Chapter 381: The Case
Dean—full name Dean Winchester—was a hunter.
Technically, he could even be considered Frank's nephew, since he was the son of Frank's friend, John Winchester.
The last time Frank had seen Dean was during the shapeshifter incident last winter, when John had been injured. Back then, Frank and Dean had worked together to kill the creature.
Since then, they hadn't met again.
So Frank was genuinely surprised to see Dean here.
He hadn't known Dean would be involved at all.
The reason Frank had come was because Officer Hobbes had mentioned Eddie during the phone call.
Frank had come for Eddie.
But strangely enough, Eddie himself wasn't anywhere at the airport.
Standing beside Dean were two unfamiliar faces.
One was a tall young man in his early twenties, looking like a college student.
The other stood near the car—a Black man in his thirties wearing a beige trench coat. He looked exhausted, with bloodshot eyes and a weary expression.
If Frank had to guess—
this was Officer Hobbes.
"Dean, what are you doing here?" Frank asked after greeting him.
"I'm here looking for my dad," Dean replied.
"John?" Frank frowned in confusion.
But this clearly wasn't the time for that conversation.
"Hello. I'm Hobbes—the one who called you," the Black officer said, shaking Frank's hand.
"Frank," he replied.
After exchanging introductions, Frank turned toward the tall young man beside Dean.
"I'm Sam. Sam Winchester," the young man said, shaking Frank's hand. "Dean's my brother."
"Oh, right. I remember hearing about you," Frank said. "Dean mentioned you before. Said you were in college."
"I was supposed to be," Sam replied quietly.
A trace of pain flashed through his eyes.
"Let's get in the car," Dean said, breaking the awkward silence.
The group climbed in and drove off together.
Dean drove everyone into town and stopped at a motel.
"This is…" Frank said as he took off his coat, visibly surprised by what he saw inside the room.
The walls were covered in papers—newspaper clippings, reports, photographs, handwritten notes. Books and files were scattered across the table and bed.
It looked like someone had been conducting a full-scale investigation here.
"This was Eddie's room," Officer Hobbes explained.
"What exactly happened?" Frank asked, instinctively glancing at Dean.
"We only just got here ourselves," Dean replied as he studied the evidence wall. "We still don't know the full story."
"The whole thing started with a serial killer," Hobbes began.
He himself was a well-known detective in the area, famous for capturing multiple murderers over the years.
Not long ago, Hobbes had arrested a particularly vicious serial killer. The man was sentenced to death, and the execution was carried out without issue.
Everything should have ended there.
But soon afterward, another murder occurred.
And then another.
The disturbing part was that the crimes were carried out in the exact same manner as the executed killer's murders.
The killer poisoned the victims, stayed overnight in their homes, prepared an elaborate breakfast, and meticulously cleaned and organized everything afterward—as if suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Under normal circumstances, this would've been considered a copycat case.
Someone imitating the dead serial killer.
And oddly enough, the murderer seemed careless. The crime scene was filled with fingerprints and evidence, making it easy for police to identify the suspect.
But then—
things became bizarre.
Because another murder occurred.
And this time, the victim was the copycat killer from the first case.
The second victim had also been poisoned.
The killer had again stayed overnight, prepared breakfast, and even arranged the dishes and furniture exactly the same way—as though they were copying the original killer too.
And just like before, the crime scene was littered with fingerprints.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Every new victim turned out to be the murderer from the previous case.
A was killed by B.
Then B was killed by C.
Then C was killed by D.
The pattern continued endlessly.
The method never changed.
The behavior never changed.
Even the evidence left behind was identical each time.
That alone was disturbing enough.
But at every crime scene, the killer also left messages—
messages that matched the exact words spoken by the original serial killer before his execution.
Words the general public should never have known.
All of the cases fell under Hobbes' jurisdiction because he had been the one who arrested the original killer.
Despite being an experienced detective, Hobbes had never encountered anything like this.
Then, by coincidence, Eddie passed through town.
Before becoming a hunter, Eddie had spent decades as a police officer himself. He knew countless people in law enforcement and happened to be friends with Hobbes.
While chatting, Hobbes mentioned the case.
The moment Eddie heard the details, he immediately became suspicious.
As a hunter, this was exactly the kind of thing he dealt with now.
So he stayed behind to help investigate.
Everything in this motel room—the evidence, notes, and research—had been put together by Eddie.
But during the investigation—
Eddie suddenly disappeared.
Hobbes panicked.
However, it seemed Eddie had anticipated something like this. Before vanishing, he had left Hobbes a phone number and told him:
"If something happens to me, call this number."
That number belonged to John Winchester.
But when Hobbes called, nobody answered.
Instead, he reached voicemail.
John's recording instructed callers to leave a message, and if the matter was urgent, to contact his son Dean instead. Dean's number was included as well.
So Hobbes left a message explaining the situation.
Then he called Dean.
The moment Dean heard what happened, he immediately headed over.
A couple of days later, John unexpectedly returned Hobbes' call.
And during that conversation—
John gave him Frank's number.
Which was why Frank, all the way in New Mexico, had suddenly received Hobbes' call.