80. The Uninvited Guest at the Funeral

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9:00 PM.

Dean found Holden and Carl in the office, deep in discussion about the case, and asked about Bucky Flynn’s funeral.

“Moore and Chad are keeping an eye on things. The boy’s parents, Logan and Sophia Flynn, are holding vigil at the Southside church tonight. Tomorrow, their friends and family will gather at the Palm Cemetery chapel for the memorial service,” Carl replied, setting aside his paper filled with notes, his face weary.

“So he hasn’t been buried yet!” Dean let out a breath of relief. “I’ve made a major discovery—the real killer is very likely to appear at the burial ceremony. We need to assemble officers and set up an undercover ambush immediately!”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Holden asked.

Dean pressed his lips together. The truth about the Mourner was too bizarre to make public; he had to come up with a scientific explanation. “I analyzed the Kelly case files and noticed that the killer loves to rub salt in the wounds of grieving families—he never misses a chance like a funeral.”

“Moreover, he’s a psychology expert. He can use psychological suggestion to amplify the bereaved’s despair, pushing them to emotional breakdowns and even terrible acts, all while he watches the spectacle unfold.”

“That twisted?” Carl glanced at Holden. “Can a psychologist really do that?”

Holden nodded. “I’ve used psychological techniques to break down dozens of suspects’ defenses, making them confess. The law no longer allows such inducement, but it’s possible.”

Carl didn’t argue further. “So after the funeral, who do we watch? Do you know what the killer looks like? Any distinguishing features?”

Dean fell silent.

The Mourner was most likely disguised as Jack, the bar owner and the next chosen one, but Dean wasn’t sure how versatile its abilities were—he couldn’t be certain.

“All I know for now is he has a crescent-shaped scar on his hand and will approach Logan and Sophia Flynn. Once he appears, I’ll alert you.”

Carl rubbed his American-style jaw, nearly at his limit for patience.

Dean seized the chance to change the topic. “Your old friend Jack—does he know the Flynns? Is he going to attend their son’s funeral?”

Carl shook his head. “I’m not inside his head. How would I know all his connections? But he runs a bar, knows plenty of people.”

“We need to be sure. Call the bar, contact Jack, and confirm whether he’ll be at Bucky Flynn’s funeral tomorrow!”

“Kid, why so many questions about Jack? Do you suspect him?” Carl looked puzzled.

“I just think the killer might target him.”

Carl loosened his tie, staring at Dean for two seconds—Dean thought he was about to get punched, but Carl left the office instead. Five minutes later, he returned.

“I checked. Jack has no connection to the Flynn family and won’t be attending the funeral at Palm Cemetery tomorrow.”

Dean nodded. “Then our groundwork is set. Tomorrow, we lie in wait at the funeral.”

“Are you done? Have you forgotten your place? You’re just an LVPD volunteer, yet you expect the whole fifth unit to follow your vague orders?” Carl stood with hands on his hips, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, voice full of warning. “Because you’ve worked so diligently, I’ll take a huge risk and agree to your plan, but this is a high-stakes gamble. If tomorrow’s operation fails, Dean, your volunteer work ends here. You’ll never set foot in LVPD again.”

“Your law enforcement career will be over. As long as you’re in Las Vegas, you’ll never work in this field. Can you accept that?”

Dean glanced at Holden, who stared at the files in silence.

If you lose a bet, you pay the price—no exceptions.

“If I’m wrong, I’ll walk away on my own!”

...

The next morning at nine.

The weather was gloomy—no sunlight in sight.

Dean met with the officers outside the LVPD building.

To avoid alarming the target, only a few participated: Carl, Kruger, Moore, Chad, Holden, and Dean—six in total.

They wore matching, somber black suits and black ties. Except for Dean, everyone was at least thirty—a team of veterans.

At Dean’s insistence, each wore a bulletproof vest under their suits, paired with shoulder holsters, making them look a bit bulkier.

“We’ve received intel that someone armed and dangerous may disrupt Bucky Flynn’s funeral,” Carl said, hands on his hips, scanning the group. “Once on site, spread out and blend in as regular guests. Wait for the suspicious target to appear. I’ll give the signal.”

“Remember, don’t blow your cover!”

Everyone nodded silently.

“Dean, anything to add?”

“What I’m about to do might seem strange. Please bear with me.” Dean pulled a waterproof marker from his pocket, grabbed Carl’s left hand, and wrote Carl’s name in Chinese characters between his forearm and cuff.

The name, hidden under his shirt sleeve, was discreet, but Dean’s “god’s-eye view” could see it clearly.

“Is this Japanese? What’s it mean?” Carl’s broad forehead creased with black lines.

“It’s Chinese! A blessing from my homeland, for safety and protection—may you all return unharmed. And be warned—the killer is extremely dangerous, on par with any historical serial murderer. Be careful and protect yourselves.”

“You’re getting more superstitious by the day!” Carl’s tone was mocking, but his sharp gaze softened a bit.

Next, Dean marked Holden, Kruger, and everyone else with their own names.

“Whatever you do, don’t remove the symbol—at least not today,” Dean said sternly. “Otherwise, you’ll offend the gods, and the blessing will turn into a curse.”

The others twitched their lips, but Carl’s warning glance kept them from pummeling Dean.

...

Two cars left the LVPD station. Dressed in plain clothes, they rode in ordinary vehicles.

“What’s with the gear?” Holden, in the passenger seat, glanced back at the recording devices wrapped in black bags on the back seat.

“Planning a cemetery party?”

“These just might save our lives,” Dean replied with a secretive smile. “But don’t worry, I won’t disrupt the burial ceremony unless absolutely necessary.”

Half an hour later.

On the outskirts of Las Vegas—Palm Cemetery, a simple open-air chapel.

The memorial service had just begun.

Bucky Flynn’s family and friends sat in rows before the stage, where a smiling color photo of the boy stood. An elderly, white-haired man held the microphone.

The officers blended naturally into the crowd, attracting no attention.

Dean sat in the last row, the black bag with the recorder tucked under his chair, eyes fixed on the stage as he secretly activated his god’s-eye view to scan a ten-meter radius for any crescent-shaped scars.

Just then, a sorrowful voice echoed from the stage.

“Honored guests, teachers and principal from our elementary school, family, friends: Tracy, Greg, Marvin, Dorothy… Sophia and I thank you for being here.”

“Everyone knows a child is a family’s treasure. Bucky meant more to us—he was the source of joy in our home. I’ll never forget when he was born, those black diamond eyes, beautiful as porcelain. He lay in my arms, crying loudly, as if to say, ‘Logan, trim your beard! It’s prickling me!’”

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Dean couldn’t help but note the cultural contrast.

Here, even at funerals, no matter how much the family grieves, they express humor and optimism.

He only hoped it wouldn’t blunt the sadness.

Otherwise, the Mourner wouldn’t show, and all would be lost.

“Bucky was considerate from birth. Whenever work overwhelmed me, as soon as I got home, he’d flash a smile, give me a hug, and all my troubles would melt away. He was a sweet little angel.”

The man wiped his eyes and hugged his wife. Together, they shared photos, mementos, and stories of their son—some humorous, some everyday, drawing laughter, quiet reflection, or sobs from the crowd.

Bucky’s teachers, neighbors, relatives, and friends all took turns giving eulogies.

For half an hour, no suspicious figure appeared—the ceremony drew to a close.

“Well then, son, we’ll always remember you, miss you. Your honesty, kindness, and charm will always be with us. Through our tears, let us be grateful for the blessing of having and loving you...”

“Bucky, you’re the best son parents could hope for...”

“In our grief, let us smile, friends, for we know Bucky is holding his grandparents’ hands, smiling at us from heaven...”

The man’s voice broke as he turned to embrace his weeping wife.

Stifled sobs filled the simple chapel.

Dean scanned the crowd, disappointment flickering in his eyes. Was the Mourner as slow as a turtle? Its favorite meal was right here—how could it resist?

“Kid, where’s your ‘extremely dangerous’ killer?” Carl, sitting ahead, watched the grieving scene on stage, his face somber as water.

“Be patient. The ceremony isn’t over yet!”

...

The service ended.

Bucky’s cousins and friends, surrounded by mourners, carried the coffin toward the burial plot.

To the south, among green lawns and rows of marble tombstones.

The young pallbearers lowered the casket into the grave.

A white-haired pastor, in black clerical garb, intoned a solemn prayer for the departed. “Let us pray together. O merciful Lord, hear our prayer. Grant that the soul of Bucky Flynn may dwell in eternal light and peace, among the saints, for our Lord, Christ. Amen.”

“Amen...”

Friends and relatives bowed their heads, tossing bouquets into the grave.

Dark clouds gathered overhead, prayers echoing in the wind as palm fronds shivered.

Dean held his breath, a cold sweat seeping from his palms.

Then, a wrenching cry tore the air.

“Bucky, my Bucky, don’t leave your mother!”

A woman clung desperately to a man shoveling earth, collapsing at the graveside in hysterics, her voice raw with anguish.

“Take heart, madam, let Bucky rest in peace.” The priest gently lifted her up, while her husband and family soothed her, and the burial continued.

Through cries, comforting whispers, and the thud of earth, Dean’s gaze swept the scene—

Tap, tap, tap—

Barely audible footsteps on the grass.

A tall man emerged from behind a palm tree, walking toward the mourners.

He was at least six foot three, his black suit emphasizing a lean, upright figure. Black hair brushed his collar, his features handsome, chin adorned with a neatly trimmed goatee, his skin pale—an air of artistic melancholy about him.

Dean recognized the face.

Jack, the bar owner.

Dean’s god’s-eye view zeroed in on his wrist.

Beneath the black suit cuff, a crescent-shaped scar was plain to see.

Thump-thump!

Dean’s heart hammered in his chest.

He averted his gaze, watching from the corner of his eye.

The man blended into the crowd, standing behind the grieving mother, his black eyes gleaming as he watched her.

Except for Dean and the officers who were on alert, no one noticed the unexpected guest—outwardly, he seemed perfectly normal.

...

“You confirmed with Jack yesterday?” Dean slipped beside Carl and whispered.

“Yeah. Is that idiot schizophrenic or senile already?” Carl stared at the familiar face in the crowd, confused and conflicted. “He promised me he wouldn’t come. Is that his twin brother?”

That settled it.

Dean took a deep breath, fingers clutching the sharp planchette in his pocket. He trembled uncontrollably, goosebumps rising on his skin.

The monster in disguise from old legends was right in front of him!

Excitement, terror, and inexpressible dread surged through him.

He spoke in a low voice, “Your old friend wasn’t lying—because this thing that looks like him isn’t him at all. It’s the culprit behind Kelly and Bucky’s deaths.” Dean’s eyes glinted with madness. “Don’t ask now—catch it, and everything will be clear!”

Carl’s expression hardened. He squinted at the man.

“Don’t make it obvious! To avoid collateral damage, we move after the ceremony.”

“Understood.”

Carl quietly relayed orders to Kruger, Holden, Moore, and Chad.

Soon, the casket was fully buried, the earth smoothed over, the tombstone gleaming.

Logan Flynn steadied his wife and led the group from the cemetery, heading home for the post-funeral gathering.

The five officers split up, mingling with the crowd in small groups, chatting as they trailed behind “Jack” and the departing mourners.

Dean exhaled, handed Holden a recorder, forced a youthful, awkward smile onto his face, and walked over.

“Hey, Jack.”

He greeted the man, who turned with a puzzled look.

“I’m Larry, remember? The other day, I said I wanted to rent your bar for my girlfriend’s birthday party.”

Dean grinned, pearly teeth flashing like a spoiled rich kid. All the while, his god’s-eye view scanned beneath the man’s black jacket—

He had a bulging shoulder holster with a loaded revolver.

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He wore a black bulletproof vest.

A few boxes of ammo were tucked into his inner pocket.

A sheathed knife was slipped into his waistband.

Was he planning to rob a bank?

Dean’s heart pounded wildly. He sent the “Shadow” planchette flying from his pocket, which wrapped around his body, morphing into a transparent ghostly armor.

“Larry, rent my bar?” The man’s confusion vanished; he smiled gently, like a gentleman, and played along. “Sorry, a place like that isn’t for kids like you. I’d suggest somewhere healthier—maybe Disneyland.”

“My girlfriend loves vintage bars. Nowhere else would surprise her. I’ll pay more!” Dean feigned insult, cheeks flushed, voice blustering as he pounded his chest. “I offered a thousand bucks before—now it’s fifteen hundred for the night, drinks not included!”

His stalling gave the funeral group time to walk thirty meters away, out of danger.

“Money isn’t the issue. I’m a law-abiding citizen—my bar’s not for underage kids doing drugs. Try the sports complex or an amusement park!” The man waved him off like a beggar, annoyed. “Don’t bother me, or I’ll call—”

Dean, staring at his back, drew his cocked Colt M1911a1 in a flash, thumbed off the safety.

“911.”

As the man finished speaking, Dean aimed for his lower body and fired without hesitation.

Bang! Bang!

Two gunshots shattered the cemetery’s gloomy calm.

Blood sprayed, the man staggered back two steps, two scarlet “roses” blooming on his black trousers.

At the same time, the revolver in his holster floated out, seized by telekinesis.

A prompt flashed before Dean’s eyes:

You hit the target with the M1911A1, proficiency +1*2, Shooting lv1 (92/200)

The shots stunned the funeral party ahead—air froze, screams erupted as people fled.

Carl and the officers, caught off-guard by Dean’s ruthless and unorthodox move, acted on instinct. Years of experience kicked in—they drew their weapons and covered Jack!

It all happened in less than a second.

A second later, the man, shot in both thighs, was still standing. His eyes spun like glass marbles, morphing into beastly emerald vertical pupils. He opened his mouth and roared!

It wasn’t shrill or thunderous—more like a gust strumming a harp string.

Invisible ripples exploded from him, flattening the grass in all directions.

The closest, Dean, felt his heartstrings wrenched, something shattering inside him, and memories long buried surged forth.

Past life, present life—

A torrent of sorrowful memories flooded back, tearing his chest apart.

Dean’s eyes brimmed with tears, a powerful ache flooding his mind, snot pouring uncontrollably from his nose, overwhelming grief making him tremble as his hands went limp and the M1911A1 slipped to the ground.

The Mourner, the funeral, the fight all faded—he could only sob, desperate to vent this tidal wave of emotion.

Nearby, Carl, Holden, and Kruger were likewise struck motionless, eyes reddened, bodies hunched, faces twisted with agony as they howled like beasts.

In a heartbeat, all the officers around the man were frozen.

The man snatched the revolver falling from mid-air, his cold vertical pupils blinking.

He aimed the barrel at the center of Dean’s forehead.

Bang!

The air screeched!

The bullet struck Dean’s forehead like a battering ram, knocking him backward, but the “ghost armor” coating his body deflected the shot with a thud into the grass.

The man, not seeing the expected explosion of blood and gore, narrowed his eyes, turned, and—with his wounded legs—bolted into the depths of the cemetery, agile as a leopard.

...

The mind-rending dizziness and pain cleared Dean’s vision. He bit his tongue hard, metallic blood and pain surging in his throat, snapping him awake—his bloodshot eyes regaining clarity.

Steeling himself, Dean grabbed his Colt, commanded “Shadow” to activate the recorders by the officers’ feet.

Instantly, three speakers blared out the funky beat of “Funky Town”—

Take me to a town that makes me feel right

Dun dun dun dun, dun, dun dun dun dun

A town where I feel alive and moving forward

Dun dun dun dun, dun, dun dun dun dun

Yeah, I talk about it, I talk about it, I talk about it...

...

The disco tsunami blasted through the cemetery, scattering its gloom.

Moore, lost in despair and sobbing on his knees, suddenly paused, blinking in confusion as he snapped out of it.

Carl staggered to his feet, face twisted, pounding his throbbing temples with a fist.

Kruger’s eyes widened as he spread his arms, trembling, hugging the empty air with emotion.

Holden, tears streaming, sat on the ground, gun to his temple, finger tightening on the trigger—

A gust of wind knocked his hand aside, sending the gun flying.

Dean tackled Holden, shouting to his now-recovered teammates, “I’m going after the suspect. You stay here and keep Holden from trying again!”

He slung a recorder over his shoulder, pressing it to his ear—the pounding rhythm nearly burst his eardrums, sweat pouring down his body, but the lingering sorrow was driven out.

Damn you, Mourner—let’s see how you handle modern technology!

He charged after the vanishing figure.

“Moore, you watch these two idiots. I’m going to help!” Carl vaulted over a tombstone and followed.

(End of chapter)