75. Clues Converge Here

At noon, Dean returned to the LVPD with the main team, bringing back the discoveries from Abby’s house.

“Assistant District Attorney Hines is here from the prosecutor’s office. Let’s go see how things are progressing,” Holden said.

“What exactly is an assistant district attorney?” Dean asked. “Shouldn’t the Las Vegas Police Department be handling this case?”

“It’s complicated. All you need to know is that we can’t afford to cross him. Not long ago, he issued an arrest and search warrant. Now that there’s ample evidence, he intends to prosecute the ‘Child Killer’ to further his own career. By the way, I don’t get along with that guy,” Holden explained, then led Dean and Carl upstairs to a more spacious but dimly lit office.

Inside, four people were already locked in a heated debate—the accused, Abby, and her mother, Raj, a bald, overweight lawyer named Lukeville, and a sharply dressed young man in a deep blue suit.

“Dean Lu, the hero who saved the children at Lake Mead?” The young man paused when he saw the Asian face entering, then stood up and walked over, shaking Dean’s hand warmly, his grip firm and his words full of genuine praise. “I’ve heard you’ve been volunteering with the LVPD, and recently helped crack a notorious murder case. Las Vegas needs young people like you—just, responsible, and exceptionally talented.”

“You flatter me, Assistant District Attorney Hines. I’m only here to observe and learn as a volunteer. I hope I’m not intruding,” Dean replied, smiling, his gaze sweeping over the three people seated opposite.

Abby immediately grew agitated, trying to rise and speak, but her mother silenced her with a look.

“So, where were we? Please continue,” Carl said blandly, taking a seat at the table with Holden and Dean.

Hines returned to the negotiation table, his sharp gaze fixed on Abby, and said, half-mocking, half-sarcastic, “Back to the point—do you like little boys, Abby? On the day of the crime, had you taken new medication, blacked out from drinking, or were you hallucinating—did you suffer a psychotic break that led you to commit such an atrocious act against an innocent boy?”

“Stop! Don’t try to intimidate my client!” Lukeville cut in, his tone explosive. “Tell us exactly why Abby was arrested! Lay it all out, or we’ll go to the media and let them know you’ve arrested an innocent high school girl—a future star, destroying her reputation, terrifying her family and friends, all based on a groundless suspicion and an arrest warrant!”

Unruffled by the lawyer’s aggressive retort, Hines responded calmly, “First, fingerprints. We found Abby’s prints on the victim, Bucky Flynn’s body, on the knife used to cut him open, and on the bicycle she rode with him into the depths of Booker Park.”

“That wasn’t me—I never did any of that!” Abby protested, her voice trembling and her face flushing red.

The lawyer gave her a reassuring glance and countered, “Planting fingerprints is nothing new.”

Hines shook his head. “A few prints could be planted, but dozens, hundreds—even bloody fingerprints?”

“It’s troublesome, but still possible,” the lawyer insisted, starting to sound unreasonable.

“We have several eyewitnesses,” Carl interjected, “each one unhesitatingly identified Abby Clark from photos, seeing her riding a bike with Bucky Flynn in Booker Park.”

“You know what an eyewitness is, Carl?” the lawyer replied with calm force. “Someone who thinks they saw something. Who’s to say they weren’t drunk or high at the time? Besides, we have eyewitnesses too!”

He glanced at Mrs. Raj, who wiped her tears and declared that Abby had been ill and bedridden at home during the time of the incident.

“Both Batista and I are witnesses. A few days before the incident, our family doctor prescribed Abby medication, proving her health was very poor!”

“Conflicting evidence? No matter—we have more. So, someone please explain why the DNA test results match as well,” Hines said, producing photos and reports from his briefcase and laying them in front of Abby and the lawyer. “In the hollowed eye sockets of the deceased, in the mouth with the tongue cut out, on the torn tissue, it’s all Abby’s DNA, along with bite marks!”

“Horrifying—that’s a monster!” Abby screamed, terrified, her face deathly pale. “It wasn’t me!”

Raj, eyes brimming with tears, hugged her daughter close, their faces pressed together as they wept.

“Brilliant acting,” Carl sneered. “We also have extensive surveillance footage—enough to expose your lies!”

“Wait. If this DNA was tested only after the arrest, strictly following protocol, there’s no way the results would be out this quickly,” the lawyer suddenly said, eyes flashing. “How did you obtain my client Abby Clark’s DNA sample?”

The question caught both the detective and Hines off guard; Hines looked at Carl.

Carl cleared his throat. “The day after the crime, we asked a colleague to obtain Abby Clark’s consent before collecting her sample.”

“Uncle Thomas?” Abby asked, her eyes red.

“That’s illegal,” the lawyer smirked, a hint of satisfaction crossing his plump face. “This DNA report is inadmissible. You must legally obtain her DNA sample with her consent!”

Both Hines and Carl’s expressions turned grim.

Dean, who’d been unable to interject, watched with astonishment—no wonder Lukeville was a renowned attorney; with a few words, he’d disqualified the most critical piece of evidence, the DNA report.

But now, would they have to wait several more days for a new test?

“Then we’ll retest, but it’ll change nothing except cause a delay,” Hines said, shifting focus to the suspect. “Ms. Abby, this is your last chance. State law allows us to hold you for forty-eight hours, and there’s little time left. If you don’t tell the truth before then, you’ll be sent to jail to await trial—a huge story. The courthouse will be swarmed by angry citizens, media, and their cameras. Your face will be on every news channel. You’ll be publicly condemned. Is that what you want?”

Jail, court, the scorn of the people. The threat in those words terrified both mother and daughter.

Everyone knows that among all kinds of inmates, those who harm children or commit sexual violence are at the bottom of the food chain.

“No, I don’t want to go to jail!” Abby, completely distraught, turned to her silent lawyer for help.

“I move for my client to be released on bail,” Lukeville declared loudly.

“I can apply for that,” Hines replied bluntly. “But this violent crime has caused such a stir, bail is unlikely to be granted. Abby will almost certainly spend some time in jail.”

“No, please, do something!” Raj pleaded.

“Everyone… may I say something?” Dean spoke in a calm tone, drawing scrutinizing looks from both lawyer and prosecutor. “We found some new evidence when searching Abby’s house… Carl, Holden, could I bring in the tracksuit we found last night?”

Carl sighed.

“OK!” Holden, who’d been quietly observing, seemed pleased.

Soon, the three-stripe tracksuit, sealed in a clear evidence bag, was laid out on the desk as Dean explained his discovery.

Abby couldn’t have bought the tracksuit, which only went on sale in Santa Monica in September, and she despised white clothing.

“That’s a pleasant surprise,” the lawyer said appreciatively, immediately building a defense. “With the DNA report dismissed, now the killer wore clothing on the day of the crime that Abby couldn’t possibly have owned. This suggests a possibility—the killer is someone who looks strikingly similar to Abby, who committed murder and framed her!”

Both Abby and Raj cast grateful looks at Dean.

“The origin of this garment proves nothing,” Carl retorted. “Abby could have found it, stolen it, bought it from someone else, or used it to mislead us. It’s irrelevant.”

“You need evidence—what about lab results on the clothing? If you have none, you can’t make baseless accusations against my client,” the lawyer shook his head.

Carl glared at Dean, furious. “When did you start working for this big-shot lawyer? Are you still with the LVPD, or whose side are you on?”

That ungrateful brat—always causing trouble.

Even Hines was baffled by Dean’s intervention. Isn’t this justice-driven volunteer supposed to help bring the killer to justice?

The light above showed Dean’s conflicted face. He shook his head. “I stand only with the truth. I don’t want to wrong an innocent person.”

Holden, quietly observing, nodded slightly in approval.

Hines warned, “Dean, you realize you might be helping a monster escape justice?”

“She could also be an innocent victim of a grave injustice,” Dean said boldly. “Please, let me ask a few questions.”

“Fine—let’s hear your insights,” Hines relented.

“Go on, young man!” Lukeville encouraged, obviously seeing him as an ally.

Dean turned to his friend. “Abby, you have a scar on your wrist, don’t you?”

“That’s right,” Abby replied, puzzled by the question but trusting Dean for his earlier support. “Raj, help me roll up my left sleeve.”

The dim lighting revealed a half-finger-length, dark red crescent-shaped wound between Abby’s left wrist and thumb, matching the one Dean remembered from the bar owner’s patron.

Abby said, “Because of a cold, the wound became infected. I wasn’t resting well and my immunity was low. I had a fever for a week.”

“Think carefully—when did the scar start burning and hurting?” Dean asked.

“Around the 16th. It got worse and hurt the most on the day of the incident, the 20th. After that, it gradually improved—by the 22nd it was better, and by yesterday, the 24th, there was no more pain or fever.”

Dean’s eyes flickered with thought. “So, the scar hurt especially badly around the time of the crime?”

Raj added, “She was bedridden, drenched in cold sweat, barely able to walk. Our family doctor can confirm that!”

“That’s a strong statement,” the lawyer boasted to Hines. “My client was in no condition to carry out such a complex murder!”

“But we have more evidence to the contrary,” Carl retorted.

Hines, unusually, remained silent.

“Abby, can you describe your symptoms in detail? On the 20th, the day of the crime—was it just fever and pain?”

“I felt terrible, couldn’t open my eyes, everything was black. My mind was blank, like it was encased in concrete—no thoughts at all,” Abby said, a hint of fear crossing her face. “At one point, I felt something heavy, like a stone, pressing on my chest so hard I couldn’t breathe!”

She shuddered at the memory.

“Other times, my body felt weightless, my limbs moving uncontrollably, as if I were floating on cotton with my eyes closed. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“My poor child, what suffering you’ve endured,” Raj said, holding her tighter.

Everyone frowned in unison.

A subtle suspicion rose in Dean’s mind. Abby’s description sounded too strange for just a fever—it was more like hypnosis or sleepwalking.

“Mrs. Raj, are you certain Abby was at home all day, never leaving your sight on the afternoon and evening of the crime?” Dean pressed, locking eyes with the middle-aged woman, who hesitated for a split second.

“Of course. Batista can testify as well!”

Dean shook his head—he knew he wouldn’t get the real answer from this mother.

“Abby, do you remember how you got that scar?”

“Very clearly,” Abby replied. “The night of July 22nd, we were in Santa Monica celebrating Britney’s birthday at the beach. Someone in the crowd scratched me, but I didn’t see who.”

Dean’s pupils contracted.

Santa Monica again!

The three-stripe Adidas came from a mall in Santa Monica, and now the scar originated there too.

Two pivotal clues converging in Santa Monica—this place was clearly central to the case, likely holding other key leads!

The system buzzed.

The investigation progress jumped from thirty to forty percent.

“That’s enough, Dean. The LVPD isn’t a hospital and you’re not a doctor,” Carl finally snapped, his tone full of irritation. “Stop wasting our time on trivialities!”

Hines, too, looked at Dean with disappointment, packing all the evidence back into his briefcase.

“Young man, your questions are useless and irrelevant to the case. I’ll take my leave,” he declared.

“Ms. Abby Clark, it seems you’re unwilling to confess. Let’s head to the detention center immediately,” Hines said.

Carl called in two fully armed officers, who flanked Abby.

“Can’t I stay?” Abby, hands cuffed, clung to her mother’s arm, pleading.

“I understand your concern. You’ll be placed in a separate cell—no one will be able to touch you,” Hines assured her.

Lukeville nodded at Abby. “Though Hines is my adversary, you can trust his word. Stay calm in there—I’ll find ample evidence to clear your name in court.”

Abby sighed in defeat and rose to follow the officers out, her mother close behind.

Dean followed as well.

Abby paused, turned, and raised her hands toward Dean, wanting to embrace him but unable to because of the cuffs. She lowered her hands, tears glistening in her eyes, and said gratefully, “Dean, no matter what happens, I’ll always be thankful. I’ll never forget your help.”

“Abby, I’ll get you out. I’m onto something—just wait,” Dean replied.

They all left the office and headed downstairs in silence toward the station’s exit when a commotion erupted in the lobby.

“He’s been here for five days! I want him back!” a gaunt middle-aged woman was banging frantically on the front desk’s glass, screaming hysterically, “Give him back! Let me bury my son!”

A silent, world-weary man with graying hair stood behind her.

These were Bucky Flynn’s parents, trying to recover their son’s mutilated body.

A chill ran through Dean—this was not good.

The officers escorting Abby quickened their pace, but the woman, as if fated, suddenly turned and spotted Abby being led out in handcuffs. She rushed over, her deranged, terrifying face contorted with rage.

Her bloodshot eyes bulged, wild black hair hung unkempt over her shoulders, her mouth twisted in a feral snarl exposing pale gums as she shrieked, “Did you do it? Did you kill my Bucky? Did you take him from me? Look at me, you brat, look at me!”

“No, ma’am, it wasn’t me! I didn’t hurt him!” Abby cried, slowing to look back and explain desperately.

“It was you! You butcher, you devil, you mad beast! Go to hell! I curse you never to die in peace, I curse you—” the woman screamed, waving her skeletal hand at Abby.

Officers and Raj hurried to block her.

No one expected the silent man behind her to suddenly erupt, lunging forward and swinging a hard punch at Abby.

Smack! The blow, like a fist against leather, was caught firmly in another hand.

Dean had seized the man’s fist with his left hand, steadying his shoulder with the other, his gaze calm and steady. “Sir, I know you’re grieving, but you’re blaming the wrong person. She’s a victim too.”

Behind Dean, the officers took the opportunity to hurry Abby out toward the police car.

“No, you don’t understand, you accomplice to evil, you cold-blooded lackey!” the man, seeing his son’s alleged killer disappearing, grew hysterical, swinging another punch at Dean’s chest.

Bang!

Dean stood unmoving, a wall of calm.

The man, shocked he’d actually hit him, collapsed as if his spine had been ripped out, clinging to Dean’s leg, sobbing in agony, his cries echoing through the lobby. “Sorry, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have hit you. But our Bucky is gone—my son is dead! He was only eight, and he died so horribly, so painfully!”

“Wuuuu…”

“I failed him. I didn’t protect him. I’m not fit to be a father—I’m worthless!” he wept bitterly.

The woman, meanwhile, pounded the glass, shrieking as the police car disappeared from view.

“Murderer! Give me back my son! I want your life!”

“You’ll pay! You’ll pay!”

…

At last, the lobby grew quiet again.

The grieving couple, under the sympathetic gaze of all present, helped each other out. Dean watched their retreating figures, brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong, kid? Regretting helping Abby? Weren’t you the one who said you’d stand on the side of truth?” Holden’s voice came from behind.

“No. I’m just thinking about some conflicting clues. Holden, with your experience, can you give me some advice?”

“I was waiting for you to ask,” Holden replied.

(End of chapter)