<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>2nd floor, Deli<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Brazil, Sarah<br/><hr/>"Easy there, Blondie," said Drake, gently steering Sarah away from Brazil and stepping between the two women.  "We don't need to be fighting each other."  His attention, however, was mostly focused on the computer screen.  His eyes flickered back and forth over the pixellated letters, searching for some meaning there, daring for it all to make sense.  He was not surprised at all to encounter the names and pictures of everyone in their sorry group--and when he encountered Blondie's profile picture, he made a note to remember the name, "Brazil King", if only because it seemed like a rather unusual name--but what<em>did</em>astonish him was to discover, intermingled with the names and faces of those he had met quite recently, were others, people he hadn't met but who had appeared recently in the news.<br/><br/>The girl who had apparently hacked off her legs and left arm, who had disemboweled herself  with a knife and who had managed to paint the interior of her room in her own blood before dying.  Drake distinctly remembered seeing photos of the girl--as she had been previously, of course--when the macabre story had been all over the media and the Internet.  Cute, smiling, looking like just another typical teenager with a bright and promising future ahead of her.  It was the gruesome nature of the apparent suicide that had arrested Drake's attention.  Who could do that to herself?  What sort of madness would drive someone to do something like that?  And yet, here she was, in the shrink's files, just like himself and the others.<br/><br/>There was more.  The man who beat his mother to death with a toaster.  The wealthy stockbroker who had gone off the rails one day and had broken into his girlfriend's home and used a pair of pliers to rip out all of her teeth.   The boy who bashed his baby brother's brains out with a baseball bat.  All strange cases, all in the news--and all of them here, right in front of Drake's eyes.<br/><br/>Drake felt sick.  His stomach convulsed, and acid burned in his throat before he was able to choke it down.  The fact that all of those people were here, along with Drake and the rest, was a very ominous sign.  Together with the voices that everyone seemed to be hearing, it pretty much confirmed his suspicion that someone, somewhere, was fucking with their minds.  But why?  Why would anyone possibly want to do something this evil, this depraved?  Who would do such a sick fucking thing to a bunch of strangers?<br/><br/>Suddenly, Drake knew that his time was running out.  How long would it be until it was him on the news?  How long would it be until he was found in a room full of dead bodies, or until he cut himself into pieces, like the girl had?   Months? Weeks? Days?<br/><br/>"We've got to get into these files," he croaked.  "We have to figure out what's going on--who is behind all this--and stop it.  Blondie, can you find an address in there?  Can you find out where the shrink lived?"