Breathless Pursuit
"You and your husband had a good relationship?"
At Marcus Shaw's question, Mrs. Hollis immediately unleashed a stream of dolphin-pitched tones, then seemed to choke on her own voice, panting as she patted her chest and said: "My husband and I were bound by love, inseparable as glue. Even though we've been married eight years, we still only have eyes for each other. We're as close as one person."
The vice principal immediately corrected her: "That's 'bound by indestructible love'—not 'Vajra.' You're not a pair of gorillas." She rolled her eyes.
Marcus Shaw barely managed to swallow his laugh whole.
"Then take a look at this." Marcus Shaw moved his clenched fist away from his mouth and produced a small evidence bag containing only a slip of paper. Mrs. Hollis looked puzzled. She took it, and her whole face withered like frostbitten eggplant—she froze, with only her right eyelid twitching.
"This—this is impossible." She grabbed Viktor Dunn again, as if pleading for rescue.
"Look at the handwriting—it's definitely Mr. Hollis's," the vice principal interjected.
Mrs. Hollis stared at it again, then flung the paper to the floor and kicked off her other shoe: "Impossible. Absolutely impossible. Someone forged it—someone imitated his handwriting."
She stood up barefoot, seizing the vice principal's arm: "Was it you? It was you, wasn't it? The school would do anything to escape responsibility. He's dead and you're still smearing him—you, you..."
The vice principal peeled off her hand and bared her teeth. "Are you out of your mind?"
But the outburst had actually given Marcus Shaw an idea. He quickly picked up the slip, tucked it back into his notebook, and said to the vice principal, "Could you find two of Mr. Hollis's lesson plans? I need to take them back and have an expert verify the handwriting."
"No problem. It'll also shut some people up." The vice principal rolled her eyes again.
Mrs. Hollis lowered her head, seemingly calculating her next move. After a while, she said, "Even if he did do such a thing behind my back, it's because your students dress so skimpy, always seducing him."
The vice principal immediately fired back: "That's bullshit." She flushed, glanced at the two officers, and quickly corrected herself: "Don't talk nonsense. Students all wear uniforms—the style is very conservative."
Mrs. Hollis didn't engage. Her face crumpled into the prelude to another crying fit, but seeing Marcus Shaw's cold expression, she reined it in. Instead, she started muttering to herself: "You fool, why were you so stupid? No wonder I found a student dress under the bed once. I didn't think anything of it at the time—figured it was a surprise for me. I even put it on for you. If you liked schoolgirls, why didn't you tell me? I could have dressed up for you."
The further she went, the more outrageous she became, her voice high and piercing—like a long, thin pole planted in the room, impossible to ignore entirely.
Marcus Shaw coughed twice, as if her words had cloyed his throat.
"Apart from the dress, was there anything else unusual before he died?"
Mrs. Hollis thought for a long time, then said: "Since last semester, he always brought test papers home to grade. Said the school workload was too heavy and he had to work overtime on his own."
She shot a glance at the vice principal.
The vice principal quickly said, "Normal teaching duties aren't that heavy. Who knows what he was doing at school that required him to grade at home."
Mrs. Hollis's body trembled, but she couldn't think of a rebuttal.
Marcus Shaw asked, "Anything else?"
Mrs. Hollis kept shaking her head. After a while, she asked belatedly, "Where is he? I want to see him one more time." She started to cry again.
"The forensic examiner has taken him for a full examination, to see if there are any investigative leads."
Mrs. Hollis quieted down and began sniffling softly, then gradually raised the volume again. Her crying was like a nimble tongue—licking at everyone's sympathy while sucking away everyone's patience.
Marcus Shaw said, "There was a pair of shattered glasses at the crime scene. Was he very nearsighted?"
Mrs. Hollis looked up. "Yes, over a thousand degrees. And he seemed to have some psychological condition—whenever he took off his glasses, he'd lose all composure and panic. He even slept in them. He saw a psychologist once, who apparently prescribed some kind of training, but for some reason he gave it up."
She frowned slightly as she spoke, as if discussing a stranger.
Marcus Shaw quickly noted this down, thinking that the killer must have exploited this weakness—stripping him of his glasses to make him easier to control, and thereby carrying out the murder smoothly.
Which meant this person knew him well.
Marcus Shaw studied Mrs. Hollis, thinking: This woman—dressed seductively, made up flamboyantly—no matter how you looked at her, she and the deceased didn't seem like they belonged together.
Why had he married a woman like her? And why had she chosen a man like him?
And her various performances just now seemed more like some kind of deliberate act.
Could she have hired someone to kill her own husband, hoping to gain something? Compensation from the school? Life insurance? Or had she discovered his misconduct and decided to take revenge?
Countless questions buzzed in his mind like flies, crashing into one another.
Just then, Lucas Lutz unexpectedly called. His voice was taut: "You two need to get back here. He's demanding to leave—I can't hold him by myself."
Marcus Shaw asked a few more quick questions, then had the vice principal and Mrs. Hollis review the transcript and sign it.
Hearing there was a murder suspect upstairs, Mrs. Hollis perked up. She got to her feet, retrieved her shoes, and tugged at Marcus Shaw, demanding to go see the man—she wanted him to pay with his life.
Marcus Shaw shook off her hand. "I understand how you feel, but right now he's only a suspect. We haven't found direct evidence—no one can do anything to him, and you're certainly not allowed to take matters into your own hands. Leave it to us. You can go home now."
As soon as the two men stepped out, Mrs. Hollis resumed harassing the vice principal, pressing her to come up with a compensation plan.
Marcus Shaw smirked privately.
Unexpectedly, Viktor Dunn said, "She really loved her husband. Now that he's gone—she looks so pitiful."
"I'm not so sure about that."
Viktor Dunn actually looked indignant and said earnestly, "Fair enough. When you get married, you'll understand that kind of feeling."
Marcus Shaw shot him a withering glance and said nothing, thinking, As if you've ever been married.
As soon as they entered the conference room, Lucas Lutz rose from his seat, looking deeply aggrieved—his face a mask of resentment. He headed for the door and said, "I'm going to the restroom. You two deal with him."
The long-haired man also bounced up from his chair and roared, "What right do you have to keep me locked up here?" He shoved his left hand into his pocket, as if about to pull something out.
Viktor Dunn went on high alert and barked, "Hands out of your pockets—raise them!"
But the man ignored him and produced a pack of cigarettes.
Marcus Shaw's tension eased. Seeing him about to light up, he quickly stopped him: "If you can hold off, please wait a bit. This isn't a restroom—it's not appropriate."
"Then I need to use the restroom."
Viktor Dunn said, "Do you have no shame?"
The long-haired man and Viktor Dunn glared at each other for a moment. The man pocketed his cigarettes and lighter but didn't sit down.
After a silence, the long-haired man suddenly smiled. "I've figured it out. You don't actually have any surveillance footage—you're just bluffing. Aren't you?"
Marcus Shaw said nothing, maintaining an expressionless stare. The man's pupils remained tiny—like glass eyes, impossible to read.
Marcus Shaw couldn't help asking, "What's going on with your eyes? Do you have a condition?"
The long-haired man's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "What condition could I have? I'm just wearing colored contacts. I've also been incredibly busy lately—not enough sleep, brain's not firing on all cylinders, reactions a bit slow. Please don't take it personally."
Marcus Shaw nodded without speaking.
A moment later, the long-haired man added: "If you actually had surveillance footage, you'd have slapped cuffs on me right away. No need for all this talk. And 'giving me a chance'—what a load of crap. Let me say this one last time, so listen carefully: I went to the second floor to use the restroom and smoke a cigarette. I don't know anything about any small staircase, and I never went to the third floor. Investigate all you want. You've wasted half my day, and I'm not going to hold it against you for now. I need to go home and cook for my daughter, so I'm leaving."
With that, he made for the door.
Viktor Dunn blocked him, but Marcus Shaw pulled him back.
Marcus Shaw sighed. "This is just routine questioning. How about this—leave your phone number. If we have further questions, we'll contact you." He paused, then added, "Thanks for your cooperation."
The long-haired man hesitated, but seeing Marcus Shaw's unblinking stare, he hastily wrote down the number, then pressed his thumb print and signed the transcript.
Viktor Dunn stepped aside. The long-haired man strode out quickly.
Lucas Lutz returned from the restroom, bewildered, and immediately demanded: "You two are useless? You couldn't even stop him? I'd have been better off alone."
Neither man spoke. They turned and rolled their eyes in unison.
Marcus Shaw said, "Let's go check the surveillance power supply—see what happened. We didn't have time earlier."
As they headed upstairs, Marcus Shaw suddenly stopped. "He doesn't even know what time his daughter gets home—how could he be in such a rush to cook for her?"
He turned and took off after the man.
Without noticing, the sky outside had clouded over. Dark clouds hung low, threatening to crash down. The air was thick as porridge, and the wind whipped around, catching people full in the face when they least expected it.
Outside the school gate, Marcus Shaw cast about, standing at different intersections, rising on his toes and straining to see into the distance. Finally, in one direction, he spotted a thin dark stick bobbing slightly on the horizon, moving at a steady pace.
Marcus Shaw gathered his strength, pushed off, and launched himself toward the target. His legs felt beyond his control, as if they might fly off at any moment.
At a certain distance, he began to slow, eventually just walking, trailing about fifty meters behind.
The long-haired man was about to cross the street. Marcus Shaw quickened his pace, but the man suddenly turned his head. Marcus Shaw ducked behind a trash can, drenched in sweat, narrowly avoiding detection.
He edged out carefully, craning his neck—but the man had vanished. He rushed over to search but found no trace. Fearing the man might be hiding nearby, Marcus Shaw didn't dare act rashly. He pressed himself against a wall and scanned with his eyes.
Just then, a flowerpot fell from above. Marcus Shaw jerked back—it landed inches from his toes, exploding with a tremendous crack, soil spraying everywhere, narrowly missing his head.
He looked up. No one was there.
Marcus Shaw stared at the unfamiliar plant—its stems and leaves an unsettling green, its flowers as red as ghost fire. A chill of belated fear rippled through his entire body. The old sweat hadn't dried before new sweat broke out, rolling like glass beads across his chest, maddeningly itchy.
Before he could fully collect himself, Lucas Lutz called again. The ringtone echoed wildly through the street. Marcus Shaw answered hastily and heard the other man complaining: "Don't do anything rash. Careful about tipping him off—I'm on my way."
Marcus Shaw suppressed his irritation. He was about to hang up when he spotted the long-haired man emerging from a public restroom. He shoved the phone away and crept forward silently.
He followed for about two minutes when the long-haired man suddenly turned again—catching sight of Marcus Shaw with nowhere to hide. The man bolted like a spooked horse, crashing into a utility pole without even seeming to feel it.
Marcus Shaw shouted, "Stop!" He dashed across the street, nearly clipped by a tricycle.
He closed the gap with a burst of speed and grabbed the back of the man's collar. But the long-haired man went limp like a sack of water, inexplicably twisting to the ground, his face pressed against the pavement, his fingers twitching like spider legs.
He didn't make a sound.
Before Marcus Shaw could process this, Lucas Lutz came running up from behind, gasping violently. Before he could say a word, the man on the ground suddenly shoved himself up. Marcus Shaw grabbed his shoulder and yanked hard, flipping him over. The man's face was contorted—tears and snot streaming, eyes fixed and staring as if skewered on bamboo sticks, his body trembling uncontrollably.
Marcus Shaw understood—the man's drug addiction was acting up. No wonder his pupils had been so constricted and his reactions so sluggish. He reached for his handcuffs, but the long-haired man let out a guttural howl and came at them like a wild animal, teeth bared and claws slashing.
The two officers shouted at him to stop, but he seemed beyond understanding human speech. He snatched a shovel from a sanitation cart by the roadside and, with a roar, swung it without hesitation at Lucas Lutz's right arm.
Lucas Lutz tried to dodge—but in sidestepping, the shovel caught him on the carotid artery. Blood sprayed like a fountain. He screamed, clamped a hand over the wound, and crumpled.
Seeing this, Marcus Shaw grabbed a cord from his bag and, without a second thought, cinched it tightly around Lucas Lutz's upper arm.
When he turned back, the long-haired man had dropped the shovel and was fleeing down the street.
Marcus Shaw ground his teeth, bandaging as he roared: "If you can't handle it, don't come out here and make things worse!"