Chapter 70: Unable to Control
"Killing is killing, there's no such thing as rebirth," Chuck continued to press.
He believed the hooded punk girl had a father like this, so he needed to find this man, or make sure he never saw daylight again.
"When you truly see him, you'll understand why death can bring rebirth," the hooded punk girl suddenly calmed down, her eyes playful yet cruel. "I guarantee it!"
"So he has his own twisted criminal philosophy," Chuck nodded. "He has his own unique criminal code, which is instantly recognizable. He's flashy in his methods, but extremely careful and methodical in his personal life. He hides himself so well that even his own daughter doesn't dare reveal his name, and probably doesn't even know his real identity. Sounds like a nationally infamous serial killer who's never been caught by law enforcement."
The hooded punk girl's face shifted.
Chuck noticed and continued, "Then let's figure out who your daddy is. The Zodiac Killer, BTK, the Green River Killer..."
He rattled off the names one by one.
"What are you doing?" the hooded punk girl scoffed nervously. "Are you going to read out every notorious killer in America?"
"Exactly," Chuck said matter-of-factly. "If you're not delusional, then your father's name must be on that list."
"Do you have any idea how many killers like that there are in the United States?" the hooded punk girl sneered. "And even if you figured it out, so what?"
"According to the FBI's ViCAP database, there are 382 individuals who fit the profile," Chuck looked at her. "Listen, thanks to you, we can track him down and let everyone meet him face to face. You're dying to meet your idol father, aren't you?"
Seeing the hooded punk girl shiver slightly, Chuck said bluntly, "Seems like you don't want to see him right now. Well, for someone like him, family means nothing. If he knew you'd exposed his carefully hidden identity, I'd expect a real heartwarming family reunion."
He ignored the fear creeping into the hooded punk girl's eyes and looked at her, slowly reciting profiles that matched her description: "The Night Stalker, Son of Sam, the Boston Strangler..."
Just like that, one by one, the names of America's most notorious serial killers rolled off Chuck's tongue.
The detective who had given Chuck his seat, even though it wasn't his first time working with Chuck, was still amazed by his unconventional approach.
Could this actually work?
Every three seconds, a name. Fifteen minutes later, Chuck casually read off the 300th name: "Red John."
Then he paused.
Even though the hooded punk girl, already terrified and staring at the floor, didn't want Chuck to read her expression, her subtle reaction still caught Chuck's trained eye.
"So your father is the infamous Red John," Chuck nodded.
Red John, a California serial killer, was notorious for his signature of painting a smiley face in his victim's blood after each murder. This symbol, especially for the victims' families, was the first thing they saw before discovering the horrific crime scene, filling them with paralyzing dread.
After all, the greatest fear comes from the unknown and what we imagine lurking in the shadows.
"My father will definitely kill you!" The hooded punk girl's previously cruel arrogance completely crumbled, and she screamed in terror and desperation.
She knew exactly what kind of monster her father was.
Although she hadn't started this mess, it made no difference to a father like Red John.
"Have you actually seen him?" Chuck ignored her helpless rage and continued using advanced psychological profiling techniques to gather more detailed intelligence about Red John.
The hooded punk girl only glared at him with pure hatred.
"What a damn shame," Chuck shook his head. "You worship him so much, yet you've never even laid eyes on him."
The real disappointment was that he couldn't reconstruct Red John's appearance through the hooded punk girl's memories.
He was an expert at reading micro-expressions and naturally gifted at analyzing facial features. Given enough time and the right questions, he could easily piece together an image of her father as she remembered him.
Furthermore, he was a skilled forensic artist. While he couldn't claim to perfectly recreate Red John's appearance, his sketches wouldn't be far off from a photograph.
Too bad the hooded punk girl, despite all her talk, had never actually met her father.
"How did you find out Red John was your father?" Chuck ignored the hooded punk girl's silence and kept pressing. "Your mother tell you?"
Outside the interrogation room.
"Justine, I'm so sorry you had to go through this ordeal. Are you holding up okay?" The Dean, who had rushed over from her home, offered her sympathy to the survivor.
Justine didn't know how to respond, so she remained silent.
Seeing this, the Dean pressed her lips together and turned to the detective who had stepped out of the interrogation room when he noticed her arrival. "Detective, although I hate to bring this up right now, you understand that Princeton University is a world-class institution, America's pride, and a sacred place for global academia. Such a horrific incident absolutely cannot happen here."
"I understand," the detective nodded, looking troubled.
This case was incredibly complex, and it was only getting worse. Whether it involved a sinister cult targeting elite female college students or a serial killer like Red John, these cases generated massive public interest. Any information leak would inevitably attract a media circus hungry for ratings.
As a local detective, he fully grasped the negative impact such a case would have on a prestigious university like Princeton and was willing to do everything possible to minimize the fallout, but he couldn't make any promises.
"We're taking over this case from local jurisdiction," a sharp-dressed woman entered with a crisp Eastern accent.
"Agent Joyner, thank God you're here!" the Dean exclaimed.
"Director Joyner," the detective frowned slightly. "You got word of this pretty fast. This is New Jersey jurisdiction."
"It's also part of the New York metropolitan area," the woman nodded to the Dean, then looked at the detective. "As Director of the FBI's New York field office, I have the authority to assume control of this case."
"Detective, it's better if the Bureau handles this," the Dean advised.
As always, the FBI was the premier law enforcement agency in the United States, with vast resources and sophisticated methods. Often, an FBI classification could bury a case and keep it from public scrutiny.
Plus, she knew the New York field office director personally, so she naturally trusted her more than the local police detectives.
The detective watched as the Dean and Kate Joyner, Director of the FBI's New York field office, seemed to coordinate effortlessly, as if the outcome had already been decided. Though frustrated, he knew they were right and nodded reluctantly. "Dr. Wolfe, our consulting profiler, is currently interrogating the suspect and has already extracted crucial intelligence."
"Is that Dr. Chuck Wolfe?" Director Kate Joyner peered into the interrogation room through the one-way mirror.
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