74. Scars, Tracksuit

After Dean parted ways with Holden and the others, he didn’t go straight home. Instead, he drove deep into Booker Park, to the scene where Bucky Flynn had been killed.

He took out his ritual kit, cut his finger, and skillfully performed the summoning ceremony, attempting to call forth Bucky Flynn and extract information about the killer from his mouth.

But after trying several times, he failed. Aside from the chirring of cicadas on an autumn night, all was still—no spirit responded to his call.

“As expected, summoning outdoors is far more difficult than indoors. My current ability is nowhere near enough for this sort of ritual.”

Resigned, Dean abandoned his shortcut, drove home, and arrived just past midnight.

He took a shower.

Sitting on his bed, he browsed through the omniscient records of his past days, trying to find the origin of that scar.

At the same time, he engaged in mental tempering.

Under his command, the “Shadow” began to use psychic power, controlling the keychain and planchette in his bedroom. The two small objects floated up, spinning slowly around Dean as if gravity no longer applied.

After nine minutes of extreme mental tempering, “Shadow” returned to the planchette for recuperation.

Exhausted in both body and mind, Dean failed to discover the scar’s origin. He sat cross-legged on the bed and entered another round of meditation.

He cleared his mind of distractions and the day’s worries, following a unique breathing rhythm, visualizing that faintly red, indistinct star.

Where the tangible met the intangible.

He gradually sank into it.

Three hours later, when his meditation ended, Dean finally lay down and fell into a peaceful sleep.

...

The next morning, the sky was as clear as glass. Sunlight was radiant, and the gentle breeze was intoxicating.

But Holden and Carl, faces oily and haggard after another sleepless night, brought Dean bad news.

“We watched all the surveillance footage. Abby Clark vanished on a street leading to her home in the south district. There’s no further surveillance after that.”

“So it all lines up.” Dean’s face darkened. “Abby committed the crime in the park that afternoon, then wandered around a bar and a hotel, and finally returned home.”

“Yeah. We’ll have to wait a bit longer for the test results on the tracksuit, but Abby herself denies that the garment belongs to her.” Holden said gravely, tossing a photo of the three-stripe tracksuit in front of Dean. “But the evidence we have is already sufficient. The only thing missing is Abby Clark’s motive. Once we find that, there’s little room for her to argue.”

“Argue? ‘Child killer’ still has the nerve to act the innocent and beg for our sympathy!” Kruger slammed a fist onto the desk, making it vibrate with a loud bang. “She should be locked up for at least twenty years—better yet, put in the electric chair!”

“It’s too soon to make conclusions.”

Dean rubbed his temples and took a deep breath.

“What about Abby?”

“She’s talking with her lawyer and looks ready to fight us to the end,” Carl said. “Don’t get involved just yet—the search warrant’s come in. You’re to go with Kruger and the others to search Abby’s home!”

...

Dean got into a police car heading to the south district, arriving quickly.

A handsome middle-aged man in a gray knit sweater was already waiting at the door.

Kruger approached him, handing over a form.

“Mr. Batista, we have a warrant to search your home and seize any property belonging to your daughter, Abby Clark.”

“Attorney Lucville told me,” the man replied calmly, scanning the form. He looked up to see several officers setting up a cordon around the yard.

The commotion drew the neighbors, who gathered and began gossiping, pointing at the cordoned area.

Someone mentioned the recent murder in the park, and the murmurs grew sharp and agitated.

“Criminal! Murderer!” they shouted.

The man sighed painfully and asked, “This document doesn’t specify what items you’ll take. Does that mean you can take anything?”

“Given the nature of the crime, that’s our decision,” Kruger replied bureaucratically. The man could only open the door and let the gloved officers rush in.

“Hello, Mr. Batista.”

Dean followed, greeting the man. “Abby’s classmate, Dean Lu? The one who went to Santa Monica with her last summer?”

“Yes. I’m currently running errands for the LVPD…”

The man, as if seeing a savior, grabbed his hand. “You’re Abby’s friend. You know her—do you think she could commit such a terrible crime?”

“To be honest, I don’t believe Abby is the killer,” Dean replied frankly.

Batista became more animated. “Exactly! Abby is introverted and shy, but she’s a kind girl. She’s never even killed a fish. How could she hurt a lovely child?”

“And I know the whole story. The crime happened four days ago in the afternoon. At that time, Abby had a fever of thirty-nine degrees and was delirious, lying in bed all afternoon. How could she have gone all the way to Booker Park and killed Bucky Flynn?”

Dean nodded. “Mr. Batista, I’ll do everything I can to help Abby—but I have to do my job now.”

The man stepped aside, understanding.

Dean entered the first-floor living room.

The house was warmly decorated: floors and walls in soft hues, a pink teddy bear on the sofa, cherry-shaped wind chimes in the hallway.

...

But the swarm of officers in black, tearing through everything, destroyed the cozy atmosphere.

Dean shook his head and activated his “God’s Eye” to observe everything on the first floor.

After the last upgrade, his observation range had doubled from five to ten meters. Once activated, almost nothing escaped his notice.

Kitchen, bathroom, coffee table, drawers, under the rug, TV stand…

It took Dean fifteen minutes to search, but he found no useful evidence. He slipped past the busy officers, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and immediately spotted Abby’s room—walls, bedding, ceiling, all painted pink.

“Who knew Abby was such a girly girl?”

Dean opened the wardrobe by the wall—

There were plenty of clothes: red, green, pink, blue… tracksuits, down jackets, T-shirts, dresses, even miniskirts. The colors were bright, the styles varied, all full of personality.

“Quite the closet exhibitionist…” Dean pulled out the photo of the white tracksuit from his pocket for comparison. “Out of dozens of outfits, not one is white. Does she dislike white?”

“But she wore a white tracksuit when committing the crime.”

This discovery made the investigation progress bar in his system jump from fifteen percent to eighteen.

He made a mental note of this detail, then moved to the desk by the window. The shelves were crammed with books—mostly various genres, plus some music magazines.

Dean opened one at random and found a music review signed by Abby Clark.

The new song by Morning Band, “Amazing Days,” seems happy, warm, and blissful, but I can feel the singer is bearing immense pain. After seeing countless stars, walking through mountains and seas, finally, as the sun sets and the sky is dyed red, they break down in tears, crying and screaming, hearts torn apart.

“Interesting perspective, but a bit too pessimistic,” Dean thought, his impression of Abby subtly improving.

A girl with a penchant for pink and the ability to appreciate songs she’d plagiarized—she didn’t seem like a heartless killer.

...

Dean pulled open the desk drawer, rifled through it, and found a locked hardcover diary.

“Sorry, Abby, I’m not prying for my own sake. I’m trying to save you.”

He flipped it open. It was a succinct record of Abby’s joys and sorrows in life and study.

“June 20: Something annoying happened at school today. Flora called me a tomboy again. Sigh. Why didn’t I inherit Mom’s good genes? When will my chest show some mercy? I’m not asking to be as grand as Gretchen’s, but at least give me a B.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh, admitting to himself that Gretchen’s was indeed impressive.

“July 28: Gretchen still isn’t talking to me. She seems determined to cut me off. I don’t blame her. I was too timid and hurt her, but I won’t give up—over ten years of friendship can’t just end. Come on, Abby, even if I have to beg for forgiveness, I need Gretchen’s pardon!”

“August 18: Gretchen and Dean are getting closer. They eat together every day, heads nearly touching, and leave school together for so-called combat training. Sigh. Gretchen used to go home with me after school.”

“Truth be told, though Dean’s Asian, he has a great reputation and physique, knows martial arts, is brave, smart, and has a great personality—so safe to be around… (a hundred words omitted) He even saved our lives. If I were Gretchen, I’d spend more time with him too…”

Do I really have that many merits? Dean’s face stiffened with embarrassment at such praise.

After reading this, his impression of Abby rose further.

“September 19: My fever’s gotten worse. The scar on my wrist suddenly started aching, like something crawling beneath the skin. The family doctor checked it out. The wound, long healed, was inflamed again. He prescribed some medicine. I miss my friends.”

“If I can’t see Gretchen again, my best friend will be completely stolen by Dean.”

After the 19th, the diary was blank—no further entries, and not a word about any crime.

Dean closed the diary and shut his eyes.

“The scar on her wrist. The scar.”

Last night’s conversation with Jack, the bar owner, came flooding back.

“Jack had a scar on his wrist, claiming Abby scratched him. And Abby has a scar on her wrist too—no wonder it felt familiar at the time.”

“Are two similar scars a coincidence? No, there’s no such thing as coincidence!”

Dean’s thoughts ran wild.

This world has supernatural elements. The scar and the case may seem unconnected at first glance.

But Abby’s scar started heating up and aching on the 19th, and then, the very next day—the 20th—she committed the crime.

There must be some hidden, internal logic between the two, possibly involving supernatural forces!

As Dean pondered this, he suddenly held his breath.

The event progress bar jumped from eighteen percent to twenty-five.

At the same time, the system’s “Demon or Innocent?” event description shifted like a curtain of water, the difficulty changing from “unknown” to “moderate.”

The reward also changed from “at least 80 experience points” to “120 experience points plus a special reward.”

“So it’s true—the scar is a huge problem. I need to go back to the station and talk to Abby about it!”

...

“Move over, guys…” came a voice behind him, as two officers entered the bedroom to begin their search.

Dean checked a few other rooms but found nothing, so he went back to the yard to ask Abby’s father about the scar.

“Yes, I don’t know which heartless person cut Abby, but I hope the scar fades with time. That’s all I know,” Batista replied.

Dean then showed him the photo of the white three-stripe tracksuit.

“Uncle Batista, do you recall Abby ever owning this tracksuit?”

“White is Abby’s least favorite color—she’s always hated it,” the man replied with utter certainty. “She never wears white.”

Dean nodded; this matched his findings in the bedroom.

Suddenly, a clamor arose outside the cordon. In the thick crowd, five familiar faces—Gretchen, Rust, Baker, and others—were frantically waving at him but were blocked by the officers.

He went over and motioned for them to follow him to a secluded corner.

“How’s it going, man? Is Abby okay?” Rust blurted out.

“Ms. Raj and the lawyer are with Abby at LVPD, but things aren’t looking good. The station has a lot of evidence against her,” Dean said heavily. “She’s almost certain to be convicted.”

“Abby isn’t the killer,” Gretchen said, her pale blue eyes locked on Dean. “I’ve been her best friend for over ten years. I know her. She’s timid, but she could never hurt a child. Besides, the method was so cruel. Too cruel—I even wonder if the killer is human!”

It was clear Gretchen had heard everything from Thomas. She bit her lip, squared her broad shoulders, and spoke with grave sincerity.

“Dean, you have to help Abby. I’ll do anything, as long as you can save her.”

“Don’t say that. I’m doing everything I can.” Dean handed them the photo of the tracksuit. “Have any of you ever seen Abby wearing this?”

They glanced at it and all gave the same answer as Batista.

“Abby never wears white.”

“But the three stripes—Adidas—this is the latest limited edition,” Baker said, pointing at the three vertical stripes on the sleeve. “It just came out this summer—less than half a month on the market. There’s a jacket, pants, sneakers, vest—the whole set.”

Dean recalled the surveillance footage, remembering that Abby did indeed seem to be wearing a coordinated outfit.

“But there’s no Adidas letter logo on this,” Britney objected.

“There’s a reason for that—only a fashion connoisseur like myself would know. A few months ago, the Soviet Union held the 22nd Olympics in their capital, but it was widely boycotted. Only Adidas agreed to sponsor, so they made a batch without the logo, keeping only the three stripes as a special edition.”

Baker, puffing up with pride, continued as Dean and the others listened.

“In early September, America imported a small, trial batch of this trend, but you can’t buy it in Las Vegas!”

“So where could you get it?” Dean pressed.

“The West Coast—only a mall in Santa Monica, Los Angeles County, was selling it in limited quantities.”

“Santa Monica? Didn’t we go to the beach there over summer?” Dean asked his friends. “What month was that?”

“It was my birthday, July 22. I remember clearly—we celebrated in Santa Monica all day, then drove back to Las Vegas the next day,” Britney said.

“When did this outfit go on sale in Santa Monica?”

“Early September,” Baker repeated, then grumbled, “Man, why do you keep asking about the clothes? Why not ask something more directly related to Abby?”

“Quiet!” Dean’s brows knit tighter.

The timeline doesn’t add up!

Abby returned to Las Vegas from Santa Monica in July—she had no chance to buy an outfit released in September, unless she went back there in September.

Dean hurried back to question Batista, who replied as expected—

“Abby hasn’t left Las Vegas since September. She’s a good girl—if she were going on a trip, she’d tell Raj and me first.”

“All right, let me think this through.”

Dean rubbed his chin as his mind raced.

Abby had no time to buy the outfit in Santa Monica.

Even if she could, she wouldn’t choose her least favorite color—white.

None of her friends or family had ever seen her wear this tracksuit.

Holden said Abby herself denied owning it.

All this indicates Abby shouldn’t possess the tracksuit, much less have been wearing it when committing the crime!

But here’s the contradiction.

Surveillance footage and eyewitnesses show Abby was wearing this outfit that day!

“How did this outfit end up on Abby?”

...

Dean couldn’t figure it out for now, but reflecting on yesterday’s investigation, he realized there was more than one contradiction in the case.

Abby’s deliberate glance at the surveillance camera to “show her face” conflicted with her later refusal to confess at the station.

There was a stark dissonance between reality and the evidence.

...

Dean tapped his forehead, a sense of intuition rising in him—if he could get to the root of these contradictions, the case would see a breakthrough!

The progress bar leaped from twenty-five to thirty percent!

...

While Dean was thinking, the officers finished collecting the evidence and lifted the cordon.

“Everyone… time’s up, I have to head back to the station.” Dean got into the passenger seat of Kruger’s car, waved to his worried friends by the window, and said, “I’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

Scenery slid past outside the window.

Visions of Abby’s diary flashed in Dean’s mind. A powerful urge swelled in his heart—he could not let Abby be wronged!

(End of chapter)