The Robbery-Homicide Division's Fourth Squad, established only six months prior, saw Captain Monet lose his temper for the very first time.
Old Hunter looked down at his team with concern.
This was a serious dereliction of duty. The leaker would absolutely be fired and left with a terrible mark on their record—not a good outcome at all.
The Fourth Squad, including rookies Dean and Robert on the front lines, numbered only five or six. Losing one more person meant the pressure from understaffing would be immense.
The expressions on the faces below varied. Lawrence looked worried and conflicted. The usually energetic Harry was off in his own world. Robert, the newcomer, fidgeted restlessly. Beside him, Phoebe, uncharacteristically, kept her head bowed. Even a fool could guess who the leaker was with a single glance.
Just as Monet's gaze zeroed in on Phoebe, Dean pushed Lawrence, who was about to rise, back down and stood up himself. The sudden movement drew everyone's attention to Dean.
Monet frowned. "Dean, don't tell me you're the one who spilled the beans!"
He wasn't blind!
"Of course, it wasn't me," Dean stated righteously. "But it certainly wasn't any of my colleagues either, Captain. Besides us, people in Forensics know the case details. And the killer knows even more than we do. Why not them?"
The moment he spoke, the atmosphere in the conference room shifted dramatically.
Lawrence's expression relaxed. That's right! Why couldn't it be them?
He quickly chimed in, "Captain, Dean has a point! Wolf, from the hotel wife-killing case, saw the detailed report online. I suspect the killer deliberately leaked all this."
The deputy captain nodded in agreement. "That earlier tip-off call could have also been the killer, taunting us: 'Look, you idiots, I fooled you.' Simple crimes no longer satisfy them. So, I think it's highly probable the killer leaked the case details themselves."
After a moment of silence, Monet put his glasses back on and nodded. "Makes sense. I'll report this theory to the higher-ups."
He just needed a plausible excuse, and a chance to rattle his subordinates a bit. As for the truth, Monet didn't particularly care.
"Alright, let's get back to the case." Monet held up three fingers. "Gentlemen, we have three days. If we don't have results by then, the case will be transferred to the First Squad.
"As for us, we'll need to pray the First Squad catches the killer.
"Otherwise, the Fourth Squad will be the scapegoat thrown out to appease public pressure."
With that, Monet turned and left the conference room. Watching him push the door open and depart, the recently eased atmosphere among the team grew tense once more.
Old Hunter quickly clapped his hands, trying to rally them. "Three days is plenty. The killer is arrogant; they're bound to strike again. Any good suggestions?"
Daisy eagerly raised her hand. "I have one! If the killer is going to strike again, they'll definitely pick a target. I'll keep going to Sam's Supermarket tonight."
"Alright, that works. I'll have Robert go with you for protection."
Daisy glanced at the burly Robert and nodded, satisfied.
Robert also spoke up. "Deputy Captain, even though that short suspect is dead, he wouldn't have just randomly appeared at the crime scene. Maybe we can use his connections to find information on the killer."
"Good point. If the killer contacted him, there must be a trail. Phoebe, I need you to investigate all of the deceased suspect's communications. Also, push Forensics to get us those autopsy results sooner."
Old Hunter then looked at Lawrence. "Lawrence, you and Dean did well on the hotel wife-killing case. Any bright ideas now?"
Lawrence waved a hand dismissively. "No brilliant ideas, but I get the feeling the killer might be insecure in real life, possibly suffered a broken heart, knows something about chemicals, and is clearly aware of our methods. If you have any suspects, you could consider this psychological profile."
"Whoa, buddy, you dabble in psychological profiling?" Harry exclaimed, looking at Lawrence with an exaggerated expression. Daisy burst out laughing, breaking the somewhat oppressive mood in the room.
Phoebe, who had been quiet, smiled faintly. "Harry, didn't you know? Lawrence's ex-wife is a psychologist and a criminal psychology consultant for the Las Vegas Police Department."
Harry's jaw dropped. "Marrying a psychologist... Kid, you're brave!"
"If you don't want a taste of a Texas knuckle sandwich, shut your mouth!" Lawrence growled, clenching his fists until his knuckles CRACKED. Harry quickly mimed zipping his lips.
Only then did Dean realize Lawrence was a redneck with a psychologist ex-wife. No wonder he knew about criminal psychological deduction. Constantly exposed to his ex-wife's VIP treatment of criminals and patients—how could he not pick it up?
Old Hunter looked at the team, their morale restored, then at Dean sitting in the back. "Dean, any good suggestions or ideas? You made some excellent points earlier."
Dean tapped the table. "Have you considered one thing?"
"What's that?" several voices asked.
"The victims' common traits!" Dean stood up and, under Lawrence's surprised gaze, walked to Monet's usual spot. He pulled over the whiteboard and wrote down the names of the first three victims.
"These three women, apart from all being tall and attractive, weren't well-off financially. According to people who knew them, all three had simple private lives, no messy relationships, and a habit of working out—they were very disciplined.
"Lawrence and I found towels from this gym in the victims' homes. Upon investigation, all three victims were members of this gym. The towel fibers found in their mouths also perfectly matched the material of the towels provided by the gym.
"The interesting part is the location. Ross Gym is over seven kilometers from each victim's home, and membership isn't cheap, which would have been a significant burden for them. There are clearly more affordable gyms nearby.
"So, guess why they went there?"
"To find rich men," Lawrence blurted out, applying an idea Dean had shared earlier. "Disciplined men are usually successful, and the gym's high fees act as a filter, essentially pre-screening targets for the victims."
Harry gulped. There's really a place like that? If I go to Ross Gym in disguise, wouldn't high-quality women throw themselves at me?
Robert, also a rookie, sounded a bit resentful. "Dean, if you found these clues, why didn't you say so earlier?"
Dean wagged a finger. "Every clue is a potential direction. Since everyone was focused on Sam's Supermarket, and I wasn't sure if the gym lead would pan out, I didn't want to say anything and split your focus."
"Dean, are you saying you've found new leads?" Old Hunter's eyes lit up.
Dean didn't elaborate, just said, "More or less."
"In that case, Lawrence, you assist Dean. If necessary, call us for backup. Meeting adjourned!" Old Hunter gave Dean the authority.
Outside the conference room, Lawrence pulled Dean aside, his expression earnest. "Dean, I owe you one!"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Because of Phoebe?"
"You knew?"
"No shit, Sherlock. Everyone saw it."
When Dean was inspecting the third victim's residence, he'd already guessed Phoebe stayed behind to secretly give an interview. Her motive? A glance at Phoebe's desk—plastered with large photos of celebrities and tabloid clippings—was enough. She was a girl who dreamed of the entertainment world and its gossip.
"...Anyway, thank you," Lawrence mumbled.
Phoebe appeared silently behind them. "What are you two talking about?"
Lawrence jumped, startled.
Dean slung an arm around the startled Lawrence. "We were just discussing whether Phoebe here likes tough rednecks!"
"Ah..." Lawrence, thoroughly embarrassed, hunched over like a penguin with its head bowed.
Phoebe shot Lawrence a conflicted glance, then pretended not to have heard Dean. "Thanks for earlier, Dean. I really thought I was going to be fired."
Dean gave Lawrence a pitying look. Uh-oh. Then he said magnanimously, "Phoebe, no need to be so formal. We're on the same team!"
"Yeah, on the same team!" Phoebe nodded vigorously, said no more, and turned to leave.
Having won Phoebe over, Dean patted the dejected Lawrence. "Buddy, forget about Phoebe. You're not her type. Come on, we've got bigger fish to fry."
"You shouldn't have said that," Lawrence grumbled, feeling Dean had shattered his fantasy.
Dean didn't coddle him. "Lawrence," he threatened, "if you keep dragging your feet, I'll make a move on Phoebe myself and make sure you get a front-row seat to our... fun."
"Fuck!" Lawrence flipped Dean the bird and hurried after him.
He didn't realize that, unwittingly, their roles had reversed: Dean, the rookie, was now leading the way.