Mystery Chaser: The Assassination

The city was waking up, as it always did, with the kind of slow, reluctant grace that came from centuries of existence. The cobblestone streets were slick from the early morning rain, the faint echo of footsteps reverberating in the narrow alleyways. Gabriel Wells walked through the mist, his coat collar turned up against the cold, his eyes sharp and calculating as he made his way toward the police station.

The events of the previous day played over in his mind like a film on repeat. The photograph. The clock. The strange feeling that had begun to settle deep in his chest, a weight that refused to be shaken off. What Peter had shown him was more than just a relic from the past—it was a key to something darker, something dangerous. And the more Gabriel thought about it, the more it felt like the past was not just lingering, but clawing its way back into his present life.

He entered the police station, nodding briefly to the officers who passed him in the hallway. It was early, but the station was already bustling with activity. The place smelled of stale coffee, paper, and the unmistakable tang of worn leather. Gabriel wasn't a cop anymore, but the old instincts never died, and he knew exactly where to find Nathaniel Bishop, the chief of police.

Bishop's office was on the second floor, tucked away at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, Gabriel could see the chief hunched over a pile of case files. Bishop was a man of middling height, with a weathered face that looked like it had seen too much. His hair was graying at the temples, his sharp eyes always scanning, always alert.

Gabriel knocked twice and entered.

"Wells," Bishop grunted, glancing up with a look of mild surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Gabriel didn't bother with pleasantries. "I need to ask you about something."

Bishop raised an eyebrow, but motioned for Gabriel to sit. "Go on."

"About Peter. The antique shop owner."

The mention of Peter seemed to catch Bishop off guard for a moment. His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. "What about him?"

"Peter has something—something old. Something connected to me." Gabriel's gaze didn't leave Bishop's face, searching for any sign of recognition, any hint that the chief knew more than he was letting on.

Bishop was silent for a moment, tapping a pen against the edge of his desk. "And what exactly does this have to do with a dead antique dealer?"

"Nothing, yet." Gabriel leaned forward. "But I think it will. I found something. A photograph. A clock. Both connected to something... buried deep in my past."

Bishop narrowed his eyes. "I told you to stay out of this, Wells. It's not your case anymore."

"I'm not here as a cop," Gabriel said, his tone hardening. "I'm here as someone who's been dragged into something bigger than he's ready for. And I need answers."

Bishop leaned back in his chair, studying Gabriel with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "You want answers? Start looking in the right places."

Gabriel clenched his jaw. Bishop wasn't the type to offer help unless there was something in it for him. And with the way the chief's eyes flicked toward the stack of papers on his desk, Gabriel could tell that the last thing he wanted was to get involved in some old ghost from Gabriel's past.

But Gabriel wasn't backing down. "I need access to the archives," he said, his voice calm but insistent. "The military records. The ones related to the war."

Bishop paused, then gave a reluctant nod. "I'll get someone to escort you down. But this doesn't mean you're back on the force. Understand?"

Gabriel nodded curtly. "I understand."

The cold stone steps leading down to the basement archives smelled like mildew and age. Gabriel's footsteps echoed as he descended into the dimly lit corridor. The low hum of overhead lights barely illuminated the shelves of old files, some stacked neatly, others haphazardly tossed aside as if someone had abandoned their work in a hurry.

A young officer stood at the entrance to the archive room, his eyes slightly wary but respectful. "Mr. Wells," he said, nodding as Gabriel approached. "I've been told you need to look through the military files?"

Gabriel's gaze swept over the officer, a quiet thank you in his eyes. "That's right."

The officer led him into the room, a musty space filled with towering shelves of dusty boxes. The rows seemed endless, stretching back farther than Gabriel could see. A single desk sat in the middle, a pile of forgotten papers scattered across its surface. Gabriel turned his attention to the officer.

"Find me anything from the 1940s," he said. "Particularly anything to do with experiments or military operations that might have involved civilians or soldiers... anything that could be classified."

The officer hesitated but nodded. "I'll see what I can do. It's all locked up pretty tight, though. You'll need clearance for some of it."

Gabriel didn't respond right away. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the shelves, his mind turning over the pieces of the puzzle he'd uncovered. The photograph, the clock, Peter's cryptic words—all of it seemed to point to something larger than an old war operation. Something that was hidden, buried deep beneath the surface of the past, and now someone was trying to make sure that it stayed buried.

The officer returned after a few minutes, a handful of files in his hands. "This is all I could get without a direct order from Bishop," he said, placing the files on the desk. "You're going to have to go through them yourself."

Gabriel nodded, flipping through the documents. The more he read, the more his stomach churned. There were mentions of covert operations, of testing new technologies on unsuspecting subjects, of soldiers being used as lab rats in the name of progress. The files were sparse, cryptic, and seemed to stop just short of revealing anything concrete. But there was one name that kept popping up—a name he had not expected to see.

Victor Blackwood.

Gabriel's heart skipped a beat as the name hit him like a cold wave. He'd heard it before, in passing, in whispers. Blackwood was a shadow in the city, a figure that operated from the highest levels of influence, pulling strings from behind the scenes. He was a man whose name carried weight—money, power, corruption, and influence. But why would his name be linked to a military operation from over seventy years ago?

He closed the file and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess in front of him. A photograph from the 1940s. A clock that had been passed down through generations. A name that seemed to be everywhere.

He had to confront Peter again. But something told him that the old man knew more than he was letting on.

As Gabriel stood up, the officer lingered in the doorway. "Are you sure you want to go further with this, Mr. Wells?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Gabriel paused for a moment, his gaze meeting the officer's. "I'm sure."

And with that, he left the archives, the files in hand, the weight of his past settling like a stone in his gut. There was no turning back now. The mist had thickened. The shadows were closing in.

The hunt had only just begun.