Ch: 145-152
145. Gwen's Profile of Wushuang
The case file was freshly prepared.
It was from yesterday.
Opening the file, the first thing that caught my eye was a photograph of the crime scene: a couple, appearing to be in their fifties, lying in a pool of blood on the bedroom floor.
Their deaths were gruesome.
The couple's bodies were covered in numerous, clear stab wounds, and the crime scene was bloody and horrific, clearly indicating that they had been stabbed to death with a sharp object.
Well, then.
Is that all?
Locke thought to himself. While it was true that he had killed, and he admitted to being a criminal in the eyes of the law, he wasn't bloodthirsty, nor did he have any bad habits.
Most importantly,
"The longer the reach, the stronger the weapon."
This was Locke's creed.
If a target could be sniped from a distance, he would never be foolish enough to engage in close-quarters shooting, let alone a close-range stabbing with such a low margin of error.
Was George blind?
Just by looking at the scene, it was clear this was a copycat crime. Besides a notification, what else was there to link it to the Peerless Assassin?
Locke pondered this as he turned the page, then saw a sticky note and a business card tucked inside the file.
The name on the business card was Patty Finn, with only a name and phone number.
The sticky note had a large question mark on it.
Locke raised an eyebrow.
Good, George didn't seem to be blind. If George had also believed this case was his doing, frankly, Locke would have been a little disappointed in George, seriously doubting if George could be a good father-in-law.
Gwen and I are both so smart; my father-in-law certainly can't be a fool.
What if our future child's intelligence regressed and took after George?
"This Patty Finn is…"
"Oh, my dad's high school classmate. She's currently a star producer at a New York TV station, and she visited my dad a few days ago."
"A producer?"
"Yes."
Gwen nodded, then looked at the crime scene photo. "This isn't right. This doesn't really look like the Peerless Assassin's modus operandi. What's Dad thinking?"
Locke looked at Gwen.
Gwen met Locke's gaze and explained, "Dad once showed me these photos and asked me to help analyze them. I even did a somewhat crude psychological profile of the Peerless Assassin."
"A psychological profile? You did it?"
"Mm."
Gwen nodded. "Weren't you hospitalized last time? And didn't I suggest you see a psychiatrist? I was already reading books on the subject then. Later, when you went back to school, Mary Jane mentioned once that abuse can cause psychological trauma, so I kept borrowing psychology books from the library. Then, a profiler from the NYPD became my psychology teacher. She's quite good; she said she feels I could take the psychological counselor certification exam in a while."
As she spoke,
Gwen blinked, looking at the motionless Locke, and asked curiously, "What's wrong?"
Locke snapped back to reality and waved his hand.
He was already wondering whether he should learn the "Anti-Psychology" skill now and max it out immediately.
"And then?"
"Whether in Texas or New York, the Peerless Assassin's crime scenes are simple and clean. Most victims are shot in the head from a distance, and a small number are shot at close range. There has never been a single case of close-quarters killing. Moreover, these victims all have something in common."
"…They were all guilty?"
"That too, but the most distinctive aspect is their method of death. The Peerless Assassin loves headshots, but unlike ordinary bullets, these people don't look ghastly after being shot in the head. Typical headshot scenes are very gruesome, but these people aren't. Also, neither in Texas nor New York have any bullets been recovered from these bodies."
"Really?"
"The bullets used by the Peerless Assassin must be specially made."
Locke made a curious expression.
But… this was very normal, and it aligned with science.
Any bullet fired from the Silver Dancer would disappear after a period of time upon hitting its target.
After all, the Silver Dancer's bullet capacity was infinite. If the bullets were physical objects when fired, it would somewhat contradict the basic laws of mass conservation or matter exchange.
Moreover, if the fired bullets didn't disappear, would Locke have been so poor back then?
Wouldn't selling bullets directly be more appealing?
At the very least, even if the bullets were sold as scrap metal after being fired, it would still be a better way to start from scratch and get rich.
Locke then looked at Gwen. "You said you also did a psychological profile of the Peerless Assassin?"
He was very curious about what Gwen's psychological profile of him was like.
If there was anything that matched him,
He would change it.
Immediately!
Gwen shrugged. "The FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit's age profile is between twenty-five and thirty-five, but I don't think that's right. The Peerless Assassin's age should be between sixteen and twenty-five."
"Well, then."
Locke thought to himself and looked at Gwen. "Why?"
Gwen said, "Because the Peerless Assassin's targets, in his view, are all bad people whom the law cannot judge. He's a bit too idealistic. If he were twenty-five, an adult who has entered society, he should understand that the world isn't black and white, but chaotic."
"…And then?"
"The Behavioral Analysis Unit believes the Peerless Assassin should be living alone or in a house left by his parents. I largely agree with this point. However, I disagree with the Behavioral Analysis Unit's assertion that the Peerless Assassin should appear unremarkable to others in daily life, and if observed closely, would seem very strange."
"Why?"
"The Peerless Assassin first investigates whether the target is guilty, so he should be able to obtain a lot of information about the target. This requires the Peerless Assassin to move around. If it were truly as the FBI analyzed, the Peerless Assassin should have already been exposed. But on the contrary, the Peerless Assassin should be someone who lives alone, in his parents' house, with decent financial conditions, and has a stable job that he can perfectly integrate into without arousing suspicion."
"…"
Locke fell silent.
Well, then.
Is this really a psychological profile that could be done by someone who had been self-studying psychology for less than three months?
Isn't this just describing me directly?
Living alone?
Locke lived alone.
Living in his parents' house?
In a way, the Starfall Tower was indeed purchased with his nominal parents' inheritance.
And a stable job that he could perfectly integrate into?
Being a ninth-grader… no, being a tenth-grader, should also count as a job, right?
Then, adding the age Gwen just mentioned… Locke smiled. "You profiled this?"
Gwen shrugged beside him. "Yes, but a federal agent used a very simple piece of evidence to refute my psychological profile."
Locke's eyes lit up. "What?"
"The Peerless Assassin's marksmanship."
"Uh…"
Gwen sighed. "The FBI said there was a fatal flaw in my profile: the Peerless Assassin is an excellent shot, arguably a firearms master. Even if the Peerless Assassin is exceptionally gifted, he would still need to practice his marksmanship. And if my age profile is correct, then the Peerless Assassin would have had to start learning to shoot at least by the age of fourteen."
Locke's brow twitched.
Damn it!
His first shot was indeed at fourteen, but by then, he had already used the potential points accumulated over many years to light up his marksmanship skill.
Gwen spread her hands. "This is the most critical point. If that were truly the case, then there should have been rumors in the shooting circles in Texas, but there aren't."
Locke breathed a sigh of relief.
Well done, FBI!
Fortunately, Gwen wasn't a professional; like him, she was just a student. If Gwen's psychological profile had been accepted, Locke felt he would be in deep trouble.
But… in the end, he would still be deemed innocent.
Because his hands were spotless.
A gunman's hands would surely have calluses from years of holding a gun.
Locke's hands were smooth. Based on this alone, even if any law enforcement agency took him to court, the jury, looking at Locke's hands, would believe they were hands that wrote, not hands that killed.
After Gwen finished speaking, she looked at the case file on the table, then at the question mark on the sticky note tucked inside, as if she had realized something. "I think I understand what Dad wants to do."
Locke snapped back to attention.
Gwen said, "Dad told Mom and me that the Peerless Assassin seems to have gone into hiding recently. If this case wasn't done by the Peerless Assassin, then Dad probably intends to use this case to lure the Peerless Assassin out. Because the Peerless Assassin is a proud person, he would never allow himself to take the blame for this, or watch his notifications be misused by a copycat killer, ruining his reputation!"
Locke didn't want to talk anymore.
In fact, when Gwen mentioned that George had once asked her to refer to these cases, Locke had already sensed what George was up to.
Gwen's words merely confirmed Locke's suspicion.
But… Locke felt a bit helpless. George, who looked so honest and upright, was also playing these little tricks.
The most crucial point.
Just as Gwen's profile of him was very close, this case would indeed bring out the Peerless Assassin, because, as Gwen said, Locke would never allow his reputation to be tarnished or exploited by a serial killer impersonating him.
So, George was playing a transparent scheme.
Or rather… George planned to kill two birds with one stone.
Use this copycat to draw out the Peerless Assassin, then use the Peerless Assassin to lower the copycat's psychological guard, and then, in one fell swoop, capture both of them?
Locke couldn't help but inwardly praise it as brilliant, wanting to applaud George.
Just then,
Downstairs,
Helen suddenly let out a gasp.
"Oh, God!"
"Gwen…"
One Hundred and Forty-Six, Someone Always Has to Do It
After Locke and Gwen heard Helen's exclamation from downstairs, they immediately ran down.
In the living Room, Helen was holding a phone, covering her mouth with a pained expression as she watched Gwen come down the stairs.
Locke's heart skipped a beat.
It couldn't be that George had called it a GG, right?
Goodfellas.
The Butterfly Effect, is he taking an early exit?
Locke thought to himself, as if he could already see a scene in the near future where a drunkard, living off George's pension and hitting his kid, was holding Helen in his arms.
George... Locke felt a sudden surge of grief. Although he had thought about killing George before, after spending so much time together, watching George say 'I will definitely catch the Peerless Assassin' was quite entertaining at times.
There would be no more of that joy in the future!
But... Helen hummed in response to the phone, then, after hanging up, she looked at Gwen: "Jeff is dead."
Locke snapped back to reality.
Jeff?
Who was he?
Was it some kind of pet name for George?
Gwen was slightly stunned, seemingly knowing who Jeff was, and she also wore a shocked expression: "Uncle Jeff, how could it be?"
Helen shook her head: "Tauris doesn't know yet. Get dressed; we're going over there now."
Tauris was Jeff's wife, and Jeff was a member of the NYPD—the very officer who had just been reported shot. At the same time, Jeff was also George's partner before he became a Police Superintendent.
The one who went offline tonight was Jeff.
In a small alley without surveillance in the Lower East Side, Manhattan.
George hung up the phone with his wife, his face instantly darkening as he turned and walked back into the alley.
The atmosphere in the alley was very oppressive.
Even though there were more than twenty Police Officers present at this moment, the scene was unusually quiet.
Clearly...
They were all very angry.
Beside a trash can in the alley, the officer named Jeff had his head resting weakly against the bin behind him. He had three bullet holes in his body, plus over a dozen knife wounds. By the time the first patrol officer arrived, there was no chance of survival for Jeff.
Near Jeff's feet, a nameplate that looked like it was stamped in gold was particularly conspicuous.
It was a Notice identical to the ones Locke used.
Notice
[Name: Jeff Martin
[Crime: Abuse of violence, corruption]
[Execution carried out!]
George bent over and picked up the Notice with his gloved right hand, staring at the crimes listed on it, his eyes flickering.
Just then.
"Blout, the Police Superintendent is..."
"Get lost!"
"Bl..."
Accompanied by a low, angry voice, a man in a leather jacket who looked middle-aged and balding—though he was surprisingly handsome despite the balding—with a deep voice full of masculine charm, pushed aside the patrol officer blocking his way and walked straight into the alley.
Jason Blout, an NYPD Detective, was originally from the 8th Precinct. Because George Stacy was promoted, he was transferred from the 8th Precinct to Headquarters and became Jeff's new partner.
But... Jason Blout had a violent temper. He was frequently complained about and appeared in the newspapers for beating those who didn't follow the law. As his superior, George had always been somewhat annoyed and helpless regarding this.
There was no other reason.
Jason, despite his disregard for the rules, was a great Detective. Because of this, George had withstood pressure from Internal Affairs to protect Jason at all costs.
"fuck!"
Jason's gaze fixed on Jeff, who no longer showed any signs of life. He cursed like an erupting volcano, wiped his face, and with a loud bang, slammed his right fist directly into the wall: "fuck, fuck, fuck!"
George expressionlessly called over a Police Officer: "Get Jeff's file pulled up."
The officer nodded.
Jason's gaze snapped to George, who was holding the Notice, and he narrowed his eyes: "You don't actually believe what this says is true, do you?"
George looked at Jason: "It doesn't matter if I believe it or not. Since the sin hunter gave it, we have to investigate."
Jason seemed to be trying his best to restrain his roar: "You fucking don't trust our own people?"
As soon as these words came out, the gazes of the nearby officers fell on George, whether intentionally or not.
George's expression remained unchanged: "Jeff was your partner, but don't forget, he was my partner too. I know best what kind of person Jeff was. But if we don't investigate, tomorrow's newspapers will label Jeff as a dirty cop as described on this Notice. Investigating isn't because I don't believe Jeff, but because we want to clear Jeff's name!"
This definitely wouldn't be the work of the Peerless Assassin.
In fact.
George had known since that couple's murder case that this was a copycat crime. He was also certain that the person who killed Jeff was definitely not the Peerless Assassin; he knew exactly what kind of person Jeff was.
But... George's gaze fell on the Notice in his hand. He called over Kate, who had also arrived, handed the Notice to her, and said carefully: "Just like last time, send this to the Forensics Department for analysis."
Standing nearby, Jason thought George was handing the case to Kate, and his violent temper flared up again: "I'm taking over this case!"
After George finished giving instructions to Kate, he glanced at Jason and nodded: "Fine, you and Kate will handle this case together."
Having said that.
George turned and left.
Jeff was his good friend, and he didn't want the people from the Police Department's Bereavement Unitto knock on Jeff's door: "Notify all the guys in the Major Crimes Unit—cancel all leave, everyone is on 24-hour standby!"
"Yes!"
"Understood."
Upon hearing George's words, many officers immediately let out a roar.
No one can kill a Police Officer and still get away scot-free.
No one can!
Not even the Peerless Assassin.
After an NYPD officer is murdered, then, congratulations to that killer—he has successfully initiated the hell-difficulty mission: 'New York's Wrath'!
Until this cop-killer is caught, the over 30,000 to nearly 40,000 NYPD officers in New York City will be completely awakened. Even if they have to knock on every door and break them down house by house, they will not hesitate.
Rumble!
After George got out of the car, he looked up at the sky where thunder had suddenly rumbled. He suppressed the anger on his face; knocking on his friend's door and telling his friend's wife about this while carrying such anger was not an ideal choice.
Locke, Gwen, and Helen were already at Jeff's doorstep.
It couldn't be helped.
With a killer roaming around outside, Locke felt it was better to escort them himself.
However... the three of them didn't go in because George had just called and told them to wait for him.
After George walked over, he hugged Helen, then glanced at Locke, nodded to acknowledge him, and headed toward Jeff's door.
Locke stood behind.
Gwen looked at Locke, who hadn't moved, and walked over: "Aren't you going in?"
I don't even know this Jeff.
That was what Locke wanted to say, but after organizing his words, he shook his head: "I don't really like these kinds of scenes."
This was also the truth.
He couldn't imagine knocking on someone's door and then telling the family,'Sorry, your husband is gone.' That image, that scene—what kind of psychological turmoil would that even be?
Gwen was slightly stunned, and she also gave a forced smile as she watched Tauris, who had already opened the door. Tauris's face first showed a hint of surprise and joy upon seeing George and Helen, but then her expression instantly shifted into disbelief and immense grief. Gwen spoke softly: "Back when Dad wasn't a Police Superintendent yet and was still a Detective, Mom would wait for him to come home every single time before going to sleep. Every time Dad was out and the doorbell rang, Mom would always freeze in place for a few seconds before she would open the door."
In the beginning, Gwen didn't quite understand why.
Later... Gwen understood why. Watching George's retreating back, she said, "After I found out, I once threw a tantrum and told Dad to change jobs, but Dad said that someone has to do this job, and other people have daughters too."
There are some things that someone always has to do.
We don't see the darkness simply because someone is standing on the edge of the light, blocking that darkness for us.
Locke frowned.
This was also the reason why he never laid a hand on innocents.
The guilty deserve their fate; when an avalanche occurs, no single snowflake is innocent. The money and other things he obtained through his crimes were naturally enjoyed by his family as well. In that case, perhaps his family didn't deserve to die, but whatever they thought had absolutely nothing to do with Locke.
But for innocents, Locke couldn't think that way.
Therefore.
Locke maintained his bottom line of not killing innocents. Even when he encountered state troopers rounding him up a few times in Texas, Locke never fired a shot to kill any of the Guardians standing in the light to block the darkness.
Gwen watched George and Helen, who had already entered the house, and took Locke's right hand, smiling as she met his gaze: "So, Dad has always been the Hero in my heart, and Locke, you are my Hero too."
Every woman has three Heroes who protect her in her life.
When she was a child, George was Gwen's Hero.
When she grew up.
Gwen was very certain that Locke would be the second Hero in her life.
As for the third.
Gwen believed that in the future, her child would also be a Hero. Once they grew up and she and Lockewere both old, they would be the Hero who protected the two of them.
"Let's go."
Gwen gripped Locke's right hand and said, "I need my Hero to be by my side."
Locke snapped back to his senses and nodded.
They entered the Room.
From the living Room sofa, the sound of weeping could be heard.
But... the woman named Tauris was sobbing as she took the tissue Helen handed her. She opened her eyes, which were already completely bloodshot, and looked at George, her voice low as she tried to stabilize her emotions: "Who, who could be so cruel?"
George was silent for a moment before saying, "We're not sure yet, but... a Notice was found at the scene!"
Locke, who was just closing the door with Gwen and preparing to walk over, raised an eyebrow.
What????
147. Literally
What the hell?
I did it again?
How come I didn't know myself?
If it were last night's homicide or something, Locke might have had amnesia and didn't remember, but tonight, damn it, he had a 100% solid alibi.
His thoughts shifted.
The next second.
Locke's anger suddenly surged.
If he were just an ordinary killer, then maybe he really could have been impersonated by this guy; after all, ordinary killers didn't have those special notification cards or those bullets that automatically disappeared.
First killing innocents, then killing a Police Officer?
This was no longer a simple case of impersonation.
This was damn well looking for trouble in the worst way possible.
Locke had just been sighing outside the door, only to find out after entering that the one who caused all this tragedy was actually himself?
Uh... a fake version of himself.
Tauris was slightly stunned. Her husband had been George's partner, so she had naturally heard of this notification card. Her eyes widened: "How is that possible? You know George better than I do—what kind of person Jeff is. How could he receive a notification card? Doesn't the Peerless Assassin only kill the guilty? How could Jeff receive one?"
George said, "I know Jeff's character, of course."
Tauris's expression was one of immense pain: "Then why..."
Looking at the furniture and decorations in their Room, some pieces were even gifts from others at Tauris's wedding; they were patched up and basically had never been replaced.
Locke and Gwen sat to the side, responsible for looking after Tauris and Jeff's three children, the oldest of whom was not even ten years old.
Two daughters and one son.
Gwen didn't turn her head. Listening to the sounds of crying coming from the living Room behind her, she let out a sigh.
Locke looked at Gwen.
Gwen shook her head: "Tauris is a full-time wife, and their youngest daughter, Mandy, has a chronic illness that requires regular medication."
Locke understood.
Most families in the U.S. actually have very low risk-resistance. Unlike in China, where if most families have no income for half a year or a year, they can just grit their teeth and get through it.
But in the U.S., no income basically means one thing.
They have already started the countdown to becoming a Homeless man.
What?
The NYPD has a pension?
Don't be ridiculous.
George's current annual salary is only about seventy or eighty thousand; how much could the pension for the families of those killed or injured officers be?
This was why Locke felt Little Spider didn't deserve the title of Hero.
A true Hero always acts with the intention of sacrificing themselves in exchange for the safety of thousands.
Iron Man, because of that snap, can be called a Hero.
Captain America Steve is a Hero.
But what about Little Spider?
Every time Little Spider grows, it is accompanied by someone else's family being ruined. Does he deserve the title of superhero?
Right now?
Locke felt as if a nameless fire was surging within him.
Someone had used his name to kill a Police Officer, which gave Locke a strange, inexplicable feeling.
fuck!
After a while.
Locke and the others left because people from the Police Department's funeral department might be coming soon.
They went out the door.
As the four of them walked toward the parking lot, Helen, walking ahead with George, said, "There should be a donation organized, right?"
George nodded.
There was no other way. It was well known that the NYPD's pension was very low. Because of this, basically, if a colleague unfortunately met with disaster, they would organize a donation.
Although the money wasn't much, at the very least, it would prevent someone from ending up on the streets the following year because they couldn't afford the property taxes.
Furthermore, various colleagues from the NYPD would take extra care of them. Basically, tickets and violations would be non-existent, and some close colleagues would often visit to provide whatever help they could based on their friendship.
After all, any Police Officer could have such a day. Helping others was, to some extent, helping oneself.
This was also why Ms. Casey was able to gain the support of the NYPD officers.
Because Ms. Casey promised to significantly improve the treatment of NYPD officers, and after being successfully elected, she did so. Although it was still little, at least there was an improvement.
Helen gave an 'un' of agreement: "Let's find a babysitter for tomorrow or the day after. I'll bring Gwen to Jeff's house to help out."
Gwen, walking behind with Locke, said, "Bring Little George along too. Little George and Mary get along well; we can let Little George comfort and look after Mary tomorrow."
Mary was the ten-year-old in Jeff's family, the one who had been sitting there silently, looking quite quiet.
Helen nodded: "That's a good idea."
At the parking lot, Locke and Gwen's family parted ways, and he drove back to Starlight Tower.
He entered the house.
Locke took off his suit trench coat, grabbed a bottle of bourbon and a glass from the bar, and went straight up to the second-floor study.
He poured a drink.
Turned on the computer.
Drank it in one gulp.
All in one smooth motion.
Locke looked at the computer interface. Using high-level hacking techniques, he hacked into the backend of the city-wide surveillance system, which had nearly seven thousand cameras throughout New York, and pulled up the footage from the time of the secret visit near that alley in the Lower East Side.
But... there was no surveillance inside that alley. And nearby, the cameras that could have filmed the alley were either broken or simply had gum stuck on them that had dried up and hadn't been removed.
Of the nearly seven thousand cameras in the city, if calculated carefully, only about five thousand could operate normally and film. Over two thousand cameras were in a state of awaiting replacement or maintenance due to funding and manpower issues.
He's an expert.
After Locke's search yielded no results, his hands left the keyboard. He stared at the less-than-half-full shimmering bourbon on his desk and let out a cold laugh.
What a pity.
Of all the people you could pretend to be, why did you have to pretend to be me?
The living don't know who you are.
But don't the dead know who you are?
Locke stood up, drained the remaining bourbon in the glass, took out his sunglasses, and after putting them on, stepped out. He left behind a clone to stay at home and impersonate him, then went straight downstairs and toward the door.
Ordinary people can't make the dead speak.
But Locke was no ordinary person.
His motto was: if a game can't be played with cheats, then the game is meaningless.
Who the fuck is playing Detective with you?
I want to see just how much nerve you have to dare to impersonate me!
NYPD.
The morgue.
Relying on the Concealment Technique he had acquired and leveled up from Callum Lynch, who looked strikingly like Magneto, Locke had a smooth journey. It was the first time he had used it today. He managed to silently reach the forensic office on the second basement floor right under the noses of a group of officers who were working overtime through the night to find any clues.
"Hmm?"
Having just received the news and returned to the office, prepared to perform an autopsy and tests overnight, the forensic Doctor had changed clothes. He turned around, frowning at the door that suddenly seemed to have been pushed open and was swaying. He called out, "Who's out there?"
Locke stood behind the forensic Doctor and spoke up: "Hi."
The forensic Doctor started, turned around, and then—thud—was struck directly on the head. Then, with a graceful flop, he collapsed to the floor.
The moment the forensic Doctor hit the ground, the folder in his hand had already been steadily caught by Locke's leather-gloved right hand.
A long moment passed.
Locke dragged the forensic Doctor to his office chair, sat him up, posed him, and poured a bottle of coma potion down his throat to ensure he would sleep through the night. After that, he turned and entered the lab where three autopsy tables were placed.
He looked.
The three autopsy tables were already full.
Over there, the assistant had just pushed that couple out of the freezer together. He was standing in the corner finishing a phone call with his girlfriend, explaining that he couldn't come back tonight. After putting away the phone, he looked at Locke, who had walked in boldly wearing sunglasses, and was suddenly stunned: "Hi, who are you? This is the foren... gah!"
The assistant's words came to an abrupt halt.
Nothing else.
Because a handgun with a completely golden texture was pressed against his forehead.
"Gulp!"
The assistant swallowed hard, cold sweat pouring down as his hands went high: "I am of French descent... thud!"
Locke looked at the assistant who had been knocked unconscious and fallen to the ground, frowning.
He's of French descent?
What does that mean?
Could it be that those of French descent have some privilege that grants them immunity from death?
Locke thought for a moment, couldn't figure it out, snapped back to reality, and walked directly toward the middle of the three autopsy tables.
He lifted the white cloth.
He looked.
Shot and stabbed, Detective Jeff Martin, whose death could be described as gruesome, lay quietly on the autopsy table.
Not bad.
Locke breathed a sigh of relief.
Detective Jeff Martin's appearance was a bit tragic, but at the very least, his limbs were intact—they were all there, no missing arms or legs—and his head was also undamaged. Aside from some bruising and swelling, there was nothing special.
"Not bad."
While nodding in affirmation, Locke's right hand flickered, and he took out the life potion, which was said to be able to pull someone back even if their soul was in Mephisto's hands—as long as the body was intact and the soul hadn't been eaten by Mephisto as a snack. He looked at Jeff Martin on the autopsy table: "If you were a bit more mangled, or if I had come later and you had already been dissected, even this bottle of potion probably wouldn't be able to save you."
If he had been cut into pieces by the forensic Doctor, with internal organs taken out one by one to be weighed.
Then how could he be saved?
Setting aside whether he could be brought back to life, what about after? How would it be explained?
Now that he hasn't been dissected, a Doctor could still describe it as having tenacious vitality. But if he were dissected and then resurrected, how would that be explained? That he became a zombie returning from hell?
Locke couldn't help but smile. He directly took out the life potion, pried open Jeff Martin's mouth, and then, like force-feeding a goose, poured the life potion in his hand into Jeff's mouth...
148. Locke, who likes to do good things
Actually... if it was just to get information, Locke wouldn't have needed to use his "Life Potion" to revive Jeff Martin just to get that information.
That was just an excuse Locke made for himself.
The reason is simple.
Jeff Martin, in a way, had helped him.
Locke's memory had always been good. At first, Jeff Martin was just another innocent victim to Locke, killed by someone impersonating the peerless assassin.
Locke was angry at the person who impersonated him, but he didn't have many other thoughts.
It wasn't until Locke saw Jeff's photo at Jeff's house that he connected it to the police officer who, on the night of the dance with Gwen, rescued him from the car and then angrily pointed a gun at the SHIELD agent.
After all, before tonight, Locke remembered Jeff, but unfortunately, he didn't know that person's name was Jeff Martin.
Now?
Locke looked at the life potion being poured into Jeff Martin's mouth, his eyes flickering slightly: "Although you treated me as one of your own because of George at the time, and this time you were also involved because of me, I don't like owing favors. After I save you, you tell me who killed you, and then we're even."
He was never a bleeding heart, nor did he ever think of saving all living beings.
This time?
It was the first time, and it would be the last.
Locke recalled Jeff Martin's wife and three children in his mind, and after deducing the future scene, he shook his head.
I'm still too kind.
Locke thought to himself, putting away the empty life potion. Then, his gaze fell on Jeff Martin, who was lying on the autopsy table, suddenly seeming to have a faint, almost imperceptible but real breath.
Just then.
"Hey!"
Jason Blount, who had appeared at the door at some point, held a pistol, his gaze fixed on the unconscious autopsy assistant on the floor, and then on Locke, who stood beside Jeff Martin's body, wearing sunglasses, a suit, and leather shoes: "Don't move."
Locke followed the voice, looked at Jason at the door, and chuckled.
Jason aimed his pistol at Locke and slowly walked in: "Are you the peerless assassin?"
Locke thought for a moment, then shook his head: "My name is Peerless, but I'm not an assassin."
The code name he gave himself was Peerless.
Two characters.
Jason said in a deep voice: "Did you kill Jeff?"
Locke smiled and took a step.
"Don't move!"
"Bang!"
Locke showed no expression, looking at the sparks that flew up at his feet.
Jason said in a deep voice: "One more step, and I'll shoot directly."
Locke looked at Jason.
The next second.
Golden light flashed.
Jason's eyes instantly narrowed.
"Bang!"
"Ah!"
Jason's right hand suddenly flicked upwards, and with a clang, the barrel of the pistol he was holding was shot through with a bullet hole, then fell to the floor and spun around.
"Shit."
Jason clutched his aching right wrist, then suddenly looked up: "Where is he?"
The morgue was empty.
After a while.
After hearing the gunshot, a team of police officers ran out of the elevator.
"Blount!"
"Jason?"
Kate, holding a gun, led her team into the morgue, then saw Jason clutching his wrist, and quickly ran over: "What happened?"
"The peerless assassin!"
Jason endured the pain in his wrist and repeated to the slightly stunned Kate: "The peerless assassin was just here."
What?
Kate quickly looked at the police officers behind her, who scattered, while also calling for backup from the officers upstairs.
But the path from the main entrance to the morgue was blocked by police officers.
Yet the peerless assassin had vanished without a trace, as if he had evaporated.
Jason gritted his teeth and picked up his pistol from the floor. Looking at the bullet-riddled muzzle, he understood something: "Jeff wasn't killed by the peerless assassin."
Kate frowned: "Did he tell you that?"
Jason shook his head, pulling his pistol with the bullet hole in front of Kate: "He only said one sentence; the rest, this gun has already said."
Kate stared at the pistol in Jason's hand, her eyes also narrowing.
Just then.
A groan suddenly erupted.
Jason and Kate froze slightly, then turned their heads, staring at the autopsy table where Jeff Martin lay, with an almost disbelieving look.
That groan just now... came from that autopsy table.
But... did the peerless assassin leave a small thing on Jeff's body to play a trick on them?
Jason and Kate exchanged glances and quickly ran to the autopsy table.
The next second.
"Oh, holy shit!"
"F*ck!"
"Jeff?"
Kate turned her head, almost shouting with all her might: "Get me a doctor, now..."
Ding-a-ling!
Late at night.
After parting ways with Locke in the parking lot, George, Gwen, and Helen returned home, wide awake, gathered together, discussing how to help care for Jeff's orphans and widow after his death.
Just as Helen was lamenting the unpredictability of fate, George's phone suddenly rang urgently.
Kate's?
George's heart skipped a beat. He glanced at his wife and Gwen.
Another case?
George took a deep breath and almost tremblingly answered the phone: "Hello, Kate?"
Before he could finish speaking.
Kate's voice practically screamed through the phone: "Jeff isn't dead, George! Quick, we're already on our way to New Amsterdam Hospital, hurry!"
George was completely stunned.
What?
Not dead?
How could that be?
Gwen and Helen exchanged glances. Kate's voice was loud enough for both of them to clearly understand the main topic of the call.
Jeff isn't dead?
This... But before the two could think, with a whoosh, George had already scrambled up from the sofa. Helen, realizing what was happening, also quickly followed George towards the door.
Gwen didn't leave; she had to stay home and watch her three younger brothers.
After all, if the Child Protective Services knew that her three brothers, under the age of twelve, were unsupervised, they would cause trouble and might even strip George and Helen of their custody.
However... this didn't stop Gwen from calling Locke.
Locke on the other end of the phone seemed to have been woken up from sleep.
"Hello?"
"Locke." Gwen, hearing Locke's somewhat groggy voice, said excitedly: "Uncle Jeff isn't dead."
Locke seemed to be silent for a moment, then his voice returned to normal: "What? But George didn't say..."
Gwen interrupted: "I don't know, Dad and Mom have already rushed to the hospital."
Locke also said with great surprise: "Oh my god, that's great."
Gwen hummed: "Yes, it must be God's blessing. Uncle Jeff's family are devout believers; God must have blessed them."
My name isn't Jehovah.
Locke, standing on the balcony, smiled and thought to himself.
Jeff Martin definitely had to go to the hospital; if he didn't, he would still die.
Reason?
Life Potion doesn't come with automatic whitening or repair functions.
It has only one effect.
If you have no life, it gives you life, and then, within twenty-four hours, it locks your health points. After that, if you can't restore your health points in time, you'll still die.
Gwen was very happy on the phone.
Locke could tell just by listening to her voice. Influenced by Gwen, his mood also seemed to brighten up.
Indeed.
Doing good deeds always makes people happy.
Locke lay on the lounge chair on the balcony, listening to Gwen recounting various interesting stories about the Stacy and Martin families.
New Amsterdam Hospital!
When George, bringing Helen and picking up Doris, arrived at the hospital, the corridor of the operating room was almost filled with armed police officers.
Doris looked dazed.
Understandably.
A few hours ago, someone told her that her husband had been killed. People from the police department's bereavement division had also come; it was practically a done deal.
But... just now, George suddenly knocked on her door and told her that Jeff was not dead and was already being resuscitated at the hospital.
This?
After Doris walked out of the elevator, she looked at the lit operating room and the corridor full of police officers. She finally came to her senses, and that string finally broke. She rolled her eyes and collapsed softly to one side.
The corridor instantly became a chaotic mess.
After a long while.
George left Helen to take care of Doris, who had fainted due to emotional fluctuations, and returned to the corridor. He looked at Kate and Jason, who had gotten up, and said directly: "It's nothing, just too much emotional fluctuation. How's Jeff?"
Kate said with some difficulty describing: "The doctor just came out once; he's still being resuscitated, but, in his words, he simply can't believe Jeff is still alive. Jeff's will to live is unbelievable. God, Jeff still has two bullets in his heart, but they're still stubbornly beating."
The doctor's expression when he took off his mask just now was like seeing a real-life medical miracle.
George, however, blinked as he listened to Kate's adjectives.
Jason said from the side: "Yes, Jeff can be saved, salamabitch, that Jeff, he literally escaped from hell on his own."
The police officers in the corridor who knew Jeff, hearing this, immediately cheered.
Several nurses wanted to remind them that this was a hospital, but seeing the dense crowd of armed police officers in the corridor, they wisely chose to keep quiet.
George didn't hear the latter part of the sentence; he only heard the part about being able to be saved.
He can be saved.
That's great.
But... after the excitement, George still looked at Kate and Jason with some confusion: "What exactly happened?"
Jason also composed his excited mood and recounted his encounter in the morgue: "I met the peerless assassin in the morgue."
George: "..."
149. George and the Vampire
"Peerless Assassin?"
"Yes."
George listened to Jason's account, supplemented by Kate, and now knew exactly what had just happened at NYPD.
But… George frowned. "Did you check the surveillance?"
Kate said, "We already did. Every camera drew a blank. It's impossible. From the precinct entrance to the morgue you have to take the elevator, and the elevator footage shows nothing at all."
They'd even run to the autopsy suite the moment they heard the gunshot.
There hadn't been enough time for Peerless Assassin to slip away unnoticed—yet he had, swaggering out as if the place belonged to him.
"Jason, when you spotted Peerless Assassin, what was he doing?"
"He was standing right at Jeff's dissecting table."
"…Was he?"
George looked at Jason, hearing those words, and frowned. Recalling what the Doctor and Kate had just told him, he lifted his gaze to the lit-up OR. "I'm going in."
Jason and Kate blinked.
Before they could react, George pushed open the OR doors and, under the gaze of a Nurse who wanted to stop him but didn't dare, walked straight in.
He was back out in less than a minute.
At the doorway, still catching their breath, Jason and Kate stared at George's return, utterly bewildered.
George kept his head down.
He'd just asked the lead surgeon to examine Jeff—specifically Jeff's neck. There were no wounds whatsoever.
No pinprick like George had described, not even a bite mark.
George had worn the shield for New York ever since graduating the academy, more than twenty years ago. He wasn't some rookie.
The rookies saw one city.
Through George's eyes, New York wore a different face. He still remembered a homicide case from his first year as a Detective, sixteen years earlier.
The victim, a junkie, looked as if some animal had torn out his throat—an ordinary, open-and-shut case.
Until that night, when the morgue alarm sounded. They arrived to find the corpse gone.
The surveillance footage was unbelievable: the junkie's body rose on its own, stumbled, smashed the morgue window, and left.
Yes.
NYPD's old morgue had been on the ground floor; after that incident it was moved to sublevel two.
George had wanted to keep digging, but two agents claiming to be from the Federal Bureau of Investigation took the file. Freshly promoted, and with brass eager to bury the "ghost" story, Georgehad to let it go.
For years he'd poked around on the sly, but once he hit the Vampire legend he finally dropped it—
Gwen had just been born; he wanted to be there with Helen and watch their little girl grow up.
So.
Hearing Jason and Kate's story, George felt an eerie familiarity, and the long-sealed memory resurfaced.
Jeff was dead; George was sure of it.
Yet here Jeff lay, being resuscitated, not dead at all.
But there was no conversion mark on Jeff's neck, leaving George baffled. Could Jeff have been in mere suspended animation?
The next day.
Locke took his watch from the dresser, strapped it on, rode the elevator down, started the car, and left Starlight Tower.
Half an hour later.
Locke reached Gwen's apartment, picked her up, and headed for New Amsterdam Hospital.
When he arrived, Jeff Martin had already been rolled out of the OR. Tauris sat in the ward, eyes fixed on her sleeping husband.
George dozed on a corridor bench; he'd spent the night there.
He wasn't Superman, or Locke, and he wasn't young anymore. One missed night couldn't be repaid with ten.
"Dad."
"…Hmm?"
George opened his eyes, surprised to see Gwen. "What are you doing here?"
Gwen handed him the breakfast her mother had made. "Mom knew you'd stay here and never go home."
George smiled, took the lunchbox, then noticed Locke. "You asked him to pick you up?"
Gwen rolled her eyes. "Dad."
What's wrong with a girlfriend asking her boyfriend for a ride?
Locke said, "With a killer still at large in New York, even if Gwen hadn't asked, I'd have come with her."
George nodded.
The Peerless Assassin had been active in New York before, but never on the scale of this case.
Simple.
The Peerless Assassin has principles; criminals have none.
Gwen added, "And in a bit Locke and I have to drop by the insurance company."
She'd already told him and Helen about the policy.
More precisely, she brought it up yesterday after getting back from Jeff's house.
Gwen said that once the payout came through she wanted to donate three hundred thousand dollars to the Martins.
George and Helen had stared, stunned.
Three hundred thousand?
And donate it?
Goodfellas—where had that windfall come from? They hadn't known their family suddenly had spare cash to give away.
So Gwen explained the policy.
Locke knew about it too.
Probably on the way to the parking lot Gwen had told him; he had no objection. The money had practically fallen from the sky, the beneficiary was Gwen, and she could do whatever she liked with it.
Gwen's the type who loves helping people, and she'd told him plenty about the bond between the Stacys and the Martins—otherwise Locke wouldn't have bothered resurrecting Jeff.
When George and Helen heard the story they felt dazed.
It was like… money was that easy? One boat trip, not a dime spent, and the insurance company owed them a million?
That was ten years of George's salary.
Surreal.
But they soon came back to earth.
Hell, it was bought with their lives. If Gwen hadn't come back, the million would be theirs, but Georgeand Helen would trade the money in a heartbeat for their daughter's safe return.
Still.
They approved of Locke's move; for ordinary folks a solid policy really can fend off most disasters.
That's why the Federation has about as many insurance agents as Wall Street has stockbrokers.
Only… George frowned. "They're paying out that fast?"
Locke looked at him. "poseidon's still trending, and now this case has blown up."
George understood at once.
Simple.
Insurance companies are capitalists, not charities; they exist to make money.
When a claim looms they'd rather hire thirty people to find a loophole than pay up cleanly.
But Locke's different.
Leaving aside that they couldn't find a single exclusion, they weren't keen to deny him.
poseidon was still front-page news.
The survivors had barely gotten back; if the company nitpicked and word got out, how would the public react?
And Locke was the kind of premium client they prized.
Of course.
Now they weren't sure whether to keep this big-spending Texan on the VIP list or move him to the risk column.
Anyway.
Denying the claim right now carried huge reputational risk, whereas paying quickly could buy them priceless goodwill for free.
A mere four million.
If this stunt brought in four hundred new clients they'd break even; everything after that was pure profit.
That's why the payout was so swift.
The visit to the insurer was just a formality on the way.
The hospital was Locke's real destination.
He glanced into the room: Jeff lay unconscious, Tauris sat beside the bed clutching his right hand as if in prayer; George, blood-shot eyes, sipped the coffee Gwen had brought. "How's Officer Jeff Martin?"
George took a swallow and nodded. "The Doctor says his will to live is off the charts—he'll pull through."
Gwen brightened. "That's wonderful."
George's face twisted. "The Doctor says Jeff actually woke during surgery—at the worst possible moment. They had to hit him with a massive dose of anesthetic just to knock him out again."
If George hadn't examined him inside and out when they wheeled him out in the small hours, he'd have sworn his old friend wasn't human anymore…
150. S.H.I.E.L.D. hits a wall
Jeff actually didn't need anesthesia.
However, a patient who just underwent surgery, with an explosive mental state, being wheeled out of the operating room looking energetic, would, from any angle, seem to be an insult to the doctors and the hospital.
Although Jeff claimed that his surgical wound didn't hurt at all and that he felt his vitality was strong.
But... due to the doctor's dignity and the hospital's reputation, and most importantly, to make the surgery seem normal, even with an increased dosage, Jeff was still put under anesthesia.
It's simply unscientific for a patient, while having their abdomen cut open, to be chatting animatedly with the surgeon.
George thought of the doctor's strange expression as he came out and shook his head: "The doctor said Jeff should be able to wake up sometime this afternoon."
Locke nodded: "That's good news."
Gwen looked around: "Dad, where are Kate and Jason?"
George wiped his face: "They went to investigate leads."
He had wanted to go too, but he was a detective inspector, not a detective. Moreover, Kate and Jason were his good friends, and also Jeff's good friends. Jason was even Jeff's partner. Asking anyone else to stay here would probably be met with reluctance.
So, it could only be George.
Gwen thought for a moment and said: "Then, Dad, Locke and I will go to the insurance company first. Kahn and Cindy are still waiting for us. After that, Locke and I will stay here and watch over things. You can go home and rest?"
Locke echoed Gwen's words: "Yes, George, you haven't slept all night. Honestly, you look terrible and haggard. Go home and get some sleep. Gwen and I will watch over things here."
George looked at Locke, then at Gwen.
Gwen had a look that said, "I insist."
George smiled: "Alright, once you two are back, I'll go home, take a shower, and change clothes."
Gwen showed a slight smile.
In fact, dealing with the insurance company didn't take much time. In just about an hour, the insurance company collected the policies of the four people and then transferred the corresponding compensation.
The efficiency was so quick that it could be called a conscientious insurance company. Compared to those insurance companies out there that try every possible way to avoid paying claims, it was like heaven and hell.
"Silver City Insurance!"
Locke looked at the three million compensation transferred into his account, raised an eyebrow, and looked at the payment account: "It really lives up to its name."
Silver City, in some legends, is the name of the city where angels reside. And Silver City, just like how Big Apple City is to New York, and the City of Angels is to Los Angeles, Silver City is another name for Heaven.
As for why Locke's compensation amount was three million?
Well...
Locke's personal amount was one million, but Cindy and Kahn, no matter what, insisted on transferring the lion's share, which was seven hundred and fifty thousand US dollars, to Locke. Gwen gave him five hundred thousand.
Because Cindy and Kahn's tickets combined were five hundred thousand.
Oh, right.
When Kahn invited Cindy to the Poseidon, Cindy's parents had directly transferred Cindy's ticket, two hundred and fifty thousand US dollars, to Kahn's family.
As Locke and Gwen left, Kahn and Cindy, as always, thanked Locke profusely.
Locke shook his head, started the car, and after leaving the insurance company, looked at Gwen in the passenger seat: "They've said 'thank you' too many times these past few days."
Gwen then said: "You can choose not to ask them to thank you, but they cannot choose not to thank you. But, that's also why we're good friends, isn't it?"
Locke smiled.
Gwen's words sounded a bit convoluted, but they were understandable. Locke had saved their lives, and even the compensation money could be said to have been given by Locke for free.
If Cindy and Kahn took this for granted, it would only mean that these two people were not worth being close friends with.
And in fact, this proved the point.
Cindy and Kahn were not like that. One million was enough for a New Yorker to strive for a lifetime, but when the compensation was paid, the two only insisted on taking the cost of a single ticket. They even showed that if Locke didn't take the money, they would rather tear it up and let the insurance company make a huge profit.
Locke didn't insist either.
The four of them were good friends at school, taking the same classes, eating together, gathering for afternoon activities, and even going to the library together after school or on weekends. This time, it merely solidified one thing: Cindy and Kahn were friends worth having.
Back at the hospital.
George looked at Locke and Gwen, who had returned, stood up, rubbed his face, and said to Locke: "Locke, I'll trouble you then. I'll go back, take a shower, and then return."
Locke smiled: "You're welcome, George."
Seeing this, George didn't say anything more. Gwen and Locke being there represented his presence. There were other police officers in the hallway. At the very least, his daughter, the detective inspector's daughter, being there could represent his attitude.
After a while.
Locke and Gwen sat in the hallway, watching the hospital room behind the clear glass, a scene unchanged from when they had left.
Jeff Martin was still lying in bed, unconscious.
And his wife, Doris, though she hadn't slept all night, was still holding Jeff's right hand, offering some kind of prayer.
The scene was very heartwarming.
Gwen seemed to think of something and spoke: "Jeff and Doris have always had a very good relationship, and it's the relationship I envy the most."
Locke raised an eyebrow; he seemed to have discovered a key point: "George and Helen..."
Gwen rolled her eyes at Locke: "Are you cursing my dad?"
Locke looked at Gwen: "So, are you cursing me, the future me?"
Gwen was slightly stunned, then playfully punched Locke's shoulder. She seemed to want to laugh, but considering where they were, she pursed her lips and stifled her smile.
Locke had not thought of going into the ward to wake Jeff Martin.
Because no matter what, it would seem overly enthusiastic or overly deliberate.
There was no need.
The doctor had also said that Jeff would wake up in the afternoon and would be able to speak then. There was no need to rush. A dike of a thousand miles can be destroyed by an ant's nest. Locke knew how to nip things in the bud.
At one o'clock in the afternoon, George and Helen arrived. Their three children at home had a high school girl from their apartment building come over to babysit.
However... when Locke and Gwen returned after eating out, they stepped out of the elevator and coincidentally saw George sending off two SHIELD agents to the elevator entrance.
Why did he say they were SHIELD agents?
Intuition.
He had dealt with SHIELD agents a few times, and his sixth sense had already formed a memory of how to identify them.
George looked at Locke and Gwen emerging from the elevator, then refocused his gaze on the two SHIELD agents, who were impersonating FBI agents: "Next time, I don't want to see any federal agents interfering with my case."
The two SHIELD agents' tone was somewhat helpless: "Inspector Stacy, we just wanted to offer assistance."
They hadn't intended to come.
After all, because of Locke's incident, the relationship between the FBI's New York office and the NYPD was still very bad. But, they couldn't impersonate Homeland Security for this matter, so they had to bite the bullet, use the FBI's name, and follow instructions from above to check Jeff's neck or other areas for similar bite marks.
But... as soon as they stated their purpose, they were immediately rebuffed.
George was expressionless and took out his phone from his pocket: "Then I'll personally tell your supervisor that the NYPD doesn't need your help."
The two SHIELD agents were slightly stunned and immediately walked into the elevator: "Sorry to bother you, we're leaving now."
Because the relationship between the FBI and the NYPD had dropped to freezing point, naturally, the relationship between SHIELD and the FBI's New York office, the culprits behind all this, was also below freezing point.
If a call were made to the FBI, there was no doubt that the supervisor there would directly state that no such person existed. At that point, it would likely be another SHIELD exposure crisis unfolding.
Former SHIELD Director Nick Fury was directly removed from his post due to an exposure crisis and died a tragic death.
The two of them?
They would probably be directly abandoned.
George watched the closing elevator and let out a cold snort.
Gwen blinked: "Dad, these two..."
George withdrew his gaze: "New York City belongs to New Yorkers."
He naturally knew why these two FBI agents had come. Wasn't it just like sixteen years ago, preparing to snatch this case from him?
Before, George had no choice. Now, let alone George having a choice, even if he didn't, George wouldn't let the FBI take this case.
The victim was his dearest friend and family.
He wasn't interested in money. No amount of money would help. If George were interested in money, then, again, he wouldn't be living in a cramped apartment with a family of six.
He would have his own big house and his own big yacht, just like those detectives in Los Angeles.
Locke said seriously: "Awesome!"
George smiled, turned, and walked towards Jeff's hospital room.
Locke hiring Wall Street's top legal team, TNTG Law Firm, to sue the FBI, and then sue Homeland Security, could be said to have dragged the Department of Justice's face on the ground and rubbed it in.
This was a very invigorating thing.
For New York City, it was also true.
After all, due to the federal system, each state has an independent heart.
Texas has always been the leader.
And it still is.
New York?
So the newspapers in Texas still frequently report on such a matter.
Born in Texas, the youngest from the Lone Star State, Locke Broughton, who inherited the cowboy spirit, went to New York and brought with him the simple, freedom-loving spirit of the Texans.
Texas was very proud of this.
When Locke sued the FBI, the FBI's New York office was not trashed.
The FBI in Texas, however, was pelted with various liquor bottles...
151. You want to play big?
In the hospital room.
Just as the doctor said, as the anesthetic, enough to knock out ten people, began to wear off, Jeff Martin, unable to wait any longer, woke up, gasping for air.
Pain.
Pain all over his body.
But… Jeff would rather grit his teeth and gasp than let any doctor give him more anesthetic.
"You simply don't know," Jeff said to his friend George, who had just walked in, his mouth twisted in a grimace as he gasped, "what it feels like to be in the land of the living.
I've been to hell, and it felt terrible there."
Ashes fell from the sky ceaselessly.
Every breath was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur.
Jeff still felt a lingering fear: "Don't give me anesthetic. I feel fine. The pain, let me enjoy it, let me know I'm still alive."
George chuckled, "Old man, you're not young anymore. Those fresh experiences are for the young ones to try. We've passed the stage of tasting new things. If you want to feel pain, just go to a boxing gym and experience it. You can even earn some extra cash."
A human punching bag who is also a detective would be very popular.
It's estimated that someone would pay a hundred dollars to have Jeff come out and be their punching bag.
Jeff let out a laugh like a broken gong, then cried out in pain, clutching his chest and grimacing: "The person who killed me wasn't the Peerless Assassin. In fact, he saved me."
He was in hell, walking on a path of lava, preparing to head towards a magnificent palace in the distance, when suddenly, he felt a rope tied around him, and then, like a fish being reeled in, he was pulled straight up, whistling, as the surrounding scenery instantly seemed to reverse.
When he regained consciousness, he found himself in the autopsy room. His body was lying on the autopsy table, and next to him was the Peerless Assassin, wearing sunglasses and a suit, holding his mouth open and pouring some kind of liquid into him.
Jeff could feel that he had returned because of that liquid.
George listened to Jeff's words, clearing the Peerless Assassin's name, and nodded: "I know."
The notification slip, the forensics lab results, were already out.
Counterfeit.
The few notification slips from the Peerless Assassin kept by the NYPD Forensics Department have, to date, not been matched with any material, nor even a similar one.
But these two notification slips, while not made of ordinary material, could be identified.
"Who was the killer?"
"Sorry."
Jeff shook his head: "He was wearing a mask, a lightning-patterned mask. I never managed to pull it off, not even when I died."
Not even when he died… Jeff felt strange saying that.
He wasn't dead, but he knew he had died once.
Jeff thought to himself, then looked at George in the room, and Locke, who had come in with Gwen, and said: "However, he's a drug addict, not very old. If he hadn't ambushed me from behind, I wouldn't have given him a chance to act.
It's possible he's someone we've arrested before."
"How so?"
"He harbored a lot of animosity towards us; otherwise, he wouldn't have stabbed me so many times after I died."
"…"
Jeff's cause of death was a gunshot wound, and he could guarantee that the stab wounds on his body were not there before he kicked the bucket.
As for why he said he was a drug addict?
The NYPD has dealt with drug addicts too many times. Even if someone has only used it once, if it hasn't been more than forty-eight hours, they can tell just by looking.
"Oh, right."
Jeff seemed to remember something and looked at George: "There was a homeless man in the alley at the time. Did you find him?"
George frowned: "A homeless man? No."
Jeff said: "There was a homeless man present at the time. If you find him, maybe you can find that damn guy."
George quickly called over an officer and had him relay this information to Kate and Jason, who were outside leading the carpet search.
Locke stood by, expressionless.
He had thought they'd hit a dead end, but unexpectedly, there was a glimmer of hope.
A homeless man.
Isn't that Bowery King's territory?
Let's put it this way.
Of all the pigeons in New York City, fifty percent belong to Bowery King. At the same time, Bowery King is also one of the Continental Hotel's partners, controlling most of New York's homeless population.
Just then.
An officer walked in from outside, looking a little nervous, and looked at George in the room: "Sir, an officer was shot on Fifth Street in the Lower East Side, and a notification slip has also appeared."
George was slightly stunned.
Locke, like Gwen, also had a look of disbelief.
Woo-woo-woo!
A police car and an Audi, one after another, drove into Fifth Street in the Lower East Side. An alley there was, without a doubt, already cordoned off with police tape.
They got out of the car.
George, from the police car in front, got out and walked directly towards Locke and Gwen, who had gotten out of the Audi parked behind him, frowning: "Didn't I tell you not to come?"
Gwen got out of the car and said: "Dad, this must be a copycat crime again."
Both the evidence and Jeff's testimony indicated this.
The Peerless Assassin seemed to have noticed the case here. Although he didn't show up, he still saved Jeff, letting Jeff tell them that he didn't do this.
George said directly: "This is a crime scene. Until the evidence comes out, we can't be sure of this. Alright, hurry back to the hospital to accompany your mother."
As he spoke, George walked towards the police tape, pointed at Gwen and Locke, and said to the patrol officer there: "Don't let these two in."
The patrol officer nodded.
Ever since Jeff's death was confirmed yesterday, the entire NYPD force had formed a vast net, spreading out in all directions from the alley where Jeff died.
House after house.
Family after family.
Complaints?
The Internal Affairs Department, in the face of an officer being shot, treated any complaints against the police department as if they hadn't seen them. They were already looked down upon by their colleagues, and causing trouble at this time would no longer be a matter of being looked down upon.
As for when it would stop?
Such actions depended on when the killer was shot or caught. If necessary, the NYPD would even extend such actions to cities surrounding New York City.
Ms. Casey even held a press conference overnight to condemn the case and told the media and the public that the NYPD would spare no effort to catch the killer.
But… right now, they hadn't caught the killer yet, and they had lost another person.
Half an hour ago, a male officer responsible for searching this area for any clues related to the shooting suddenly lost contact. By the time they realized something was wrong and came looking, he was already lying in a pool of blood in the alley.
Locke and Gwen stood outside the police tape, looking into the alley.
George held a notification slip in his hand.
However… this time it was handwritten.
I thought you came prepared.
Locke scoffed inwardly. George over there also understood and gestured to Kate and Jason, who had arrived, to cover this area.
Clearly.
This time, the killer impersonating the Peerless Assassin was not prepared but acted suddenly. The only reason for doing so was that he was discovered by this officer, or rather, the officer discovered some kind of clue.
Soon.
An officer who had climbed into a trash can stood up, holding a wallet.
Locke looked closely, and part of the photo in the wallet was exposed.
Jeff Martin's wallet.
This was a full two kilometers away from the alley where Jeff Martin was murdered.
Gwen, standing nearby, pulled out her phone, which had been buzzing incessantly.
"Locke, look at the class group chat."
"Hmm?"
Locke snapped back to attention and looked at the class group chat on Gwen's phone. Without a doubt, everyone seemed to know about the incident and was constantly posting messages about the Peerless Assassin killing another officer.
Not far from the police tape.
Media reporters carrying various equipment had also swarmed in, some already reporting live from the scene about the Peerless Assassin killing another officer.
In the evening.
After Locke returned from the Continental Hotel, he turned on the TV.
What he saw.
It was a report from New York's First TV Station.
A beautiful female reporter was reporting on the murder that occurred three hours ago in the Lower East Side. The male officer had been rushed to the hospital for emergency treatment.
But whether he could be saved truly depended on fate.
Locke, sitting on the sofa, narrowed his eyes.
Mission: "Someone is imitating my face!"
Mission basic reward: "Achievement Points * 1000", "Potential Points * 1000"
Mission description: "Can you tolerate this? I can't even tolerate it. Go, catch him, and let him know what cruelty is!"
Mission bonus description: "The greater the impact, the greater the bonus!"
"Heh."
Locke looked at the television and the internet's frenzy, couldn't help but chuckle, and slowly stood up from the sofa: "You want to play with my identity, huh? Alright, I'll play with you!"
As he spoke.
Locke had already turned, stepped out of his body, put on his sunglasses, and directly left the Star Tower.
New York's First TV Station Building.
Any hot news item was a carnival for the media, which also meant that the media needed to work overtime to join this carnival game as quickly as possible.
Smooth sailing all the way.
Locke arrived directly at the still-operating studio.
The two guards at the door, seeing Locke emerge from the elevator without any badge, were slightly stunned: "Hey, who are you…"
Locke's right hand flickered, and the Peerless Artifact was pressed against the head of one of the guards. He looked at the other guard and smiled slightly: "Aren't you going to report on me? Well, here I am. Surprised?"
152. Since ancient times, green plums cannot defeat the one that falls from the sky.
Inside the live broadcast studio.
Patty Finn, the golden producer of New York's Channel 1, looked at the viewership ratings displayed on the screen in front of her and gestured to the host, Paul Lee, who was eloquently explaining the origin of the 'notice' to the public.
She indicated that the ratings were high and he could continue with the next part.
Paul Lee, in a suit and tie, nodded imperceptibly, looking at the content on the teleprompter.
Just as he was about to continue to the next chapter.
Bang!
The door of the live broadcast studio was kicked open.
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
Gunshots instantly echoed through the live broadcast studio.
Locke, wearing sunglasses and an expressionless face, looked at the astonished crowd, whose expressions quickly turned to terror, and offered a slight smile: "Hello everyone, my name is Wu Shuang. I heard you were reporting on me?"
Everyone: "..."
"Ring ring ring!"
"Hello?"
George, who was in the hospital watching Jeff and waiting for the operating room light to go out, received a call, his face instantly changed, and he stood up from his chair: "What?"
Jeff, on the hospital bed, and Gwen and Helen, sitting nearby, involuntarily looked at George.
George said a few words, hung up the phone, and said to Jeff: "The Wu Shuang Assassin has hijacked Channel 1's live broadcast studio."
Jeff's expression became wonderfully complex: "Oh, sh*t!"
Gwen, over there, hastily turned on the TV.
What met their eyes was the live broadcast studio of New York's Channel 1, the sound was even chaotic, and the host on screen looked extremely flustered, pulling off his equipment and intending to crouch down.
But... "Bang!"
A bullet directly hit the floor at his feet, making Paul Lee tremble all over, while a voice came from an unseen place: "Sit down obediently."
Paul Lee shivered.
Locke turned around, placed bombs on the only entrance and exit of the studio, and then glanced at Paul Lee, who had already peed his pants in front of the camera, and couldn't help but shake his head.
But it was fine.
Locke wasn't looking for Paul Lee anyway, but rather the person who had the ability and connections to obtain a large amount of information on the Wu Shuang Assassin from the NYPD.
Patty Finn, the golden producer of New York TV.
"Hello!"
Locke walked up to Patty Finn—who, like the rest of the crowd, was crouching with her head in her hands, possessing long, beautiful legs, fluffy curly hair, and a tall figure, still striking in a business suit (like Julia Robert...)—and extended his right hand, smiling: "Hello, Ms. Finn, I've heard a lot about you. George mentioned you."
The George mentioned here was undoubtedly George Stacy.
After all... all the Wu Shuang Assassin's information was with George, and the reason Locke knew was because Patty Finn had once visited George's study.
Patty Finn had left a business card, and Gwen had told him that Patty Finn was George's high school classmate.
Patty, wearing boots, looked at the right hand extended towards her, then looked up at Locke, who was in a suit and tie and wearing sunglasses.
Locke smiled: "I apologize, but I called you before I came. Unfortunately, you didn't answer, so I came up myself. I'm very sorry."
He really had called.
He had dialed from downstairs at the TV station, but it had been hung up.
If a phone visit wasn't an option, then a personal visit was the only way.
Locke had always been very polite.
Patty seemed to realize, thinking about the private phone that had suddenly vibrated during the live broadcast, and seeing it was an unknown number, she had simply hung up.
Locke saw the change in Patty's eyes, smiled, and pulled Patty, who was crouching on the ground, to her feet: "The script is very good. That's what I wanted to tell you on the phone. Also, I heard you wanted to interview me?"
Helen had mentioned this on the way to Jeff's house with Gwen and Helen.
Locke looked at the table under the camera and smiled at Patty: "So, I'm here. Let's do the interview. However, if you interview me, I think that host will probably have a mental breakdown."
Paul Lee, over there, was breaking out in a cold sweat, trembling, his pants already wet.
Patty also looked, instantly frowning.
Locke chuckled: "I always thought hosts were unflappable in the face of danger."
"He's not a host."
"Hmm?"
"He's no longer a host."
Patty said directly, then looked at Locke, who, despite holding a gun, exuded a gentlemanly demeanor. Her professional instincts kicked in, and she smiled: "Does Mr. Wu Shuang also watch our show?"
What a good mindset.
She truly was George's high school friend, but why did she still lose to Helen, who only met George in college?
Was this the so-called, childhood sweethearts can't compare to a fated encounter?
Locke thought to himself, looking at Patty, who was gesturing for him to appear on camera, and smiled: "Sort of. But I prefer to watch your weather forecast after the news. By the way, is that weather girl here?"
As he spoke, Locke looked around as if he were making small talk.
Patty smiled: "Then Mr. Wu Shuang has entered the wrong studio. Barbara should be in the studio next door. This is our news studio."
Locke sighed: "What a pity."
Paul Lee, who had been on camera, had already been pulled away by two security guards. Then, the wet floor had been mopped by staff, and air freshener had been sprayed.
The poor guy, this time he was socially dead.
"Please sit."
"Thank you."
Locke looked at Patty, who, though somewhat flustered, was still very professional, nodded, and sat on the sofa where interview guests sat. Then he looked at the staff member operating the camera and said: "Give me the camera for a moment. I have a few words I want to say to the NYPD."
Patty looked at the bearded staff member.
Instantly.
Locke's figure appeared on the televisions of countless households who had received the news and were now watching New York's Channel 1 news channel.
"Good evening, NYPD!"
Locke, with his legs crossed and a faint smile, as if speaking playfully, said: "There are over thirty staff members in this broadcast studio, and I've left a small gift on the door. If you dare to break in, you'll love my gift. If you interrupt my broadcast, I will kill someone. Thank you."
Having said that.
Locke looked at Patty, who was sitting opposite him, moonlighting as a host from her role as a golden producer, and nodded: "Frankly, this is my first interview. Is there anything I need to know beforehand?"
At New Amsterdam Hospital.
Gwen's mouth hung open as she watched the Wu Shuang Assassin on screen, blinking.
A killer who should be in the shadows, appearing openly on camera?
What was he trying to do?
This didn't fit the killer persona.
Jeff, on the hospital bed, bared his teeth, looking at Locke on the TV: "Yes, that's him, the Wu Shuang Assassin."
As he spoke.
The screen suddenly zoomed out, encompassing both Locke and Patty.
Gwen covered her mouth: "Aunt Patty."
Helen also looked at Patty on screen. Although Patty had been trying to find George through news opportunities over the years, Helen trusted George, and there wasn't much conflict between her and Patty. At most, Patty wanted to poach her husband. Now, seeing Patty on TV, she still called George.
George, who was rushing to the TV station, gasped when he heard Helen's call.
Patty!
At this moment, the New York Channel 1 building was in chaos. The NYPD, the FBI, and even SHIELD agents disguised as Homeland Security had arrived.
But... everyone had heard Locke's threat on TV and didn't dare to act rashly.
"Inspector Stacy!"
"Supervisor Colin."
After George got out of the car, he shook hands with FBI Supervisor Colin, who had appeared in court last year: "What's the situation now?"
"Personnel are being evacuated."
Colin watched the staff running out of the building one after another, shaking his head speechlessly: "For God's sake, it's nine o'clock at night, and there are still so many people. The studio is on the sixteenth floor of the building. This is in New York City. The FBI will fully cooperate with the NYPD."
George glanced at Colin, who said this with conviction, and inwardly wanted to laugh.
Full cooperation my ass.
If it were someone else who had taken hostages, George believed the FBI would definitely claim jurisdiction over the case. The simple reason they weren't doing so now was that the Wu Shuang Assassin really would kill people.
The Feds, after all, weren't Russia. Covertly, hostages might not matter, but overtly, the safety of hostages was definitely paramount.
Ms. Victoria Hand, posing as a Homeland Security supervisor, also walked over: "Why would the Wu Shuang Assassin suddenly decide to hijack a TV station?"
George and Colin looked at Ms. Hand, with an expression that said, 'You ask me, who should I ask?'
He was a killer. If his motives could be easily analyzed, would they still not know the Wu Shuang Assassin's real name after three years?
Colin looked at George and suggested: "How about we cut the signal?"
George and Hand immediately said: "No!"
After speaking.
George and Ms. Hand exchanged glances.
If Nick Fury were here, he would undoubtedly cut the signal and negotiate directly. Fortunately, Nick Fury wasn't here.
Just then.
The NYPD SWAT team had already reached the sixteenth floor.
"Sir!"
The SWAT team leader gasped, looking at something standing behind the door, a bomb connected to the door, and said incredulously: "Sir, there's a large bomb here. Confirmed, there's a bomb."
Good heavens.
If that bomb exploded, not to mention the sixteenth floor, the entire building would probably be reduced to ashes.
At the same time.
The staff member also pulled the camera to the doorway.
The bomb, resembling a missile, standing at the doorway, and the SWAT members vaguely visible outside the door, were clearly visible.
WTF?
George, Colin, and Ms. Hand looked at each other...