At 05:01, three men in unmarked sedans arrived. No plates. No insignia. They wore NYPD windbreakers but carried no radios or badges. One of them, a woman with gray hair and eyes that looked like they’d been installed yesterday, walked directly up to the subject. She didn’t speak. She simply held up a small brass tuning fork and struck it against her knee.
It existed on a single microfilm cartridge locked in a lead-lined box in the sub-basement of One Police Plaza. The label read:
“Missing person,” he said. “December 17, 1989. Hell’s Kitchen.”