After six weeks of monstrous crime, Craig Allistor was caught. My partner, Jon Caleman, and I caught the bastard in the act, personal witness to him abducting the poor ginger child from the street using his cunning “We’ll find your parents” technique. Damn us, though, we needed further evidence, which is why we followed him rather than tagging him there on the spot.
Ten years on the force, and six years partnered together, Caleman and I knew well how to subtly tail a suspect. Neither of us have the obvious scent of a policeman. His cantaloupe-esque figure masked any idea of athleticism, and my painfully dull body and latent balding makes me look as an average accountant. Add in a simple hip flask to the formula, and together we gain the appearance of two old college chums, a merry night of drinking and smoking from pipes behind us, walking home to some horrid flat one of us has.
Nonetheless, Allistor was a careful predator. He casually dragged his target along the alleyways and subtle crossings of the city, and we had to lose sight every so often in order to not give ourselves away. Even so, we sometimes looked questioningly at each other. Sure, he was walking into an area noone would suspect, the most ancient and unused portion of the city, an area long abandoned by the whole of the population for fear of their own safety.
The old factory district, abandoned in the early 20s, when new factories, far superior to these, were built in neighboring town. These eventually shut down entirely, leaving the factories themselves, as well as the housing for the prominent workers, to rot silently. It was one of these houses, probably belonging to an a floor supervisor in the antique past, that Caleman noticed Allistor led the redheaded child into. I pocketed my flask quickly and switched it ably for my service revolver.
We rushed to the nearest payphone at once, planning to call the station to dispatch more footmen to our position. Backup is always appreciated, after all, and who knows what tricks Allistor has in the moldy building which could be his personal dungeon. It was useless though, despite our coin, a dial-tone could not be reached. It had been upwards to three dozen years since these had likely been cut-off, a useless cost of electricity to the city, same as the street lamps which no longer burned.
With no tone, it was obvious there would be no backup for us this route. Briefly, Caleman and I discussed the probability of heading back to station and returning immediately. Having caught a bullet earlier in the year, Caleman was wary to go in to the building in such small numbers, fearing the same might occur again. I, however, felt it unneeded in this case, and leaving the innocent child alone with this man for as long as it may take to hustle back and gather a larger posse could only be detrimental to his health. As well, I feared he would have fled long before we managed to get back with aid. Being his senior, I concluded that we would play the situation by the book, and handle the situation professionally.
Had I let him go for aid, perhaps we would have never walked up those decrepit steps, and perhaps my mind would not be filled with the thoughts I cannot escape.
(Original date 7/23/2010)
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