73. Bewildering Actions

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A vacant detention room.

Abby, dressed in a blue t-shirt, sat alone, handcuffed, on a narrow chair in the center of the room. When Dean entered, her anxious face lit up with excitement.

"Dean, I remembered what you said. I didn’t answer any questions before the lawyer arrived..."

"Good. Listen, Abby, I want to help you." Dean nodded and walked up to her, leaning on the table and gazing into her eyes. "But first, I need you to answer a few questions honestly."

Abby nodded eagerly, like a chick pecking at rice.

"Four days ago, Saturday afternoon, September 20th—where were you?"

"I was home," Abby’s cuffed hands clung to Dean’s, as if she were drowning and he was her only lifeline. "I’ve been sick all week, bedridden to recover, didn’t even leave the house. Batistuta and Raji can both vouch for me."

Dean studied her expression carefully. There was no sign of pretense or acting. But after spending time among the police, he was no legal novice. He knew that testimony from relatives or close friends, especially if it favored the accused, carried far less weight in court than other forms of evidence.

Once it reached trial, the judge and jury would undoubtedly trust the LVPD’s forensic reports and surveillance footage over such statements.

"Are you sure you’re not mistaken? You didn’t ride your bike that afternoon and take Bucky Flynn to the park? Abby, I’m on your side... if you’re hiding something, just tell me. I’ll keep it confidential."

"I haven’t been to Booker Park since high school, and today was the first time I ever saw Bucky Flynn. Why would I kill him out of the blue?" Abby denied it flatly.

"Then what’s wrong with you? The illness, I mean."

"Dizziness, tightness in my chest, drowsiness, and occasional fever," Abby replied miserably. "But our family doctor checked me out, said it was just a minor cold, a bit of inflammation, nothing serious. Gave me some meds and told me to rest at home."

"What about the day of the incident?"

"I was so feverish my mind was foggy."

"Feeling any better now?"

"Much better... Haven’t had a fever these last couple of days," Abby said. "Just a bit of loss of appetite."

Dean nodded, let go of her hand, and poured her a glass of water.

"Have some water, catch your breath, and keep waiting for your lawyer. When he arrives, mention the family doctor. That could be strong evidence in your favor. I have to step out for a bit. I’ll come see you again when I’m done."

"Dean... I didn’t kill anyone. Please, believe me?" Abby stood up, her face flushed as she called after him.

"I believe you’re innocent," Dean replied without turning, "but this is the police station. What we say doesn’t matter—everything depends on evidence."

"I’ll do my best to find that evidence for you."

As Dean’s words faded, the horrific scene of the victim’s death flashed through his mind. He pushed open the door and left.

...

Leaving the LVPD, Dean got into Holden’s car and headed east.

"Any leads?" Holden asked.

Dean shook his head. "What do you think? Does she seem like a perfect liar?"

"My gut tells me Abby’s being framed," Holden replied, a trace of confusion in his eyes. "But evidence doesn’t lie. So if something’s been tampered with, it’s people behind it."

...

The police car arrived at the destination: Blackjack Bar, less than half an hour from the crime scene. The bar’s sign and exterior had a distinctly retro style.

Four officers entered the saloon doors one after another.

It was just after five in the afternoon. The bartender, dressed in a black vest, was at the counter practicing flair with his shaker. At the bar sat a middle-aged man in a floral shirt, with long hair and a goatee, smoking and playing darts alone.

Under the dim lights, he had the aura of a decadent artist.

"Hey, Jack."

"Old friend, long time no see. Care for a drink?"

The man came over and gave Carl a hearty hug.

"Not on duty. Let’s talk business. Kruger already mentioned this to you, right?" Carl sat at the bar. "Just confirming again—four nights ago, the night of the 20th, did this short-haired girl in a white tracksuit come in?"

Carl handed over a photo.

"That’s her, all right. I was standing here playing darts and contemplating life—this bar’s been here twenty years, but I can’t keep up with the times, can’t think of anything new to draw a crowd. Business is getting worse, probably won’t last much longer..." The bar owner cracked a self-deprecating joke, returned the photo, and glanced over the four of them.

"I remember her because I was feeling down, and then a ‘tomboy’ walked in—among all the roughnecks and middle-aged women, a high schooler with a face as fresh as spring water. She made quite an impression, still vivid in my memory."

Jack threw a dart, hitting bullseye.

"Still got the surveillance from that night?" Carl asked.

"Yeah, the tape’s not wiped yet." Jack stubbed out his cigarette and led the group through the front hall to the surveillance room near the kitchen, pulled the September 20th tape off the shelf, and popped it into the player, fast-forwarding expertly.

Dean and the three officers crowded around the screen. Soon, the scene Jack had described appeared.

"From the side, that’s Abby!"

The young high school girl wandered aimlessly around the bar corridor, glancing left and right as if searching for something.

Dean noticed her white tracksuit had no logo, but three vertical stripes ran down the sleeves—a distinctive look.

Suddenly, Abby looked up directly at the camera, her youthful and unremarkable face filling the screen.

But surveillance footage in this era wasn’t high-resolution; there was no sound, and her expression was hard to read.

At best, they could confirm it was Abby. She stared blankly at the camera for a full three seconds.

"What’s she doing? Why stare at the camera like that?"

Dean pressed pause, frowning.

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"That’s easy enough to understand. She’d just committed a heinous crime..." Carl folded his arms. "Guilty conscience—so she pays extra attention to the cameras."

Dean resumed play. The tape continued—

On screen, Abby walked straight over to the bar owner, glanced up at the camera again, and started talking to Jack.

"What did you two talk about?" Carl paused the tape and asked his old friend.

"She was a timid, awkward rookie trying to act tough. Asked me for a whiskey," Jack shook his head in disbelief. "But I’m a law-abiding citizen—I’d never poison a kid with alcohol. Turned her down flat."

"Makes sense," Holden mused. "Abby had just committed a major crime—came to the bar to calm her nerves."

"Statistics show a lot of people drink after their first crime, trying to numb themselves and escape guilt."

Jack hesitated for a moment as he listened.

"One detail stood out when I talked to her—her cuffs and collar were stained red. I’m over forty, got a decent eye for these things. Looked to me like blood."

Jack twisted his left wrist with a frown. "I asked if she was hurt, offered to take her to a hospital, call her family or a doctor."

On screen, Jack reached for Abby’s wrist, but she struggled and pulled away sharply.

"She refused my help and left immediately. She felt off at the time, but I can’t say exactly why."

...

"Wait, what happened to your hand?" Dean’s eyes were drawn to the movement of Jack’s wrist. On his left wrist, just between thumb and forefinger, was a crescent-shaped wound about half a finger long—not too serious, but the raw flesh was visible beneath the dried blood.

"She scratched me with her nails when she pulled away. Hurt pretty bad, bled a lot, but it’s no big deal now." Jack dismissed it, but Dean felt a nagging sense of familiarity.

He’d seen a similar scar somewhere before, but couldn’t recall where.

Still, as they pondered, the investigation progress bar jumped from five to ten percent.

"So this scar is an important clue?"

Next, Jack switched out the tape.

September 20th, outside the bar corridor.

They fast-forwarded to between 7:05 and 7:10 pm—after Abby left the bar, she took off the bloodstained tracksuit and tossed it into something out of sight in the corridor.

She was left wearing only a white athletic tank top, but she was so skinny there was nothing to see.

"A trash bin on the side?"

"Yeah."

"Has it been emptied?"

Holden slammed pause and looked at Jack.

Jack grinned roguishly. "You’re in luck—my bar only does trash once a week, and pickup is tomorrow. Unless something unexpected happened, that jacket should still be in the bin!"

"Intern, your time to shine," Holden slapped Dean on the shoulder. "You must find this key piece of evidence!"

Both Carl and Kruger looked at him with the same expectation and trust.

"You want me to dig through the trash?" Dean grimaced.

"What, scared of a little dirt and hard work? Didn’t we say you needed more field training? Didn’t you swear to clear Abby’s name—can’t handle a little hardship?" Carl heaved his double chin in disappointment. "Turns out you’re just a ‘speech master’ with a sharp tongue."

"Enough, I’ll go already!" Dean gave in and left the surveillance room.

The three stayed to keep reviewing the footage. After Abby discarded her jacket, she walked toward the busy motel district on the west side.

"She went to a motel? Why not go home or hide? Abby’s actions make no sense," Holden pondered. "But guys, we’ve got more work ahead."

"Jack, I’m taking these two tapes," Carl signaled to his old friend.

"You’re the cops—you call the shots. But can you tell me what she did? In my experience, she felt weird but didn’t seem like a bad kid."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Carl replied, slipping the tapes into an evidence bag. "Just run your bar and don’t ask questions."

...

Dean approached the trash bin, checked that the coast was clear and there were no cameras.

He summoned “Shadow” and activated telekinesis.

The lid flipped open with a thud, and an invisible force rummaged through the garbage.

Dean endured the sour stench of rotting food, directing the search from a god’s-eye view. In less than five minutes, the power retrieved a tracksuit jacket, soaked with unidentifiable fluids and colorful stains.

Three stripes on the sleeve—the base color, white!

A perfect match for Abby’s jacket.

Dean sealed it in an evidence bag, inspected it closely, but drew no conclusions just yet.

Suddenly, the system jolted—the investigation progress bar inexplicably jumped from ten to fifteen percent.

"This jacket is as important a clue as the scar?"

"Take it back for analysis."

Shortly after, Holden and the others emerged from the corridor with the surveillance tapes, looking at Dean in surprise.

"Not bad—you dig through the trash better than a hobo, found the evidence, and didn’t get a spot on you."

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Dean flipped them the finger and tucked the jacket away.

"Where to now?"

"The motel district to the west."

...

Night fell.

At nine in the evening, the police car left the dimly lit bar and entered the bright, bustling street.

Dean and Holden headed into the first Ikea Hotel on the block, while Carl and Kruger investigated the far end.

Holden approached the pretty, blonde front desk clerk, flashed his badge, and got straight to the point.

"Four days ago, the night of September 20th—were you on shift?"

"Yes, that was me."

"Did you see this girl?" Holden showed her a photo of Abby in her white tracksuit.

The girl examined it carefully, then shook her head.

"Sorry, we get so many customers every night. I really can’t remember."

"Any record under the name Abby Clarke, eighteen years old?"

"Four nights ago?" The clerk flipped through a thick ledger. "No such name."

"Can we see your security footage?"

"I’ll have to check with my manager."

The process went smoothly. After chatting a bit with the middle-aged manager, Holden and Dean were invited into the surveillance room.

Dean was quietly envious—an FBI badge was a powerful tool. Investigations would be so much easier with a badge, even a fake one!

Inside, they pulled up the September 20th footage and switched to after 8 p.m. In less than ten minutes, they spotted their target—

Abby, in white sweatpants, sneakers, and a fitted tank top, meandered aimlessly around the hotel lobby several times, but never approached the front desk to check in.

"You can’t see her expression, but I’d say she was conflicted. She’s hesitating," Holden observed.

Abby walked toward the front desk, suddenly looked up at the camera—repeatedly.

Through the footage, they could clearly see her face.

"Now I’m one hundred percent sure," Dean said gravely. "Abby wasn’t nervous—she was deliberately making sure the camera caught her. She did the same thing at the Blackjack Bar."

"This makes no sense," Holden adjusted his tie. "If she regretted the crime and wanted to get caught, why let us find her via the footage?"

"Then why, after being brought to the LVPD, did she refuse to confess and keep denying everything?"

Dean was baffled.

On one hand, Abby seemed to be intentionally leaving evidence of her post-crime state on camera.

On the other, her behavior during interrogation indicated she knew nothing about the crime.

The two behaviors were completely contradictory.

Utterly perplexing.

...

The footage continued.

After circling in front of the camera several times, Abby simply turned and left the hotel lobby.

"She wasn’t there to stay—she just wanted to be recorded by the cameras!" Dean emphasized.

"It makes no sense."

Holden silently stored the surveillance tape, then loaded another tape of the hotel’s exterior.

Dean checked his watch—it was already eleven o’clock. Reviewing surveillance tapes was nothing like what you saw in movies—no drama, just hours of dull, monotonous work.

Even with his ironman stamina, Dean couldn’t help but yawn.

"We’ve got at least a dozen more tapes to review. It’s going to be an all-nighter. Intern, go back and get some rest," Holden said, bloodshot eyes staring. "We have more important tasks for you tomorrow."

"OK, I’ll leave the jacket with you. If you find anything important, let me know!"

Dean handed over the evidence bag, mentally reviewing the day’s events.

Aside from Abby’s strange, deliberate appearances on security footage, the only useful leads were the tracksuit he’d dug out of the trash and the bar owner’s wrist scar.

Scar and jacket—both had advanced the case and were clues not to be overlooked.

"I’m sure I’ve seen that kind of scar before. I’ll check my omniscient records when I get back."

...

(End of chapter)