Daisy picked up the phone, asking questions while noting down the information on a piece of paper nearby. A moment later, she looked at Dean, "Villa number 76 on Tamida Street, a suspected homicide. Dean, the patrol officers have already gone over, and now we need you to head there first to understand the situation. If it really is a homicide, you can then call Lawrence and the forensic team."
Although Dean was a rookie who had just joined the Fourth Squad, his remarkable performance in the previous two cases had earned Daisy’s trust.
"Tamida Street... an upscale community," Dean rubbed his waist. "Alright, I’ll head over now. Poor me, I just drove back from Las Vegas for five hours."
"Get used to it, rookie," Daisy peeled off the facial mask on her face and grabbed a French fry. "The successful resolution of the serial stabbing case has left the higher-ups quite satisfied with our squad. The number of cases we, the Fourth Squad, are to take responsibility for will only increase."
Dean shrugged, "Sounds good."
The more cases there are, the more Experience Points one can gain.
「Leaving the Detective Bureau.」
Dean drove alone to number 76 on Tamida Street. The area was even more upscale than the neighborhood where Dean’s mother lived, comprised solely of detached villas, and the residents were mostly corporate elites and white-collar workers, belonging to the higher tier of the middle class.
When Dean arrived, a few robust male nurses had already carried out a scruffy-looking man from the house and were transporting him to the ambulance.
"What’s going on, guys?" Dean approached, showing his detective badge.
A bald patrol officer glanced at Dean’s badge and stepped forward. "Detective Dean, this seems to be a misunderstanding. A kid accidentally kicked a ball into this yard. When he came to retrieve it, he saw through the window someone lying in the villa’s living room with a lot of blood on the floor, so he called the police. According to what we’ve learned from questioning the neighbors, this man is a helper hired by the homeowners. They’ve gone on a trip. The helper has been living here for over a month, and his identity checks out. This unfortunate guy was probably drunk, accidentally hit his head, and knocked himself out."
Dean stopped the male nurses. After examining the man’s injuries and sniffing lightly, he detected not only a strong smell of alcohol but also a faint scent of marijuana.
This guy was an addict. He must have been high and, combined with the alcohol, lost control and cracked his head.
"Take this poor guy to the hospital. Let’s hope he won’t be crying over the bill when he wakes up," Dean stepped aside.
In this country, there’s a saying: it’s more profitable to run a hospital than be a drug lord. That’s no joke.
The male nurses laughed and lifted the injured man into the ambulance. The surrounding patrol officers, thinking it a wasted trip, were also ready to leave.
Dean took out his phone, ready to ask where Harry was. Suddenly, he caught sight of the doghouse in the corner of the yard and stopped the officers who wanted to leave. "Guys, could you get me a shovel over here!"
"FK," the bald patrol officer reluctantly directed his colleagues, "Ah Di, go help find a shovel. Looks like we can’t leave early today after all."
"This is a good thing; your chance to earn merits has arrived," Dean extended his hand towards the bald officer. "Let’s introduce ourselves properly. Senior Officer Hawk, I’m Dean from the Robbery Homicide Division’s Fourth Squad."
In Los Angeles, patrol officers (LAPD) are required to wear uniforms when on duty. They wear the Los Angeles Police Department badge on their left chest, a name tag on their right, and their rank insignia on their collar. Therefore, Dean directly called out Hawk’s name and rank.
Hawk, however, wasn’t very interested in Dean’s friendly gesture. He gave Dean’s hand a perfunctory pat. "Buddy, I’d rather you buy us a drink afterward than believe you’ll lead us to earn any merit."
Hawk had seen Dean’s detective badge. Just a ’Third-Class Officer,’ a rookie. That rank meant Dean hadn’t been with the Detective Bureau for more than six months. He, on the other hand, was a Senior Officer.
Among Los Angeles patrol officers, becoming a Senior Officer required at least ten years of service, equivalent to a First-Class Officer in the Detective Bureau, and it was the highest rank most patrol officers would reach in their lifetimes. Hawk’s rank was two levels higher than Dean’s. This explained the firm tone Hawk naturally adopted when speaking to Dean.
"No problem with having a drink," Dean retracted his hand, "but I guess in the end, you’ll be the one willingly buying me one."
Hearing Dean’s words, Hawk grew interested. "We’ll see how you do, rookie."
In the meantime, the patrol officer Hawk had sent to fetch a shovel ran over from the small shed beside the villa. "Couldn’t find a shovel, but I found a... um, spoon from China in the tool shed."
Looking at the iron wok shovel, Dean fell silent.
A goddamn "spoon" from China.
He shrugged and took the cooking implement. "Well, this thing... will do, I guess."
Dean, holding the wok shovel and followed by a few curious patrol officers, approached the soil in front of the doghouse and began to dig. The turf in this area looked very new but was laid carelessly, exposing the soil underneath.
"You suspect something’s buried here?" Hawk asked with interest, watching Dean’s movements.
"Yes, and it’s probably a body."
Dean pointed to the area around the patch of turf and explained, "Notice this soil? It’s much more sunken than the surrounding ground, and there’s a clear difference in color where the soil layers meet. This indicates that flesh has decayed underneath. The gases produced by decomposition initially pushed the soil under the turf upwards; once the gases dissipated, the ground here sank."
"You’re saying there’s someone buried here?" Hawk and the others suddenly became alert, their gazes towards Dean growing more serious. Capable individuals naturally earned respect.
But Dean shook his head. "Not a person. I’m guessing it’s a small dog, and it’s buried quite shallowly. Otherwise, the signs wouldn’t be so obvious."
As the wok shovel scraped away the top layer of soil, a white bone accompanied by a foul smell became visible. Hawk and the others covered their noses, frowning as they stepped back. Dean, expressionless, followed the line of the bone, carefully cleared the surrounding soil, and finally dug out the entire dog carcass from the ground.
The dog’s body was semi-decomposed. Only some dark fur remained attached to the flesh and bones. Its internal organs had long since liquefied, seeping into the soil beneath.
After a quick examination, Dean stood up, stepped back a few paces, and exhaled the breath he had been holding. "This dog was killed by a heavy blow to the head. It’s been dead for over a month; the exact time needs to be confirmed by Forensics."
The homeowners ’went on vacation’ and never returned, and the helper arrived around the same time the dog died. This just got interesting.
Dean looked towards Hawk and the others. "It looks like the owners of this house didn’t go on vacation but ’disappeared.’ Guys, have someone keep an eye on that helper and call Forensics for me. I need to search inside the house now."
This time, Hawk was very compliant. After instructing his colleagues, he approached Dean with a look of admiration. "Detective Dean, it looks like I owe you a meal. You did an excellent job."
"Just call me Dean," Dean replied with a smile, taking out his usual gloves and shoe covers as he walked towards the villa’s front door.
He hadn’t studied trace evidence analysis, nor did he know much about forensic science, but he’d handled plenty of bodies. It was like that saying—a long illness turns a man into a good doctor. After a past filled with crime and then going straight, Dean found he was surprisingly well-suited to his current role as a detective.