"I knew it. This guy's the male nurse version of Jack, the girls' dream man."
Jack wasn't sure how to respond to Castle's words. It didn't feel like a good thing, but he didn't want to argue.
Kevin looked at Jack, tilting his chin up and suppressing a smile, indicating that he couldn't agree more with Castle's words.
"Okay, I thought so too, but Dr. Zims insisted their relationship was purely platonic, so I did a deeper investigation and found this."
As he spoke, he pulled a blank sub-board from the evidence board and, from his thick file bag, taped photos one by one onto it.
Kevin placed Greg McClintock's photo in the center of the board. Then, as Castle's eyes widened, he placed photos of nine beautiful female doctors in a row, surrounding him like a sun.
Finally, at the top of the board, he wrote the title, "Greg Galaxy."
Kevin raised his hand, introducing Greg. "Every woman here is obsessed with him, treating him like a close friend."
"Wow, you found a stud?" Cassel's expression was more envy than shock.
Even Jack curiously examined the photos of the women surrounding Greg, and was surprised to find that these nine female doctors not only had different skin and hair colors, but also a wide range of ages.
"But the strange thing is, I've spoken to every 'planet' in this 'galaxy,' and they all deny having slept with Greg, yet they openly admit to a special relationship.
And the forensics team has checked the entire hospital, and not a single carpet fiber matches the one we found on the deceased."
Although he clearly meant his work was in vain, Kevin's face showed no regrets. Instead, he wore a strangely satisfied smile.
Considering that this guy had completed the entire exploration of "Greg Galaxy" in just half a day, Jack thought that he might have a better career as a paparazzi specializing in celebrity gossip instead of a detective.
It took a long time for Castle to close his half-open mouth, then he uttered an unwilling question.
"That's ridiculous! If you're not going to sleep with the girls, why waste time listening to their nagging complaints and spending money on gifts?"
Beckett, who had just come up behind him, overheard these illogical remarks. The silent appearance of the female detective startled the writer, who was currently speaking.
"Maybe he's gay? Is he really just a close friend of those women?" Kevin speculated.
"Judging from how he tried to flirt with me, no, he's straight," Beckett said confidently.
Seeing that even the usually eccentric Castle couldn't figure it out, everyone decided not to delve further.
At least for now, the suspicion of Greg McClintock, the super-warm-hearted nurse who aspired to be the central air conditioner at the county hospital, had been ruled out.
"This is the financial situation of the victim, Valerie Monroe." Jack handed Beckett a thin piece of information, which was of course relative to the thick file bag in Kevin's hand just now.
"Ever since graduating from medical school, she's been making the minimum monthly payments on her $440,000 student loan."
Kevin was visibly shocked by the size of the loan, his eyes widening. "Does being a doctor cost that much? Luckily I'm a police officer."
Jack gave him a fake smile. Becoming a doctor in this country requires more than just money, and Valerie Monroe is only an internist.
To become a heart surgeon like someone's ex-boyfriend, not only would the cost potentially exceed a million dollars, but the time and effort required would also be immense, typically taking 12 to 15 years.
Therefore, handsome young surgeons are usually seen only in movies and TV series, or from medical families. Most who make it to the specialist stage are already balding middle-aged.
Jack continued, "But in the last six months, she's been paying back $10,000 a week, or $40,000 a month. But I've confirmed that her salary hasn't increased significantly during this time."
Cassel looked surprised. "Even the FBI hasn't figured out the source of all this money?"
"Let me finish," Jack said, speechless at the impatient man. "We've traced the source in her bank statements. It's a wire transfer from a secret overseas account. We're still investigating the details, but it's going to take time."
The experienced detectives present understood the unusual nature of the situation without Jack needing to emphasize it. A physician at a public hospital suddenly receiving a large amount of funds from a secret overseas account over the past six months was incredibly suspicious.
"So what did you get?" Cassel leaned over to look at the photo Beckett was holding.
The female detective taped the photo to the evidence board. The image was a bit blurry, clearly a screenshot from surveillance footage. It showed Dr. Valerie Monroe standing with a strange man, an ambulance parked nearby.
"Greg wasn't lying. I found this footage on the hospital surveillance camera near the ambulance entrance. Dr. Monroe did leave with another man after work."
Jack examined the photo carefully. Although the clarity was average, it captured the victim, Valerie Monroe, completely. Unfortunately, the man standing with her was only a profile, vaguely recognizable as a middle-aged, white man in his forties or fifties.
"Give me a copy. Maybe I can have the operations center run facial recognition, but it probably won't be until tomorrow."
This case wasn't the FBI's responsibility, but Jack was still overseeing the project with Dana Moger, serving as a liaison between the FBI and local law enforcement agencies like the NYPD.
Even without that connection, with his current connections in the New York office, he wouldn't need to go through Alice anymore; he could directly ask those IT geeks for help.
Beckett raised his hand to check the time. "Thank you for your help, FBI. It's getting late. Anyone want to grab a late-night snack? I'll treat."
"Ah, I heard there's a new roast duck restaurant near Wall Street. I've been wanting to try it," Cassel suggested.
"You mean the one that sells them for $98?" Jack immediately refused. He wasn't trying to save money for the "meager" female detective, but he had already tried it.
Whether it was authentic or not was another matter. After all, American tastes differ from those of the Serbian people. Authenticity doesn't necessarily mean delicious to them. He simply felt the price/performance ratio was too low.
(End of this chapter)