It was a little after two AM when the phone on Adam Tinsley's bedside began to vibrate, sending cascade of bright blue light onto the rumpled sheets and mop of untidy blonde hair that had slowly formed over the past three hours. It had been another late night at the office, sorting through never-ending files in the hope that he could find some sort of connection between the victims, a connection between anything, really. Mary Rice had been found in a little used janitor's closet in one of Philadelphia's many subway stations. She had been neatly dressed in a red gown, hung from the ceiling, and had her throat slit. The blood had gathered into a pool on the ground, and had slowly spread outwards upon the lines of a demonic pentagram that had been carved into the floor. She was the first of three victims, spread out over the course of a month. Whoever was responsible for the acts was getting bolder, leaving his, her, or their victims in incredibly conspicuous places. Adam was one of the few people in the department who could look at the crime scene and see more than violent murder. It was a creative piece of art, at least in the killer or killers' eyes. It was one thing to draw a pentagram on the floor in red paint. It was another thing all together to have the victim's blood do the painting, almost on it's own volition. Not only did it take a meticulous eye for detail, it took time. Concrete was not an easy thing to carve. Tile even less so. The buzzing of his phone was starting to get annoying, enough so that it prompted him to roll over and scoop up the vibrating piece of technology. "Tinsley," he muttered blearily. "And are you sure this couldn't wait another three hours?" "Quite sure, boss." How was it that Tarren could always coming across sounding so remarkably awake. What was the man even doing awake at this time of night? It seemed like a prudent enough question to bother asking, so Adam relayed it back to his phone. "What are you doing, Tarren?" "You remember that residue we found on all the corpses? Well, I've finally managed to figure out what it is." "And?" Adam pressed, not one for melodrama, and especially not one for melodrama when it was two in the morning. "Well, it's shit," "Excuse me?" "Literally, feces. Also bits of food, some urine, lots of soap-" "What are you getting at Tarren?" Adam asked, finally irritated enough to bother interrupting. "Sewer water, man. It's sewer water." Suddenly Adam was feeling wide awake. He sat up, hurriedly slipping his feet into a pair of shoes by the bed and hustling over to the closet. "You are sure." "Hundred percent, boss. Well, maybe ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine -" "Have you called Ben yet?" Adam asked, interrupting again. "Nine, nine percent," Tarren finished, "Ben's next on the list. You want me to wake anyone else up?" "No," Adam replied with the beginnings of a laugh. "He should do." Sewers. It was so remarkably obvious that it was no wonder they had overlooked them. There was a reason no one thought about the sewers. It was something that had been neatly erased from the consciousness of society, like scraping the scum off the top of a layer of filthy water. No one who didn't have to work directly in them wanted to deal with the sewers. It made it the perfect hiding space. And with a few access maps, Adam would be willing to bet this month's salary that he would be able to find a direct connection to all the places the vic's had been left. And a junction that unified them all. It wasn't the end of the case, but it was more of a lead than they had gotten in a month. "I don't suppose that we have some maps of the underground sorted away in evidence?" "I'll check," Tarren replied. "Wouldn't want you running into any alligators, now would we?"