Page 123 of The Fourth Option
Supervisory Special Agent Kozinski, “Koz,” was halfway through his summary. He was a data man, like Stanton, which was why he had been promoted to supervisory special agent, SSA. Koz was putting together probabilities based on data, forecasting crime trends, his eyes flicking between his notes and the screen behind him.
“You’re saying opioid trafficking has actually been declining across the district,” Stanton interjected.
The supervisory agent nodded. “Yes. Overall, opioid deaths from fentanyl-laced drugs are down nationally. My forecasting model suggests the trend will continue.”
Stanton glanced around the table. “You’re not looking closely enough,” he noted, flipping through the document Koz had prepared in support of his presentation. “Fentanyl deaths are down, yes. But that’s off a ridiculously high peak. Opioid deaths are rising.”
He made his agents write their presentations out in a Word document, no longer than six pages. He had found that too much could be hidden in a PowerPoint.
Koz nodded again. “We’re down 16 percent this year. Forty percent from the high.”
“I’m looking at the national chart in the appendix,” Stanton said. “Down from the peak, yes, but rising.”
“Within the standard deviation,” Koz offered. “Data smoothing suggests it’s an anomaly.”
“Not so.”
Koz blinked. “I’m sorry, sir?”
Stanton held up the report. “I’m looking at your overlay, national versus our district. Our trend is outside the deviation band. Barely, but it’s there. General overdoses are ticking up. Appendix D.”
Chairs shifted. Pages flipped.
“That statistic includes all drug-related deaths,” Koz said. “Not just opioids. It also includes violence associated with drug activity.”
“Exactly,” Stanton said. “Which means we’re not just dealing with fentanyl. We’re dealing with something else. Maybe a substitute, maybe a new precursor. If that’s the case, then we need to figure it out so we can shut it down before it spreads. That’s not in the model.”
Koz stood silent. The other agents stared at their hands. Zero eye contact.
Stanton’s watch buzzed. It was 6:45 a.m. If he didn’t leave now, the traffic would double the trip to the airport. Time to wrap.
“Deeper dive, Koz. The drugs may change, but the demand for the high doesn’t. You have to run more than one model to get ahead of that trend.” He looked around the table. “No one gets comfortable. Not in this district. No normalcy biases allowed, understand?”
The agents nodded, murmuring acknowledgments. Stanton turned to his left. “J.J., step outside for a word.”
Special Agent Jimenez followed him into the hallway. They didn’t speak until the door clicked shut behind them.
Stanton moved to the coat rack, grabbed his long, black nylon jacket, and slung it over one arm. His weather app said it was raining up north.
“Anything else on NOPD and the Staub-related crimes?” he asked.
“Ballistics came back,” she said. “Confirmed what Bates has been saying. A single rifle, .300 Blackout, was used on the officers in the Ninth Ward house. Boot prints between the Staub house and drug house are another link.”
“And the junkie?”
“Killed with a .38.”
Stanton paused, processing. “And the guy on the Staub porch? Another abnormality.”
“If the blunt head trauma didn’t kill him, the shovel to the throat certainly did.”
He nodded, pulling his briefcase from under the desk. “What about van-man? You come up with any more leads?”
She shook her head. “Nothing solid. No plates. No hits on traffic cams. Whoever he is, he’s careful. Or gone.”
Stanton checked his watch again. “Keep looking. I’m going to be out of the office for a bit.”
“D.C.?”
