Warrant

“You don't ask for a warrant because you’re sure. You ask because you’re afraid you’re right.”

The revelation about Luke Smith had electrified me into action, galvanised me like nothing else in this case. Leaving Sarah to finish the interview with Sharon Pafistis, I'd driven back to the station with single-minded focus that bordered on tunnel vision, breaking several speed limits along the way without caring about consequences. The pieces were finally falling into place with satisfying clicks, and I couldn't waste another moment—not when at least four lives hung in the balance, possibly already lost.

Now, outside Sergeant Claiborne's office, I could feel the adrenaline still coursing through me, hot and sharp in my bloodstream like electricity through copper wire. My knuckles struck the wood of his door with a sharp rap, the sound cracking through the stillness of the hallway with more force than I'd intended. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, humming with a low buzz that only added to the simmering disquiet under my skin.

My right foot tapped involuntarily against the linoleum floor, the rhythmic pulse echoing my mounting frustration, a physical manifestation of impatience I couldn't control. The station, usually abuzz with ringing phones, shouted greetings and the clatter of keyboards creating a symphony of bureaucracy, felt oddly subdued—either because of the hour or because my own thoughts drowned out everything else, turning the world muffled.

I knocked again. Harder this time, bone striking wood with force that sent pain radiating up my arm. My knuckles complained, and I winced but didn't step back, didn't retreat. Every second without movement on this warrant felt like another second someone might die, another moment wasted. The urgency pressed on my chest like hands squeezing my ribcage.

When no response came after what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, instinct and urgency overrode decorum and proper procedure. I pushed open the door without waiting for an invitation. The heavy door swung wide, catching a stopper on the wall with a dull thud that made Claiborne's head snap up with surprise.

He was lounging in his chair like he owned the building—which, to be fair, he nearly did in practical terms. Feet up on the desk, one ankle crossed casually over the other, a slight smirk playing on his face as he ended a call with a voice too warm for work hours, too intimate for professional conversation. His shoes gleamed—Italian leather, I guessed from the quality. The kind that cost more than I made in a fortnight.

"I'll call you back later to confirm when I'm ready," he said into the phone, his tone as relaxed as a man scheduling a wine tasting, not managing an active investigation with multiple missing persons. He placed the receiver back in its cradle with a soft click, finally turning his attention to me with deliberate slowness.

"Karl, why are you here?" The sudden drop in tone was like ice water over a fire. Cold. Sharp. Professional. All the warmth from the phone call evaporated instantly.

I didn't sit. I didn't waste time with pleasantries or procedure.

"I'd like permission to obtain a warrant for the arrest of Luke Smith."

The room stilled. Claiborne's brow lifted slightly, but his expression didn't betray much beyond mild interest. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hands rested atop one another as he remained reclined, an image of cool control that contrasted sharply with my barely-contained agitation.

"On what grounds?"

He uncrossed his ankles slowly, then swung his feet off the desk. The movement was fluid, measured—predatory, almost, like a cat deciding whether something deserves attention. He was taking me seriously now, but that didn't mean he liked what I was saying or was prepared to agree.

"Four counts of murder," I said, the words coming out steady despite my racing heart.

Claiborne leaned forward, finally placing his elbows on the blotter in front of him with his full attention engaged. The pen he picked up was black, capped in silver, and already clicking between his fingers as his sharp gaze bore into mine, reading me, assessing credibility.

"Four?"

"Yes, Sir. Luke's partner Jamie Greyson, Jamie's nephew Kain Jeffries, and acquaintances Nial Triffett and Adrian Pafistis."

His eyebrows arched higher. Interest, yes—but not yet agreement or conviction.

"Acquaintances?" he repeated, skepticism thick in the word, heavy as syrup. "Come on, Karl. You're going to have to do a bit better than that."

Click. Click. Click. The pen tapped in a steady beat, drilling into my skull like Chinese water torture. I fought the urge to snap at him, to hurl every fraying thread of frustration and exhaustion across the desk like projectiles.

I swallowed instead, forcing my tone to remain level and professional, though my jaw ached with the tension of holding it there, muscles bunched.

"We know that Luke made contact with Nial and Adrian, posing as a client and asking to meet up to discuss potential work," I explained, keeping my voice firm despite the tremor threatening beneath. My hands moved as I spoke, drawing invisible lines through the air, as though I could sketch the connections into something tangible he could see. "Besides that, I'm not sure what other connection they have."

It was the truth. And I hated it. The case was a web and Luke was clearly at its centre, but the threads weren't all visible yet. We had gaps. Too many gaps. But I couldn't let that stop us now—not when things were finally starting to crack open, when momentum was building.

Claiborne didn't reply right away. He studied me with uncomfortable intensity. Really studied me. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he looked me over with professional assessment—my unshaven face, the bags under my eyes that made me look decades older, the sheen of sweat on my brow despite the air conditioning. He saw all of it.

And I knew what he was thinking: You're hanging on by a thread, Karl. You look like shit. You're not reliable.

But I didn't care about appearance.

Because thread or not, I had names—and they were starting to bleed into each other, forming patterns.

"I'm telling you," I said, quieter now, leaning in slightly, my tone weighted with conviction that came from deep in my gut. "This isn't just some rogue tradie gone walkabout. Luke Smith is at the centre of something bigger. Jamie, Kain, Nial, Adrian. They're all connected, even if we don't see every point yet. He's manipulating people, hiding in plain sight."

Claiborne's face remained unreadable, a mask of professional neutrality.

I wiped a hand down my jaw, frustrated by the sweat slicking my palm despite the cool office. I could feel the migraine building like a storm behind my right eye, hot and merciless, pressure mounting with each heartbeat.

"He's dangerous," I finished simply, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested.

And I meant it—not as speculation or theory, but as prophecy, as certainty beyond evidence.

---

Standing before Sergeant Claiborne, I felt the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on me, as though each word I'd just spoken had added another kilo to my shoulders that already sagged. A bead of sweat traced a slow, humiliating path down my temple, itching as it curved toward my jawline. Claiborne's stare was relentless—clinical, as if peeling away layers to expose whatever fragile confidence remained beneath my insistence. His skepticism filled the room like smoke, choking.

"Not sure? You think a judge is going to believe 'not sure'?" he challenged, his pen now raised and aimed at me like a gavel about to fall, like a weapon. The derision in his tone was subtle, but sharp enough to pierce straight through the thin veneer of my composure.

I opened my mouth before I could gather my thoughts properly, before I could organise them into something coherent, the words coming out in a rush, carried by desperation. "Nial's phone records show that Luke was the last person he spoke to before he disappeared. We also have footage of Luke making a considerable withdrawal at an ATM from Jamie's bank account," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the tremor threatening to break it. I needed him to see what I saw, to feel the same urgency in his gut that was devouring mine from the inside.

But it landed with a dull thud. Claiborne's expression barely shifted, barely registered impact.

"A phone call and an ATM withdrawal," he repeated back to me, as if tasting how underwhelming it sounded on his tongue, testing the weight of it. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest as the leather creaked in protest beneath his weight. "Not exactly arrestable crimes. Has Jamie's bank card been reported missing or stolen?"

The question hung in the air like a trap—and I'd walked straight into it with eyes open. My stomach turned, acid churning. Of course it hadn't been reported. My mind scrambled for a thread I could pull, any small justification I could grasp that might save this.

"Well, no. But—"

"No buts, Karl. You know that."

The words came down like a hammer, each syllable solid and final as nails in a coffin. His eyes locked on mine now, narrowing with what might have been disappointment. I saw no hint of flexibility in them. No room for intuition, or gut feeling, or the instinct that had served me well for years—only policy and proof, procedure and evidence.

"If you don't have solid evidence pointing to a crime, then I have no other choice but to deny your request for an arrest warrant."

I clenched my jaw hard, biting back the surge of frustration boiling in my chest like lava. I could feel my hands tightening into fists at my sides, my nails pressing crescents into my palms hard enough to break skin. I took a step forward, trying to shift the dynamic—trying to reclaim even a sliver of momentum, of control.

"Look, I need a search warrant," I said, and I hated how raw it sounded, how desperate. There was a trace of pleading there, too close to begging for comfort or dignity.

Claiborne checked his watch, his brows twitching. "What for?"

"Luke Smith's house," I said quickly, the words tumbling out. I was already tired of explaining it—tired of feeling like I was chasing shadows while everyone else stood still, watching me fail.

"And what do you expect to find?" His tone was clinical, but his posture was almost mocking now—his fingers steepled together like a lecturer waiting patiently for a wrong answer he already anticipated.

And I had none. Nothing solid. Just instinct, just that gnawing, relentless certainty growing inside me like a tumour.

What do I expect to find? The image of Luke's rubbish-strewn back room flashed through my mind unbidden. The window I'd broken in my illegal entry. The bags I'd clawed through like a desperate animal searching for scraps. My throat dried out completely, shame creeping in to join the anxiety already clawing at my gut.

"I'm not sure," I admitted. Quietly. Brokenly. It felt like a confession, not an answer—an admission of inadequacy.

Claiborne's silence was devastating. It stretched on like a judgment, dragging the moment out, letting it expand until it filled the entire room. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost gentle, which somehow made it worse.

"I think you've answered your request yourself then, haven't you?"

He didn't need to elaborate. His tone did all the work, delivered the verdict.

"Karl, I find your arguments inconclusive and unconvincing, and your evidence is circumstantial at best. Your request is denied, on both grounds."

It hit me like a slap to the face.

No warrant. No support. No backup.

Just me, spiralling further into a case where the rules seemed more like suggestions and the truth more elusive by the hour, slipping through my fingers like water.

I turned without replying, every movement stiff with tension that had nowhere to go, my jaw locked tight as I stalked toward the door. I grabbed the handle like I meant to rip it off its hinges, my knuckles whitening with the effort not to scream or curse or throw something.

"Karl."

I froze, barely glancing back over my shoulder, not trusting myself to face him fully.

Claiborne's voice had shifted again. It held a note of something else now—grudging concern, maybe. Something halfway between encouragement and warning, between support and threat.

"Find Luke… but, just don't touch him."

His meaning was clear, crystal clear. Don't fuck this up. Don't give them a reason to bench you permanently. Don't cross any more lines.

The door slammed behind me with more force than necessary, the sound echoing sharply through the corridor like a gunshot. A junior constable turned from a water cooler mid-sip, his eyes flicking up to mine, but he looked away immediately when he saw my expression, saw whatever was written on my face. I didn't care. My pulse was pounding in my ears like war drums, like violence looking for outlet.

Leaning against the cool hallway wall, I closed my eyes for half a second, letting the fluorescent light burn through my eyelids in patterns of red and black. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. Anger. Defeat. Helplessness. All of it churned in me like acid eating through restraint.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling with fury barely contained, and jabbed out a message to Sarah with more force than the touchscreen required:

Claiborne has refused request to obtain either an arrest warrant or search warrant. Glen is on his way to collect you. KJ.

The text sent with a soft whoosh, far too mild a sound for the mood I was in, for the violence simmering beneath my skin. I stared at the screen for a second longer than I needed to, watching the message change from "sending" to "delivered." I was back to square one—worse, even. But I wasn't going to give up. I couldn't.

Luke's face, pale and grinning in the moonlight of my dream, flickered through my mind again unbidden. The blood. The knife. Gladys's intestines glistening. The voice whispering my name like a curse, like a promise.

"Bye, Karl."

He was still out there. Still moving. Still ahead of me.

And now, I'd have to find another way.

Rules be damned.