Crystalline Powder
Marcus Shaw went to summon the leader for a meeting, only to discover the man playing Minesweeper.
Reed hurriedly closed the game and put on a stern face. "Don't you know the rules? Do you know how to knock?"
Marcus Shaw said nothing.
At the meeting, Reed slammed his large enamel mug onto the table and cleared his throat as usual. "We've caught the suspect and found the murder weapon. Shouldn't we close the case?"
But Marcus Shaw said, "New doubts have emerged."
Everyone perked up immediately, waiting for him to continue.
"Vik and I found the vendor who sells fried rice cakes and confirmed that the butcher did buy food from him, then started suffering from diarrhea. Later that same day, he was still clutching his stomach when he went to confront the vendor and ended up beating the man. Then someone saw him duck into a nearby public restroom, and he didn't come out for quite a while."
Lucas Lutz pushed up his glasses. "What does that prove?"
Viktor Dunn glared at him. "Don't rush. Let him finish."
Marcus Shaw continued, "We went back to the market where he works and carefully inspected his stall. Along one edge of the cutting board, we found a small amount of white, odorless crystalline powder. We brought it back for testing—it was sodium benzoate."
Everyone exchanged glances.
Zack said, "Sodium benzoate? Why does that sound so familiar?"
Captain Reed asked, "Is that what caused his persistent diarrhea?"
Marcus Shaw nodded. "It's a common preservative. You'll find it in the ingredient lists of many foods sold in supermarkets. When used according to regulations, its toxicity is negligible. But once consumed in excess, in the acidic environment of the intestines, it converts into the more toxic benzoic acid, causing acute diarrhea and upper abdominal pain. In severe cases, it can even lead to paralysis or death."
The room fell silent.
Marcus Shaw went on, "On the cutting board, there was also an enamel mug he used for drinking water. We brought that back too, and sodium benzoate was detected inside."
As soon as he said this, Captain Reed, who was drinking from his own mug, froze and quickly set it down.
In the silence that followed, Lucas Lutz raised one eyebrow and said, "That still doesn't prove the butcher was framed. Maybe he orchestrated the whole thing himself—deliberately drugging himself to confuse the investigation and create an alibi."
"I thought the same at first. But if you'd ever talked to him, you'd realize he's a simple man—a roughneck. His mind doesn't work with that kind of subtlety. Besides, without pharmacological knowledge, it would be easy to overdose on sodium benzoate. Then it wouldn't just be diarrhea—he could have killed himself. Do you really think he'd take that risk?"
Lucas Lutz was about to rebut, but Marcus Shaw cut in: "Furthermore, after reviewing the evidence again, I found two other things that don't add up. First, although the butcher's height matches our initial deduction, the set of shoe prints found at the crime scene don't match him at all. He wears a size forty-six, but those prints are size forty-two."
Marcus Shaw paused, then continued: "At first, I suspected he deliberately wore smaller shoes to create a slight limp. So I found a pair of size forty-two leather shoes—loose-fitting, not narrow—and had him try them on. But his feet were too wide; he couldn't squeeze into them at all. Then I had him try several other sizes. He could barely manage a forty-four. But the simulated footprints still didn't match the ones from the scene. Then it occurred to me—what if I tried the reverse? I put my own size forty-one feet into size forty-four shoes, and the resulting prints did match the ones from the scene: the heels dragging outward, slightly blurred."
"You're saying someone deliberately wore ill-fitting shoes to disguise their identity?" Captain Reed asked.
Marcus Shaw didn't answer that directly. Instead, he went on: "Second, while we can't rule out the possibility that the killer destroyed their clothing afterward, the fibers collected from the scene don't match what the butcher has been wearing recently, and we found no similar garments at his home. Also, I noticed that his personal hygiene is poor—he often goes more than a week without washing his hair, and dandruff falls everywhere. Yet none was found at the crime scene."
Lucas Lutz interjected again: "Maybe he wore a hairnet."
Viktor Dunn shot back immediately: "Is your memory that bad? Marcus just told you the butcher is a roughneck—he wouldn't think of something that detailed."
Lucas Lutz's expression looked like he'd swallowed something wrong. He stared at Viktor Dunn for a moment, then looked away and said nothing.
Marcus Shaw said, "From what I've observed, the butcher isn't the type to disguise himself. He wears his emotions on his sleeve. Take the incident where he got food poisoning and went to confront the vendor—he's the type who avenges grievances directly, simple and brutal. He doesn't strike me as someone with strong counter-investigation awareness, who could have studied the victim's routines in advance and meticulously planned the steps of the crime."
A few people at the table nodded.
Lucas Lutz flipped forward a page in his notebook and circled something with his pen. "According to the criminal profile, his height, strength, and age all match. He's also a bachelor with physical needs, and he has a motive for revenge. Maybe he just wanted to teach the victim a lesson, but in the heat of the moment, he lost control and escalated to murder."
The room went quiet again.
Marcus Shaw thought for a moment, then curled his lip and said, "I still lean toward the theory that someone witnessed his argument with the victim, heard him make threats on the spot, and seized the opportunity to kill the victim and deliberately frame him. The conclusion of a case shifts as the investigation progresses. If you reach a conclusion too early, you lose objectivity. You develop selective blindness—ignoring discrepancies and grasping only at fragments of information to support your preconceived notion."
Lucas Lutz snapped his notebook shut. "We joined the team at the same time. You're in no position to teach me how to solve cases. And if I recall correctly, you scored lower than me in every professional course."
Marcus Shaw smiled. "Solving cases depends on practical experience, not being confined to theory."
"But without solid theoretical grounding, practical work will never amount to much either."
They were about to argue further when Captain Reed coughed, and both fell silent.
Captain Reed leaned his elbows on the table and said, "Marc's two findings make sense. In my view, we can temporarily clear the butcher of suspicion. He's been detained for nearly twenty-four hours—we need to release him immediately. As team leader, I'll personally apologize and handle the matter properly."
Marcus Shaw added, "But he's not entirely innocent, either. He beat the fried rice cake vendor without any proof. I examined the injuries—they're minor in some ways, serious in others. If he doesn't apologize sincerely and actively compensate for medical expenses, the victim can still press charges for intentional assault. Also, he's been hoarding and selling uninspected frozen meat—the so-called 'zombie meat'—through who-knows-what channels. We found the goods and receipts at his home. I've already notified the food and drug safety authorities and transferred the matter to them."
As the meeting broke up, Lucas Lutz suddenly called out to Marcus Shaw while the others were still filing out: "Hey, let me recommend a book—Crime Scene Investigation, written by a foreign forensic expert. I think it's quite good. You should study it."
Marcus Shaw ignored him.
Marcus Shaw reorganized the case files, removing irrelevant content and adding the new leads.
Before he knew it, it was completely dark outside. Two colleagues were still in the office, each wrestling with their own cases. Marcus Shaw quietly ordered beef noodle takeout for everyone—counting heads without saying a word.
That night, a text message came from Nora. At first Marcus Shaw didn't reply. But when he was about to sleep, the message still nagged at him, so he got up and responded.
With just one word: "Mm."
Early the next morning, Marcus Shaw was waiting for Viktor Dunn so they could head out, when he spotted a woman standing at the corner of the hallway. She had her back to him, but from her height and ponytail, he recognized her immediately—Dr. Maren Frost.
Marcus Shaw quickly ducked back out of sight, figuring she'd come to the station so early probably because she'd been assigned to another case. He hid where he was, hoping she'd leave soon so he could pass.
But just then, Felix from the Second Investigation Group materialized out of nowhere. His face was rigid as he suddenly blurted out: "D-d-doc Miu, I, I, I have something I want to tell you." The words tumbled out like popcorn.
Dr. Maren Frost's ponytail swished. "Then say it."
Felix hemmed and hawed, his mouth seemingly weighted down with iron, his hands having nowhere to go. He couldn't get a single sentence out. Marcus Shaw had a vague inkling of what was happening and found himself feeling anxious on the young man's behalf.
Dr. Maren Frost started to walk away, and only then did Felix panic, blurting out in rapid succession: "Do you have a boyfriend I'd like to date you."
Dr. Maren Frost stopped and stood facing him. She thought for a moment and said, "Let me ask you a question. If you get it right, we can give it a try. If not, then forget it."
Felix's eyes lit up. "Ask away, ask away!"
The question came flying out: "How many articles are in the Junius Treaty?"
Felix looked like he'd been struck with a club. He froze for a moment, then asked cautiously, "What… what treaty?"
Dr. Maren Frost enunciated each word: "The Junius Treaty." She explained that it was a ceasefire treaty between the Earth Alliance and the PLANT Provisional Council, and a very important historical event in the CE calendar.
Felix was still scratching his head when Dr. Maren Frost said, "See? We don't even share a common language. What a pity. How about I be your older sister?"
With that, she turned and walked away.
Marcus Shaw hid behind the corner, suppressing a laugh, when it suddenly hit him—years ago, when she'd rejected him, she'd also stumped him with some bizarre question and ended with that exact same line. After all these years, she was still hopelessly devoted to Gundam, and her personality hadn't changed much at all.
He wondered just how many "little brothers" she'd collected by now—enough to form a whole company?
The small market was as bustling as ever. The noise seemed to ferment in the air, impossible to disperse, growing only stronger with time.
There were two entrances, front and back, but only one surveillance camera.
Marcus Shaw looked up to gauge the camera's angle when a gust of wind swept dust from the corrugated steel roof into his eyes.
Memories came crashing in like a tidal wave. The clatter of train cars. Flying gravel. Shouting outside, screaming inside. And himself, engulfed in fear, unable to open his eyes, flooring the accelerator, thinking he could break through the siege and escape the dead end.
When consciousness sank, the body went wherever the wind blew—you wouldn't even notice your foot stepping into emptiness.
Viktor Dunn's shout yanked Marcus Shaw back from his memories. He forced his stinging eyes open through the tears and realized he was leaning backward, one foot stuck in a manhole, with Vik gripping one of his arms.
A cold sweat broke out across his body.
He staggered upright and rinsed his eyes with water, only to discover that the resin manhole cover had shattered into two pieces—one wedged in the opening, the other fallen into the shaft. He craned his neck to look down: it was bottomless, and a foul stench rushed up.
A wave of belated fear washed over him, and he cursed himself for being careless.
At the same time, he was puzzled—how could a perfectly fine manhole cover shatter so easily? But then again, maybe it was just old and never replaced. Bad luck, wrong timing.
Marcus Shaw looked down and inspected his injuries: two scrapes on his shin, and his sweatpants were stained. He felt a pang of distress—after all, Danny had given them to him.
Marcus Shaw secretly took a few pills. Viktor Dunn finally tracked down the market manager, and the two of them went to the office to copy that day's surveillance footage, planning to take it back to the station and review it through the night.
Leaving the small market, still debating whether to try tracing the source of the sodium benzoate, the station called: the victim's son, Vince Conrad, had heard the butcher was released, gone to his house, and beaten him up. Truly, a cycle of vengeance, the same old drama repeating itself.
Marcus Shaw reconsidered—sodium benzoate was too common. Even if they investigated, it would likely be a waste of effort. So he told Vik to drive straight to Vince Conrad's residence.
On the way, Viktor Dunn suddenly mused, "That kid may be stupid and reckless, but I can understand how he feels. He and his mother fought all the time, but at the end of the day, the bond between mother and son runs deep."
Marcus Shaw turned to look out the window. Trees, people, shop signs, utility poles—everything was receding. He couldn't help thinking of his own mother.
His mind drifted to the Dragon Boat Festival, when his father had sighed and said, "Next month is your mother's birthday. No matter what, we're still family."
In his backpack, the pill bottle rattled, emitting a faint rustling sound. Marcus Shaw suddenly noticed that he'd been increasing his dosage lately. He needed to be more careful.
When they reached Building Five, Vince Conrad's phone went unanswered. They went upstairs and knocked—no response. Growing anxious, Marcus Shaw resorted to his lock-picking skills again, figuring he'd just write an extra page in his report later.
Inside, the place was a shambles. All valuables were gone.
Marcus Shaw slapped his forehead. "Damn it—he's run!"