Evidence on Mr. Scam

This particular train ride happened to have a changing effect, a good changing effect—perhaps. With a blurred brain, Owen tried to think thoroughly. Where was home? He tried to find some clues inside his memory, but just darkness inside a trunk. I probably have to take one step at a time, he thought detailedly.

Someone repeatedly knocked in a certain way. It was—weak. Owen slowly walked to the door and clenched his fists. No one was there for some odd reason, it was an unknown knock in some room. He looked out much more but came to a simple empty conclusion.

But then, came the knock. In a startled motion of mistrust, he gulped and rushed. But no one was there. Owen decided to search the hallway of Mr. Scam's. Through the divided walls stood a door. Towards the door, came an abrupt distance. He screamed rasply in more of a case of a gasp. Then, an unaccountable voice occurred behind the space of Owen's ear. "Would you mind telling me?"

Doxin:

"Qui est derrière M. Scam?" Det. Jacques asked bewilderedly. "No one knows for sure," Doxin admitted, "I'm just not looking forward to being—in particular boneless. Do you have any suspicions?" "We still have Miss Sheard?" Det. Jacques answered reassuringly. Det. Doxin nodded. With a dry act of confidence, he went to the woman with the same jacket. "Hello Mademoiselle," he greeted. The woman was pretty young—in fact—blonde too. Doxin liked blondes which was a bond with Det. Julie anyway. Her hair was ponytailed and she had a suitcase.

"So, you speak French," She said with a sensational smile. "On the contrary, I'm not particularly French but I sure happen to know it," Det. Doxin admitted.

The woman happened to be much softer when said. "Well, you sure look at me as a detective, I know it." Doxin cleared his throat facing Jacques. "Well, would you mind telling me your name?" "Isabella Mae Sheard." She smiled uncomfortably. "My lady—you don't necessarily have to smile every time," Det. Doxin said with a hoaxed smile. Miss Sheard with relief said ok.

"Are you particular with the kidnapping in the Elara Hotel?"

"Yes."

"Are you in a way related to it?"

"Not most likely—but I can say that I was in the hotel at that time. I got a call from the manager."

"Edward Mane said he went home early, when did he get home?"

"About six o' clock."

"So it must've been an hour and five minutes later. Do you happen to be familiar with this?"

Doxin violently showed the phone.

"Who is he?" Miss Sheard tensely asked. Doxin explained, "He is the kidnapper of the boy who survived the raid. Do you happen to know about Davis' wealth?"

"Well, a nice one she was, we all met her. She took five days inside the Elara Hotel."

"A nice person she was, eh?" Det. Doxin reflected. "Well, I don't believe I'll be needing any more information. Thank you for your time."

Det. Jacques gazed at Doxin. "Well, n'importe quelle information?"

Doxin delineated, "Miss Sheard happens to have a connection with the woman, Mr. Scam, and Mane. It was so that she knew when Mane left at six. She said she was notified. She must've been at home because she would've been notified in person. But I was told she was there at the time. And it was only an hour and five minutes before it happened.

"It's most likely an implausible story she explained which has something to do with the raid. I showed her the picture and asked her about the family's wealth. Then, she started with a she. Only able to give a boy, the mother was the only she. After such a mistake she made, she made sure not to refer to her name.

"And the manager's husband, Mr. Denbinarth talked about Mr. Scam in which they were on a certain mission to kill a rich woman and take her jacks. With many unneeded smiles she gave, I was sure—she never smiles as much in her life.

"Given a certain thought I found out, five days from today, Mrs. Davis visited the hotel. But many years ago, Denbinarth said she died in a wildfire in California. It's final that the mother—is still alive."

Det. Jacques began to shiver in a dumbfounded way. "Alive—everyone knows that the woman died!"

"That's what we thought for sure, but to be more convincing. Mr. Scam's team must've started that wildfire to kill the woman.

"The only thing is that only—they are still trying to still finish the mission. But they don't know she's alive."

Det. Jacques sighed. "A du sens pour moi. It all connects together. What about Harvey?"

"He is most likely on this train, and we still need to question the engineer. He had something to do with the mission."

"It's probably the manager's mari who is perhaps—guilty."

"In fact, he is the opposite of blameworthy. He said he wasn't related to it. If it was in the case, the team most likely planned it. In this matter, he quit. He's the only one innocent in this crime—which reminds me."

Owen:

Mr. Scam darted a dry look at Owen. Owen was chained to a chair which was beating hot—and heated more when he denied. "Have you got taught by your parents to never lie?" Mr. Scam hissed. Owen trepidatiously nodded. "And if you tell the truth it'll help you and others, eh? What's the password to the account?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you," Owen told him. Mr. Scam escorted out a thin blade which laid softly on the throat. Owen was unknowingly petrified. Mr. Scam said with a soft push, "In many matters, you will risk lives to the bone. This will hurt you and others. Examine him."

The masked custodians shepherded Owen to a different smaller room. They ordered him to remove his first open garment. Laid into the bin, nothing happened to be found. His first shirt was removed and nothing but it was as zilch. They ordered him to take off his undershirt which presented him shirtless. More pieces taken away from his body only presented his underpants, which was ordered to take off.

After the examination, they took him to the malevolent mister. "We've found nothing on him nor his garments." Mr. Scam slowly folded his face. "So you accompanied him to examine him and you come with nothing."

Mr. Scam soon had some time alone in his head to mastermind something. So desperate and resentful to get the money as told—he said, "I have a mission for you."