Oᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ 13. 2024
One casual click and she turns on a GPS jammer, then stuffs it in her waist band.
Standing with her hands in the pockets of her black joggers, Alessia pulls out a little Nokia with a black, gloved hand and dials 911. Her tall figure, resting her weight on one foot, stands over a shimmering body of water. Her wavy reflection wears a hoodie and and a pair of old sneakers that sink into the damp banking. The wind in the early morning whisks up a few loose strands of her white hair escaping from the hood.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Alessia, who had received accent training as part of her classes with Petro, changes the tone of her voice and takes a breath, "This isn't much of an emergency, just an anonymous call from an informant." She speaks like a Southerner who has been smoking for years. "I have something to say that I think would benefit the police department greatly." She gazes across the lake and at the acres of grassy land stretching into the distance.
To the silent officer on the other line, she sounds like a female biker that's in their late 20's.
She adds, deadpanning at the rapid tapping in the background, "Trying to track my location will be futile, although I can't stop you. You're still going to listen as I defame someone's character, however, I am speaking as a victim and witness of the crimes of Petro Moskal, who manipulated me as a child to be an accomplice. I don't care what you think, naturally, but I'll turn myself in after something has been done. And, when that happens, you'll know it's who."
That one officer is now surrounded by the whole staff on his floor. Everyone abandoned their posts to listen in on the call and to help him locate the caller. The tracker keeps going in random circles.
Alessia begins to tell her story, turning her head up to the sky, "When I was a child, I suffered from domestic violence, then was tossed in a pile of trash at the age of 13. Petro Moskal drives around the streets of Los Angeles every 5 years to pick up kids that are homeless and/or abandoned. I was one of them. I thought I was saved, but it was like moving from one cage to another." She tuts disgustedly, then continues, "On the highest floors of his business, he and his brother train those children to be killers. They're the ones behind the doxing websites, where people post others information, from the innocent to the wicked. Your closest friend could be your enemy." She breathes. "It's a powerful business in the underworld, so many two-faced businessmen know about it and that he's the mastermind. Wondering why most of your investigations lead to an unexplainable dead end? Here's the reason."
She is getting emotional, now realizing how much everything was affecting her. Unnecessary words keep building up in her throat and she wants to let them all out, but she doesn't have time to vent. Especially to an emergency number. She should hurry and free up the line for real emergencies.
Swallowing, she begins again monotonously, dragging her words, "Let me give more details..."
Meanwhile, at the Los Angeles Police Department, they're still trying their hardest to get a location. The officer on the line with Alessia jots down the information he's being given, though her words are already being recorded, and if the others aren't watching in curiosity, they're taking their own calls.
They know that it's possible some top-notch person must be the reason why most of their work goes unfinished, but to accuse Petro Moskal? They'll need more evidence. They're hoping that this information is enough to guarantee them a search warrant.
Many suspicions crosses the minds of those who are listening, and those in the background joke about it being the Phantom.
"It could be." Says a female seriously, telling the guys to shut up so that she can hear what's happening.
They pause to look at the new hire before sniggering amongst themselves again.
At the end of it all, Alessia thinks she has done enough for now, telling them, "Be careful who you let in on this. Petro can disappear without a trace, and if not him, then it's you." It was too late. Almost the whole building knows of the call.
They glance at each other quietly.
"Watch yourself."
She drops the phone and stomps on it repeatedly, until the ink is leaking into the screen and it's cracked open. She then kicks the pieces into the lake, turns off her blocker and starts toward the road where she had parked her car.
She hopes to hear good news soon.