THE PHANTOM HEIST

Chapter 4: Historical Connections

Sleep-deprived and shaken by the previous night's events, Sarah arrived at the Metropolitan Archives building when it opened at 8 AM. The text message had disappeared from her phone, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched—observed by something she couldn't see or understand.

Science had failed her. Now she needed history.

The archives occupied the basement of a century-old government building downtown. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Sarah approached the front desk, where an elderly woman with cat-eye glasses peered at her curiously.

"Margaret Holloway," the woman introduced herself. "How can I help you, dear?"

Sarah produced her police badge. "I need information about the property at 1200 Meridian Avenue. Currently Meridian National Bank."

Margaret's eyes widened slightly. "Ah, the old Westlake Memorial."

"Westlake Memorial?"

"The hospital," Margaret said, as if it were common knowledge. "Burned down in '44. Such a tragedy." She disappeared into the stacks, returning minutes later with several boxes of microfilm and a dusty folder. "Start with these."

Sarah spent hours scrolling through newspapers from the 1940s. The headlines told the story: "WESTLAKE MEMORIAL HOSPITAL DESTROYED IN BLAZE - 37 DEAD." Photographs showed a smoldering shell where the grand building once stood. Smaller articles detailed the aftermath—the investigation, the funerals, the eventual decision to rebuild on the site.

It wasn't until she reached December 1944 that she found what she didn't know she was looking for.

"NOTORIOUS JEWEL THIEF DIES IN HOSPITAL FIRE."

The article described how Maxwell Porter, wanted for a string of high-profile heists, had been admitted to Westlake Memorial with gunshot wounds following a botched robbery. He was among those who perished in the fire. His body was found in the hospital vault, where valuables and medications were stored.

Sarah's pulse quickened. The bank had been built on the exact footprint of the hospital. The modern vault occupied the same space as the hospital's secure storage.

The dusty folder contained police reports from Porter's crime spree. He had robbed seven banks and three jewelry stores between 1938 and 1944. His methods were meticulous, sophisticated for the era. He favored night operations, always disabled security first, and seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of vault mechanisms.

Just like the current robbers.

A yellowed photograph showed Porter in custody after a previous arrest—tall, sharp-featured, with penetrating eyes that seemed to stare directly at Sarah across the decades. Despite the handcuffs, he projected an aura of absolute confidence.

A handwritten note in the margin read: "Claims ability to pass through walls. Psychiatric evaluation recommended."

Sarah's hands trembled as she turned the page.

The final report described what was found clutched in Porter's burned hands: a ruby necklace stolen from the wife of a prominent surgeon. The necklace was partially melted but still identifiable by its distinctive setting. It was logged into evidence and never returned to its owner, who had perished in the same fire.

Sarah pulled out her phone and opened the forensic inventory from the recent robbery. Among the items stolen was a ruby necklace from the safe deposit box of one Eliza Hargrove, great-granddaughter of Dr. Jonathan Hargrove—the same surgeon whose wife's necklace had been found with Porter.

This couldn't be coincidence.

As Sarah gathered her notes, Margaret approached with a thin book bound in faded leather.

"Found this in the restricted section," she whispered. "It's Dr. Westlake's personal journal. Not officially part of the archives." She winked. "But I thought you might find it interesting."

The journal contained the ramblings of the hospital's founder—a man obsessed with the boundary between life and death. The final entries described experimental treatments involving electrical stimulation of the brain in terminal patients.

One name appeared repeatedly: Maxwell Porter, described as "the perfect subject" due to his "unique electromagnetic properties."

On the final page, dated the day before the fire, Dr. Westlake had written: "Porter claims he can project himself through solid matter when in the proper electromagnetic field. Preposterous. Yet the readings from the device are undeniable. Tomorrow we attempt the full procedure."

Sarah closed the journal, her skepticism warring with the evidence before her. Her forensic mind tried to make connections that science could explain—perhaps the current robbers had researched Porter's methods, maybe this was an elaborate copycat scenario.

But none of that explained the figure in the footage. Or the whispers in her apartment. Or the text message that vanished.

As she left the archives, Sarah noticed a man watching her from across the street—tall, sharp-featured, dressed in a style that seemed oddly outdated. When she looked again, he was gone.

That night, Sarah dreamed of fire. Of electrical machines with copper coils. Of a ruby necklace glowing like a hot coal. Of hands reaching through solid walls.

And of Maxwell Porter's eyes, watching her through the flames.