105. Breaking Free from the Cage

Dean drove for fifteen minutes before arriving at the apartment complex in North Las Vegas where Barrett Quinn lived.

He circled the building once. Above the main entrance, a bright surveillance camera was mounted, and a burly security guard stood just inside the door. Dean quietly slipped into the alley behind the building. He looked up to see rows of black iron pipes running from the roof down to the ground—a ready-made vertical ladder. The alley was free of surveillance, the nearby balconies were empty, and it was the perfect spot for an operation.

Dean identified the pipe corresponding to room 7-12, where Barrett Quinn lived. He cracked his wrists, ankles, and neck, the joints popping like a string of firecrackers. He gripped the pipe, the muscles in his arms rippling like worms beneath his shirt, his latissimus dorsi muscles tensing into a V-shape. He pushed off the junction where the pipe met the wall.

With a surge of strength, *whoosh*—Dean scrambled upward, his hands and feet working in perfect unison. His movements were fluid and seamless, like a gecko clinging to the wall, defying the shackles of gravity. In just over twenty seconds, he reached the seventh floor. His body suddenly froze, his limbs coiled and ready, and he launched himself through the air toward the balcony railing on his right.

His agile frame slowed mid-air, hovering momentarily twenty meters above the ground, on the verge of falling. *Pop.* A translucent "Shadow" suddenly flew beneath Dean’s feet, becoming an invisible stepping stone. He stepped lightly onto it, leveraged himself to the side, grabbed the balcony railing, and vaulted over with the grace of a cat.

Dean stood on the edge of the balcony and looked down, taking a deep breath. Movies were definitely lying; without his superior physical conditioning and the assistance of the Shadow, climbing to a high-rise balcony would not be easy. But he had no time to reflect. Using his God’s-eye view, he peered through the wooden balcony door into the room. It was a standard bedroom, with four white walls and a minimalist layout—neat, tidy, and laid out for all to see.

The Shadow slipped through a crack and opened the balcony door. Dean put on a pair of gloves and stepped inside. He searched the room using his God’s-eye view; it was small, with few places to hide anything. After ten minutes of scouring the closet, drawers, under the bed, the mattress, and inside the pillowcases, he found nothing but standard identification and a few drab outfits. Then, he stumbled upon a small, sleek key. It was brand new, bore no numbers or location markers, and shimmered with a metallic luster—it was clearly rarely used.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he tucked the key into a clear plastic bag he carried with him. He shifted his God’s-eye view to the bathroom, scanning the medicine cabinet and vanity before finally piercing the toilet tank. Dean’s eyes flickered, and a faint smile touched his lips. He lifted the tank lid, reached in, and pulled out a waterproof bag weighed down by a stone.

Inside the bag was a stack of photographs. Dean pulled one out at random: the background was a floor of the Gawain Hotel, and Joan Carter was walking down the hallway in a red dress, looking elegant and charming, her beautiful profile caught in the frame. Dean flipped through them one by one. Aside from Joan, there were photos of the deceased, Jayne Harden. Most of the shots were taken in the Gawain Hotel’s hallways, lobby, restaurant, and activity rooms, with the occasional shot from the streets of Las Vegas or near shopping malls. The angles were tricky—mostly side or oblique shots—suggesting the photographer had been hiding in the shadows, snapping pictures in secret. Despite this, the photos vividly captured the escort’s graceful figure and beauty; the interplay of light and shadow revealed that Barrett Quinn was a talented photographer.

However, the photos of Jayne Harden were a complete stylistic opposite. Barrett had skillfully used the environment and architectural features to obscure the man, making the out-of-shape middle-aged man look like a mangled amputee, or a disabled person unable to care for himself. Most of the photos of Jayne were defaced with a striking, large red "X." Barrett’s hatred for him was undisguised, and Dean’s suspicions deepened significantly.

His investigation progress bar jumped from seventy percent to eighty percent.

Dean made his way back down the way he came, carrying the photos and the key, and drove back to the hotel.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, in the top-floor restaurant of the Gawain Hotel, a few scattered guests sipped desserts and enjoyed a leisurely afternoon tea. Holden and Dean sat at a corner table, their eyes occasionally sweeping covertly toward a waiter in a single-collar shirt, vest, and black bow tie. He had a massive hooked nose and wore a mask of professional, polite smiles.

"Barrett Quinn is diligent. Aside from a thirty-minute break where he just stared into space, he hasn't said a word; he's like a mute. With this performance, he could be employee of the day," Holden said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Also, I searched his locker. I only found some clothes and a camera, but the film roll hasn't been touched."

"I made some inquiries on the side. During the time of the crime, he wasn't in his work area, so he had the opportunity."

"I knew it. It’s this guy," Dean said, gesturing toward the evidence in the plastic bag. "Can these photos and the key I brought back be used as evidence to convict him?"

Holden thought for a moment. "The photos prove Barrett’s obsession with Joan and his hatred for Jayne. They establish a motive, and you’ve preserved them well without leaving any extra fingerprints. As for the key, I tested it; it opens the door to 2-21. He must have had it secretly duplicated. That proves Barrett had the capability to sneak into the room the day before yesterday and kill Jayne."

"While these aren't direct evidence, they are high-value pieces of circumstantial evidence that can serve as corroboration."

Dean looked pleased, only to be hit with bad news.

"But unfortunately, because you obtained them through illegal means, they cannot be presented in court."

The smile on Dean’s face froze. "Are you kidding me?"

"It’s not a joke; it’s the rules. Illegally obtained evidence might have been tampered with, making it unconvincing."

"So the evidence I worked so hard to collect is useless?"

"At the very least, it confirms our suspicions about Barrett." Holden handed the photos back to Dean. "Put the evidence back where you found it. Once we get a search warrant, we can legally recover these items, and then they’ll be admissible."

"And what about the search warrant?"

"Search warrants aren't as easy to obtain as arrest warrants. We have to confirm Barrett's culpability first, which will take at least a few days... Don't believe me? Call Lucaville and ask. That high-priced lawyer will explain it to you even more clearly."

Dean tilted his head, looking at Holden’s stern face. "I finally understand why the police department is so inefficient."

"The facts are right in front of us, yet you insist on tearing everything down and starting over according to the law and regulations. Isn't that a waste of time?"

"But from another perspective, this rigid, strict legal system prevents wrongful convictions, coerced confessions, and frame-ups to the greatest extent possible," Holden explained to his indignant companion.

This comment made a news story flash through Dean’s mind—the famous O.J. Simpson case from the future, where the police used illegal methods, rendering critical evidence inadmissible. In the end, Simpson was acquitted and walked free.

"I used to be as full of passion and justice as you, using psychological tactics to break down a suspect’s defenses, making them crumble and confess, and then closing the case smoothly," Holden continued. "Even without hard evidence, I still used those extreme methods and took pride in them. Later... I suffered the consequences." His voice faltered, a hint of bitterness crossing his face. He took a deep breath. "Anyway, years ago in a small, loose country town, your methods might have worked. But it’s 1981, and we’re in a major city like Las Vegas. With the lawyers hired by Jayne Harden’s family waiting to pounce, desperate to see Joan go to prison, we must follow protocol so they have nothing to hold against us."

"Be patient, Dean..." Holden patted his shoulder reassuringly, glancing at the waiter pouring tea nearby. "We’ve locked onto our target. As long as we follow the legal process, the killer won't escape."

But the system had only given him one day.

Dean picked up his coffee and took a long, hard gulp, a sense of powerlessness washing over him. With his abilities, getting rid of Barrett would be child's play. But to save the framed Joan, he was forced to follow the rules of human society, adhering to strict and slow procedures to convict him. He felt as if he had been locked in a narrow, dark, and stifling iron cage called the law, with all his strength rendered useless.

"Isn't there a way to have the best of both worlds?" he asked Holden. "Something that follows the rules but allows us to close the case quickly?"

"Of course there is..." Holden sipped his coffee, the faint steam masking the playful look on his face. "If Barrett Quinn turns himself in, then all our problems will be solved."

"What did you say? Say that again!"

The commotion was a bit loud, and nearby guests turned to look with curiosity. Holden quickly offered an apologetic smile to the room, pointed at his companion, then at his own head, and lowered his voice to repeat, "I said, have the real killer turn himself in!"

Turn himself in?! Dean was suddenly filled with excitement, as if he’d just won the lottery!

Holden felt a chill run down his spine. "What is that look on your face?"

"Dell!" Dean snapped his fingers and grinned. "Thanks for the reminder. Once Joan is saved, I’ll treat you to a deluxe bowl of noodles."

"Don't do anything rash!" Holden’s expression tightened as he realized something.

"Trust me, buddy. Have I ever let you down?" Dean stood up and threw his suit jacket over his shoulder. "Let’s go. First, put the photos and the key back where they belong. Then... is Jayne Harden’s body still at the morgue?"

"It should be. What exactly are you going to do?"

Deep furrows creased Holden’s brow as a sense of foreboding rose in his heart.

"I’m going to break this tedious cage!" A surge of supreme confidence shone in Dean’s smile. "I’m going to solve the problem at its source!"