Detective Singer sat at his desk, rubbing his temples as the weight of the case pressed down on him. Alex was out there, scared, alone, and in the hands of a dangerous man. Every passing minute was another minute too long. He needed a break, something to push this case forward.
The phone on his desk rang, jolting him from his thoughts. Frustrated, he barked, "Will someone answer the damn phone?"
One of the officers near the front desk picked it up, listening for a moment before calling out, "Singer, itâs the kidâs family. Theyâve got something."
He was on his feet in an instant, snatching the phone. "Singer here. What do you got?"
Miss Harperâs voice came through, slightly shaky but urgent. "Jake found something. The ringâthe one Jordan describedâhe matched it to a 1986 University of Kansas class ring. Itâs got a specific design that lines up with the mark on Jordanâs face. That means our guy mightâve gone to KU in â86."
Singer straightened, his mind already spinning with the possibilities. "Thatâs damn good work. If we can get a list of alumni from that year, we might have a name."
Miss Harper exhaled, a mix of relief and desperation. "Can you pull records? See if thereâs a match?"
"Iâll get on it now," Singer assured her. "Stay put, and keep those doors locked. Weâll be in touch."
As he hung up, he grabbed his coat and stormed out of his office, heading straight for the records department. "Listen up! I need alumni records from the University of Kansas, class of â86. Full list. Now."
One of the clerks looked up, startled. "That could take a while, Singer. Weâd need to file a requestâ"
"We donât have time for that," Singer snapped. "A kidâs life is on the line. If we have to bend a few rules, so be it. Get me that list. I want names, addresses, anything we can use."
The urgency in his voice made it clearâthis wasnât just another case. This was personal now. The department scrambled into action, phones ringing, keyboards clacking as they searched for the information.
Minutes passed like hours until a young officer ran up, a printed list in hand. "Hereâs the alumni list from 1986. Over three hundred names."
Singer snatched it, scanning quickly. "Start cross-referencing these names with criminal records, known addresses, anything suspicious. Focus on anyone still in-state. And flag anyone with a history of violence."
He moved back to his desk, flipping through the names, cross-checking them against the description Jordan had given. White male, 6'5", medium build, bald, scar on his right cheek, throwing star tattoo, class ring.
Singer typed in each name while other officers pulled up present-day photos, trying to match the description. Then, he found one. A perfect match.
"Gotcha, you son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, staring at the screen.
He grabbed the phone and called the family back. Miss Harper answered almost immediately.
"We found him," Singer said, his voice sharp with determination. "His name is Robert 'Bobby' Lyle. Iâm running a full search on him now, tracking his last known address, any property he might own, and associates. Weâre going to find Alex."
Miss Harper gasped on the other end, calling for Mrs. Faulkner. "Thank you, Detective. Please, just⦠find him."
"I will," Singer promised before hanging up. Then, turning to his team, he shouted, "I want everything on Bobby Lyleânow!"
For three hours, officers worked tirelessly, digging up every possible lead. Then, an officer stood up from his desk, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "I got it! His home address, location of his old job, and a title for a car that matches the exact description you have, sir."
Singer hurried over, looking at the screen. "Okay. First, weâre going to his home. There has to be something there."
He grabbed the phone again, dialing the Faulkner house. Miss Harper picked up instantly.
"We found everything on Lyleâhis home address, his past job, and his car title. Weâre starting at his house. Stay put, stay safe, and keep those doors locked. Iâll call when I have more."
Miss Harperâs voice was thick with worry. "Please, bring him home."
"I will," Singer said before hanging up. He turned to his team, his jaw clenched. "Letâs move."
Detective Singer and several other officers rushed to their squad cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring as they sped toward Bobby Lyleâs home. The tension in the air was thick. This was their best lead yet, and every second counted. As they weaved through traffic, Singer gripped the wheel tightly, his mind focused on one thingâbringing Alex home safely. "Hold on, kid," he muttered under his breath. "We're coming."
When they reached the address, Singer didn't wait for protocol. He kicked in the front door with force, his gun drawn, ready for anything. But as they stepped inside, the truth hit them like a punch to the gut. The house was empty. Dust covered the floors, furniture draped in old sheets. It didnât look like anyone had lived there in at least a decade.
"Dammit!" Singer cursed, lowering his weapon. He took a deep breath, scanning the abandoned space for any sign of recent activity. "Search the place! Look for anythingârecent mail, receipts, signs of movement. He had to have been here at some point."
The officers fanned out, combing through the rooms while Singer stood in the center of the living room, jaw clenched. This wasnât over. Lyle was out there somewhere. And he wasnât stopping until he found him.