Chapter 343: The Forced Adjustment of the Plan
On the street near the MacArthur Park Metro station in Los Angeles, two bodies lay beside a car surrounded by police tape.
"Thanks for letting me in on this investigation, Hobbs. We really are best buds," Ron, wearing latex gloves, ran his hands over the bodies. "Have the identities of the deceased been confirmed? Who are they?"
Hobbs, standing beside him, looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Actually, it was verified last night. They were both LAPD officers, highly decorated officers. It's a damn shame the street's surveillance system mysteriously went down yesterday, otherwise we would definitely have caught the shooter's face on camera."
"Highly decorated? Ha, I think you've misunderstood something." Ron curled his lip in a disdainful sneer.
"These two officers consistently rank among the top in the LAPD's case clearance rate. I think you've misunderstood something. I absolutely will not allow you to disrespect fallen officers like this!"
"Misunderstood? Then check this out!" Ron tore open the shirt of one of the deceased, revealing a ring-shaped brand on his chest. The mark looked like a metal object had been forcibly burned into the flesh, and a metal ring had been embedded.
Hobbs, however, was unimpressed by his discovery: "What's the big deal? I don't recall any regulation in the department handbook that says officers can't have tattoos. This is just body art."
Ron didn't rush to argue, but calmly tore open the shirt of the other victim. Sure enough, in the exact same spot, there was an identical brand.
"So, Mr. Hobbs, what's your explanation for this brand? Is it all just a coincidence that two LAPD officers just happened to get the exact same mark in the exact same location?"
Ron pulled out his tactical knife and pried open the branded skin on the corpse, removing a blood-stained metal ring the same size as the mark itself. He casually tossed it to Hobbs.
"I'll bet you a hundred bucks this thing is solid gold. You believe me?"
Hobbs examined the ring in his hand, finally losing his composure. In his experience as a federal agent, he knew this had to be organized crime.
"Ron, do you have intel on them? Yeah, you must! Who are they?!"
"Sorry, I don't have much intel on them either. I only know they're an international drug cartel. I suggest you follow that angle. By the way, has the ballistics report come back yet? Where did the shooter's weapon come from?"
Every firearm, due to the slight variations in its rifling and manufacturing process, will produce slightly different markings on bullets. This is like a fingerprint; it can be used to trace the origin and chain of custody of each weapon. Ron believed that with the help of arms dealer Yuri Orlov, even if the source of the gun was well hidden, he could track it down.
Ron habitually reached out to the side, and Hobbs reflexively placed the ballistics report in his hand. After he finished doing this, the two of them simultaneously realized something was off and stared intently at each other.
However, in the end, Hobbs's eyes were the first to look away. After all, he needed Ron's expertise right now, and Ron had won this round.
"Ballistics came back. They traced it to some small-time punks, a bunch of bottom-feeder gun runners who mainly supply weapons to gang bangers.
Yesterday, they got their entire inventory jacked by a single perp in a suit, and he even got shot with his own piece. Now they're all locked up in LAPD lockup. I don't think this will help the case at all."
Hobbs handed over another file, containing the statements of the unfortunate dealers and some crime scene photos.
"Perp in a suit?" At that, Ron perked up. Wasn't that his own trademark? Was someone copying his style?
"Okay, although I'm starting to get a little interested in this guy, our current objective isn't to find the shooter. He's got nothing to do with this Golden Circle organization we're dealing with now. Maybe I'll have time to track him down and kick his ass later, but definitely not now."
Ron stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Our priority now is to continue investigating the Golden Circle brand. Trust me, Hobbs, there's definitely a major case here. If you want to climb the ladder, do what I say."
Ron returned all the files to Hobbs. "Let's go talk to these two guys' commanding officer. I'll bet he can give us some very interesting answers."
In a secluded corner of an abandoned public library on the outskirts of Los Angeles, an uninvited guest had filled it with various computer equipment.
Meanwhile, the suited perp who had just caught Ron's interest was sitting at a makeshift desk, reporting yesterday's events to another man—a disabled man wearing glasses.
"I think we're dealing with a ring of dirty cops. Fortunately, I had planted a GPS tracker on the witness beforehand. Yesterday, they actually tried to eliminate him. Two cops brazenly loaded everyone into their cruiser, planning to take him to the outskirts for execution. Thankfully, I arrived in time, and the witness is safe for now. What's our play?"
"We do nothing."
"What did you say?" The man in the suit never expected his partner to give such an unexpected answer. He stormed over to the corkboard covered with chains of evidence.
"Look! Everything's connected. Stiles is the head of the narcotics division. He and his squad have been running drugs for dealers, and that unfortunate kid just happened to witness it. They have evidence of their transactions, so they're planning to silence everyone. They even arranged for a prosecutor to frame the witness's brother, making him the fall guy for killing several other witnesses. They've already murdered five people!"
"No, six. The witness's brother was shanked in county lockup yesterday. Not a single surveillance camera caught who did it."
The disabled man turned around. If the Nameless One were here, she would definitely recognize him as Dr. Harold Finch, the genius engineer who helped her build the Samaritan system.
"Then tell me, why the hell are we backing off now?!" The man in the suit slammed his hand on the corkboard, but Dr. Finch wasn't intimidated by his aggressive posture.
"Because of him," Dr. Finch took out a photograph and pinned it to the evidence chain on the corkboard, then drew an arrow pointing to the photo as the current priority: "Ron Lee Cooper, the IRS's top field agent. The complexity of this case has now exceeded our parameters. He will handle everything from here on out.
He's already got his sights on you, so all our current operations are suspended until he shifts his attention away from you. Then we'll resume."
(End of Chapter)
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