68. A Shortcut to Investigation

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Tonight, the sky was pitch black. The moon had hidden itself among the clouds, and only a handful of scattered stars dotted the heavens.

130 West Ninth Street.

By the time Thomas and Dean arrived at the scene, several police cruisers were already parked nearby. Two paramedics were carrying a stretcher, upon which a body, covered by a white sheet, was being loaded into an ambulance.

Dean activated his omniscient perspective, peering beneath the sheet. There lay a woman, her complexion ashen, a distinct ligature mark circling her neck.

He turned away.

A police officer was stringing up yellow tape around the front yard, while a few of his colleagues questioned the neighbors. At the door to the house stood another detective—broad-shouldered, balding, his expression as unreadable as a poker face, sporting a classic American cleft chin and a posture that radiated authority. He was speaking with a man whose face was streaked with tears.

Thomas led Dean under the crime scene tape. The sound of weeping reached their ears.

“My Carter was alive and well when I left for work this morning,” the man sobbed. “She even asked me to come home early to celebrate her birthday. But there’s so much to do at the bank—I didn’t get off until nine. I picked up her present, and when I got home, the door and windows were wide open. She was lying on the kitchen floor, a black bruise around her neck, her body cold and stiff.”

“Oh God, why did you have to take my wife from me so cruelly?”

His voice was raw with emotion, his eyes red. Yet his pale skin, slender frame, and the gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose lent him an air of delicate refinement.

As Dean approached, he felt a subtle discomfort, and unconsciously furrowed his brow.

“My condolences, friend. Excuse me for a moment.”

The balding detective gave the man a brief nod, then led Dean and Thomas toward the edge of the garden.

He glanced at Dean, whose curiosity was palpable.

“The case is being handled by the Fifth Squad. You two shouldn’t be here, especially you, Dean. As a volunteer, this is against regulations.”

“Lighten up, Carl,” Thomas explained. “Dean will be joining the LVPD soon enough. He’s just getting some early experience. Don’t forget Lake Mead—we all owe him one.”

“Fine. Dean, don’t go inside the house, and don’t touch any evidence—”

“I’ll be nothing but a camera,” Dean nodded.

Carl launched into the details of the case.

“The lady of the house, Carter Burton, was murdered in the kitchen. Cause and time of death are still under investigation. She was thirty, a teacher at a nearby special education school.”

He gestured toward the man at the door.

“That’s her husband, Bud Burton. He found the body. Thirty-two, works at a local bank. They’ve lived in this house for over three years.”

“A teacher and a bank clerk,” Dean murmured, “both respectable professions.”

“This is an established white neighborhood… The residents’ occupations are vetted, and crime rates are extremely low. I can’t recall any major incidents in the last five years,” Carl sighed. “But after this, the property values are bound to drop.”

“May I speak with him?” Dean glanced at the grieving man.

“You can, but tread carefully, kid.”

...

“You and your wife seemed to have a good relationship,” Dean began as they returned to the man’s side.

“We’ve been married three years. Always loving—never an argument. The neighbors can vouch for us,” the man declared, not lifting his head. “I love her more than my own life. I’d trade places with her if I could!”

“Don’t be too distraught. The only thing we can do now is catch the killer.”

Dean offered a word of comfort before consulting his system. “Has your wife had any conflicts with anyone recently? Any quarrels or disputes?”

The man thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Carter was outgoing and warm, well liked by both neighbors and colleagues. She couldn’t keep secrets—if something was bothering her, she’d have told me. But there was nothing.”

Carl began jotting down notes.

Dean pressed on, “Did she show any unusual behavior lately—sudden nervousness, nightmares?”

The man shook his head firmly.

“As her husband, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary.”

“When you got home, did you check if anything was missing?” Carl cut off Dean’s next question. “Any valuables gone?”

“As soon as I found her… I realized she was gone… I called 911, then searched the nightstand and closet drawers. I remember clearly—there was a thousand dollars in cash, but it’s missing. Carter’s box of gold jewelry is gone too.”

“Are you sure they’re missing—not misplaced or sold?” Carl asked.

“I’m certain.”

Carl scribbled more notes.

“Describe the missing gold jewelry.”

“A necklace made of diamond-shaped gold clasps… A hollow rose-patterned gold ring… their weights are…”

“Do you still have the receipts?”

“Yes, I’ll get them for you.”

...

They spoke at the door for nearly two hours.

Midnight arrived.

Inside, the camera flashes and shutter clicks fell silent. A handful of officers, dragging a huge plastic evidence bag, and Holden Ford, with a bulging file folder under his arm, left the house. He took a deep breath, methodically peeled off his white gloves, exhaustion etched in his expression.

“Holden, what are you doing here?” Dean waved at him.

“Assisting with the investigation. I was going to notify you tomorrow,” Holden replied, surprised to see Dean as well.

“Officer, have you caught the killer?” Bud hurried over, desperate for answers.

“I understand how you feel,” Holden said apologetically, “but we have to take the evidence back for analysis… and perform an autopsy on your wife. Only when all the evidence is in can we draw any conclusions.”

“Did Carter suffer?” Bud asked, voice trembling, eyes pleading.

“From our preliminary examination, she passed quickly…” Holden hesitated. “She didn’t suffer much, and there are no signs of assault.”

Bud breathed a sigh of relief, his hands twisting in anguish at his chest. Through clenched teeth, he pleaded, “Please, catch the killer for me!”

As his words faded, Dean felt a sudden shift. A prompt flashed before his eyes.

You have triggered a new event—The Dead Wife.

A woman was murdered in her home on her birthday. You must use all your skills to solve the case, identify all suspects, and bring them to justice!

Event Difficulty: Easy

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Progress: 5/100

Time Limit: 48 hours

Reward: 40 experience points

Penalty: None

...

“Rest assured, the LVPD will not let any criminal go unpunished,” Holden concluded. “If you recall any details, or if you feel threatened, contact us immediately. Now, go home, take a shower, and get some rest.”

...

The group left the yard, took down the police tape, and gathered by the squad cars for a quick debrief.

“How did Carter die?” Thomas asked Holden.

“The killer broke in through a window, caught Carter in the kitchen while she was preparing food, and attacked her from behind, strangling her to death.”

“She struggled, kicking, and there’s the killer’s skin under her fingernails.” Holden held up a black electric cord from his evidence bag. “This was the murder weapon.”

“The killer was very strong. Based on the bootprints in the room and the strangulation marks, I’d estimate he was about six-foot-three, at least two hundred pounds—muscular, but not fat.”

Dean glanced at his system. Holden’s concise summary advanced the investigation progress by ten percent.

“Bud mentioned missing cash and expensive jewelry,” Carl added, hands on his hips. “The killer was probably a big, greedy black man. All right, folks, let’s work overtime tonight—check nearby surveillance footage, sift through criminal records for suspects matching the description: six-three, two hundred pounds.”

Holden nodded, his eyes lighting up. “There are hair and fingerprints from the room, and skin under the victim’s nails. We can use those to narrow it down and identify the killer.”

“That simple?” Dean glanced at his system—investigation progress, fifteen percent.

“That’s just the preliminary analysis,” Thomas smiled, shaking his head. “Reality is always more complicated—sometimes the truth is the opposite.”

“Exactly. There are things that don’t add up,” Holden mused. “If it was just for money, why kill a weak, beautiful woman?”

“The killer’s actions were too clean, too decisive—like it was premeditated.”

The group fell silent.

...

“It’s late, Dean. Go home and rest—leave the rest to us.”

Carl slid into the squad car, clearly unwilling to let this rookie tag along further.

“OK.”

Dean bid Thomas and Holden farewell, then made a show of heading home.

“Cops have their methods, but gathering evidence and analyzing it takes time—two days isn’t enough. Just running lab tests will take longer than that.”

“To finish this in two days, I’ll have to use a different, faster method.”

Having made up his mind, Dean got in his Bronco and returned to West Ninth Street.

It was already two or three in the morning. The block was utterly dark, every house shrouded in silence.

Dean slung on his backpack.

With his heightened senses, he avoided pedestrians and cars, and silently approached 130.

He activated his omniscient perspective outside the house, scanning everything within ten meters through the wall.

Pitch dark. No sign of life.

Safe!

He tiptoed through a window, landing without a sound.

He quickly checked the first and second floors. Bud Burton was nowhere to be found—not in the bedroom, bathroom, storage room, or basement.

Then again, Dean thought, not everyone has the courage to sleep in a house where someone has just died, even if that someone was their closest loved one.

No one home—easier to get things done.

Dean closed all the curtains and windows, went to the kitchen—marked on the floor with a white chalk outline—took out his ritual kit, knelt down, and used the tip of the planchette to cut his left index finger.

Drip, drip.

Blood trickled down, falling onto the board’s maze of letters and numbers.

The pale inscriptions were stained deep red.

Dean took a deep breath, relaxing body and mind.

A full ritual required sage incense and candles, but Dean was no novice. With balanced meditation, he could focus without props.

He pressed his bloodied hand to the planchette, then began to move it slowly over the board.

Once.

Twice.

As the planchette scraped over the board, he cleared his throat.

“Friends gather, hearts sincere.”

“Spirit, draw near, I summon thee.”

The planchette spun in circles.

Dean’s steady voice echoed in the dark hall.

“I’m about to begin. Spirits lingering in this house, hear my words.”

“Respected lady, Carter Burton, is your soul here with me?”

Dean held his breath for two seconds.

Whoosh—

A chill wind stirred the curtains.

A force surged through Dean’s hands, pushing the planchette to a word—

YES!

Success on the first try!

Dean’s heart leaped. Practice made perfect—perhaps he could become a true investigative master one day.

But he stifled his excitement and pressed on.

“Mrs. Carter, the killer broke into your home in the night and harmed you. I am deeply sympathetic. You should not have met such a fate. I want to help you find the killer, but I need you to answer a few questions. Did you see the killer’s face?”

The planchette slid—

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NO.

Dean wasn’t surprised.

The killer had strangled her from behind—she likely never saw the face.

“Did you know the killer’s identity, or hear their voice? Did you notice any other features?”

The planchette moved for a long time, pausing on letters and words, finally spelling out a message.

“Her voice—young, magnetic, warm. Contralto.”

The killer was a woman.

Dean stared into the darkness. “She spoke to you while attacking?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s eyelids twitched. What kind of killer speaks to her victim?

“What did she say?”

The planchette spelled out quickly:

“Sorry. Bud belongs only to me. I have to do this.”

Dean frowned.

Holden’s initial analysis suggested a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound killer.

But Carter’s spirit described a woman with a magnetic contralto voice.

So Bud had unusual tastes—not for slim, pretty women, but for strong ones.

...

“So…” Dean shivered, a chill running down his spine. He looked into the empty air. “Mrs. Carter, was your husband cheating on you?”

The planchette swung—

“YES.”

“So Bud’s tearful declarations of love were all an act?” Dean’s tone dripped with pity.

The planchette spelled out a lengthy response.

“On the surface, Bud was a model husband. He hugged me every day, spoke kind words when he came home—but he often used overtime as an excuse to come home late.”

Before Dean’s eyes, a pale, vacant face appeared in the darkness.

The planchette moved on.

“Bud hasn’t loved me for a long time. He treats me more like a sister than a wife.”

...

The room fell silent.

“The truth is very different from Holden and Carl’s analysis. This wasn’t a simple break-in gone wrong, but a calculated removal of a rival.”

Dean pondered—the investigation was now forty percent complete.

...

“Looks like I’m on the right track.”

“Bud and the killer are connected.”

“If I alert Carl to watch Bud closely, they’ll eventually track down this strong woman.”

But as Dean reviewed the event description, he shook his head sharply.

“No, letting the cops question and surveil at a snail’s pace won’t cut it. Forty-eight hours isn’t enough for that. I need a more direct, unconventional approach to find the real killer!”

“Mrs. Carter,” Dean addressed the void, “do you know where Bud likes to relax? Or if he has any female friends like the killer?”

The planchette pointed to “NO.”

“Then tell me a secret only you and your husband would know.”

The planchette moved swiftly.

“Bud has a mole on his back…”

“Bud hates spaghetti…”

Dean jotted these down, then asked, “Mrs. Carter, one last question. Do you have any unfulfilled wishes? I’ll do my best to help.”

The planchette scratched out one final line.

“Punish the killer.”

“And Bud?”

“Let him face the consequences.”

Dean nodded, stood up, and raised the planchette, peering through his glasses.

At the kitchen window stood a lady in a graceful black dress—lovely features, full figure, but her face was deathly pale, her eyes empty like those of a mannequin.

Dean’s voice rang out, solemn.

“The killer will pay the price.”

As he finished, the ghostly lady bowed slightly to him, then dissolved into a faint blue glow and slowly faded away.

In a hidden corner, the invisible darkness consumed her completely.

Dean gazed into the emptiness, packed up his things, and cleaned any traces from the room, chuckling at himself.

“Helping spirits fulfill their last wishes—what is this? A psychic detective?”

“No. The spirits give me clues, letting me catch killers and earn rewards.”

“And I repay them with a small favor.”

“Fair and just. This is my path.”

With a soft murmur, Dean’s figure vanished.

The house returned to darkness and silence.