Chapter 2: The Cryptic Message

Daniel returned to his office, rubbing his messy hair in frustration.

The bullpen was humming with morning activity—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the faint aroma of burnt coffee drifting from the break room. Daniel dropped into his chair and ran his hands through his hair, feeling the tension knotting at the base of his skull. Someone had left a pink donut box open on the next desk, and a muted Browns game flickered on the TV in the corner, grounding the scene in everyday Cleveland chaos.

Mason Young from IT came over. "Detective McAllister, how’d it go? Any progress?"

Mason was younger, always in a hoodie with a faded Apple logo, the kind of quick fingers that could hack a security system in minutes. He carried a half-empty Red Bull and a hopeful grin, like a meme come to life.

"Nothing. This guy’s immune to both reason and persuasion." Daniel shook his head. "What about your side?"

He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Mason picked up on it anyway.

"Just about to tell you," Mason said, bringing over his laptop. "We intercepted some of his emails—some were sent overseas."

Mason perched on the edge of Daniel’s desk, opening his laptop to a cluttered inbox. The screen cast a bluish glow over both of them as he scrolled through the data.

"Overseas? That’s serious." Daniel scrolled through the emails. Some were in English, some in Spanish, mostly academic meteorology discussions—nothing that looked suspicious.

He squinted at the screen, scanning subject lines and sender names. The jargon was dense, filled with climate models and data sets, the kind of thing only a specialist could decipher.

"Anything?" Daniel frowned.

He tapped his finger on the desk, impatience creeping in.

"Not yet," Mason said, disappointed. "The tech team pulled an all-nighter reading every email, but found nothing unusual."

Mason’s eyes were bloodshot, and Daniel could tell he hadn’t slept. The kid was dedicated, if a little green.

"Old Quinn’s a real fox." Daniel rubbed his head. In all his years, he’d seen many suspects, but rarely one like Old Quinn—cold as ice, impossible to get a grip on.

He thought back to the interrogation, replaying every word, every gesture. Quinn was hiding something, Daniel was sure of it.

Just as he was about to give up, one email caught his eye. It wasn’t the content, but the format. The email was in English, discussing academic topics, but the writing was odd—strangely off in a way Daniel couldn’t quite put his finger on. His instincts kicked in. He ran his finger along the screen, pointing at each first letter. Goosebumps prickled on his arms, and his pulse quickened—he knew this feeling from every big break he’d ever had.

He felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck—the same feeling he got when he knew he was onto something. "Hang on," he muttered, tracing the lines of text.

"Detective, what’s this…?" Mason was puzzled.

Mason leaned in, his brow furrowing as he tried to follow Daniel’s logic.

"Look: The first letter of each sentence repeats over and over—CQCQCQADEK EK…"

Daniel’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial. Mason’s eyes widened as he realized what Daniel was getting at.

Mason, trained in the field, reacted immediately. "Wait—is that Morse code?"

He pulled up a decoding program with a few quick clicks, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

"Quick, decode it! Daniel said, his excitement showing. "We’ve finally got a lead!"

For the first time that morning, Daniel felt a surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they were about to break this case wide open.

The Morse code was quickly deciphered, but it only deepened the mystery.

The message was a single sentence: "Calling 1988, the Milky Way is about to bloom."

The words blinked on the screen, strange and poetic. Daniel exchanged a look with Mason—both men knew this was no ordinary code. The room suddenly felt colder, like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Daniel’s head.