Chapter 63: Cleared of Suspicion
Of course, this "accident" didn't interfere with Harry's return home. After a full day of studying, Harry gained a deeper understanding of the pressure his father dealt with every day.
At dinner, Harry looked like he had something on his mind but hesitated to speak.
"What's wrong, Harry? If there's something on your mind, just say it," Norman asked, noticing his son's distracted state. Having calmed down, Norman's thoughts were clearer than ever before.
"Father… I actually heard about the accident today," Harry said after a moment of hesitation. "Mom's been gone for so many years now… I can understand. If you've really found someone new, someone to share your life with, I'm okay with that."
He carefully voiced his thoughts. In fact, Harry had already heard that Norman's secretary, Jocelyn, had met with his father that day—and later died in a tragic car accident.
Harry didn't dwell on the truth behind it all. In his mind, it was just an unfortunate accident. The police and insurance company would handle it. What mattered more to him was his father's emotional well-being.
Norman stood up and hugged Harry.
"I'm glad you're so understanding and supportive. But Harry, don't worry. Things between me and Jocelyn hadn't gotten to that point. I won't be too shaken by this. But I appreciate your concern."
Harry felt truly happy in his father's warm embrace and honest words. The emotional wall between them had finally come down.
At the NYPD, the investigation into Jocelyn's death continued. Surveillance footage from Oscorp had already been pulled.
It was clear that Jocelyn had been quite excited that day, even changing into a new outfit in her office—including, notably, sheer stockings meant to "increase attack speed."
The footage even showed Jocelyn leaving the office full of energy and anticipation.
Clearly, whatever happened between her and Norman was consensual. There were no signs of conflict or emotional drama.
All of this further helped clear Norman of suspicion. Now, the only thing left was the final autopsy report.
Dr. Fornard, the NYPD's medical examiner, was scheduled to conduct the autopsy on Jocelyn the next day. The previous coroner had quit abruptly after failing to reach a salary agreement with the department, leaving Fornard overwhelmed with a backlog of work.
Were it not for his crippling gambling debt, Fornard would've walked out too.
Tired, Fornard opened the door to his apartment. The moment he sat down on the couch, thirst hit him hard.
"Time for a beer," he muttered, heading toward the fridge.
On the fridge door was a green sticky note.
"$1 million. Yours.
Tomorrow's three autopsies—all ruled as accidents.
If they're not, your next 'accident' will be fatal."
There were no special markings on the green paper. Fornard opened the fridge—and there it was: a full stack of cash totaling one million dollars in the center of an otherwise empty fridge.
And nestled right in the middle was a single, untouched bottle of beer—the only item that hadn't been removed.
Fornard immediately understood. He was being watched. Someone had tracked his every move, even his daily beer-after-work habit.
He didn't know what was suspicious about the three corpses scheduled for autopsy the next day. What he did know was that after rent and expenses, he could barely keep $300 a month—and he was $390,000 deep in gambling debt. He lived every day in fear.
Now, out of nowhere, a million dollars? Forget the autopsy—he'd French kiss the corpses if they asked.
Soon, the autopsy report for Jocelyn was completed, officially ruling the death an accident. With no family and no one to push back, the case was swiftly closed.
To fully sell the story, Norman even organized a modest memorial at Oscorp.
Privately, most people gossiped about Jocelyn being promiscuous—but at the memorial, plenty of fake tears were shed.
That's the adult world: sometimes, it's just that hypocritical.
One month later, in a barely noticeable corner of the New York Times, a tiny news blurb read:
"Last night, NYPD medical examiner Dr. Fornard was caught in the crossfire of a gang shootout in Hell's Kitchen. He was shot three times in the abdomen and died despite emergency medical efforts."
Norman read the article in the Times and let out a sinister smile.
Yes, the Jocelyn affair was finally put to rest. Her body had been cremated. The only person who knew the truth—Fornard—had died in a gang-related shooting.
As for the gang members? Naturally, they'd all killed each other.
Over the past month, Norman had diligently managed Oscorp and began teaching Harry business management skills. At the same time, Norman's body was becoming increasingly powerful.
Now, he spent more time focusing on training his self-control.
He opened the doors to an old, abandoned weapons lab within Oscorp. Once designed to meet military needs, the lab had long been shelved.
The lab had produced some promising results over the years, but none of the tech was ever adopted by the U.S. military. Not because the products didn't work—but because the manufacturing cost was too high, and the military couldn't afford such experimental gear.
Norman opened a dusty cabinet. Inside was a gray suit of armor.
This was Oscorp's prototype combat suit for individual soldiers—offering advanced protection, essentially immune to standard bullets. Inside, the suit had basic support systems powered by bio-batteries distributed throughout the armor.
Unfortunately, due to technical limitations, those bio-batteries could only sustain power for about an hour.
There was also a flying glider, shaped like a board. It could carry up to one ton and reach speeds of up to 300 km/h.
The glider was itself a weapon. Any faster, though, and it would become nearly impossible to control. It ran on chemical fuel and suffered the same endurance issues as the suit.
Finally, Norman took out several miniature silver bombs—recently developed weapons. Despite their size, their explosive power surpassed standard fragmentation grenades and could auto-track targets.
"I don't like this color," Norman muttered.
With a gleam of green light in his eyes, he used the painting equipment to spray the armor green, and painted the bombs to look like pumpkins.
Wearing the armor, Norman stepped onto the glider and began practicing indoors. Though the glider had tracking and auto-stabilizing features, basic training was still necessary.
In just thirty minutes, Norman had mastered how to operate the glider.
Then he took the gear down to Oscorp's underground shooting range—a private testing ground for weapons.
He shot into the sky atop his glider.
"Go!"
A cluster of pumpkin-shaped bombs launched toward the test dummies.
BOOM!
Explosion after explosion roared through the air. The dummies were instantly blown to pieces by the fiery blasts.
Watching the destructive power of the pumpkin bombs, Norman burst into maniacal laughter.
"HAHAHAHA! They all have to die!"