Two Clues

Ken Martin, the current commissioner of the NYPD, arrived in person. Bank robberies are common in the US, but this one was unusual.

First, the emergency calls drained the surrounding police presence. Then, the traffic signals gridlocked multiple nearby streets, while only the bank's front remained clear—clearly a meticulously planned heist.

Ken Martin was a black man in his fifties, a lifelong cop. He'd never seen such a polished bank job, but the perpetrators couldn't have left no trail. When he arrived, patrol and backup officers had already sealed the scene. Captain George Stacy was questioning the bank manager.

Seeing the commissioner, George Stacy walked over. "Commissioner, this case is tricky. We might have two leads so far."

"George, why 'might'?" Ken Martin asked, puzzled. He especially wanted a definitive answer when he heard the word 'leads.'

"Here's the thing. First lead: eyewitnesses say the perps knew the exact location of the bank's alarm system, knew the manager carried the vault key, and knew the vault code. They knew this bank inside out."

"As for the two security guards—the one at the entrance was disarmed and subdued immediately. The other was in the monitoring room the whole time. According to him, the electronic lock wouldn't open, and both the landline and his cell phone were completely dead."

"So, we have reason to suspect an inside man. But the puzzle is why the guard in the monitoring room claims the phones were dead. Our techs are checking now; we'll have results soon. Still, I don't think he's lying. This is easy to verify, and a crew this meticulous wouldn't leave such an obvious flaw—it would expose their inside man outright."

Ken Martin nodded. "Go on. The second lead."

"Yes, sir." George Stacy flipped through his small notebook. "The second lead involves the NYC Traffic Control Center. All the emergency calls today came from their landlines. Those calls drained the police presence around the bank—all false alarms. Then, nearly every traffic light in the area turned red, causing massive gridlock. Even if someone spotted the robbery and called it in, we couldn't get there fast."

"But who at the Traffic Control Center could pull that off? The signals malfunctioned, yet they noticed nothing unusual—until our dispatch called for backup and they saw the traffic jam. That's extremely suspicious."

"So both leads are riddled with question marks. The bank and the Traffic Control Center both have suspects, but pinning down the inside man—or even confirming one exists—is tough." George Stacy finished his analysis. Ken Martin nodded.

"A tough case indeed. The bank will cooperate, but the Traffic Control Center is another story. Someone with enough authority to throw traffic into chaos without the duty staff noticing—why would they rob a bank?" Ken Martin was baffled. "Still, we have to investigate. Start with the bank. Then I'll contact the Traffic Control Center and ask why they didn't spot the morning congestion—just to test the waters."

"Understood, Commissioner."

Mofei had left them two leads—obvious yet hard to pursue. The bank was a dead end; they'd find nothing. Without an actual inside man, they'd hit a wall.

The Traffic Control Center wasn't easy either. They managed all of NYC's traffic, a nonstop, chaotic operation with many staff. Figuring out who used the landlines to call in false alarms was nearly impossible. Plus, Mofei had deleted their internal surveillance footage for the day, making things infinitely more complicated.

George Stacy had the guard from the monitoring room brought to the station. He was a burly white man, 185 cm tall, looking uncomfortable in the interrogation chair.

"Glenn Paul? Your record is spotless. Eight years at this bank. What's your take on the heist?" George Stacy walked in, speaking in a calm tone.

"Captain, I know I'm the prime suspect. But I really couldn't get out. The electronic lock wouldn't open for no reason. The landline and cell phone were all dead air. I couldn't call for help. The monitors were just static. I..." Glenn Paul looked dejected. "Then everything went back to normal. I kept trying. When I finally got a dial tone, the lock opened and the monitors came back. I was stunned. I felt like I'd been set up."

"You realize how bad this looks for you, right?" George Stacy pressed.

"Yeah. I applied to be a cop once, but my health disqualified me. So I took this bank security job. Stuck in the bank all day, but the pay's decent—especially with night shift bonuses. I don't need money." Glenn Paul rambled, subconsciously defending himself. "Eight years. I know this place inside out. Never seen anything like this. But I'm not stupid. I know how bad it looks."

"You're right. It does look bad." George Stacy didn't offer comfort; instead, he confirmed the situation. "All the evidence points to you. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes. The bank's dual-security system relies on alarms, leaving robbery response to the police. I could have learned the vault code. And I can't prove what happened in the monitoring room. My only hope is your techs find something—someone hacked the bank's surveillance system, tampered with the phones." Glenn Paul had indeed tried to become a cop, but he had a problem: hypoglycemia.

Strenuous activity could make him pass out, which killed his police career. But the bank security job paid well, and he had no bad habits. George Stacy had all this on file. He couldn't find a motive for Glenn Paul to commit the crime.