124. The Perpetual Dependent Writer

Bronco turned onto the northbound road, and Marco, sitting in the passenger seat, pulled a stack of documents from his briefcase and began to explain the case.

"Half a year ago, around midnight on September 2, 1980, Ruben went missing."

"The police pulled surveillance footage from the Valentine Bar, where Ruben was last seen the night of the incident, and nearby casinos. They also questioned eyewitnesses along the street, discovering that Ruben had been drinking heavily and left the bar in a semi-intoxicated state... heading all the way north back to the apartment where he lived..."

"He disappeared within a one-mile stretch between the bar and his apartment. That section has zero surveillance coverage, and because it was so late at night, the police couldn't find any eyewitnesses."

"Furthermore, after searching, no clothing, hair, wallet... or blood belonging to Ruben was found along the route."

"It really sounds like he vanished into thin air, but there is a famous saying: whatever passes leaves a trace." Dean stared at the straight road outside the window and asked in a low voice, "Before Ruben's disappearance, were there any similar cases near that stretch of road? Anyone else missing or murdered?"

"No... Reno is a famous tourist town, and the local folkways are still quite honest," wrinkles formed a hint of pride on Marco's face. "In my memory, not a single criminal case has occurred in the last four or five years."

Dean's gaze shifted, and he nodded.

"I know the conclusions of the police investigation. What clues did the private detective you hired find?"

"Clues at the crime scene are hard to come by." The old man took another file from his briefcase. "So those two detectives changed perspective and analyzed from the outcome."

"They believe Ruben might have been abducted through coercive means. Since Ruben was in a drunken state at the time, he would have been unable to put up an effective defense even if attacked." The old man paused, reaching up to adjust his side-parted hair blown messy by the wind. "And who would have a motive to commit the crime? The greatest possibility lies with those who intersected with Ruben's life and shared financial or personal interests with him."

"Ruben's social circle was very small. The places he frequented were limited to a Walmart, a Krispy Kreme donut shop, the Valentine Bar, his apartment, and a local publishing house in Reno."

"Employees and customers at all five locations were suspects."

"Then those two guys investigated the vast majority of target suspects: questioning them, investigating their activity trajectories, and even sneaking into some of the targets' residences to conduct meticulous searches."

Marco sighed, his sparse, pale white eyebrows knitting tightly.

"But the results were disappointing. Everyone was cleared of suspicion."

"What about Ruben's friends?" Dean turned the steering wheel, guiding the car onto a wider road.

"Ruben only interacted with his college classmate and best friend, Jero Cayton." Marco paused, rubbing his smooth chin, a flicker of gratitude flashing in his eyes. "Jero is a good kid. After Ruben disappeared, he spent a huge amount of private time helping with the search. He truly cared for Ruben like a real brother. After the detectives investigated him, they cleared him as well."

Marco let out a long, heavy sigh.

"I spent a considerable amount of my savings, and those two detectives gave it their all over four months. But there was no result."

...

"The actions of the police and detectives can already be called a carpet search. If I remember correctly, you also appealed to newspapers and television stations, and still found no one." Dean said helplessly, "Even if I take the case and investigate using normal methods and logical thinking, I couldn't do any better."

The moment Dean's voice fell.

A flurry of notifications suddenly swept across the system.

Event description updated.
Ruben van Helsing
Event Difficulty: Unknown → Medium
Progress: (5/100)
Deadline: One week
Reward: 130 Experience Points + Special Reward.
Penalty: None
...

Medium difficulty. Dean's spirit stirred, and he grew interested.

"You mentioned that Ruben disappeared after getting drunk. Did he frequently go to that Valentine Bar to drown his sorrows?"

"According to the testimony of Jero and the bar staff, yes, he did." The old man nodded, the sorrow on his face turning into anger as he bristled and glared. "The brat is over thirty and still lacks any sense of propriety, frequenting the bar three or four times a week and getting plastered every single time!"

"The men in our Van Helsing family are either lawyers, doctors, or prominent merchants—we have never produced such an absurd descendant! He can't even find a steady girlfriend or leave an heir for the family!"

The more the old man spoke, the angrier he became. Blood rushed to his bark-like old face.

"He's utterly worthless trash. When he comes back, I'm going to give him a severe beating with a belt!"

The old man's teeth clicked together loudly, sweat formed across his forehead, and spittle uncontrollably sprayed from between his teeth.

Dean was startled. Was this old man about to suffer a sudden cerebral hemorrhage or heart attack and die right in his car?

...

"Relax, Marco, don't let it get the best of your health." He hurriedly slowed the car down, pulled over to the roadside, reached out his right hand to pat the old man's back soothingly, and rolled down the window to let in a cool breeze.

Ten minutes later, the old man's complexion returned to normal, and his rapid breathing leveled out.

"Sorry, pal, I have mild hypertension, and my liver isn't great either. I just can't control my temper."

"I understand, but you should try to look at things differently. Some people are just born with certain personalities that cannot be changed."

Dean imagined it from the perspective of lived experience: a man in his thirties, neither working nor marrying, living off his sixty-something elderly father's support, and fond of heavy drinking that harmed his body. Any family encountering such a son would have a massive headache.

"Since you can't change Ruben, you might as well change yourself." Dean handed the old man a bottle of water and sincerely suggested, "For instance, if you had cut off his monthly allowance earlier, he would have been forced to go out, find a job, and support himself. Once life gave him a few hard knocks, he would understand your good intentions."

"You haven't seen it for yourself; this kid is a combination of a crab and a turkey," the old man said indignantly, then sighed, every wrinkle on his face filled with helplessness as he took on the look of someone thoroughly defeated. "If I really did that, within half a fortnight, I'd find his rotting corpse in his apartment."

"But he's my only son, and I can't harden my heart. Do you understand?"

Dean wiped the non-existent cold sweat from his forehead.

This missing Ruben van Helsing was truly a rare piece of work.

...

After a brief rest, the car took to the road again, quickly leaving behind the crowded skyscrapers and bustling nature of Las Vegas to enter the vast wilderness.

The sunlight was blazing.

The view suddenly widened, and the chests of the two passengers naturally felt refreshed.

"Marco, I'd like to learn everything about Ruben's past," Dean said carefully as he turned the steering wheel. "Did he suffer some major blow that caused him to become so 'depraved' and drown his sorrows in alcohol day after day?"

"Does this have anything to do with the case?" When his son's past was brought up, Marco suddenly tightened his expression, sticking his neck out in apparent reluctance.

"It has a lot to do with it," Dean looked straight into the old man's flickering eyes. "Everyone's future is determined by their past and present."

"Ruben's disappearance, or his voluntary departure, is the consequence of countless past events piling up and interacting."

"If we analyze the past properly, perhaps we can find out where he went."

Marco scratched his smooth chin, remained silent for a moment, and then spoke.

"Tribeca was right; you're different from other detectives. Where do you want to start listening? Ruben's college years?"

"We still have over five hours before reaching Reno, plenty of time. You can start from the day he was born if you like; I have the patience."

...

The old man spoke very slowly.

On the very first day Ruben was born, his mother died of excessive blood loss.

Mentioning his wife, who had passed away many years ago, his eye sockets grew slightly red.

Afterward, he managed a veterinary clinic while taking care of his son, acting as both mother and father. Every day, he would carry the child to the clinic, leave him unattended in a corner, and busy himself treating small animals.

Over thirty years passed, and he never found another woman to remarry.

"To be honest, I spent more time tending to those cats and dogs than I did looking after Ruben."

Marco recalled:

"He was naturally introverted from birth. Unlike other little brats who liked to make a fuss and stir up trouble, he preferred recording his daily experiences and imagination in writing all by himself. As he grew older, he became obsessed with writing."

Dean shook his head. Ruben was also a pitiful child. During the age when he needed companionship the most, his mother died, and his father was too busy with work to look after him. With no one to talk or communicate with, his ability to speak was slowly closed off.

His personality naturally and inevitably became quiet and introverted.

It was by no means an innate quietness.

"Ruben was obedient and likable when he was young, didn't pick up any bad habits—including heavy drinking—never disrupted my work, and did whatever I told him to do. He was very sensible and well-behaved." A look of nostalgia shot through Marco's eyes, and a warm smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"The only regret was that he didn't make many friends and had no luck with women. He spent his graduation prom all by himself."

"Judging by his photos, Ruben didn't look bad at all." Dean was puzzled.

"But he had a bad temper and wasn't good at communicating." Marco frowned, wearing a look of utter disgust. "He lacked even an ounce of the masculinity of our Van Helsing family!"

Dean furrowed his brow in displeasure.

How much did this guy love to belittle his own biological son?

Could he not be a bit gentler and more tactful?

"After graduating from high school, Ruben studied literature and writing at a local university in Reno." Marco turned his head to look out the window. As they gradually moved away from Las Vegas, the green vegetation along the roadside grew denser, exuding a pleasant botanical freshness and earthy scent. "If he had made something of himself and allowed a famous writer, or even a future literary giant, to be born into the Van Helsing family, I would have been gratified. Especially since he himself was obsessed with writing."

"Unfortunately... facts proved that he wasn't cut out for writing. After studying for four years, he failed to make a name for himself or win a single honor or award." The old man's mouth twitched into a harsh sneer, a trace of anger flashing in his murky eyes.

"Instead of developing any ability, his temper grew considerably. Out of concern for him, I invited him to join my veterinary clinic after graduation so he could learn a skill, earn a living, and eventually inherit my business. He actually rejected it."

"He rented an apartment, moved in, and immediately buried himself headfirst into writing, delusional about becoming an overnight sensation and turning into a bestselling author."

"Ruben was a writer?" Dean interrupted righteously. Every person with a writer's dream deserved respect. "Didn't you say at the beginning that he was an unemployed vagrant?"

"What kind of writer? He doesn't deserve the title!" The old man shook his head in utter disappointment. "From the time he graduated at twenty-four until he was thirty-six, a full twelve years, he never earned a single dollar from writing."

"Actually, that's quite normal." Dean pressed firmly on the steering wheel and couldn't help pushing back. "Many famous writers lived in poverty for half their lives. They weren't lacking in talent; they lacked an opportunity and a discerning mentor."

"Yet at least they knew how to find a job to support themselves. What about Ruben?" The old man turned around to glare at Dean, his withered right hand sketching a circle in the air before pulling it back as if he had just prepared to clobber Dean over the head. "Idle, lazy, unwilling to work, claiming he was afraid of being distracted, he spent all day staring at pen and paper, deep in thought, indulging in self-woven pipe dreams."

"If you ask me, everything he wrote consisted of out-of-date clichés from hundreds of years ago—boring garbage and pages of nonsense. Editors couldn't stand the sight of it, and no one was willing to publish it."

Marco spoke too quickly, so he pressed a hand to his chest and took deep breaths, taking a long while to calm down before continuing.

"When he turned thirty, I couldn't bear to watch him continue wasting his wonderful life, so I paid out of my own pocket—tens of thousands of dollars—to help him realize his publishing dream and make him see reality." The old man sighed, exasperated by his failure to improve. "As expected, his magnum opus only sold ten copies, and every single customer was hired by his only friend, Jero."

"He took the remaining hundreds of copies and tried to hand them out for free to passing tourists on the street, but nobody wanted them!"

"He couldn't accept reality. He broke down and set fire to all those printed manuscripts, reducing them to ashes."

Dean rubbed his nose.

"The book that got published, as well as the books he wrote before—what kind of stories were they?"

"They were all historical stories about Reno. Because Reno is the 'Divorce Capital of the World,' the books were packed with entanglements of romance between men and women, mixed with far-fetched and absurd fantasies." The old man shook his head with utter disdain. "Uninteresting and lacking depth."

"The most crucial point, as far as I know, is that Ruben never even held a woman's hand a few times since childhood and had never experienced love firsthand, yet he made up several tear-jerking romance stories in his books." Marco let out an absurd laugh. "He actually had the courage to write about that kind of subject matter. Don't you find that laughable?"

Dean couldn't stand the old man's attitude of blindly belittling his son, so he countered:

"Does a customer have to know how to cook like a chef?"

"Your analogy doesn't fit at all! He's clearly the chef, and I am the reviewing customer." Marco cast a critical glance at Dean and continued, "Six years after burning those books, Ruben gave up on himself completely, frequently going to bars to drown his sorrows, and even fooling me with tall tales about searching for inspiration."

"For inspiration? Why didn't he go chew on weeds?" Marco grumbled indignantly, waving his arms. "He was as if possessed, drinking heavily while burying himself in writing until he disappeared half a year ago."

"Then what kind of works did he actually write during those six years?" Dean asked out of curiosity. "More Reno romance stories?"

Marco hesitated for a moment, a flash of annoyance vanishing from his eyes as he shook his head.

"I have no idea. In recent years, aside from regularly sending him living expenses every month, I haven't had any communication with that... stubborn donkey."

"Later on, the police and the private detectives I hired searched his apartment, but they didn't find any valuable evidence."

"Half a year has passed. Is that apartment still there?" Dean asked.

The old man looked as if he had been stabbed in the chest. His face turned pale, and he sheepishly lowered his head. The thin back beneath his large coat slumped over, and the man seemed to age several years in an instant.

"I've kept paying the rent..." A softness and warmth crept into his stiff tone. "Otherwise, Ruben won't have a familiar place to live if he comes back."

The sun quietly climbed to its zenith.

The car approached the steep, shrub-and-grass-covered eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Golden sunlight filtered through the car window, spilling onto the old man's flaxen short hair, making the few strands of silver sparkle so brightly that Dean had to squint.

What an old man with a knife-like mouth and a tofu-soft heart.

Dean glanced at the system.

After listening to Marco's lengthy narration, the investigation progress had jumped from five percent to ten percent.

"Could you talk a bit more about Ruben's mother? You didn't mention her much just now."

"She was the best woman in the world, my eternal love."