Chapter 22 - Chapter 22: I Can't Stand It Anymore

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Chapter 22: I Can't Stand It Anymore

Theodore looked through the report and headed back to the forensic lab, but unfortunately, Samuel had left work early today—typical—and the lab was already locked up tight.

Back at his desk, he poured himself a cup of coffee, only to spot Bernie in the interrogation room waving at him through the glass.

On that list, the head coach's name had already been circled by Mr. Buck with a pen—a small detail that now loomed large.

The head coach lived in the East District's wealthy area. The school not only offered him a considerable salary but also provided accommodation—a villa in the East District, courtesy of the institution that employed him.

Bernie made a phone call to a friend at the East District Branch, asking him to 'trick' the head coach into coming over.

They told the head coach that his offensive team coach, 'Mr. Buck,' had been detained by the West District Branch and needed to be bailed out immediately.

The head coach arrived looking travel-stained, driving an unassuming dark blue Ford sedan that seemed modest for someone living in such an upscale neighborhood.

He was a mountain of a man—full beard, tall and burly with arms like tree trunks. After learning he'd been deceived, he merely frowned and turned to leave, but Bernie and the others blocked his path.

Theodore studied the head coach's expression carefully before shouting, "You make your players inject testosterone, but you don't touch it yourself?"

The head coach turned his head and sneered. "They're the ones playing, not me!"

Bernie looked over in surprise. Theodore gave him a slight shake of the head. Bernie's eyes widened with confusion, repeatedly seeking confirmation.

Theodore shifted his expression, becoming serious. "Who else on the coaching staff is using testosterone?"

The head coach just sneered, showing no intention of speaking.

Theodore briefly explained the situation—the death, the investigation, the stakes. The head coach seemed genuinely surprised. He frowned, pondering for a long moment. "Holt."

Theodore immediately looked at Bernie.

Calvin Holt, the rugby enthusiast who had joined the coaching staff through a community program.

"He was the one who got the testosterone," the head coach said.

Since it involved a homicide case, the head coach was magnanimous enough not to dwell on being tricked. He settled into his chair and patiently explained.

"That was a game where the opposing team was full of big guys. Our defense was completely overwhelmed—couldn't stop them at all. When we were on offense, the quarterback had to keep retreating... In short, it was a crushing defeat. They completely dominated us in every aspect."

"After the game, I went to the referees to protest. I suspected they were hiding their players' ages. The protest failed, naturally."

"Later, Holt quietly told me that the opposing team's coaching staff had been supplying their players with testosterone."

"At first, I didn't agree. But as the games progressed, our physical disadvantage became increasingly obvious. Almost all the teams were using it, so we had to start using it too—or get left behind."

"He was the one who got the testosterone, and he was in charge of distributing it to the players."

The head coach spoke much more coherently than Mr. Buck had. He also mentioned that Holt's temper had been increasingly volatile lately—he often lost it with the players over minor mistakes.

Hearing this, Bernie immediately called a friend in the North District to have Holt brought over.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. His friend's voice was apologetic: Holt wasn't home.

Bernie didn't even have time to say thanks before hanging up and dialing Wenner. As soon as the call connected, he immediately recounted what had happened, concluding with barely contained excitement:

"Boss, I'm certain—Calvin Holt is the killer we're looking for."

A brief silence settled over the phone line.

A moment later: "Organize personnel for a large-scale search. I'll be at the station immediately."

It was already late at night.

The Homicide Team's sudden activity alerted many people throughout the building.

Cahill rushed to the scene looking travel-stained, demanding to know what was happening.

Wenner was cautious, only stating that they were apprehending the killer of case 600528—not mentioning a word about the possibility of this being a serial killer.

Cahill's eyes darted around the bustling station. He quietly called a subordinate over and instructed him to interrogate Little Howard overnight, making sure to produce a complete case-closing report before the morning shift began.

The subordinate was startled by this bold decision, looking at Cahill in surprise and opening his mouth to speak, but was quickly dismissed.

As soon as Cahill turned around, he saw Wenner standing not far away, watching him with an unreadable expression.

He approached with a forced chuckle. "Why didn't you notify the Patrol Department about the search?"

"Look, the Homicide Team only has a few people. How long will this search take? What if the killer slips away?"

"I've already sent word. The Patrol Department's support will be here soon."

Wenner withdrew his gaze and simply gave a faint 'Mm'—the dismissive response of a seasoned expert.

Cahill pressed on. "Are there any characteristics? Height? Appearance? What clothes is he wearing? What car is he driving?"

Wenner remained silent, either unwilling to answer or pretending not to hear.

Cahill felt the awkwardness settle between them. He rubbed his nose and chuckled sheepishly. "You did well this time. It seems the Homicide Team is still capable after all..."

The search for Calvin Holt went surprisingly smoothly.

About an hour after the search began, they found a well-maintained dark blue Ford parked downstairs from an old apartment building in the next block.

The car stood out like a sore thumb in the run-down neighborhood.

The detectives confirmed the owner's identity through the sports bag left inside the vehicle.

Wenner and Cahill arrived shortly after. Following a brief, tense discussion, they split up to deploy their respective teams.

Both the Homicide Team and the Patrol Department divided into two groups: one secured the perimeter outside, the other entered the building to conduct the search.

The two perimeter groups were clearly separated, each responsible for half the surrounding area—a territorial division that spoke volumes.

Those entering the apartment building showed no less competitive spirit. They squeezed together like sheep being released from a pen, rushing upstairs while secretly throwing elbows and stepping on each other's feet.

The scene was nothing short of chaotic.

Despite this, Calvin Holt was quickly located.

He was found by the Homicide Team, but then both groups rushed to the scene, displaying their rivalry in the narrow corridor and nearly erupting into a full brawl.

Fortunately, Calvin Holt made a run for it, which caused both sides to temporarily set aside their conflict.

When they chased him up to the rooftop, facing the resistance of the burly Calvin Holt with his tree-trunk arms, both sides briefly cooperated out of necessity.

Once Calvin Holt was pinned to the ground and handcuffed, the cooperation immediately dissolved.

The Patrol Department, being larger in number, muscled the Homicide Team aside. A few detectives from their ranks escorted Calvin Holt downstairs, eager to claim credit for the capture.

Seeing his own men bring the suspect out, Deputy Police Chief Cahill was grinning from ear to ear.

Several officers from the Patrol Department immediately crowded around, cheering and shouting, making strange celebratory noises designed to provoke the Homicide Team.

Although others felt this behavior was inappropriate, seeing that Deputy Police Chief Cahill didn't intervene, they remained silent. Those with good relationships with the Homicide Team could only offer quiet, apologetic glances.

When Theodore and Bernie emerged from the building, they witnessed this bizarre scene—made even more absurd by the forensic scientists carrying body bags behind them.

Cahill said triumphantly to Wenner, "Without the cooperation of the Patrol Department, the killer would have probably escaped tonight."

He looked back at the body bag, stopped the people carrying it, and pulled open a small gap to peer inside. Immediately closing it, he pointed to the bag.

"Look, if you had sought help from the Patrol Department earlier, maybe this person wouldn't have died."

"Since the Patrol Department caught the person, let the Patrol Department handle this case as well."

Just as he was feeling most smug, he suddenly heard a sharp gasp behind him. He turned his head to see Holt charging at him like an enraged gorilla.

In Holt's powerful hands, the handcuffs seemed like they were made of paper—he snapped them easily. He grabbed Cahill in a crushing bear hug and slammed him to the ground, before being tackled again by the swarming officers.

When the pile of police finally dispersed, Holt was pulled to his feet, bruised and swollen. He spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm in Cahill's direction.

"Useless cop."

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