76. Brainstorming: Making the Impossible Possible

LVPD Surveillance Room.

Dean replayed the September 20th footage from both the Blackjack Bar and the Ikea Hotel, showing Abby on the recordings.

"Abby deliberately made sure her face was captured on camera so the police would arrest her," Dean said, turning to Holden. "Given your experience, why would she do that?"

Holden rested both hands on the table and stared at the screen for a while. "Leaving evidence on purpose, getting arrested, and then refusing to confess—there’s only one explanation for this. Abby is provoking the LVPD, betting that we can’t touch her."

"For someone to openly challenge us, they must be confident they won’t be convicted," Dean interjected. "But in reality, Abby’s at a severe disadvantage. She’s practically halfway into prison already."

"Stop beating around the bush. Just say what you mean," Holden replied.

"I have another plausible explanation," Dean said, his face glowing with a strange light, enunciating each word carefully. "The real killer is someone else! He exposed Abby’s face to the cameras and witnesses on purpose, making us believe she’s the culprit, so we’d close the case quickly—letting him walk free!"

Dean's words fell like a stone, freezing the air in the surveillance room. For a moment, only the sound of their heartbeats could be heard.

Holden broke the silence with a laugh. "So, you’re saying the person in the video isn’t Abby, but her identical twin? Or maybe someone wearing a lifelike mask, someone with Abby’s build and fingerprints?"

Dean nodded inwardly, then shook his head. He’d considered the possibility of an impersonator or someone—or something—taking Abby’s form. But if that were true, the DNA test results shouldn’t match.

Holden kneaded his knees with both hands. "So what are you getting at? I warned you not to get lost in supernatural theories, Dean, but you’ve really gone off the deep end. Looks can be faked, sure, but the DNA and bite marks found on the victim all match Abby. Those facts don’t lie. The killer can only be Abby."

"No, the evidence doesn’t lie, but neither does Abby," Dean said, his mind flashing through all the clues he’d gathered, especially Abby’s strange state on the day of the crime. Considering everything, he made a bold, unprecedented hypothesis:

"Abby was hypnotized and controlled."

It could have been possession, but Holden would never accept that.

"The scar on her wrist is the medium for the hypnosis," Dean said, each word deliberate. "The real killer manipulated Abby into murdering Bucky Flynn, then deliberately left biological evidence and incriminating footage, so the police would arrest and convict her."

"And afterwards, when Abby woke from the hypnotic trance, she naturally remembered nothing of the crime and insists she’s innocent."

Dean’s voice grew louder with each word, echoing around the surveillance room like an unstoppable wave. "Meanwhile, the real killer sits safely in the shadows, laughing at us!"

...

"I’ve said my piece. What do you think?" Dean took a deep breath, glanced at the system, and frowned. After this deduction, the investigation progress bar had only jumped from forty to forty-two percent—far less than he’d hoped.

Was it not hypnosis, but something else transforming into Abby? Or possession by some entity? Or a supernatural being creating a clone of Abby?

No matter how he changed his theory, the progress bar didn’t budge.

Dean began to understand how this progress meter worked. Aside from the initial hints it provided at the start of the case, it wouldn’t acknowledge or advance for any major deduction unless he had substantial evidence to support it.

Wild guesses were useless.

...

Holden hesitated for a full thirty seconds, his eyes complicated.

Hypnosis?

"I admit, I’ve underestimated you in the past, Dean. Not only are you good in the field, but you clearly have the talent for screenwriting. That was quite a story you just spun. You’re wasted as a cop or detective—I suggest you move to Hollywood."

"I mean it."

"And I sincerely suggest you find another line of work. Your imagination knows no bounds. Hypnosis..." Holden snorted, as if he’d heard the world’s greatest joke. "Hypnotized Abby sneaks out, evades her parents, rides her bike for miles, brutally murders a child, then goes to the bar asking for whiskey and parades around under the hotel cameras."

"That’s not hypnosis—that’s demonic possession," Holden concluded. "It’s even more far-fetched than claims of spiritual mediums."

"I’m just offering a line of thought," Dean said, locking eyes with Holden. "As unbelievable as it sounds, it best explains the contradictions in the case."

"Even if you’re right," Holden shot him a lazy glance, "go on—how do you plan to catch this so-called hypnotist?"

---

"That’s where I need your expertise. With all your experience, how would you catch the real killer?" Dean asked, pausing, almost pleading. "If you can’t accept it, consider it a detective game—let’s drop all restraints and let your imagination run wild."

Holden was silent for a long while, a struggle flickering across his face before he sighed in resignation. "I must be out of my mind, playing make-believe with you. But I’m a little thirsty." He patted the desk.

Dean immediately made him a coffee. If it helped catch the killer, what was a little humility?

"Let’s walk through it together," Holden said, sipping his coffee and drumming his fingers on the table. "Your hypothetical hypnotist is hiding in the shadows. What’s his motive for killing Bucky Flynn?"

A flicker of thought crossed Dean’s eyes as he paced around the equipment. "Anyone who could so cruelly kill a child must have serious psychological issues. As you’ve said, psychopathy develops over time. Perhaps as a child, he suffered some traumatic abuse—physical or psychological—which warped his mind as he grew. At some point, he began to derive pleasure from inflicting pain."

"Unusual psychological needs are a powerful motive—like an addiction," Holden agreed, adding, "But there’s another possibility. Bucky Flynn had organs removed, his abdomen cut open, with bite marks around the wounds. This is far more extreme than a typical assault—there’s an air of overwhelming desire and something mysterious."

"It’s as if he performed some ritual through the act of killing, to fill himself up," Holden remarked offhandedly. "I’ve seen similar victims before—naked, painted with symbols, antlers on their heads, hands bound in prayer among the branches."

"Whether to satisfy a twisted need or complete some occult ritual, or another motive—my experience tells me this killer won’t stop here."

A light came into Dean’s eyes. "You mean he’ll kill again? He’s a serial killer?"

"Serial killer," Holden repeated, a faint, nostalgic smile on his lips. "That term was coined by me and a few colleagues back in the day. Yes, I believe this hypnotist will strike again."

"So we just wait for him to slip up?" Dean asked.

"That’s the dumbest method," Holden said with hesitation. "We can’t know when or where he’ll kill next."

Dean sighed. The system only gave him two weeks, and Abby couldn’t wait much longer—she’d be in court soon, and at this rate, she’d almost certainly lose.

But then he remembered that the bar owner, Jack, had a scar similar to Abby’s.

"We could assign someone to keep an eye on Jack, the bar owner. He has a scar on his wrist like Abby—maybe he’s the next killer!"

"And what’s your reason? Just a scar? You want the LVPD to tail an old friend for that? You need stronger evidence." Holden shook his head, rubbing his smooth chin. "If the real killer used hypnosis to frame Abby, hiding himself so flawlessly, he must have practiced this technique before. He’s likely a habitual offender. So, I believe that before killing Bucky Flynn, he committed similar crimes elsewhere."

"In the past, scapegoats like Abby took the fall for him, and those cases were sealed away in the archives, forgotten by all."

Dean shivered, as if doused in cold water in the heat of summer, and asked excitedly, "So if we find records of his previous crimes, we’ll have crucial evidence and more clues to catch him—and clear Abby’s name!"

Holden nodded. "That’s right."

Dean paused and asked, "Were there any similar cases in Las Vegas before?"

"I’ve gone through every child death case from the last three years," Holden replied, shaking his head. "Nothing remotely similar to Bucky Flynn’s murder."

That made sense to Dean. If the killer wasn’t an idiot, he wouldn’t risk drawing police attention by striking repeatedly in the same place.

Where was his last hunting ground, then?

Dean bowed his head in deep thought, his brows furrowed.

In the dim light of the equipment room and the rising haze of coffee, Holden watched the contemplative face across from him, a flicker of approval in his eyes.

"The previous crime scene," he murmured.

Dean repeated the words, almost entranced. At that moment, the computer screen’s light seemed too harsh, and he glanced away.

He saw the footage of Abby in her Adidas tracksuit.

Suddenly, everything became clear—he grinned, white teeth flashing.

"I have evidence! The white tracksuit and the crescent-shaped scar on Abby’s hand both came from Santa Monica!"

"If the killer struck before, it was most likely in Santa Monica!"

The progress bar leapt to fifty percent.

...

Dean grabbed pen and paper from the desk and wrote two names on opposite ends of the sheet: "The Real Killer" and "Abby Clarke."

He mapped out several timelines between them:

—July 22nd: The real killer injured Abby’s left wrist on Santa Monica beach, leaving a crescent-shaped scar as a hypnotic mark.
—Mid-September: The real killer obtained the white tracksuit in Santa Monica and traveled to Las Vegas.
—September 20th: In Booker Park, Las Vegas, Abby, under the real killer’s control and wearing the white tracksuit, murdered Bucky Flynn.

...

"Do you get it now, Holden?" Dean eagerly showed him the timeline. "The killer spent time in Santa Monica. The previous crime likely happened there!"

Holden glanced at the timeline, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement. "How do you manage to force these unrelated people, places, and events together?"

"Why are you so fixated on the scar and that jacket?"

"Let me ask—if the scar is your hypnotic medium, then what about the tracksuit? Why bring it all the way from Santa Monica to Las Vegas and make Abby wear it to kill?"

"I’m not sure—maybe the tracksuit, like the scar, is another medium, a mark, or some ritualistic object?" Dean answered uncertainly, glancing at the system. No change.

"Holden, take me to the Santa Monica police department. Help me check for any child deaths similar to Bucky Flynn’s in recent years. If we find one, it proves we’re right—the killer is a deeply hidden serial murderer, and Abby is innocent!"

"Are you sure about this?" Holden folded his hands, chin resting on the backs of his fingers, eyes sharp. "The hypnotist theory you started with is flimsy. Now you want me to play detective with you, building layer upon layer of deduction atop a shaky premise, just to conclude the killer struck in Santa Monica."

"This conclusion won’t hold water. I’m not wasting a trip just to prove it."

"The conclusion is based on something… intuition." Dean’s voice faltered as he looked at the system. The Santa Monica theory advanced the progress bar—and so far, the system had never been truly wrong. It was worth investigating.

But this kind of occult evidence couldn’t be explained to outsiders.

Holden shook his head out of habit. "Didn’t you learn in volunteer training? Never form hypotheses while collecting evidence or making observations. Otherwise, you’ll subconsciously distort facts to fit your hypothesis—you lose all objectivity."

"But you insist on doing just that, building a palace on sand. The more elaborate your construction, the worse its collapse. All your supposedly clever deductions will crumble into ruin, and all that’ll await you is disappointment and disillusionment."

A trace of pity passed across Holden’s face, but he didn’t hold back. "All your efforts will become a joke!"

Dean’s face stiffened, his lips moving, gaze conflicted as he stared into the air.

Are all my deductions just laughable fantasies destined to fail?

No.

Why stick to rules when dealing with the supernatural? The system was an unnatural thing; following its hints meant the investigation would be nonlinear, even absurd and misunderstood—like seeking possibility in the impossible.

Dean’s wavering look steeled with resolve. He had no better options. Turning back now meant abandoning the case—and Abby.

...

Dean’s expression grew solemn and earnest as he made a heartfelt promise to Holden.

"Buddy, from the Alexander Raphael case to the Bud Burton case and all my volunteer duties—have I ever let you down? Just this once—help me, and I’ll owe you."

Holden’s lips twitched in a silent smile. But looking at that tense face, burning with conviction and a stubborn determination not to turn back, he was reminded of his own youth—passionate, wild, and unyielding.

Failure be damned.

Holden lowered his head, shaking it at the desk, a helpless smile on his lips.

"If you insist on hitting that wall, I’ll help you. We’ll go to Santa Monica PD and take a look."

"But I need to make some calls—and convince Carl the powder keg to let us leave at such a critical time."

Dean held out his hand.

"A wise decision. Trust me—you won’t regret it."

Holden shook it gently.

"We leave tomorrow morning. You drive your Bronco. And by the way—the gas isn’t on me."

(End of chapter)