102. The Investigation at the Speed of Light

After gathering the materials and returning to the car, Dean discussed the case with Holden.

"I have some recollection of this case. It's being handled by Group Four's Griece, who doesn't allow outsiders to interfere. However, the facts are quite clear; the chances of June overturning the verdict are slim." Holden sat up straight, his expression turning serious. "You want to take this on—could it be that there are supernatural elements involved?"

"You'll know when the time comes."

Dean drove south, reached the Strip, and soon found the Gowan Hotel, where Jayne Harden had been murdered, nestled among the row of hotels.

As he reached the hotel entrance, Dean paused, his gaze sweeping toward a streetlight against the wall. A middle-aged man in a trucker cap and white vest, chewing on a cigarette, was pestering a lady dressed in a blue blouse and a suit skirt, looking refined and proper. The woman, appearing to be in her thirties or forties, had thick red hair, a tall, graceful figure, and delicate features. She was cornered against the wall, her lightly made-up face etched with nervousness and fear.

"Isn't that Grace, Rust's mother?"

"Back off! Get away from this lady, or I'm calling the police!" Dean shouted as he approached from behind, his sturdy frame radiating an intimidating presence.

"Buddy, why so agitated?" The man with a scar on his nose turned around, his eyes scanning them like a rat, before he spread his hands with a smirk. "I haven't hurt this lady at all. We're just old friends chatting, aren't we, Grace?"

The woman pursed her lips and remained silent.

Holden’s sharp gaze scrutinized the man as he pulled out his badge. "If you don't want to spend your vacation in a detention center, leave now."

"OK, OK. I'm a law-abiding citizen. I never cause trouble. I'm going." The man dropped his cigarette, crushed it underfoot, shot the woman a heavy look, and walked away without further ado.

"Grace, what was that about just now?" Dean walked up to the woman, who still looked shaken, and asked with concern.

Grace thanked him, and then, catching a glimpse of him, realized one of the men was her son's classmate. Surprised, she stepped forward and took his hand. "Dean, it's been months. You've changed; you've grown taller and stronger. I almost didn't recognize you."

"That guy was a hotel guest. He’s been pestering me, trying to pursue me." Grace sighed. "But right now, I just want to work hard and save money to send Rust to college. I don't have time for anything else."

"If he keeps harassing you, let me know. I have some connections at the LVPD; I’ll handle it for you, clean and simple." Dean patted his chest. He would always help an elder of a good friend if he could.

The woman nodded and smiled. "Where are you two headed?"

"There was a murder at this hotel a while ago. We're here to investigate." Dean glanced at Grace's standard hotel uniform. "Do you work here?"

The woman nodded. "I remember the cops came to inspect last week. After they finished their investigation, the hotel cleaned the murder room from top to bottom, and the entire second floor where it’s located was sealed off."

"Sealed off?"

"Someone died, so to avoid a bad reputation, the entire second floor is closed for the time being." Grace gave a bitter smile; clearly, the hotel had suffered heavy losses.

"The cleaning and the lockdown don't affect me much. As long as the room where the crime occurred is still there, the clues remain. Could you help us out, Grace?" Dean’s words made Holden frown. This was completely against the rigorous principles of a detective—what did he mean it didn't affect him much?

The woman thought for a moment, nodded, and smiled gently. "Follow me, but be careful. Don't disrupt the hotel's normal operations."

The two followed Grace into the lobby, retrieved a set of keys from the front desk, and headed up the stairs to the second floor.

With the second floor sealed, the electricity was cut off. The corridor was dim, lit only by a few rays of white light filtering through the windows at either end. A cold breeze swept down the hall, feeling like ghost fingers touching their necks—an inexplicably chilling and terrifying sensation.

Dean examined the dark surveillance cameras on the ceiling. "Could you help us find the security footage from last week?"

"Except for the lobby, the surveillance equipment in the hotel corridors has been broken for a long time," Grace shook her head.

"Did it break on the day of the incident?" Dean’s heart stirred.

"It broke over a year ago."

"Uh, nobody’s come to fix it in all that time?"

Holden glanced at Dean. "The broken surveillance is this hotel's core competitive advantage. Otherwise, why would customers specifically choose such a small, dingy place?"

Dean looked thoughtful, while Grace just smiled without speaking. Moments later, she used the key to open the door to Room 2-21, where the victim had stayed, and handed them a flashlight.

"I'll be working in the lobby downstairs. Come find me if you need anything."

"OK."

Watching the woman leave, Dean swung the flashlight. The dark room contained a double bed, a nightstand, a television, a large louvered closet against the wall, and a private bathroom. Although it was a standard room, its size was not inferior to an ordinary suite, enough for that man with unique tastes to "display his eighteen martial arts."

Dean walked to the foot of the bed in the center of the room and stood still, activating his "God’s Eye View." After his last upgrade, his twenty-meter radius of vision easily permeated the entire room, including the adjacent ones, searching and inspecting every detail.

No windows. No secret passages under the ceiling or floorboards.

Unsurprisingly, the LVPD had already scoured the place inch by inch, and the hotel cleaning staff had sanitized it countless times. Not a single hair or footprint remained.

...

"What are you spacing out for, kid?" said Holden, who was squatting by the TV cabinet. "Keep searching."

"Searching won't be of much use," Dean shook his head, a mysterious grin spreading across his face. "I have a better way to investigate."

Holden’s eyes flashed with anticipation as he watched his partner close the bathroom door. He then unzipped his bag and pulled out a pile of strange items: a spirit board covered in letters and symbols, several white candles, a planchette, an incense burner with sage, a lighter...

"Since you’ve accepted Alvin’s explanation and believe in the existence of ghosts, I’m going to let you see the soul of Jayne Harden, who died in this room, with your own eyes." Dean explained, "The dead don't lie. His soul will tell us the truth about the case."

Holden’s pupils contracted, and he raised an eyebrow. "You're not joking? Mediumship really works?"

"The ones on TV who call themselves masters are one hundred percent frauds. But I’m not lying to you."

Dean smiled casually, his hands moving without pause. This operation was the result of careful deliberation. Compared to shapeshifting or the Shadow of the Past, the ability of a medium was the most common, yet the most difficult to distinguish from fake. By demonstrating it to win over the FBI agent Holden, Dean would gain a powerful ally for the future. Investigations would become much more convenient.

"What should I watch out for?" Holden rubbed his hands together, pacing in circles like an ant on a hot pan.

"Sit down with me and follow my instructions." Dean placed the spirit board on their knees. "Whatever you see or hear later, don't make a sound. Keep absolute silence—think of it like playing a game of 'Statue'."

"Relax. Being too nervous will scare the other party away."

Dean lit a row of candles with his lighter, bathing the area around the board in candlelight.

"Is it dangerous?" Holden took a deep breath, reaching out to touch the holster under his arm. "Will Jayne Harden’s soul hurt us?"

"With me watching over you, as long as you strictly follow my arrangements, it's very safe." Dean’s tone was full of confidence. He then lit the incense burner.

"OK, I swear to God," Holden exhaled, rubbing his nose. "For the next hour, you're the Chief, and I'm your subordinate."

"Very good. I'll ask the questions, and you wait honestly for the soul to push the planchette and piece together the answers. Ordinary eyes cannot see spirits, but through the planchette, I will let you witness its true form. Experience a so-called supernatural existence."

Dean explained the basics of channeling as casually as possible. In the dimly lit room, everything was finally ready. Dean grabbed the planchette and pricked his left index finger with a sharp point.

*Drip, drip.*

Blood fell onto the board. He then placed two fingers on the planchette, moving it in slow circles.

"Friends gathered, hearts sincere."

"Soul draw near, we summon thee."

The planchette whirred. A steady voice echoed in the confined room.

"I am beginning the divination now. Let the spirit lingering in this house listen to my words."

"Respected Jayne Harden, is your soul near us?"

The planchette whirred and circled. Holden slowed his breathing and pricked up his ears.

*Whoosh—*

Suddenly, a cold breeze blew from a corner near the window, causing the yellow candlelight and the white sage smoke to flicker violently. Holden straightened up as if electrocuted.

An eerie chill crawled from the contact point of the planchette and their fingers, climbing up their hands and arms. Goosebumps broke out across his entire body, while cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

The next second, the planchette jerked and stopped on a word.

"YES."

He is here!

Excitement and fear radiated from Holden’s wide eyes. He looked around cautiously, but all he could see was darkness and emptiness. Dean lifted the planchette and held it before Holden’s eyes, letting him peer through the glass pane of the planchette into the darkness three meters away.

In that originally empty space, a figure had appeared in a bizarrely eerie fashion: a white male in his forties, with a few sparse black hairs on his head, wearing only his underwear, revealing a bloated, barrel-like waist and mounds of soft, wrinkled fat. He stared blankly into the void, as stiff as a puppet. His form was like a reflection in water, shifting slightly with the moving air, filled with a strange, illusory quality.

After that single glance, Holden’s body shook violently, his head buzzing, leaving him in a state of stupor and confusion. The worldview and values he had built over the past thirty years felt as if they had been crushed into powder by a magical, invisible hand. The things he had once despised as false and ignorant were actually real!

Dean looked at him with pity. For him, the frequently occurring supernatural phenomena were everyday occurrences, but to an ordinary person, they were nothing short of a miracle. He took the planchette away at the right moment, put it back on the board, and asked:

"Jayne Harden, I am deeply sorry for your death."

"But you shouldn't have died without knowing why. Someone should be held responsible for this accident. Now, please tell me, what happened before you died?"

*Whir...*

The planchette turned for a long time, moving and stopping, skimming over letters, eventually piecing together a fragmented answer.

"I put on the mask, stood on the chair, put my neck into the noose, and posed, waiting for June..."

"Then, was it intentional, or did you accidentally kick the chair away?" Dean asked next.

*Whir...*

The planchette deviated from "YES," moving and stopping—

"It wasn't me."

Dean looked at his companion. Upon seeing the result, Holden’s tense face grew incredibly serious.

"Then did June Cartrey, who was in the room, betray you?"

"I don't know." The planchette shook. "Someone kicked the chair over, but my eyes were covered by the black mask, so I couldn't see exactly who it was."

The investigation progress increased from five percent to fifteen percent.

Dean took a deep breath, his expression nearly losing its composure. Jayne's flashy antics were clearly asking for his own death. Truly, one shouldn't play too wildly, or they wouldn't even know how they died.

"In your daily life and work, did you have any grudges with anyone?"

"No."

"Who do you think is the most likely killer?"

"I don't know." Jayne’s face was blank as he maneuvered the planchette to spin rapidly. "June is a thoughtful, good girl. It’s unlikely she would harm me."

Dean changed his phrasing and asked about the incident several times. Finally, he managed to get a clue.

"In the process of suffocating, I heard a man's laughter. Then, the sound of a door opening and closing."

As Jayne Harden’s answer was pieced together, the investigation progress jumped by fifteen percent, reaching twenty-five percent.

...

Dean’s gaze shifted as he raised a series of questions.

"After entering the room, you stayed in the bedroom the whole time, didn't you go to the bathroom?"

"No."

Dean nodded. The bedroom and the hallway were separated only by a door. Since Jayne stayed in the bedroom the entire time, if someone had entered halfway, he would have known.

"During the entire incident, did you notice a third person entering the bedroom from outside?"

"No."

"After the chair was kicked over and you were struggling with the noose around your neck, you heard a man’s laughter and the sound of the door opening and closing?"

"Yes."

...

Dean’s questioning stopped abruptly. He neatly pulled out the transcript of the conversation between the lawyer Lucville and June Cartrey, flipping to a certain passage—

The woman claimed that after she and Jayne Harden entered the room, they locked the door from the inside. Since the room had no windows and was essentially a sealed chamber, even if someone else had a key, it would be impossible to break in from the outside. However, when she opened the door to call for help after the incident, she was too panicked to notice if the door was still locked.

This account was entirely consistent with Jayne’s description. Combining the testimonies of June and Jayne, it was highly likely that the real culprit had hidden in the room before the crime and escaped unnoticed after the act.

...

Once Dean reached this conclusion, the system’s investigation progress surged from twenty-five percent to thirty-five percent.

...

Dean’s thoughts raced, analyzing further: "Then, where is the most likely place the perpetrator hid before making their move?"

The timing of the attack was chosen very cleverly. Jayne Harden was in a state of complete vulnerability. Choosing that moment allowed the killer to act without exposing themselves and easily kick the chair away to take a life. This was definitely no coincidence; the killer must have chosen a hiding spot that allowed them to observe the entire room.

But there were very few places to hide in the room.

Dean squatted down and looked under the double bed; it was narrow and dark. If one hid under the bed, they would only have a view of the outside from the left and right sides. Since Jayne was hanging outside the foot of the bed, and the foot of the bed was almost sealed off from the floor, it would be impossible to observe his status. Moreover, when Jayne and June were playing, it was likely that someone under the bed would have been discovered. It wasn't a smart choice.

Dean looked up, his eyes locking onto the louvered closet against the wall to the left of the bed.

He opened the closet door; it moved smoothly, making almost no sound. Inside hung two disposable robes and a thin blanket. He stepped directly inside, closed the door, and hid behind the robes. Peering through the gaps between the wooden slats of the door, the entire bedroom was in full view, with no blind spots.

He had a theory, though he couldn't be certain yet. He returned to the spirit board and asked the next question:

"After you entered the room, did you ever use the louvered closet?"

"No."

"Except for last week, have you and June Cartrey played games in this room, 2-21, before?"

"Many times."

"Did you ever use that closet before?"

"Never. We always bring our own tools, luggage, and clothes."

Dean nodded. It was almost certain that the real culprit had been hiding in the louvered closet of Room 2-21, watching the performance—and it definitely hadn't been just once. But last week, they couldn't help but act, then escaped silently, leaving the mess and the blame to the unlucky June Cartrey.

As this thought took hold, the investigation progress jumped to forty-five percent.

...

Holden remained obediently silent, witnessing his young partner alternating between closing his eyes in deep thought and smiling inexplicably, like a madman. In the past, he would have certainly advised the person to see a psychiatrist. But now, after witnessing a real soul, he could no longer voice his doubts. He sighed, feeling like a rat trapped at the bottom of a well, finally crawling out of the dark shackles to face the vast world—the world had opened another magical door for him!

Countless ideas flooded his mind. Using the dead to investigate cases overturned all old, outdated concepts. Compared to this, the daily investigative methods of the COP and FBI were as slow as snails!

...

"Two last questions," Dean’s voice brought his attention back. "Jayne Harden, what is your impression of the Gowan Hotel staff—the waiters, the front desk, etc.? Was there anyone or any event that left a particularly deep impression on you?"

"No."

"Did you ever offend anyone, such as by being disrespectful or discriminatory toward any of the hotel staff?"

"No."

That was enough.

Dean put away the board, limiting the planchette’s ability to draw in the soul. Before long, Jayne Harden’s spirit vanished into thin air, presumably returning to limbo.

...

"Is Jayne Harden gone, Dean?"

"Yeah, he’s left."

"So, you’ve been using mediumistic means to assist in investigations all this time?" Holden could no longer suppress his excitement, staring into Dean’s eyes.

Dean nodded. "During that case where the affair partner killed his wife, I chatted with that poor woman’s soul."

"No wonder you were able to lock onto the culprit at light speed!"

"Don't get excited," Dean shook his head. "Back to this case. Jayne Harden said so much just now; what do you think?"

"Fuck, that was so satisfying!" The candlelight revealed Holden’s face, red and sweating with excitement. He used profanity for the first time. "I’ve rarely experienced such a smooth and rapid investigation. I can basically narrow down the scope of the real killer!"

He grinned with a manic, nervous laugh, like a madman. Dean didn't mind at all; instead, as if seeing a kindred spirit, he grinned back, flashing a mouthful of white teeth.

"Oh, tell me about it."