The Code Keeper

The fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead. Flickered. Cast unstable shadows across Sara's whiteboard-covered walls.

Sara spread the five case files across her desk, each one a riddle she'd been treating like an academic exercise. Torn poetry pages. Undeciphered codes. Unconnected deaths stretching back a decade.

Her index finger began its rhythmic tap against the desktop. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The pattern emerged like a photograph in developer fluid. The codes weren't random. They formed a sequence.

She reached for her father's magnifying glass. Eight years it had sat on her desk, untouched, a memorial to obsession. This time, she actually used it.

The torn edges of the poetry pages matched. Perfectly.

Sara's hands shook. These weren't puzzles. These were people.

Five victims. Five messages. One killer.

And she was the only cryptographer who'd connected them.

She pulled out her phone. Hesitated. Marcus Webb had been her student five years ago, brilliant but cautious, the kind who colored inside every line.

The call connected on the second ring.

"Webb," he answered, clipped and professional.

"Marcus, it's Sara Chen." She removed her glasses, cleaned them with the hem of her shirt. "I need to talk to you about five cold cases."

Silence on the line. Then his tone softened, just slightly.

"Off the record, Sara?" A pause. "The department wants these buried."

"I've found something."

"Give me an hour."

Sara returned to the whiteboards. The codes overlapped like archaeological layers, each fragment a piece of someone's final moments. She wrote faster now, connecting symbols, mapping patterns.

The fluorescents flickered again. Adelaide's evening power surge.

Marcus arrived fifty-three minutes later. His knock was formal, two sharp raps.

Sara opened the door. He stood with his hands in his pockets, trying to appear casual. Failed. His watch caught the light as he adjusted it. Once. Twice.

"You sounded spooked on the phone." He stepped inside, eyes scanning the whiteboard chaos. "What've you got?"

Sara pulled him to the center board. Started speaking faster with each connection she traced. "The codes form a sequential cipher. Actually, more specifically, they're a progressive key where each murder provides the next decryption layer."

Marcus's professional mask cracked. He leaned closer, asking the clarifying questions she'd taught him to ask.

"How long have you been working this?"

"Three weeks. I didn't see it until yesterday." Her finger tapped against the board. "They're all connected to one source event. 1948. The Somerton Man case."

Marcus looked away. Made a decision.

"My father's corruption scandal taught me something." His voice dropped. "Some truths destroy institutions. But silence?" He met her eyes. "Silence destroys souls."

He pulled official case files from his messenger bag. Dropped them on her desk with a heavy thud.

"This stays between us. The department's been sitting on these for years."

Sara opened the first file. Her breath caught.

"They knew. They've always known there was a pattern."

"And they buried it anyway." Marcus adjusted his watch again, uncomfortable with the admission. "Whatever you've found, Sara, it's bigger than cold cases."

The fluorescents buzzed. Flickered.

In the unstable light, Sara saw the codes differently. Not as intellectual challenges. As warnings.

She was holding proof that five people had been murdered to protect a secret. And now she was the only person who could read the messages they'd died trying to send.

"I need access to historical records," she said. "Persian poetry archives. Anything connected to the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám."

Marcus nodded. Pulled out his phone.

"I know someone. Antiquities dealer on Glenelg. Nadia Kasra." He paused. "Fair warning—she doesn't trust cops."

"Will she trust me?"

"Depends on what you ask her." Marcus's jaw tightened. "And whether she thinks you're ready for the answer."