Chapter 7 - Midnight at the Depository
The rain had stopped, leaving the streets of downtown Chicago slick with dark reflections of neon signs and streetlamps.
It was past midnight when I pulled my car into the subterranean parking garage of First National Bank on Oak Street.
The concrete levels were completely deserted, save for a lone security booth near the elevator lobby.
I stepped out of the car, feeling the cold autumn wind bite through my shirt.
I walked up to the glass security kiosk, where an elderly guard named Arthur looked up from a crossword puzzle with a frown.
“We’re closed, sir,” Arthur said, tapping his watch.
“Depository vaults are inaccessible after five PM without a federal court order or branch manager clearance.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the polished brass key stamped with the number 412, along with my state driver’s license and Detective Miller’s digital badge photograph on my phone.
“Arthur, my name is Daniel Mercer,” I said, locking eyes with him.
“My wife passed away seven months ago.
Her name was Laura Mercer.
She maintained safe-deposit box 412.
I am here under emergency state police directive, and Detective Miller has already notified the night manager.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed Miller’s direct line on speakerphone.
Miller answered on the second ring.
“Mercer? What’s wrong?”
“Put it on speaker for the security guard, Miller,” I instructed.
Miller’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Arthur? This is Detective Marcus Miller, Chicago PD Homicide Division.
Grant Mr.
Mercer immediate access to vault room B.
If you impede this access, you are interfering with an active capital murder investigation.”
Arthur’s face went pale.
He fumbled with his desktop keys, stood up hurriedly, and pressed the heavy steel door release button with a loud metallic buzz.
“Right this way, Mr.
Mercer,” Arthur stammered, grabbing a heavy ring of iron keys from his desk.
We rode the elevator down two sub-levels into the windowless vault room.
The air down here was cold, smelling of old paper, polished steel, and absolute silence.
Arthur led me down a narrow corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling rows of safety deposit boxes, their brass numbers gleaming under the harsh fluorescent strips.
We stopped at row 41.
Arthur slid his master key into the lower cylinder of box 412, while I inserted Laura’s brass key into the upper cylinder.
We turned them simultaneously with a sharp, synchronized click.
The heavy steel door swung open smoothly on its oiled hinges.
Inside sat a single, long rectangular metal box.
Arthur respectfully stepped back, leaving me alone with the history of my wife’s final days.
May you like
I pulled the metal box out and set it on the small laminate consultation table in the center of the vault.
My hands trembled as I unlatched the lid and lifted it.
