Chapter 7: Echoes in the Dark
The 12th Precinct bullpen never truly slept, but the late-night shift had a different pulse—a quieter, more grinding tension under the harsh fluorescent lights. The aroma of old coffee and photocopier toner was a jarring replacement for garlic and wine.
Beckett’s desk was the new epicentre. Her computer screen glowed, casting a pale blue light on their faces as they huddled around. She played the video again, the distorted voice cutting through the low murmur of the precinct.
“Your conservator wasn’t careful. Your courier wasn’t loyal. Your forger wasn’t useful.”
On the second viewing, shock slipped into analysis.
“Hold up—freeze it.” Esposito said, leaning in. Beckett paused the video on the frame where the gloved hand lifted Crowe’s chin. The mark on his cheek was clearer now—a small, meticulously painted rendition of the screaming figure from Munch’s masterpiece, its mouth a perfect, agonized ‘O’ against the man’s pallid skin.
“That’s definitely intentional. Like a logo.” Ryan observed, studying the image.
“A signature. He’s not labeling the victim—he’s signing his work,” Jane corrected quietly, his eyes not on the screen but on the reactions around it.
Castle shoved his hands in his pockets. “So—artist with anger issues. Or an art critic with commitment problems.” He glanced at Jane, a competitive edge in his voice. “And for the record, that was my theory two hours ago.”
“Then you’re ahead of schedule,” Jane replied pleasantly, “Now we just have to catch the facts up to you. Play it again. Audio only. Close your eyes.”
Beckett shot him a look but complied, muting the video. The distorted, robotic voice filled the space again, metallic and cold.
Jane’s own eyes were closed, his expression one of deep listening, as if he were deciphering a faint song in a foreign language. As the message ended, he held up a finger. “There. Did you hear it?”
“All I heard was Darth Vader on a flip phone.” Ryan stated.
“Underneath. The spatial characteristics.” Jane opened his eyes. “Hollow echo. High ceilings. The sound decay is long—industrial scale. And the hum? Old generator. Pre-grid or auxiliary.”
Lisbon sighed. “Normal people, Jane. Translate for them.”
“Big building. Hard surfaces. Outdated power source.” He looked at Beckett. “Your techs can isolate ?”
Beckett was already reaching for her phone. “Already calling it in.” She dialled, her instructions short and clear.
Castle paced behind the group, gesturing dramatically. “Warehouse. Red Hook, Navy Yard, Brooklyn waterfront—take your pick..”
Cho, who had been silently observing, spoke up. “Could be a hangar. Echo fits a curved metal roof.”
“Queens has a ton of decommissioned factories. Could be any of those,” Esposito offered.
Lisbon squared her shoulders, a gesture of practical frustration. “New York is basically one big abandoned industrial zone. We need something narrower.” She turned to Beckett. “Can your people pull anything from the shadows behind Crowe? Equipment, labels, anything?”
“Sent it to forensics. They’ll enhance what they can.” Beckett said, firing off an email to the digital forensics unit.
Ryan was scrolling through a database on his own screen. “Cross-referencing properties tied to victims or gallery owners. Warehouses, storage units, restoration spaces—anything that fits.”
Jane, however, had drifted away from the huddle. He was standing by the window, looking down at the rain-slicked streets, his reflection ghostly in the dark glass. Castle watched him, a novelist studying a rival’s process.
“You’re not studying the evidence.” Castle said, approaching him. “You’re studying us.”
Jane’s reflection smiled. “Evidence tells you what happened. People tell you why it happened. If we find the ‘why,’ the ‘where’ will follow.” He turned around, leaning against the sill. “Our killer isn’t just demanding the original painting. He’s staging a performance. He wants an audience..”
“Terrific. We’ve got a homicidal showman?” Esposito grumbled.
“You always did. You just didn’t have the program notes,” Jane said, pushing off the window and walking back to the desk. He pointed at the frozen image of Marcus Crowe. “Look at the bindings. Secure, but not brutal. He wasn’t rushed. And the mark—clean lines, deliberate strokes. This was crafted. He enjoyed the arrangement.”
Beckett felt a chill that had nothing to do with the precinct’s overactive AC. Jane was right. There was a grotesque pride in the scene.
Her phone rang. “Beckett.” She listened, grabbing a pen. “Yeah. Go ahead.” She scribbled notes. “Okay… okay. Send it all to me.” She hung up. “Audio’s cleaned up. The hum is consistent with a large, diesel-powered backup generator. Old model. And she isolated a secondary sound—distant, rhythmic. Metallic.”
“A loose metal door or shutter banging in the wind?” Ryan suggested.
“Or a chain,” Cho said, his voice flat. “On a hook. Swinging.”
The image was visceral and unpleasant. Beckett pulled up the new audio file the tech had sent. They listened to the isolated loop: a low, irregular clank… clank… that underpinned the generator’s rumble.
Jane’s eyes lit up. “Not wind. Too steady. Someone walked past it—caused it to sway.” He snapped his fingers softly. “He’s not in an empty warehouse. He’s in a stocked one. Tools. Equipment. Objects hanging.”
Castle’s mind raced. “So—big artist’s studio?”
“Or a restoration space,” Beckett countered. “Backup power makes sense for preserving materials.”
Ryan tapped a frustrated rhythm on his keyboard, his eyes scanning dense columns of data. “Okay, I’m pulling every warehouse, commercial studio, decommissioned factory, and industrial space within a twenty-mile radius that logs a generator permit.” He exhaled sharply, leaning back. “At this rate, we’ll still be at it by sunrise.”
Beckett watched the progress bar on his screen crawl, a knot tightening in her stomach. There has to be a way to speed this up. Crowe didn’t have hours. The killer’s tone had been one of impatient curation, not infinite patience.
Beckett stared at the slow-moving progress bar. A knot formed under her ribs.
Crowe didn’t have sunrise to spare.
Jane, perched on the edge of a desk, observed Lisbon’s profile. “You could call Agent Mancini,” he offered lightly, as if suggesting she try a new tea flavour.
Lisbon didn’t look at him. “No.”
“The FBI’s cross-referencing system is exponentially faster than municipal databases,” Jane continued, gently swinging one foot. “We could have viable locations before Ryan finishes his coffee.”
She finally turned—green eyes flicking him a knock it off glare. But Jane’s comment had already drawn the bullpen’s attention. Beckett, Castle, Esposito, Ryan—all work had stilled.
“I said no,” Lisbon repeated, firmer. “We are not calling the FBI.”
Jane lifted one shoulder. “But Mancini owes you a favour.”
Cho stepped beside Lisbon, offering quiet reinforcement.
“They did shoot you,” he said matter-of-factly.
Lisbon’s jaw flexed. A dozen emotions flickered over her face—annoyance, calculation, resignation.
Finally, she muttered, “Damn it,” and dug her phone out of her blazer.
Castle’s eyebrows shot up as he leaned toward Beckett.
“Did Cho just say the FBI shot her?”
Beckett gave the smallest nod, her eyes never leaving Lisbon.
Lisbon dialled in a number with more force than necessary.
Everyone pretended to look at their screens, but every ear was tuned to Lisbon’s side of the conversation.
“Agent Mancini. Lisbon.”
A pause. Her eyelids dropped halfway in irritation.
“No, I didn’t forget you.” Another pause. “And no, I still don’t like you.”
Beckett glanced at Jane; he was grinning like it was his birthday.
“I need a favor,” Lisbon said.
She listened, then sarcastically drawled, “Right.” A pause. “Because you owe me an favour. Actually, plural—you owe me favours.”
She shifted, leaning against a desk, one arm crossed protectively.
“Well, let’s see,” she said, ticking points off in the air. “Your people blew my op. Shot my boss. The next one who showed up shot me.” She winced slightly, then continued. “Yes, I know he was on someone else’s payroll. Maybe you should vet your people better over there. Besides, he still shot me.”
Esposito’s face twisted sympathetically. Ryan looked like he’d swallowed his pen.
“I’m aware you offered to share the information from the Lorelei interrogations with us, but that doesn’t really matter does it? Because you lost her,” Lisbon snapped. “That is not an argument in your favour.”
At the name, Jane’s grin vanished. A cold stillness settled over him, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Lisbon kept going, voice tight.
“And no, getting me into a poker game with the CBI director, a senator, and two judges does not make us even.”
Castle whispered to Beckett, "I thought my poker games were high-powered.”
Lisbon’s fingers tapped impatiently against her arm.
“Here’s what I need: cross-reference property records, generator permits—industrial grade—plus any art storage, conservation, or chemical-use permits. Brooklyn, Queens, Navy Yard. High ceilings. Big echo.”
She waited, then sighed sharply.
“Yes, now would be good. Preferably before we all qualify for retirement.”
A beat.
“Good. Send it.”
She hung up without a goodbye.
When she turned back, everyone in the bullpen was frozen, blatantly staring. The only sound was the soft hum of old fluorescent lights.
Lisbon slid her phone into her pocket and turned—only to find the entire bullpen staring at her, motionless. She lifted her brows, the slightest tilt of her head signalling danger.
“…What? Don’t you people have work to do?”
Chairs scraped. Screens lit up. Castle pretended to type something profound. Beckett exchanged a look with Esposito that said we are absolutely talking about this later.
Jane watched Lisbon with a soft, knowing smile—amusement tempered with a flicker of something like concern. She ignored him.