The Locksmith’s Confession
June 2, 2025
Rain lashed the windows of the Eastwood Police Department as Detective Isla Barrett dropped the folder on Captain Monroe’s desk.
“That’s the fourth break-in this month,” she said. “Same method. Same pattern. But this time…”
She flipped the file open. A photo slid out—an elderly woman lying unconscious on her kitchen floor. Above her safe, a square of wall had been surgically opened. Empty.
Monroe frowned. “Any leads?”
“No prints. But the lock mechanism was picked cleanly—like a ghost.”
“Inside job?”
“No. But I think we’re looking at someone with serious training.”
That night, Isla drove to a small locksmith shop on the edge of Old Town. Fine Precision Locksmithing had been there for decades. The bell above the door jingled as she entered.
The man behind the counter was in his sixties, white beard trimmed, eyes sharp as pins.
“You’re early,” he said, without looking up.
“Excuse me?”
He lifted his head and smiled.
“You’re here about the break-ins.”
Isla blinked. “How would you know that?”
“I watch the news,” he said. “And I know my work when I see it.”
The man’s name was Henry Voss, once one of the most respected locksmiths in the state. He’d trained police, firemen, and even taught forensic lockpicking for a few years.
“You think someone you trained could be behind this?” she asked.
Henry hesitated, then walked to the back room. When he returned, he carried a dusty red notebook.
“This is a ledger,” he said. “Every student I ever took on. Only a few knew how to pick a Kessler 9-point vault lock. It’s damn near unpickable—unless you’re me. Or one of four people I taught.”
He opened the book to four names:
- Caleb Rainer
- Nina Li
- Edgar Frey
- Darren Kelso
“Rainer’s dead. Frey’s in Florida. Nina’s a defense contractor. That leaves Kelso.”
Darren Kelso had been arrested for burglary in 2012. Got out two years ago. No current address, no known employment.
Isla pulled up his records. He’d been released quietly. Too quietly. And the judge on his case? A retired friend of Chief Bryson.
Something stank.
She decided to visit Henry again.
But the shop was closed. The lights were off.
Inside, a shadow moved.
She drew her gun. “Police! Come out!”
The door creaked open slowly.
Henry stood there, one hand bleeding, the other clutching a photograph.
“They came,” he said softly. “Took the ledger. Said I should forget.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. But they didn’t take this.” He handed her the photo: a grainy image of four men in a garage. One was clearly Henry. Another was Darren Kelso. The others were unfamiliar.
Henry’s finger pointed at the third man.
“He was the observer. Never trained, but always there. Watched everything.”
“Name?”
Henry shook his head. “He paid in cash. But I remember the ring he wore—silver band, with a serpent.”
Back at HQ, Isla ran searches on known associates of Kelso, using the keywords: “silver serpent ring.”
One hit.
Leo Granger, former locksmith apprentice, later arrested for embezzlement. No charges stuck. Owned a private security firm now—Argus Lock & Safe.
And Argus had just been hired by the bank that suffered the latest break-in.
She paid Leo Granger a visit.
Tall. Smiling. Expensive suit. Ring still on his finger.
“I hear you’re into locks,” she said, flashing her badge.
“I hear you’re into accusations,” he replied coolly.
“Where were you three nights ago?”
“With my wife. And 37 guests at my company’s fundraiser.”
Too many witnesses.
“Mind if I ask you something strange?”
“Try me.”
“You ever train with Henry Voss?”
The smile faded. “Once, a long time ago. Didn’t take.”
“Didn’t it?”
That night, Isla returned to the locksmith shop.
She found Henry packing up.
“You leaving?”
“Too dangerous to stay. I think Kelso’s back. And I think Granger’s not just funding the jobs—he’s coordinating them.”
“What do you mean?”
Henry opened a drawer. Inside was a small digital recorder.
“I bugged the place. Old habits die hard.”
He played the tape.
A voice—low, precise.
“We hit the Brody estate next. Then the bank in Fulton. Then we vanish. Just like before.”
Another voice replied.
“What about the old man?”
“He talks, he dies.”
Isla used the recording to get a warrant.
Two days later, the FBI raided Granger’s compound. Inside, they found blueprints, stolen vault specs, and enough high-end lockpicking tools to rob Fort Knox.
Darren Kelso was found in a basement room, drunk, paranoid, muttering about serpents and secrets.
Granger was arrested. Smiled the whole time.
Henry closed the shop for good.
“I taught them too well,” he said quietly.
“You taught one of them too well,” Isla corrected. “The rest learned evil on their own.”
He handed her something wrapped in cloth.
“What’s this?”
“A lock,” he said. “One I made just for you. No two keys alike.”
She unwrapped it. Simple. Beautiful. Flawless.
“I trust you’ll keep it safe.”
That night, Isla added it to her desk.
Somewhere in the distance, another siren wailed.
But for now, the city’s doors were closed—and locked.
Tightly.