They pulled out into morning traffic. Rush hour was always a nightmare in D.C., but they were thankful at least that Congress wasn’t in session. A factor that made driving slightly more bearable. It took them about an hour to make the fifteen-mile trip to the riverfront. Anders squeezed the car into a spot a short way down the street from the marker on the GPS.

“Dispatch, ten-lincoln-thirty at the scene on Anacostia Drive,” Anders said, calling in their arrival on the car radio.

“Dispatch acknowledged,” Came the reply before they both climbed out.

The sound of their heels striking pavement echoed back at them, returning with a sense of desolation. No people in sight, no cars passed by, and no birds flew overhead. Not even a breeze off of the Potomac, which was surprisingly void of boat traffic. It was a bit off-putting.

They arrived at a concrete box located next to the property’s gate. It had clearly suffered the ravages of time but it was clear it used to be the guard station. The roof had caved in and the exposure to years of rain left everything inside an unrecognizable heap of waste. The only thing that looked new was a For Sale sign hanging from the rusty chain-link fence. Next to that were the faded, cracked remains of a sign with the letters L-U-M scrawled across it.

So, I guess it was a lumber yard, Ian thought. His assumption was further supported by the capacious lot beyond the fence, in the center of which stood a warehouse. From the gate, they could see that its walls too were crumbling and deteriorating.

Ian’s critical eye took in the nearby points of interest. Across the street sat the historical building, where their witness had claimed he was last night. It also had a sign on the fence, though this one indicated that it was undergoing renovations. Earl’s Ship Repair Shop was to the right of the lumberyard and was decorated in bright red-painted letters reading: “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted!” On the other side, another For Sale sign was posted in front of the husk of an ancient building.

Finding no cause for his growing sense of discomfort, Ian focused back on the towering gate. Well, maybe this has something to do with it. It looks like one of those gates that mustachioed villains always have surrounding their compounds…

The gate even had an intricately stylized M stamped in the middle of it. The long-ago finely crafted iron had rusted and rotted away over many stagnant years. The bottom right-hand side of the gate was warped and twisted, causing it to stick out like a crooked finger that beckoned to them. The level of damage almost certainly indicated an explosion of some kind. Ian pondered on that as he crouched down to examine the wreckage.

The heavy flakes of rust all around the base of the gate meant the damage was fresh. A new padlock stood out starkly against the pulverized remains of a rusted chain next to his feet. Ian stroked his stubble-covered jaw before retrieving a pen from his breast pocket. Using the pen as a probe, he carefully lifted a link that had remained intact and held it up. The end was melted.

One of his eyebrows rose as he looked up to Anders, holding up the link of chain. He gestured with his eyes and a slight tilt of his head towards the melted links on the ground. Anders had a look of concern on his face, before directing Ian’s attention to a series of long slashes gouged into the fences. Ian followed Anders’ thumb to the somehow painful-looking lacerations in the fence, and how they bore similar melting patterns. This was all very strange. The heat and blast required to cause this kind of damage would have been immense.

Applying the insights that his almost-degree afforded him, Ian calculated how this kind of damage could’ve been caused. Angles and trajectories flew through his mind as he finally stood up, letting the link he’d been holding fall back to the ground. Both men could sense the unease and foreboding atmosphere emanating from the building in the center of the lot. Ian’s partner shrugged; acting aloof was Ander’s way of processing.

Ian recalled stories of the haunted house in the neighborhood where he grew up. Supposedly an old woman had died there after butchering her children and hiding their bodies in the walls. When he and his friends would play in the streets, dares would ensue to see who could get the closest to the decrepit front door. Who could make it up the creaky old stairs and across the rotted porch? Who would run away screaming in terror?

Ian hadn’t. He’d managed to get all the way to the crumbling door every time, smacking it with a burst of confidence as he elicited cheers from his friends. They’d always thought he was so brave. But even back then, as now, there was an ever-present tingle of fear. The caress along his spine. The resulting goosebumps, and the rising sense of panic. Now, his job required far more than touching a door.

Anders gave the gate a shove. Stepping through the shattered remains, they drew their weapons and prepared to sweep the scene. Anders flicked the safety off on his standard-issue 9mm Glock. Ian, however, had filled out a mountain of paperwork allowing him to carry his Walther PPQ, which had no safety catch. Their eyes scanned the building, trying to penetrate the dark, gaping holes in the walls for any sign of life.

“Should we call this in?” Anders whispered.

“Whatever happened here is long over from the look of things. Let’s sweep first, then report in and call the bank attorney once we have some answers. It’ll only take a minute,” seeing Anders’ face turn to a scowl Ian added, “If you’re brave and you don’t cry I’ll get you an ice cream after.”

Ian jerked his chin towards the other side of a car-sized hole in the wall, indicating to Anders that he should take that side. Meanwhile, he slipped to the right. Anders squinted at Ian while taking up his position.

“Mint chocolate chip, jackass,” He said in a low whisper.

“On three,” Ian whispered back while cracking a smile.