Dream: Part Six

Reese reclines back in his chair, staring at the pictures he has posted up on the back wall of the briefing room.  He sits still, tilting his head from time to time, thinking. 

            “Hey, got a minute?”

            He spins the chair around.  He hadn’t realized how long he has been here.

            “Yeah, what’s up?”

            Reese’s partner steps into the room.  Mila is young, and relatively new to Narcotics.  She has a case file in her hand and looks ready to launch into a prepared speech when she catches sight of the collage he has set up.  There are pictures of drop sites, mug shots of known dealers and runners, car tags, and a bright blue powder. 

            “Is this Dream?”

            He turns back to face the wall, running his hands through his hair.  Scanning the pictures again, he takes a deep breath.

            “Yeah, this is what we’ve got so far.  The stuff has been on the streets for months, but we’ve really seen a major increase in the last few weeks.”

            “I thought we had turned this over to the DEA?”

            Reese looks up at her. 

            “I just feel like we are missing something critical here.  And, in case you were wondering, I am here on my own time.  I had to take Lana downtown anyways.”

            There is a pause, a palpable weighing of alliances, he can taste it in the air between them.  She slides into the seat next to him, setting the case file on the table behind her and looking intently at the photos taped to the wall.

            “Okay.  So tell me what you’re thinking.”

            He grins. “Alright, so we know that Dream is flowing into the city in massive quantities.  We just don’t know how.  There have been arrests made, sure.  But those were all small time runners, delivering the goods to junkies.  All they had on them was whatever they needed for the drop.  This brings us back to: where is it coming from?”

            Mila looks over the mug shots from the runners brought in.

            “Is there some connection between them?  Gang related?  Same neighborhood?  Same school growing up?”

            “No.  Nothing anyone has come across yet.  It’s like someone is picking up known runners from all over the city and creating some sort of larger, integrated system.  And whoever this asshole is, they are paying well.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “Because not one of these guys will talk.”

            “Nothing?”

            He stands up and points to the picture in the very center of the wall.  It is a page torn from a comic. 

            “One word.  We got one word from one of them.”

            He taps the picture, “Sandman.”

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