I come up with a couple of ideas, both pretty weak.

If the judge refuses to issue the order, I can take advantage of the celebrity and credibility I have and go public. I can warn people about what I think might happen, and warn them to stay away from the areas that are possible targets.

I can even berate the justice system for not intervening to protect the public, and hopefully shame them into doing something. I have no doubt that the TV networks would cover whatever I had to say about this. I’m a citizen, and as such I have the right to speak out, and the platform to do it from.

Of course, as a member of the police department, I have no such right. I’d probably get fired, especially if my dire warning turns out to be a false alarm.

The greater negative is similar to the one Wiggins voiced; all it would do is make the bad guys retrench and delay their attack. They don’t have any time pressure, or at least none that I know of. So it would appear that I was wrong, and if I tried to go back to the well when the threat once again became imminent, no one would listen.

The other possible strategy I’ve come up with would be to find Philly DeSimone, take him into a room, and pound the shit out of him until he talked. I could find him easily, since we have had a tail on him for a while. The “pounding the shit” part is more problematic; I would be fired, arrested, and probably imprisoned. And it might not even work.

But it would be fun.

I’m alone in my office having these fantasies, when the door opens. I’m hoping it’s Bradley with news, but it’s not: it’s Nate. “I just thought of something that makes me even surer that we’re right,” he says.

“Let’s hear it.”

“It’s pretty disgusting.”

“Nate…”

“Okay. We thought that Shawn and Tony Silva got their heads cut off because the killers were sending a message. But…”

I interrupt, because I’ve realized where he’s going. “They were using the organs. If they were going to kill reasonably young, healthy people, why let the organs go to waste?”

“I told you it was disgusting,” Nate says.

I nod. “And remember that the coroner admired the cut? He said it was clean, almost surgical. Said he couldn’t have done a better job himself.”

“Dr. Cassel,” Nate says. Then, “Can you imagine that somebody might have paid money for Tony Silva’s heart? I didn’t even know he had one, but if he did, then whoever got it was ripped off.”

It’s almost nine thirty, and we still haven’t heard a decision. Wiggins called Bradley a while ago to tell him that the petition was filed with the court, and it was now out of his hands. According to Bradley, he didn’t sound optimistic.

It’s been six and a half hours since I woke up in bed with the realization of what I think has been going on. It feels like a month.

And still we wait.