"That stops him from getting inside the building on Monday morning," Bear said quietly, leaning his heavy forearms on the back of the leather office chair. "But it doesn't solve our bigger problem, Ms. Grant. He's still going to walk out of that police station tonight. He knows your name. He knows where you work. A dead keycard just means he'll wait for you in the parking lot instead of the hallway."
Doc wasn't listening. His dark eyes were narrowed, tracking something on the far right side of the screen. "Hold on. This portal logs every single door swipe across the campus. Look at his entry history."
I leaned closer to the glowing monitor. The screen displayed a cascading spreadsheet of timestamps and door locations tied exclusively to Trevor's specific badge.
"He’s an HVAC tech," I reasoned, trying to understand the data. "He should be logging into the roof access points or the main boiler room."
"He is," Doc said, pointing a rigid finger at the screen. "During the day. But look at these weekend entries. Friday, August 11th, 11:45 PM. Saturday, August 19th, 12:10 AM. Every single weekend this month, he’s badging in through the East Wing exterior door long after midnight."
"There's no emergency maintenance scheduled at midnight on a Saturday," I said, a cold, terrifying chill raising the hair on my arms.
"It gets worse," Doc said, scrolling further down the list. "Every time he enters the building at night, he completely ignores the roof and the boilers. He only opens one internal door. Utility Chase 4."
My stomach dropped into a bottomless freefall. "That's the heavy mechanical door right across from my classroom. Room 312."
"He’s not checking the air filters at midnight, Olivia," Bear said, his deep voice dropping into a dangerous, absolute register. "He’s using this school. It’s a secure government building with zero police presence at night, empty on the weekends, and locked to the general public. It's the perfect secure storage facility, and the district literally gave him the master key."
"If he's keeping his supplies here," I realized, the horrifying puzzle pieces violently snapping together, "that's the physical evidence the police need. The lab won't need to isolate a dissolved powder from a liquid. They'll have the raw chemicals in their hands."
Doc killed the monitor, plunging the office back into darkness. "Show us Utility Chase 4."
We moved fast. The silence of the hallway felt infinitely heavier now, pregnant with a new, immediate danger. We marched down the East Wing corridor, our reflections ghosting across the dark safety glass of the classroom doors. We reached Room 312. Directly across the hall was a massive steel door with heavy industrial hinges, marked with a bolted yellow placard: Authorized Maintenance Only.
I held my breath and tried the thick metal handle. It was locked tight.
Bear didn't ask for my keys. He reached into his worn black leather vest, pulled out a thick, flat steel pry bar, and wedged it deeply between the door frame and the strike plate. He didn't slam it or make a sound. He just leaned his massive, six-foot-four frame against the tool, applying a slow, terrifying amount of silent leverage. The metal frame groaned under the weight, the locking bolt violently slipped the catch, and the heavy door popped open with a sharp metallic clack.
Doc clicked on a tactical flashlight, sweeping the harsh white beam across the cramped utility room. It was deafeningly hot inside, filled with the roar of massive commercial air handler units and thick, vibrating silver ductwork. The concrete floor was covered in a fine, undisturbed layer of gray dust.
"Start looking," Bear commanded, his voice barely cutting over the noise of the fans.
We tore the room apart. I checked behind a stack of spare fiberglass filters while Doc climbed a metal wall ladder to inspect the overhead conduit trays. Bear focused on the primary air handler unit, kneeling down to closely examine a heavy metal access panel secured by four thick industrial screws.
Bear ran a gloved finger along the bottom edge of the metal panel. "The dust is wiped completely clean right here. Someone’s been opening this regularly."
He pulled a folding multi-tool from his belt, quickly backing out the four screws, and pulled the heavy metal panel away. Doc shifted the flashlight, cutting the beam directly into the dark, hollow cavity of the industrial machine.
Resting securely inside, entirely hidden from casual view, was a heavy, black Pelican case secured by a thick brass padlock.
Bear dragged the case out onto the concrete floor. He didn't bother trying to pick the lock. He stood up, raised his heavy steel riding boot, and drove his heel down onto the brass shackle with bone-shattering force. The metal snapped on the second impact, pinging against the cinderblock wall.
He unlatched the plastic clasps and flipped the lid open.
I stopped breathing. The flashlight illuminated an absolute nightmare.