107. Outlaw: Dean

At 9:00 PM, the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department (LVPD) had shed the clamor of the day, becoming as quiet as a café. A handful of duty officers sat at the reception desk, chatting idly.

A black officer, as sturdy as a bull, teased Holden, "Hey, pal, you’re not exactly young anymore. You’re handsome, you’ve got a good job—time to think about finding a wife and settling down. Doesn’t it get lonely with your place always so empty?"

Holden shrugged, unimpressed. "What’s a woman compared to the thrill of the job? Don’t you find the sense of achievement in plucking a killer out of a complex web of mysteries better than an orgasm?"

"Listen to this guy, is he even human?" another officer stared at Holden as if he were a monster, then reached out to squeeze his bicep. "Are you some kind of machine wearing human skin?"

"I’m not just a machine; I’m a master of prophecy," Holden replied with a mysterious smile, glancing out at the pitch-black night. "I predict someone will come to turn themselves in tonight, and it’ll be related to the case Gerich is working on."

"Haha, that’s specific. Did God whisper in your ear last night?" the black officer laughed, clutching his stomach. "If you’re right, I’ll cover your lunch for the rest of the month."

The officer would soon regret his generosity.

Less than half an hour later, a man with a hooked nose walked into the station. He wore a thin black shirt, his shoulders hunched, his expression one of jittery anxiety, as if he had been severely traumatized. Under the surprised gazes of the reception staff, he spoke:

"I’m here to turn myself in. I killed someone!"

...

In the interrogation room, the man who had walked right into the trap was handcuffed. Gerich, who had rushed over through the night, took out his notepad, and another team member turned on the recording equipment.

"Name."
"Barrett Quinn."
"Age?"
"Thirty-two."
"Where do you live?"
"North Las Vegas, Jane Apartments, 7-12."

"Mr. Barrett Quinn," Gerich set down his pen, his eyes narrowing into slits. "I want you to think carefully. Are you certain that at 10:00 AM two days ago, in Room 2-21 of the Gawain Hotel, you killed Mr. Jayden Harden?"

His attitude was quite hostile. The case had essentially locked onto a suspect, Joan Katrie, and this sudden troublemaker was undoing all their hard work. "Did you have too much to drink and start babbling nonsense? This is a police station—get serious!"

"I haven’t been drinking." Barrett looked straight into their eyes, his tone firm and decisive. The stutter he once had seemed to have been cured overnight.

He clasped his hands together and pressed them against his forehead. Bloodshot eyes filled with remorse, he recounted the entire process of the crime, answering every question the police threw at him. He spoke with such urgency that it was as if he weren’t turning himself in, but rather collecting a government handout.

"I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to play a prank."

...

"You’re an adult. You know very well that this behavior is far worse than a prank, a practical joke, or voyeurism—it’s no different from murder!" Gerich’s expression grew grave. "Why did you do it?"

"Have you seen those photos?"

Gerich flipped through a few, his eyelids twitching. "You were stalking and photographing Joan Katrie and Jayden?"

"I had a crush on Joan," Barrett inhaled deeply, looking up at the detective with red-rimmed eyes. "So I was jealous of Jayden for dating her."

"Every time they went out, they were so over-the-top, perverted, and crazy!" He stood up and tapped the interrogation table with both hands, spittle flying. "And me? A nobody, always stuck sneaking around in the closet, watching."

"There was no fairness in that disparity. I was driven mad by jealousy."

"Jayden was posing in a ‘defenseless’ way, offering his neck to my knife, and suddenly, the idea to strike just popped into my head!" He paused, bowing his head as he choked back a sob. "My hands and feet stopped listening to me, and I hurt him... wuu..."

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

...

Gerich checked the transcript. "Why are you turning yourself in now? Did your conscience get the better of you?"

Barrett’s crying stopped. He stared into the void, his red, swollen cheeks twitching. For a split second, extreme terror flashed in his tear-filled eyes.

*Because Jayden’s ghost came to find me.*

He thought to himself, but he couldn’t explain it that way, or he wouldn’t live to see the next day. As a final comfort, Barrett Quinn could only concoct a grand excuse for his despicable behavior.

"I heard from a colleague that the wrongly accused Joan Katrie might be sentenced to over ten years."

"My goddess is innocent." His swollen face was full of tenderness. "She has nothing to do with the case; she shouldn’t have to suffer such a terrible punishment."

"So I came." He looked up, his eyes filled with eager anticipation, like a lovestruck fool. "She can go, right? She can have her freedom back, right?"

"If you weren’t lying just now, she’s innocent."

"Then... will I be sentenced to death?" Barrett wiped his tears and asked nervously.

"Since you turned yourself in, it might not reach the death penalty. But whether it was premeditated still requires further investigation."

Gerich offered him a steaming cup of coffee and shook his head, sighing. "A crime of passion driven by jealousy. And a confession fueled by love and a sudden realization. What a third-rate love story."

...

Outside the interrogation room, peering through the glass, Holden’s lips curled in a mocking smirk. "This guy really knows how to gild his own lily—sacrificing himself for love, how noble. Regardless, this case should be wrapped up perfectly."

Holden looked at his companion. "Congratulations, Dean. You successfully bypassed the tedious legal process and got the job done beautifully without killing anyone. You’re an outlaw!"

"An outlaw? Not a bad nickname... I’ll take it." Dean, having dropped his mimicry, had changed out of the oversized, baggy blue suit Jayden Harden had been wearing into his own black suit. However, beads of sweat were still visible on his slightly weary face—the pain of the shape-shifting was still significant.

Holden asked again, "What kind of magic did you use on him? Hypnosis? Don’t tell me it was love; even a patient with Alzheimer’s wouldn’t believe such a ridiculous excuse."

"What did I say before? Souls," Dean couldn’t reveal the truth about his secondary ability, so he made up an excuse. "I used Jayden’s blood to summon his ghost into Barrett’s apartment and let them chat face-to-face for an hour. Seemed to work well."

"To think you can play it like that—letting a killer face the ghost of his victim," Holden’s lips trembled, his eyes gleaming. "You’re a genius. Did Barrett piss himself?"

"More than that. He was crying for his mommy." Dean couldn’t help but grin. Today, he seemed to have flipped a long-hidden switch within himself; a certain twisted sense of humor had been fully ignited.

Using "Shape-Shifting" combined with "Shadows of the Past" to play ghost, watching the killer scramble in terror before turning himself in—it was far more interesting than just blowing someone’s head off with a gun.

Superpowers weren't just for flexing muscles or mindless violence.

"Pal, look in the mirror. You’re smiling like a pervert," Holden raised an eyebrow.

"You’re the same," Dean’s expression turned solemn. He straightened his collar, signaled to Holden, and walked outside. "Holden, you know my secret now. You’re on the boat; don’t let it leak."

"Relax, I’m not a fool. I don’t want to be locked up in a mental institution." A flicker of light crossed Holden’s face as he looked at the starry night sky and swore solemnly. "Whether it’s the medium work or that business with Gru Stone, even if Satan threatened to drag me to hell, I’d keep your secret. That’s my promise."

The experiences of the last two days felt like a dream. He had wasted decades in the world of normal humans, and today, he had finally stepped one foot into the supernatural. All of this was thanks to Dean.

"What Gru Stone? I don’t know what you’re talking about," Dean’s face darkened.

"Relax. You didn’t leave any evidence, and I’m on your side. I think that whole family of cannibals deserved to die. The law couldn’t judge those rich people or give them the death penalty. You did the right thing!"

"But I’ll say it again: I hope you can balance reason and madness, and never cross the line. Otherwise, you’ll slip up sooner or later."

Dean looked at Holden with eyes that suddenly turned as deep as an abyss. The feeling of suffocation and repression surged out like a beast, baring its sharp claws.

But Holden just smiled calmly. "Let the past stay in the past. Now, can you give me some pointers on the medium ritual?"

Dean punched his own temple and sighed, opened the door of the Bronco by the roadside, and climbed in. "You can’t learn it. The talent for mediumship is extremely rare—one in tens or even hundreds of thousands. Unfortunately, you aren't one of them."

"How can you be sure without trying?" Holden sat in the passenger seat with a grin.

"Fine then, let’s go. To Room 2-21. Give it a try."

...

The next evening, Dean received word that the case had been resolved. Barrett Quinn was in custody, and Joan Katrie had been released on bail, effectively cleared of charges.

At the Fran Law Firm, lawyer Lucville, the client Joan Katrie, the detective Dean, and his "assistant" Holden were gathered.

Lucville patted his belly, shaking hands with them both with a smile. "Beautiful work. Your efficiency exceeded my expectations. The fee agreed upon in the contract has been transferred to your account, and I’ll handle the tax issues for you."

Dean’s mouth quirked upward. Ten thousand dollars in three days—this money came faster than a robbery.

"Dean, Lucville told me everything. You saved my life and my career." Joan Katrie’s eyes shimmered, and she stepped forward to give him a heavy hug.

The fragrance filled his senses, and the feeling of her voluptuous body made Dean lose his focus for a moment. He looked at her—the woman who had regained her freedom was no longer the pale, haggard girl from the detention center. Her face was adorned with delicate makeup, her skin glowing.

Beneath her black off-the-shoulder dress, her figure was alluring, her toned legs smooth and glowing. She was sexy and beautiful.

In the moment Dean was distracted, her seductive, bright red lips suddenly leaned in, forcibly planting a kiss on him. She left a smear of red on his lips.

"I will always remember your help. Hmm... 50% discount for you in the future. Oh, and I’ve never dated an Asian man before."

Joan Katrie breathed hot air into Dean’s ear, tucked a small piece of paper into his palm, scratched it, and winked with a playful, charming smile.

Dean smiled slightly and quietly crumpled the business card into a ball, stuffing it into his suit pocket.

Having to pay for a date? Was she looking down on him?

"Ahem..." Holden, observing from the side, had a subtle look in his eyes.

"I almost forgot you, sir. You were also indispensable." Joan turned with a charming smile and politely shook hands with Holden.

"What are your plans now, Ms. Katrie?"

"I can’t stay at the Gawain Hotel anymore. I’m planning to find a new base of operations," she wrinkled her nose, still lingering in fear. "I’m going to shrink my business scope. I will never touch dangerous ‘games’ again to avoid another accident."

"A wise decision."

"Then, goodbye, gentlemen! I’ll be waiting for your visit!" The escort blew three kisses, swayed her hips, and left the office with great flair.

The three men slowly looked away.

A prompt flashed before Dean’s eyes:

*Event—Hotel Mystery: Progress 100%.*
*You used your mediumship abilities and profiling to uncover the true killer and then "played god and ghost" to make him turn himself in.*
*You flexibly broke free from the rigid shackles of the law, clearing Joan’s name in just three days.*
*Event Complete.*
*You may claim your reward at any time.*

*Claim!*
*Experience +60*
*Lv3 (140→200/400)*

...

"Dean, signing a contract with you was the best decision I’ve made this year. But how on earth did you do it?" The great lawyer’s wise eyes sparkled with confusion. "I’ve been in this business for over twenty years, and I’ve never seen a criminal turn themselves in overnight, as if they’d been brainwashed."

Dean smiled but said nothing.

Seeing this, Lucville stopped asking. "It was a pleasure working with you, but I admit I underestimated your talents." The lawyer raised his coffee cup to him. "Let’s cooperate again next time. I guarantee you’ll get a reward that matches your skills."

"Then let’s keep it mutually beneficial." Dean smiled and clinked his cup against his.

Earning experience while making money—why wouldn't he?

After bidding farewell to the high-spirited lawyer, Dean left the firm, got into the car by the road, pulled out a stack of hundreds, and waved them at Holden.

"What’s this? Bribing me?" The latter pushed the money back.

"Without your help, this case couldn’t have been solved so quickly. This is your hard-earned money; take it." Dean turned the steering wheel, and the car slowly pulled onto the road.

"I don’t have a wife or kids to support; I don’t need that much money," Holden said firmly. "If you want to thank me, just talk more about supernatural matters with me and help me solve cases?"

Regret flashed across his face; last night’s attempt had made him deeply realize that he was just an ordinary person. But it didn’t matter. He had extraordinary friends. The ability to channel spirits was tailor-made for a detective—it was invincible for solving cases, and he had to make use of it!

"Medium Dean, at your service anytime." Dean took the money back and tossed him a chocolate bar to fill his stomach. "Since I’m hungry too, want to come over for dinner?"

"Noodles?"
"Yeah, that’s all I can make."
"Dean, I’m warning you," Holden shifted in the passenger seat, still feeling the trauma. "Don’t put any chili in it this time—not even a little!"