Barely two bites into lunch, Marcus Shaw received another call.
He was about to text Viktor Dunn to come back early from his blind date when his WeChat logged itself out.
Probably an automatic update. He typed the password back in and continued.
Progress Avenue was jammed with traffic. Two police motorcycles blocked the upstream lanes, forcing cars to weave and squeeze past in the remaining space.
The heat made everyone irritable. Curses drifted from car windows, but with police present, no one dared honk.
The victim was a delivery rider. His motorcycle leaned against the median barrier, food spilled from the delivery box—wontons, spicy hotpot, soup splattered across the ground, already turning sour.
His body had been thrown six or seven meters. He'd landed on the back of his skull and lay in a pool of blood, limbs splayed like a starfish.
Dr. Maren Frost had arrived first. As Marcus Shaw approached, she was arguing with one of the traffic officers: "Yes, I said we can do a breath test, but we'd have to bring him back to do it. He's dead. Your equipment can't test him, and I don't have any advanced instruments that can give instant results either."
Marcus Shaw coughed and asked the other officer: "Looks like an accident. Why was it transferred to us?"
"We checked the surveillance. He was driving against traffic, flooring it like a madman, then the bike swerved and he went flying. We thought it was an accident too, but when we inspected the bike, the brake cable had been cut. That's beyond our scope—we wouldn't trouble you otherwise."
Marcus Shaw's heart tightened. Another tampered vehicle—and this time it had actually killed someone. The memory of his own brush with death the day before sent a chill through him.
He snapped out of it and crouched by the motorcycle. A black cable was indeed severed, the steel core exposed. The fresh white cross-section of the rubber coating looked like it had been clipped with heavy pliers.
Marcus Shaw pulled out his camera and photographed it from multiple angles. Then he put on gloves, took a piece of tape, and pressed it against the cable's surface, hoping to lift a fingerprint.
No matter how carefully he examined it, the tape picked up nothing but dust.
The nearby officer suggested: "Try other spots. Maybe the seat or the fuel tank has prints."
Marcus Shaw studied the bike's body, coated in a layer of grime, and shook his head. "Unlikely. If nothing's on this cable, whoever did it probably wore gloves. Or never touched the bike at all."
A thought surfaced: the killer was extremely methodical, the methods similar. Could it be the same person?
After finishing at the scene, Marcus Shaw called the station to arrange towing the motorcycle as evidence. The traffic officer urged him: "Hurry up, it's been blocked for half an hour already."
Marcus Shaw went to examine the body on the ground.
Dr. Maren Frost was acting strange. She didn't greet Marcus Shaw or acknowledge him, just continued examining the corpse and talking to the officers as if he were invisible.
Marcus Shaw didn't overthink it. He crouched to take more photos, but felt an odd familiarity about the victim's features—he couldn't place where he'd seen the face.
The victim's name was Gordon Pike. That rang no bells either.
Maybe he'd delivered food to the station? He dealt with so many people day in and day out—they blurred together like a passing parade.
After the body examination, Dr. Maren Frost was still working alone.
Marcus Shaw figured she might be dealing with something personal. After all, if he hadn't told anyone, who would know that he too had nearly died yesterday?
Just then, a middle-aged couple pushed through traffic, the woman wailing. She threw herself onto the ground beside the body, crying "My son, my son!" with devastating grief. The man couldn't hold back his tears either, though he wiped them silently, shoulders hunched—the large frame seemed to shrink before your eyes.
After a moment, the man steadied himself and asked Dr. Maren Frost with a trembling voice: "Was he hit, or was it his own carelessness?" Another tear slid down before he could stifle it.
Dr. Maren Frost sighed. "My condolences. I'm just the forensics doctor, not the one in charge." She pointed at Marcus Shaw in his basketball jersey.
The woman had cried herself breathless, nearly spent. When Dr. Maren Frost's colleague arrived, she was gently led away, watching her son's body being carried off.
Marcus Shaw said: "Please come with me to the station. We can talk in detail there."
The traffic officers breathed a sigh of relief. After half an hour, the road finally reopened.
At the station, Marcus Shaw poured water for the couple. When he started asking about Gordon Pike, the woman's eyes welled up again. Marcus Shaw paused the interview and watched her lean against her husband, shoulders trembling with soft sobs.
Four or five minutes later, she composed herself. Marcus Shaw handed her a roll of tissues and asked: "Has Gordon Pike shown any unusual behavior recently?"
She pressed the tissue to her nose, eyes frozen.
The man cleared his throat, voice hoarse: "Not that I know of. He worked full-time as a rider. Left at eight every morning, didn't come home until nearly eleven at night. Sometimes he was too tired to even wash up—just collapsed into bed."
As he finished, the woman thawed and added: "He worked so hard, just to earn a little more, trying to pay toward his father's pension. I kept telling him to take it easy, not to accept so many orders. But he wouldn't listen. And now look—he worked himself to death. Great, just great."
She started crying again, grabbed another tissue, and went on between sobs: "Although, before he..."
The man turned and glared at her. She bit off the sentence.
Marcus Shaw asked: "Before he—what?"
The woman looked at her husband and said nothing.
The man said: "Nothing, nothing. Just that he was idle for a long time before, couldn't find work."
A brief silence, then the woman spoke: "He was always honest, always willing to work hard, never complained. Just last night, he brought home half a roast chicken. And today..." Her voice broke.
The man pulled her close. Both of them were drenched in sweat.
Marcus Shaw thought: people in this line of work were generally hardworking, honest folks who didn't resort to crime.
But who would kill a delivery rider?
Unless he'd crossed someone.
At this question, both parents' eyes went wide, fists clenching, gazes darting. Finally the man said: "About a week and a half ago, a woman gave him a bad review, claimed he'd opened her food and eaten some. Actually, the restaurant had rushed the order and didn't seal the container properly. He didn't notice when picking it up, so it turned into an argument with the customer."
"Go on."
"He came home early that day, just past nine. I saw him looking upset and asked, and he eventually told me. Said because of that one bad review, his whole day's work was basically for nothing."
Marcus Shaw was about to write it down when the woman cut in: "That's nothing. In the service industry, you meet all kinds. If anything, our son would be the one upset, not that woman. Why would she seek revenge over a meal? No. In my opinion, it's more likely connected to seven months ago, when he helped the police catch that fugitive."
Marcus Shaw's ears perked up. "What fugitive?"
The man took over: "We don't know all the details. We just know he spotted someone while making a delivery—thought the face looked familiar, like someone on the police wanted list. He called the police and followed the guy. They caught him. The police gave him a commendation for being a good citizen."
The woman, face still hidden behind a tissue, added between sobs: "If I'd known this would happen, I'd rather he hadn't taken that reward. Don't play hero. When he got back, I told him, but he wouldn't listen. He said he wanted to be useful to society, and if he had the chance again, he'd absolutely call the police. Call, call, call—call my foot! Useful my eye. Nothing but trouble. And now his life's gone. Probably that fugitive got out somehow and took revenge. He died helping the police catch a criminal—you need to give us answers." She slammed her hand on the table.
The man glanced at Marcus Shaw and quickly pulled his wife's hand away.
Marcus Shaw rubbed his ear and said: "He did the right thing. Don't worry—I'll look into it. If his death is connected to this, I'll find the killer and give you closure."
After seeing the couple out, Marcus Shaw drove to the Meadow Branch to inquire about the captured fugitive.