledgment and strode toward her office, each step punctuated by an aura of command that silenced any thought of objection. Her silhouette dissolved into shadow as she disappeared beyond the frosted-glass door.

Sinclair exhaled softly through pursed lips as he watched her go—the taut line of his shoulders easing once she was out of earshot. His eyes flickered toward Dawson briefly: pity mingled with quiet relief that it hadn’t been him under her scrutiny today.

The office hummed with a faint undercurrent of tension as Blackburn closed the door behind her. The soft click of the latch echoed, folding the space into silence. Sinclair’s eyes lingered on her hands, his focus unyielding. There was a precision to her movements, the way her fingers curled around the handle—strong, deliberate, yet elegant. Her nails gleamed, perfectly manicured, their meticulous upkeep a stark juxtaposition to the brutality of their line of work. The contrast held him captive, his gaze tracing the interplay of poise and power. A flush crept up his neck as an unbidden thought surfaced; he imagined those hands and felt warmth bloom across his face.

The spell broke when Blackburn disappeared into her office, leaving the bullpen suspended in a peculiar stillness. Dawson sat frozen in his chair, a crumpled newspaper limp in his grasp, while Sinclair’s eyes fluttered, his unfocused gaze gradually steadying on Blackburn’s face. He turned toward his desk, though something in the way his eyes darted back to her hands suggested they’d left more of an impression than he cared to admit.

Inside, Blackburn sank into her chair with fluid ease. The leather sighed softly beneath her weight as she leaned back. Her fingers hesitated above the phone on her desk before moving purposefully to dial Chief Hayes’s number.

The phone rang once—a sharp tone cutting through quiet—then twice. Each chime stretched endlessly before a gruff voice answered on the third ring: “Chief Hayes.”

“It’s Blackburn,” she said evenly. Her voice betrayed none of the storm inside her, though each word carried a subtle weight, heavy with unspoken truths.

“What is it, Detective?” Hayes replied, impatience threading through his tone like static.

Blackburn straightened in her chair, one hand curling into a fist at her side. Her nails bit into her palm—a small point of pain to anchor herself. “The Jenna Langston case,” she began carefully. “The hit-and-run transferred from Traffic Services to Homicide.” She paused before continuing, each word selected with precision. “I’ve realized I knew the victim—met her previously under another name.”

A brief silence spooled out between them. Then Hayes’s voice returned, lower now and measured. “What exactly are you saying?”

She swallowed hard against the dryness in her throat, forcing herself onward despite how bitter the admission tasted. “Jenna Langston,” Blackburn said slowly, deliberately. “I knew her as Jenna Gasquet.” She hesitated for a heartbeat before adding, “We spent the night together.”

“You spent the night with our victim?” Hayes’s voice went flat, dangerous. “Jesus Christ, Blackburn.” A sharp exhale crackled through the line. “You’re telling me you were potentially the last person to see her alive before she was murdered? Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

“Yes,” Blackburn confirmed quietly but firmly. Her eyes closed for an instant as she braced herself against the memory rippling through her mind like an aftershock. “We parted ways that morning. I offered to drive her—”

“Stop. Right there.” His words landed like stones. “This isn’t just about optics anymore. You’re a potential witness in a homicide investigation. Hell, depending on how this plays out, you could end up being a person of interest.” A heavy pause. “You need to recuse yourself. Now.”

Blackburn could hear the Chief rise from his chair and begin pacing his office. She stared at lines of cold text on her computer screen but saw flashes of Jenna’s face in fragmented moments: laughter over wine; screams shared before sleep; shadows passing like ghosts through morning light when their paths diverged forever.

The air in Blackburn’s office was heavy, the blinds drawn tight against the late afternoon light. She sat behind her desk, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand braced against its edge. Her posture exuded control, but her knuckles whitened against the polished wood—a rare crack in the façade.

“I understand the protocol, Chief,” Blackburn said evenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “But let’s not confuse procedure with purpose. The protocol is about signing a declaration, not dictating assignments. Do not lose sight of what’s at stake here.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air, each syllable weighted with intent. “This wasn’t just a tragic accident. Jenna Langston was killed by an autonomous vehicle. A car that didn’t just hit her but—if the witnesses are to be believed—reversed to ensure it finished the job.” Her upper lip curled slightly. “That’s every conspiracy theorist’s fever dream made flesh.”

The silence on the other end stretched taut, but she pressed forward, relentless.

“This isn’t just Jenna Langston’s story anymore—it’s what it signifies for us all: for this industry, for this department, for the force itself.” Her tone hardened as she paced to the window, peering out through a sliver of light between slats. “The Stan Raider Group just inked a deal with New Dresden PD to provide autonomous patrol cars, vehicles designed to prevent crime—not cause it. Do you think anyone out there,”—her gaze swept across the city skyline—“will bother parsing nuance? They won’t distinguish between this incident and Raider’s tech rollout. They’ll tear us apart. The department. The city. You.” Her voice dropped lower, sharper still. “The mayor.”

A faint clearing of the throat came through the line before Hayes responded, his tone measured but defensive. “Blackburn, you’re jumping ahead again. The investigation hasn’t even concluded whether this was a malfunction or—”

“It wasn’t a malfunction,” she snapped back instantly, her words slicing clean through his objection. She turned from the window and leaned forward over her desk, her voice fierce yet controlled as she continued: “I spoke with Dr. Petrović myself; he was explicit about the injuries—a level of precision no machine should achieve by accident.” She let that image linger before adding quietly but forcefully, “This isn’t just a mechanical failure, sir. This is about public trust in policing technology.”

Her hand relaxed on the desk as she shifted gears, softer now but no less resolute: “Do you want someone else handling this? Someone who doesn’t understand what we’re up against? Someone without my clearance rate?” The question landed heavy in the silence that followed.

“You don’t think you’re too close?” Hayes asked finally, though there was hesitation in his voice.

Her lips curved into something close to a smile—but not quite. “I’m never too close,” she said simply. Then after a beat: “But I met her.” Her gaze dropped momentarily to an empty file on her desk before snapping back up again. “I put a human face to this case, Chief—and I’ll work harder because of it.” The intensity returned to her voice now as she straightened up fully once more: “No one else will have my drive or my focus—you know that as well as I do.”

A heavy exhale crackled faintly through the line before Hayes spoke again—slower this time but no less skeptical: “The optics aren’t great right now… And there’s already press sniffing around.”

Blackburn allowed herself a quick glance at a corner bulletin board cluttered with pinned notes and photos—the unmistakable figure of Brynn Cassidy caught mid-motion among them like prey frozen in amber—and answered briskly: “It’s Brynn Cassidy,” she said dismissively but then softened just enough to make her next words land with precision rather than force: “She’s handling her angle; I’ll handle everything else.”

She pivoted quickly then without giving him space to interrupt further: “Give me seventy-two hours,” she urged with finality etched into every syllable now brimming beneath calm composure; determination saturating every word thereafter effortlessly spilling out next like cascading promises unbidden yet fully deliberate. “I’ll prove beyond doubt why there’s no better option than me running point here. If any possibility arises compromising either myself personally—or jeopardizing resolution outright—I’ll remove myself immediately while assisting the transition to someone else, ensuring zero disruption.”

She heard music. The bastard put me on hold.

Blackburn could almost picture Chief Hayes on the other end, desperately consulting with the assistant chiefs about his new problem. Finally, a soft click, and his voice cut through the void.

“Seventy-two hours. That’s all you’ve got. The last thing we need is some hotshot from Major Crimes turning this into a media circus—and you’re right about one thing: no one else has your background in autonomous systems.” He let out a weary sigh. “But screw this up, and I’ll pull you off the case so fast your head will spin.”

Relief surged through Blackburn, though her face betrayed nothing. Her tone remained steady, clipped. “Understood, Chief.” She ended the call with precision, her fingers lingering momentarily on the phone before setting it down with deliberate care.

The gamble had paid off, just as she’d known it would. Chief Hayes was nothing if not predictable when it came to her flawless record. Another detective in her shoes might have been pulled without hesitation, but Blackburn knew just how much rope to give herself—enough transparency to keep suspicions at bay while retaining control of the case. Perfect execution, as always.

Her thoughts shifted to Jenna Langston—a name now etched into the fabric of her mind like a stain refusing to fade. This wasn’t just another case; it was a hunt, and Morgan Blackburn wasn’t one to lose quarry.

A timid shuffle sounded at her doorway, drawing her attention. Dawson entered hesitantly, his posture shrinking under an invisible weight. Shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, he moved as though dreading her gaze. Barely above a whisper, he placed a folder on her desk and stammered one word: “Photos.”

Blackburn didn’t spare him more than a glance before snatching up the file. Dawson slinked away without waiting for dismissal; if he’d had a tail, it would’ve been firmly tucked between his legs as he retreated.

Crossing into the bullpen with purpose, she scanned the room until her piercing gaze fell upon Reeves. “Oak Street,” she barked, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass.

Reeves jolted upright like a dog caught raiding the dinner table, his eyes wide with startled guilt.

“We’re going there now,” she continued briskly, already putting on her coat in one fluid motion. “Let’s see if we can unfuck what’s been done to our crime scene.” Reeves scrambled to comply without a word of protest.

From across the room came a muffled snort—Sinclair’s ill-advised attempt at humor breaking through his guarded façade. Blackburn’s glare snapped toward him like lightning striking its mark, silencing him instantly and leaving him shrinking in his chair.

Langston’s case file and Mill’s crime scene photos were securely under her arm as she strode toward the exit with resolute purpose. The gears of her mind turned relentlessly, analyzing every fragment of evidence like teeth grinding against each other under strain.

Someone wanted Jenna Langston dead—that much was no longer conjecture but certainty—and whatever secrets had perished with her were buried deeper than shattered glass or skewed tire tracks would reveal on first inspection. But Morgan Blackburn wasn’t one to stop digging until she found either bedrock or bone—and she had no intention of stopping anytime soon.