The Dead Speak First
1052 Words
“Crackle~”
Bruce pushed open the door to the small room, and the sound of rapid keyboard tapping immediately flooded into his ears, mixed with a series of shrill, agitated curses.
He raised an eyebrow.
Dempsey was wearing headphones and staring at the computer screen with a face full of exuberance, a look of immersion in the world of gaming.
Bruce scanned the game screen, oh? Wasn't this similar to the Warcraft he had played in his previous life? Then he looked at the interface time and operation data, he was convinced.
No wonder Dempsey was as unresponsive as a deaf person when he made so much noise just now - this kind of RTS game requires too much hand speed and attention.
Confirming that this guy was not acting, Bruce was slightly relieved. Although it was unlikely that the “Golden Finger” could be easily detected, it would be troublesome if he was suspected of having mental problems because of his unusual behavior.
After all, he is really sick.
Dempsey seemed to feel the strange eyes behind him, and turned around sharply, and was met with Bruce's “friendly” smile, which made his neck shrink in fear.
He quickly took off his headphones and smiled sarcastically, “Man, it's not that I won't help you haha, I'm just afraid of getting on the bandwagon and helping out, delaying your rhythm.”
“It's fine, really.” Bruce waved his hand with a tolerant expression, “It's just that the facial injuries on both bodies are very consistent, brutal and characteristic, not quite a simple homicide.”
Speaking of the case, Dempsey's eyes lit up like a roused hound.
“Holy s**t, the details I just glanced at!” He puts down the mouse excitedly, “These two victims died gruesome deaths, fatal injuries caused by obvious blunt force blows, the scene was splattered and messy with blood, the killer must have been emotionally fried at the time.”
Bruce nodded and listened quietly as he continued his analysis.
“And they died, at most, half an hour apart.” Dempsey continued to explain, “That means - the killer had already made up his mind to kill both of them before he did it!”
“You mean ...... had a definite purpose?” Bruce's brain felt like it was stuck on something, thoughts clearly leaping to mind, but just about on the verge of doing so.
“Bullshit.” Dempsey rolled his eyes, “A clear objective, a vicious hit, and the fact that the two victims were neighbors, the odds are that this is an old grudge, or a common conflict of interest.”
“So it is.” Bruce nodded, but his heart was slightly low.
Although Dempsey had nothing to show for his career as a detective, the logic of his meticulous thinking often made Bruce sweat.
As an undergraduate, you could still get an average grade by rote memorization. But when it comes to the Bureau of Forensic Science, this place is a den of learners, and every one of them is a genius.
Even Dempsey, a “supernumerary” field officer, was a veteran in the field before he came in.
He always felt that he was always almost interesting.
Perhaps Goldfinger ...... could replenish his brain?
“Speaking of which.” Bruce pulled the conversation back, “The two deceased were neighbors, so their identifying information should be easy to find, right?”
“Sure.” Dempsey nodded, pulling two freshly printed profiles from his desk, “It's all there in the databanks, just got it out of the way.”
Neither copy was thick, and each had a color photo of a woman pinned to the top right corner with a paper clip.
Bruce opened the first one first.
The victim's name was Monica Drew, 34 years old, unemployed, with a history of multiple offenses.
Twice in particular, she'd been in jail for trafficking and organizing Y affairs.
Monica had three marriages, none of which resulted in children.
Current husband, named Logan Cook.
“Logan?” said Bruce.
Wasn't this the same person who'd said, “Kill Logan, the son of a b***h,” in the red obsession ball earlier?
They were married? But her obsession before she died was to kill him? This emotion is not as simple as an ordinary spouse.
Bruce's mind was reeling.
Could Logan be the killer?
He hurriedly flipped through the second file.
On the photo, it was a blonde woman with a gentle smile that made people think of spring sunshine at first glance.
Name: Claire Whitmore, twenty-seven years old, employee of a housekeeping company, clean with no previous convictions.
The profile says she had a husband, but the note reads “deceased,” meaning she's a widow.
And here's the kicker - she has a daughter, three years old, named Ellie Whitmore.
Ellie! Bruce's mind snapped.
Wasn't the corpse's obsession to “protect Ellie”?
In other words, the little girl Ellie was probably at the scene of the crime when it happened.
But Dempsey said there were only two victims? Where's the kid? Could she still be alive?
Bruce sighed as if nothing had happened, “Ugh, this Claire seems like a really good person ...... daughter is only three years old, ugh.”
Dempsey also lamented, “She was killed in the bathroom. Luckily her daughter was sleeping upstairs at that moment.”
“Whew ......,” Bruce was almost moved to tears.
Just then, those blood-colored obsessive light points originating from Claire surged into him like a tidal wave.
A gentle blonde woman's silhouette appeared, said “thank you” to him gently, and then dispersed into light dust.
“Ah this ......” Bruce stood still, a little confused.
“This ...... this is done?” He muttered, his eyes falling on his empty hands.
“Where's the reward? Daddy Goldfinger, you shouldn't have dropped the line ......”
*****
Author’s Note:
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