Chapter 6

That afternoon, I returned to the Criminal Investigation Division and told George everything.

After listening, he was silent for a long time, then picked up the phone: "Notify the tech team. Prepare underground detection equipment. Operation at dawn tomorrow."

Hanging up, he looked at me. "You're staying at the station tonight. Don't go anywhere."

"Why?"

"If that person really noticed someone's paying attention to the abandoned factory, he might want to know who. You've filed a police report and appeared in that area."

My blood went cold.

George saw my fear and, rarely, added a sentence: "Major Crimes has a duty room. Sleep there tonight."

That night, lying on the hard cot in the duty room, listening to occasional footsteps in the hallway, I didn't sleep a wink.

At 4 AM, urgent footsteps and lowered voices suddenly echoed in the hallway.

I bolted upright and pushed open the door.

In the hallway, George was striding out, wearing a bulletproof vest with a gun at his waist.

Seeing me, his steps didn't slow. "Go back to sleep."

"Did you find it?"

He didn't answer. He'd already disappeared at the stairwell.

I stood in the hallway, wrapped in that thin blanket, and waited for four hours.

At 8 AM, the Major Crimes team gradually returned.

Everyone's face looked terrible.

When Patterson passed me, that usually carefree face showed no expression.

He walked into the office, threw his bulletproof vest on the desk, sat down, and covered his face with both hands.

I stood in the doorway, not daring to enter.

Half an hour later, George returned.

His shirt was stained with dirt, his face ashen. Walking to the whiteboard, he removed the four photos of the missing women one by one and moved them to the other side of the board.

Then he picked up a red marker and wrote "DECEASED" under each photo.

Four people. All killed.

The bodies were buried in the basement at the northeast corner of the abandoned factory.

I leaned against the doorframe, stomach churning.

George turned around, saw me, and walked over.

He stood in front of me, looking down, eyes bloodshot.

"Your lead was correct." His voice was hoarse as sandpaper. "Basement. Four bodies. Times of death match the disappearance times. However."

He paused.

"We didn't catch him. No suspect in the factory. No van appeared. The scene was cleaned. Almost no usable trace evidence left."

My heart sank to the bottom.

"He knew we were coming?"

"Very likely." George's jaw tightened. "He's more cautious than we imagined. The only thing recovered from the scene was a footprint. Size ten running shoe, matches the white sneakers you described. But it's not enough."

He looked at me, gaze heavy.

"Samuelle, this case is much harder than we anticipated."

The following week, the task force hit a dead end.

The suspect seemed to have evaporated. Never appeared at the zoo again. No activity around the abandoned factory either.

Surveillance, canvassing, screening—all conventional methods were used. Nothing.

That man in the baseball cap had dissolved like a drop of water into the ocean.

Every day I went to the zoo as usual, then sat at the Criminal Investigation Division after work. But without new leads, I was just furniture.

Patterson's attitude toward me shifted from initial dismissal to a strange courtesy.

He no longer mocked me to my face, but he didn't talk to me either.

Once, getting water in the break room, I heard him quietly telling another colleague: "That girl, uncanny. She said there's something underground, and there really was. Where did Captain George even find her?"

The colleague asked: "What's her background really?"

Patterson shook his head. "Don't know. Captain George won't say. Who dares ask?"

I retreated to my corner with my water cup.

On the eighth day, a breakthrough came.

Not from an animal, but from a person.

That afternoon, I was cleaning the aviary at the zoo.

The aviary housed dozens of parrots, mynahs, and thrushes. Usually noisy as hell, their minds full of "food," "that female bird is pretty," "I want out"—that sort of nonsense.

But that day, a gray African Grey parrot suddenly went quiet, tilting its head and staring outside the aviary.

Its thoughts were much clearer than other birds: ["That person's back. Last time he came, he stood here and made a phone call. He said, 'Move the stuff to the old place, under the third bridge opening by the river.' I remembered because his voice is ugly, like a crow."]

The broom in my hand nearly fell.

I followed the parrot's line of sight.

On the path outside the aviary, a man was walking leisurely past.

Not the baseball cap man.

This person wore a checkered shirt, glasses, slightly overweight—looked like an ordinary middle-aged office worker.

But the parrot said he'd made a phone call here last time.

"Move the stuff to the old place, under the third bridge opening by the river."

I put down the broom, pretended to take out trash, and followed the checkered shirt man at a distance.

He stopped in front of the monkey mountain, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number.

I couldn't get close enough to hear what he said.

But the old monkey in the monkey enclosure could.

["This human is talking. He says, 'Is it clean?' Can't hear what the other side said. Then he says, 'Good, I've already chosen the next target. Lives near the zoo.'"]

My blood froze.

The next target lives near the zoo.

I turned and walked away, practically running back to the feed room, pulling out my phone to call George.

"Captain George, new development. The suspect might not be working alone. There's an accomplice."