Chapter 11: The Mysterious Homicide

It was evidently a bustling morning.

New York Homicide Detective Kate Bealit was already accustomed to being awakened early by pressing work calls. Dressed in a plain-colored trench coat and towering tall, she held a cup of coffee in her hand, flashing her police badge as she crossed the yellow crime scene tape. By appearance alone, this beautiful woman looked more like a model than a seasoned homicide detective.

"What have we gathered?" Looking at the trail of bodies stretching from the doorway into the room, Kate frowned in inquiry. As the backbone of the major crimes unit, her team had an impressive clearance rate. But the recent serial killings by the so-called "Bloody Beast" had put immense pressure on her. The media was in a frenzy; one could hardly turn on the TV without hearing about it.

Both the mayor and the police commissioner had taken a keen interest in the case, resulting in Kate pulling several all-nighters. At least, there seemed to be no new victims over the past couple of days, granting her a slight respite.

"Harry Hill, the big shot around here. Word has it that he supplied drugs to several streets nearby," Henry Brando, one of her subordinates, quickly approached, briefing her on the situation. The lean detective looked exceptionally professional and competent.

"There are thirteen bodies in total, including Harry. The rest are his men. This place was their stronghold, seldom visited by outsiders, so the bodies weren't discovered until this morning. Preliminary judgment suggests the crime occurred the night before last, but we'll need the coroner to confirm the exact time." Another detective, Kevin Laine, having just finished talking to nearby officers, nodded in their direction.

"The room at the very end appears to be Harry's office. The safe is open. The drugs are still there, but the money is all gone. What's your take? A turf war?" Henry asked, slightly puzzled, but before he could finish his thought, he quickly dismissed it. If it were a turf war, why wouldn't the invaders take the drugs, which were arguably more valuable than the stolen cash?

"I don't know, pal," Kevin shook his head, gazing at the scene in the room with astonishment. "This place looks like a warzone. There are bullet holes everywhere, but they seem to have mostly come from Harry's crew. The state they're in now is... quite grim."

These ruthless gang members were not easy adversaries, yet not one of them had survived. What was even more shocking was the ghastly state of their deaths: either their necks had been violently twisted or their chests brutally torn open, exposing organs. The sight of scattered blood and gore was chilling.

Setting her coffee cup aside and donning gloves, Kate bent over to closely inspect Harry's body. In death, the once-formidable drug lord showed no hint of his former dominance, his face frozen in an expression of terror and desperation.

She stared intently at Harry's bare arm, missing a hand, then glanced at the dried puddle between his legs. Her beautiful face alternated between seriousness and confusion, as if trying to piece something together.

"Did these guys get attacked by some prehistoric beast?" Henry commented, shaking his head in disbelief after gauging the distance from where they stood to the room's entrance.

"We don't know what it was, but whatever it was scared the hell out of him," Kate said, her brows furrowing. For some reason, even though the bodies of these drug dealers were relatively intact, the scene felt eerily familiar, reminding her of the corpses that had been gnawed on.

Could it be the same perpetrators? She pondered.

"The reporters outside are swarming like cats who've caught the scent of fish. They sure move fast," they could already hear the commotion outside.

"That's for the commissioner to worry about. Let's focus on our jobs," Kate said, her face cold. Both Henry and Kevin sighed in unison, sensing another busy day ahead.

...

A luxury sedan pulled up to the hotel entrance, and a bellboy swiftly moved forward to open the back seat door. Fowler Marcos stepped out of the car, walking leisurely into the hotel.

He was the epitome of an American success story. A senior partner in one of New York's most renowned law firms and an outstanding patent agent, he epitomized the characteristics of sharpness, efficiency, and competence. Had it not been for his precious daughter's request, he would never have wasted his time here.

"If that damn kid thinks I'm going to take him in, he better get rid of that delusion right now. There's no place for the weak in this business," Fowler thought, slightly impatient.

"I don't know how you managed to charm Lisa, but you have five minutes to prove I'm not wasting my time," Fowler said as he confidently entered the Vanderbilt banquet hall located in the hotel's west wing. He took a seat without waiting for an invitation, completely foregoing any pleasantries.

He preferred this approach to conversations; catching his adversaries off guard with his dominant demeanor and straightforward speech. Many have faltered on the other side of the negotiation table due to this tactic.

"It's fascinating. Humans have never actually seen a demon, yet they love to intricately describe such supernatural beings in various literature," Bruce said, gently closing the book in his hands. The cover read: *Paradise Lost, John Milton.*

The book describes a mighty demon, "Satan," and Lucifer with his followers, once esteemed angels, who rebelled against Christ. After three days of intense heavenly combat, Lucifer's rebellion was crushed by Christ. The rebels plummeted through chaos for nine days and nights before landing in Hell. There, under Satan's leadership, they established the palace of demons amidst raging flames.

"What an intriguing tale," Bruce said, a smile spreading across his face. He seemed unperturbed by Fowler's cold reception and sat as if they were good friends having a heart-to-heart chat.

Fowler was slightly taken aback. It's rare for young individuals to maintain such composure, especially in the face of a top lawyer like himself. He took a moment to truly observe Bruce.

Bruce was impeccably dressed in an Armani suit. The precise shoulder lines and tailored fit hinted at the suit either being custom-made or finely adjusted. Usually unkempt, Bruce's hair today was perfectly styled. His navy polka-dot tie, fastened with a Half-Windsor Knot, added a touch of sophistication. A Girard Perregaux watch adorned his wrist. His demeanor was reserved and composed, giving off an enigmatic aura.

To Fowler's surprise, he found himself somewhat intimidated by the young man's gaze. While one could dress up and play the part, authentic presence was hard to fake. Could Bruce be an heir to some renowned family? That didn't quite match Lisa's description of him.

"Oh? Mr. Lee, are you interested in religious literature?" Fowler, now subtly influenced by Bruce's presence, asked earnestly. He had a growing sense that there was something exceptional about this young man.

"Religion and faith are integral to human civilization. Sometimes, humans need a faith to unite individuals or even larger groups," Bruce said, his hands resting on the table. "So, do you believe in a religion, Mr. Marcos? Or perhaps have any faith? Do you believe in the existence of supernatural beings like angels or demons?"

Bruce's tone was calm, yet clear. His gaze was serene, yet deep, making Fowler shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"No, I don't follow any religion. Nor do I believe in angels or demons. If you're asking about my faith, perhaps I believe in Franklin," he replied with a mix of jest and seriousness, trying to regain his footing in the conversation. (Benjamin Franklin's portrait is on the hundred-dollar bill.)

Bruce continued to observe him calmly, and after a moment, he smiled. "It was merely an exchange to better understand each other. Hopefully, we can delve deeper into the topic of religion and faith in the future. The Vanderbilt's fish soup is quite excellent; would you like to try some?"

"No, thank you. Let's discuss why you wanted to see me today," Fowler said, relieved. Only then did he realize that he had been slightly sweating. From the moment he sat down, he had been subconsciously influenced by Bruce's every move, feeling out of his comfort zone.

Unbeknownst to him, all his attention had shifted solely to Bruce.