Silent Authority

Karam's Legacy, Chapter 15: The Cost of Looking Away

Laila Rahman moved quickly down the corridor, a slim folder tucked under her arm, her heels clicking with urgency. She was looking for Detective Brian Cruz—but his desk was empty, and no one in the bullpen had seen him all morning.

She rounded a corner and nearly collided with Captain Mason, who raised an eyebrow at her expression.

“Looking for someone?” Mason asked, stepping aside.

Laila hesitated, then nodded. “Detective Cruz. I need to speak with him about the Morozov case. Something came up.”

Mason folded his arms. “Detective Cruz left an hour ago. Didn’t say where he was going.”

Laila frowned. “That’s becoming a pattern.” She appeared to share the same annoyance about Cruz as Mason did.

“Well, he’s with Major Case now. Queens Borough office. Technically, he’s got clearance to work across precincts—but he doesn’t answer to me anymore.”

Laila nodded. She was about to turn to leave for her desk when Mason tilted his head and said, “You found something?”

“Well, the Morozov investigation has mostly been dead ends so far, but I went back into his personnel file just to be thorough. Found something odd. An old complaint from 2007.”

“2007?” he said, furrowing his brow.

Laila nodded. “Yeah. Morozov had pulled over a teenager in Queens—Munir Afzal—for suspected possession. Claimed it was tied to an active narcotics surveillance order.”

Mason’s eyes sharpened. “Morozov would’ve been a beat cop at that time, right?”

Laila gave a tight nod. “Exactly. So here’s what’s strange. Take a look at who signed off on the surveillance requisition.” Laila showed Mason the report. “Fatin Ibrahim.”

That made Mason pause. His expression shifted.

He looked past her toward his office, then back. “Let’s continue this in my office.”

They walked in silence, the clatter of keyboards and quiet chatter of officers fading behind them. Mason unlocked his door and stepped inside, holding it open for her.

“Have a seat,” he said, rounding his desk.

Laila sat, flipping open the folder again. She continued, “There’s no precinct match, no chain of request, and no reason for Fatin—who was working FIO at the time—to be authorizing narcotics surveillance for street-level beat cops in Astoria.”

Mason took the page slowly, his brow furrowing deeper as he read. “Fatin Ibrahim…” he muttered.

“He’s the one who vanished in the armored truck heist.” She stated, trying to break up the silence.

“Yeah. And now he’s connected to Morozov. Which means we’ve got a thread.”

“It’s not just this one file,” Laila said, lowering her voice. “Fatin’s name pops up in at least three old narcotics cases that don’t make sense.” Laila paused, noticing that Mason was now deep in thought.

“Keep digging,” he said. “Be careful who you talk to about this.” He looked towards the door to make sure it was closed. “Don’t tell Cruz about this. Let’s keep a small circle on this one.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but she said, “Of course, sir.”

“Keep me posted. And if you need a partner, I’m your guy.”

She nodded, then left the room.

---

The Astoria Boulevard platform hissed with heat and the screech of grinding metal. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly yellow tint on the gum-stained concrete. The air smelled faintly of brake dust, sweat, and something sweetly rotten drifting from a nearby trash can.

Amir stood near the edge, shoulders tense beneath a windbreaker, a manila folder clutched under one arm. Inside was the paper trail he’d put together for Wakil Afzal - a combination of his father’s notes and NYPD records.

He boarded the N train when it arrived, finding a spot near the middle of the car. The air inside was cool but stale—recycled breath and metal. A toddler babbled nearby. Two teens scrolled through TikTok at full volume. A man in paint-streaked overalls dozed with his head against the window, while a woman in scrubs stared blankly ahead. The car was half-full—routine crowd, nothing unusual.

He flipped open the folder and scanned a photocopied traffic stop report from 2007. Munir Afzal, twenty. Pulled over in Queens by a beat cop—Timothy Morozov. Alleged possession of cocaine, but no evidence was booked. The report was thin, barely more than a paragraph.

Amir stared at the name. Morozov. He hadn’t expected that. Coincidence? He wondered. But only for a brief moment. He was too fixated on understanding what his father was working on.

There were no further details on Munir. No follow-up, no booking record, no complaint. Just a kid pulled over, accused, and then... nothing.

Wakil Afzal. Deceased by suicide. Sad turn of events. None of his father’s records indicated the reason behind the suicide.

A quick search had turned up an old business registration for Wakil’s bookshop, once located on Steinway Street. Closed for years. But a newer entry had surfaced under a similar name: From Lahore Books & Gifts, listed to a Rashid Afzal, this one tucked a block south of Broadway Station. Same family? Amir wasn’t sure. But it was possible.

Wakil’s name appeared too often in his father’s notes to ignore.

The train jerked into motion. Amir leaned against the pole, letting the rhythm of the tracks settle into his spine. His father had found something and left behind a coded map. Despite his fancy Notion database, Amir felt like he was just scratching the surface.

The yelling broke his focus.

It was low at first—just a man muttering to himself near the far doors. Slouched hoodie, twitchy fingers. Most computers pretended not to see. Amir noticed him immediately.

The man paced—short, jerky steps, hoodie damp, fingers twitching with restless energy.

Amir straightened. The subway car grew quiet. An older woman clutched her purse. A teenager slid off the bench.

Then—flash.

Steel caught the light, fast and sharp. A blur, a scream, another flash.

It was a knife.

The man lunged at a young guy in a business shirt, slashing wildly with the knife. Screams erupted. People scattered.

“Police!” Amir roared, shoving forward.

The attacker turned, blade flashing toward Amir’s shoulder.

Amir ducked, the edge grazing his jacket—a hiss of torn fabric, a hot line of pain across his bicep. He grunted, slammed the man against the wall, gripping his wrist with both hands, trying to force the knife down.

The man thrashed wildly, eyes glassy, spit flying from his mouth as he screamed something incoherent. Amir’s feet slipped on the grimy floor. His grip faltered.

The blade came dangerously close again.

Then—arms. Strong ones.

A tall South Asian man with piercing eyes lunged from behind, wrapping both arms around the attacker’s chest. He wrenched the man back just as Amir twisted the wrist, sending the blade clattering to the floor.

Amir kicked it down the aisle. The attacker howled, bucked once, then sagged between them like a deflated bag of bones.

Amir pressed a knee into the man’s back, heart hammering. “Stay down.”

The train rocked and began to slow. Overhead, the soft chime of the automated voice came through the speaker: “This is Broadway…”

Amir exhaled hard, then pulled out his phone to call it in.

He looked up.

The man who’d helped him stood over the attacker, chest rising, eyes calm but wary. Nearby, a woman clutched her child, eyes wide.

Amir pressed his hand to the gash on his arm, winced, then pulled out his phone.

He dialed fast. “This is Officer Amir Kashyap, badge 4512. I’m off duty: Broadway Station, northbound platform. A male suspect attacked a rider with a blade, subdued and restrained. Possible EDP. Requesting EMS and a mental health response unit.”

He hung up, eyes flicking back to the man beside him.

“Thanks,” he said, still catching his breath. “What’s your name?”

The man stared back for a beat, then gave a small nod. “Rashid.”

Amir blinked. This couldn’t be the Rashid he was looking for. “You good?” the South Asian man asked, voice even.

Amir nodded, wiping blood from his sleeve. “Yeah. Thanks. That could’ve gone a lot worse.”

“I run a bookstore a block from here. Stepped out to run an errand—figured I’d take the train back. Saw him acting off before we boarded. Kept my eye on him. Good thing you were here.”

Amir stared at him, putting the pieces together. “You’re Rashid Afzal,” he said.

The man straightened up and looked Amir straight in the eye. “Yes, sir. How did you know that?”

Amir straightened. “Amir Kashyap.” He extended a hand. “I think our fathers knew each other.”

Amir quickly turned his attention back to the attacker. Keeping a firm grip on his wrist, he handcuffed the man, then guided him off the train.

The attacker sat shivering, knees drawn up like he’d been dunked in ice water, lips whispering to no one, and eyes darting under the flickering lights. He looked like a man still trapped in whatever world he came from.

Rashid followed close behind, scanning the platform as they stepped out into the open air of Broadway Station.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Amir gently lowered the man to sit against a support pillar. A few riders lingered, filming. Others gave them a wide berth.

“You didn’t have to jump in.”

“Didn’t think twice,” Rashid said.

Amir had met only a few people over the years who were truly calm under pressure. Most were trained in some way - martial arts, military. Rashid looked like one of them.

Rashid looked down at him. “He’s not well.” An obvious fact designed to make small talk.

“Yeah. EMS will take him to Elmhurst for evaluation. Could be a psych hold, depending on what they find.” Amir looked up as sirens approached in the distance. “I’ll have to wait here—get checked out and file a report.”

Rashid hesitated. “You need me to stay? Statement, witness—?”

Amir thought for a moment and shook his head. “I was coming to see you anyway. I’ll take a statement then. Or have another officer drop by.”

“You were coming to see me?” Rashid pulled out a business card from his wallet and offered it with a faint smile. From Lahore Books & Gifts was printed in embossed gold letters. “Well, it must be important.” Rashid said, “You’ll find me here. Name and address are on there.”

Amir took the card. “Thanks. Appreciate it,” he said quietly.

“Hope the rest of your day goes well.” Rashid turned and disappeared into the stairwell. Amir stood there as an EMS team descended, kneeling by the attacker and beginning their assessment. One paramedic looked up.

“He’s gonna need a psych eval. We’ll take him to Elmhurst. And it looks like you need to get checked out, too.”

Amir nodded.

The platform emptied around him, but his mind was already somewhere else. An unexpected turn of events, but he was glad to have made contact with Wakil Afzal’s son. Perhaps this investigation was finally getting somewhere.