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Police Have No Leads In Missing Persons Cases



 
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Atlas Wolfe

Since May of 2017, the city of New Orleans has seen a steep spike in missing persons cases. Twelve total cases in the past 9 months connected, without any common ground. It all started with 46 year old Charles Bennet, when he went out for the night after work. Charles was last seen at Mother's on Poydras Street. Charles is a family man to his wife and three children, who up until May 14th, 2017, worked as an architect in one of the cities many firms.

Then, in June of 2017, 26 year old Jessica LaBeau disappeared from her favorite bar, and the very next night, 31 year old Jack Miller disappeared from his home. Nine names have been added to the list of missing persons since then.

You will see their faces plastered on windows, cork boards, power posts, and trees. They are part of social media campaigns, and are mentioned at almost ever Town Hall meeting. They come from all walks of neighborhoods in New Orleans, and their absence is impossible to ignore.

On average, 750,000 people go missing every year. Each day an average of 2300 Americans, adults and children combined, are reported missing. Of those 2300, the homeless, those who go missing internationally, and those not reported, are not included in the count. After just seven years, these people can be declared legally dead.

These cases are given a low priority, as police forces across the country focus their efforts on homicides, robberies, traffic issues, petty crime, and everything in between. The media does not help much with this, either, as they focus mostly on women.

Due to the sporadic nature of these possible abductions, there is reason to believe that the culprit is not of local descent. There is no means of tracing location, gender, age, hair color, background, or occupation. This is cause for both relief, and major concern.

The one thing they do all have in common is the man investigating their disappearances.

Detective Weston Norse.
March 04, 2018 05:16 pm

Weston Norse

It wasn’t often that Wes read the local papers. Not because of a pointed avoidance, but rather a lack of free time. Today, however, a copy of one of the most recent local papers was dropped onto his desk by his Captain. It was supplemented by a hint that some of the families of the missing persons had contacted the precinct wanting him removed from the case. Someone had apparently even requested his movements be surveilled.

Wes knew better than most that grief could make people do and think bizarre things, but to put credence into the short, vague blurb about the state of the missing cases was asinine. After reading the article, he couldn’t pretend that his name had been dropped innocently; the writer was being intentionally inflammatory, suggesting a sinister connection without actually saying so. As such, he couldn’t really be accused of anything.

Nevertheless, it’d gotten his hackles up. He didn’t understand why a journalist who’d never met him face to face was dragging his name through the mud when he was just trying to do his damn job. The only real way to undo the damage was to actually find some of the missing, but with the way the investigations were going, it wasn’t going to happen soon. And with the Captain’s somber, looming threat of being thrown off the case because of familes’ demand, it might not happen at all.

Hence, his appearance at the front desk of the local paper.

“‘Scuse me, I’m looking for Atlas Wolfe.” The annoyed edge to his voice caught the attention of the busy brunette behind the desk. She looked up at him curiously over her thick rimmed glasses and directed him toward the cluster of desks in the center of the large room. He muttered a word of thanks before wading through the cluttered office, dodging people speed walking across aisles holding folders, laptops, and coffee.

It took a minute and the help of a harried young man, but he finally spotted the freckled redhead in question from a few desks down. There was a nametag upon his desk that didn’t match the others he’d seen, confirming who he was. In front of the desk was a small office chair. Wes decided to help himself to it.

Sitting down before the young man, Wes made his presence well known. “Mr. Wolfe. I’m Detective Norse. You’re a real pain in the @ss, you know that?”
March 05, 2018 06:36 pm

Atlas Wolfe

Atlas is sat at his desk. A loaner, really. The man has no roots, traveling from one city to another, working with various papers. He follows the news. He investigates, reports, and gives facts to the public where they may not get them. And, in his own way, he finds way to create a sense of true urgency.

Such is the case in New Orleans, as he pours over social media, reports, and literature on the nature of his current project: a strange string of missing persons in New Orleans that stand out from the rest, yet refuse to comingle.

Due to his profession, he is acutely aware of his surroundings. He can hear his name come from the front of the office, the voice uttering it far from calm or pleasant.

He does nothing to give himself away. Let him work for it.

It takes several minutes for the beast of a man to find a seat at the other side of his desk, heavy and mildly disgruntled. Even as the man speaks, Atlas doesn't look up from the article he reads speedily, pointer finger moving rapidly to guide his gaze.

His hair is longer than your average man, reaching his shoulders but tied back behind his head. Some refuses to be tamed, flying out at odd angles. Nearly every visible inch of him is covered in freckles, his clothes simple yet oddly fitting. Jeans. A shirt. A sweater. Nothing fancy, and certainly nothing to write home about.

"Been waiting for you," his voice is odd, refusing to give way to any specific region. Instead, it sounds like he might be from all over. A well-spoken, raspy sort of mumble without mumbling. Finally, he looks up with a bright, unsettling stare.

So. This is him.

"That's a curious thing to say."
March 05, 2018 07:35 pm

Weston Norse

“Curious?” Weston’s expression morphed into one of extreme cynicism. He laughed once, humorlessly. So, the kid was going to be a smart@ss.

“Look, I realize your job is to sell these papers, but you’re f*cking with my job. That article is scaring people. They want me thrown off the case, and some even want me put under surveillance. Now, that’s f*cking with my life.”

On a good day, Wes was a pretty patient guy. This wasn’t a good day.

“You don’t know me. This is the first time we’ve met. I don’t know why you’re writing this inflammatory bullsh!t, but you need to redact it. Having personnel taken from this case isn’t going to help a goddamn thing.”
March 31, 2018 05:48 pm

Atlas Wolfe

Atlas leans forward onto his desk, humor etched into his dark gaze as Weston repeats him, and then lets out a bark of a laugh. A smirk takes residence, and soon, he is picking up a pencil. Always ready, he would never miss an opportunity to record an interaction of importance.

The soft scratch upon paper can be heard as he writes in his own, personal shorthand.

"So, you believe that you are the best man for the job, then? You would even argue that you are the best?" Atlas glances down to the paper for only a moment before placing his unsettling stare upon Weston once more.

"So let me get this straight," he chuckles, tapping the eraser of his pencil upon his pad of paper. "I name you the lead detective in an impossible case of missing persons... and you're mad that you're getting attention."

Without so much as a blink of an eye, he readies his pencil once more.

"Any leads?"
April 13, 2018 07:11 pm
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