Chapter 17: Are you okay? Do you believe this?
Returning to the station, they found Cahill holding court at the entrance, basking in the attention of gathered reporters. Camera flashes popped like fireflies as he gestured dramatically for the crowd.
Bernie curled his lip in disgust, quietly making a mock "shooting" gesture toward Cahill with his finger.
Theodore shot him a look that clearly said idiot and, before Bernie could respond, told him to call his Homicide Team colleagues. "Have them help keep an eye on the registered evidence while I head to the forensic lab."
Now that the conflict between the Patrol Department and the Homicide Team was out in the open, they'd have to guard against petty sabotage tactics. Theodore didn't like playing these games, but he wasn't naive either.
Samuel seemed to have received advance notice this time—he'd actually performed Joan's autopsy first. The gesture made Theodore feel oddly flattered.
When he arrived, the autopsy was already halfway complete. Through the glass partition, Theodore could see Samuel in the dissection room with several young forensic doctors, simultaneously cutting and teaching. Spotting Theodore, Samuel grinned and waved him in with a bloodied glove.
Theodore wasn't squeamish about entering dissection rooms, but there was no point in seeking out discomfort—the smell inside was never pleasant. Seeing Theodore hesitate, Samuel barked a few instructions to his students and limped out.
He stripped off his gloves, pulled down his mask, and took a long swig from a bottle of alcohol before relaying the autopsy results.
"Fatal injury was to the back of the head," he said, wincing slightly. "Contrecoup damage to the frontal and temporal regions, with a spiderweb fracture pattern across the skull."
"All ribs were broken, and the liver was ruptured."
Theodore's frown deepened. "Before or after death?"
Samuel let out a small burp from the alcohol, dragged over a chair, and settled into it heavily. "After death." He gestured with both hands. "The victim was struck and killed first, then kicked and stomped on."
After a moment of contemplative silence, Samuel sighed. "The skin on her right palm was scraped away, fingernails were damaged and partially torn off. Her arms showed defensive wounds—she fought back and scratched her attacker."
"That might have further enraged the killer," Theodore said grimly, "leading to the post-mortem assault."
Finally, Samuel added, "No signs of sexual assault on the lower body."
Theodore looked up sharply. "None at all?"
Samuel stood, clearly irritated by the questioning. "You want to go in and see for yourself?"
Theodore quickly changed subjects, asking about the physical evidence the forensic team had collected from the scene.
This topic made Samuel's face darken. He pointed at a blood-spattered forensic doctor and erupted, "Are you a pig! Those are internal organs! Internal organs! If—"
He suddenly cut himself off, paused, then pointed toward the door, indicating the forensic doctor had been "penalized" and sent outside.
Glaring at the man removing his coat and exiting, Samuel finally continued, "They're worse than pigs. Might as well be brain-dead. They botched the evidence collection—lost important items and brought back a pile of useless garbage."
He pulled a paper bag from a cabinet and tossed it to Theodore, still fuming. "What did he bring back a bag of underwear for? To dress the corpse? Change it daily? Completely worthless!"
He gulped more alcohol. "Thank God they're not the ones heading to war..."
Theodore half-wondered if he was hallucinating and looked at Samuel skeptically, earning himself a withering glare. "You were at the scene—why didn't you guide them?"
Theodore genuinely liked Samuel; he was one of the few people here with whom he could discuss technical matters properly. Hearing the accusation, he spread his hands innocently and returned the bag of underwear. "I'm just a small detective in the Homicide Team. How would I dare direct them?"
"If I gave directions and they asked me, 'Do I know better or do you know better?' what would I say? If they just shrugged," Theodore demonstrated, and said, 'Why don't you do it yourself?' What then?"
Samuel waved him off dismissively and pulled two more bags from the cabinet, handing them over.
"They brought back a mountain of junk, but only these two bags contain anything useful."
Theodore opened the first paper bag—it contained injectable vials and medicine bottles.
Seeing Theodore's questioning look, Samuel held up one of the bottles with a sardonic laugh. "Testosterone. They sell this stuff at gyms all the time. They'll tell you it not only builds muscle but makes you look heroic and gives you rock-hard erections."
He tossed the bottle aside. "Actually, it just makes you irritable, quick to anger, completely unhinged—turns you into a raging gorilla. Hehehe~"
Theodore opened the second bag, which contained several objects that looked like props.
Samuel retrieved two fingerprint cards from his cabinet and slid them across. "I picked out two clean surfaces and lifted two complete prints from them. We can run comparisons once we catch our guy."
The mention of fingerprints brightened Samuel's mood considerably. This technology had been previously shelved until Theodore used it to crack a case in twenty-four hours, discovering a new application—since finding the killer was like searching for a needle in a haystack, fingerprints could be used for verification instead.
Samuel had recently been working through evidence from cold cases, methodically extracting and filing fingerprints, and was having the time of his life doing it.
Theodore thanked Samuel for prioritizing Joan's case and told him he'd send over additional evidence he'd collected, asking him to examine it as well, then left.
Back in the office, Theodore immediately sensed something was off in the atmosphere. He pulled Bernie aside to ask what was happening. Bernie first unleashed a thorough string of curses about Cahill, then explained the situation.
It turned out that Deputy Police Chief Cahill, during his media interview at the entrance, had been discussing the murder case extensively, showing off every detail he knew to the reporters.
That alone wouldn't have infuriated Bernie, but what truly set him off was Cahill's pivot to announce that this case was an "experiment"—an exploration by the Felton Police Department into the future structure of law enforcement.
He'd boasted that his Patrol Department would soon solve the case, and afterward, he would push to streamline the station's internal structure, merging redundant functions into the Patrol Department.
He'd specifically named the Homicide Team, announced their case clearance rate, and criticized their continued existence, stating they would be the first unit merged into the Patrol Department.
Cahill had spoken at length about his grand vision for an expanded Patrol Department, listing its supposed advantages and claiming it would greatly ease the strained government budget, reduce redundant personnel, and achieve an ideal state of integrity, transparency, and efficiency.
The reporters, however, weren't interested in his theories about future police restructuring—they wanted details about the murder case.
When pressed by one reporter asking if the killer was Little Howard, Cahill had smiled and responded, "The case is still under investigation—it's not convenient to discuss specifics."
But he'd already revealed everything.
Theodore's frown deepened as he listened.
He was certain the killer wasn't Little Howard. Cahill's leaking of investigation details to the media like this was extremely damaging to the case. The real killer would become alert and might change their methods, making an already difficult investigation nearly impossible.
'This man is an idiot.'
Theodore silently filed Cahill under that label and reminded himself to avoid this person in the future—no point risking infection from the "stupidity virus."
Bernie was genuinely furious and had been simmering with rage since sitting down.
Theodore considered for a moment, then pulled out his notebook, sketched a small figure, wrote Cahill's name beneath it, and handed it to Bernie.
Bernie glanced at it, puzzled.
"I heard about a type of voodoo," Theodore explained matter-of-factly. "You write down the birth date of the person you want to curse, attach it to a small figure with their name, and stick needles into it. Wherever you pierce it, they'll feel pain there."
Demonstrating, Theodore poked the figure's head with his pen, then the torso, and finally the crotch.
Theodore's dislike for Cahill ran deeper than professional frustration—the man's meddling made the already slim chances of their July agreement even more unlikely. It was as if Cahill had single-handedly bought Theodore a one-way ticket to professional disaster. It would be strange if he didn't dislike the man.
Bernie stared at Theodore with growing concern. "Are you okay? Do you actually believe in this stuff?"
Theodore clicked his tongue in annoyance.
'You believe in ghosts, and you're questioning me for practicing curses? Really? What gives you the right?'
Theodore closed his notebook. "Arguing with an idiot will only turn you into an idiot, too. How about we focus on quickly finding the real killer and solving this case instead?"
Bernie nodded in agreement, though his gaze toward Theodore still held a trace of suspicion.