Detective Lauren Vance's Past
Shock and an ineffable sorrow had fused together, as though even my vocal cords had been frozen solid.
I clenched my fists.
Detective Vance set down her teacup and said, "I don't know if this will make you feel any better… Ian, Dr. Ashmore won't escape justice."
I said, "Easier said than done."
She said, "I'll take you to the station to reopen the case. I'll be your witness. And…"
She lowered her eyes. "A police officer was nearly killed… the department will take it seriously."
I said, "But they didn't see what I saw."
She said, "At the very least, you have to try."
I gave a self-mocking laugh. "Haven't I tried enough times already?"
Detective Vance fell silent.
Then she suddenly reached out and smacked the back of my head, loud and hard. "Hey, snap out of it! Where did all that heroics go when you were saving me?"
She grabbed both my ears and shook them vigorously, cursing me the whole time. "When you're rescuing someone you've got lectures for days, but the moment it's about yourself you turn into a complete coward. I should just squeeze you to death."
I yelped and begged for mercy, my head spun from being shaken. It took a while to come back to my senses.
She said, "Can you talk properly now?"
I waved my hand. "Yes, you've shaken me plenty awake."
She was right. Now wasn't the time for self-pity.
I mentally organized the evidence at hand: Dr. Ashmore's method of murder, the surviving victim, and the evidence of Dr. Ashmore's abuse of Serena.
Even if all this evidence held up with the police.
To make Dr. Ashmore pay for killing Serena, one crucial piece was still missing.
Motive.
Dr. Ashmore's brilliance lay in the fact that his method of murder was impossible to prove. Detective Vance believed me; the police wouldn't. Even if the police did believe it, a judge wouldn't.
But he wasn't without flaws. Detective Vance had told me that even when the means of a crime are hard to verify, a confession combined with existing evidence that forms a self-consistent chain can serve as the sole basis for conviction.
In other words, his only weakness was his own confession.
I said, "What if Dr. Ashmore doesn't confess?"
She said, "There are many ways to gather evidence. The police aren't as simple as you think."
I said, "Before that, can I go see him in person?"
She poured herself another cup of tea and cradled it in her hands.
She said, "Why did you bring a knife today?"
Damn it. Nothing escaped her eyes.
I rubbed my nose and came clean. "I was going to slit his throat."
She said, "I'm warning you—if you kill someone, I won't let you get away with it."
I said, "I won't. Not this time."
She said, "No."
I said, "Didn't you say you'd trust me?"
She said, "I trust you, but I trust even less that the person getting sentenced won't be you. Do you think murder equals justice? Besides, do you even know how to legally obtain a confession? One misstep and a suspect's entire confession becomes useless."
I said, "That's exactly why… I want you to come with me."
She looked puzzled.
I said, "Redemption. Didn't I say I'd give you another way to redeem yourself? Come with me to see Dr. Ashmore. If I lose control, you stop me. Help me get a legal confession—that's your redemption."
She said, "But…"
I said, "I just want to try one last time. Make him confess to my face."
She hesitated, pulling her blanket tighter, muttering something about police regulations and breaking the law.
I stood up, picked up the blue hair clip from the table, and gently opened it.
She sat on the sofa, watching me blankly.
I leaned down and clipped it into her hair.
I said, "There. I forced you to go."
Outside the window, a sunset like fire sank into the clouds. The dying light poured into the living room, casting long, slanted shadows across the furniture.
Detective Vance touched the hair clip, her expression complex as she looked at me.
---
Night fell over the city.
The streetlights came on.
Detective Vance and I walked along the street.
Earlier, at her residential complex, she had walked to the parking spot, pulled out her car keys, then slapped her forehead and gasped, "I left the car at Dr. Ashmore's building."
I said, "Didn't know you could drive."
She said, embarrassed, "I just got my license this week, actually."
I said, "I'm almost glad you left the car there…"
She shot me a glare. "Annoying."
We were still some distance from Dr. Ashmore's building. I dialed the psychological clinic's number and confirmed he was still there. The secretary answered; I disguised myself as a client and booked an appointment for later.
Detective Vance also made a call—to the detective squad. The serial falling case had a new development. Shortly, she would bring a victim's family member over. That would be me, standing right beside her.
She pocketed her phone and said, "Actually, I'm still worried. Once we're there, if he uses psychological suggestion again…"
I said, "I'll save you."
She said, "I'm worried about you."
I said, "He doesn't know my past."
She said, "I don't know your past either—that's what worries me."
I said, "Don't worry. I'm thoroughly ordinary. Nine-to-five, occasional all-nighters, zero promotion prospects. My ceiling of despair is quitting my job and moving back to the countryside to farm."
She laughed a little. "Look at you, being optimistic."
I said, "Yeah. If Serena hadn't…"
We fell silent for a moment.
I ruffled my hair and changed the subject back to the case.
I said, "Have you considered whether his employees know about his murder method? They coordinated too well—they didn't seem clueless."
Detective Vance shook her head. "I'm inclined to think they're unwitting accomplices."
I said, "Dead set against presumption of guilt, huh."
Detective Vance said, "I've done it before."
As if to warn me, she started telling me about that incident.
Her story began from when she was a little girl.
Ten years ago, her father—a police officer—died in the line of duty and became a hero of the detective squad.
Ten years later, following her father's legacy, she enrolled in the police academy. The uncles and seniors at the squad looked after her and brought her onto the team.
Last winter, a disappearance case occurred in the city.
At the time, she zeroed in on a suspect. She had no evidence—purely because the man bore a strong resemblance to the killer who had murdered her father.
That was a criminal syndicate called the Mamiao Syndicate, active ten years ago; most of its members were eventually arrested. Her father had been killed during that raid—his throat slit by the killer.
Ten years later, that killer was still at large.
She gathered every piece of information within her access—movements, identity records, criminal history. When all the leads converged, she arrived at a powerless conclusion.
The killer wasn't him.
His background was clean. His identity was legitimate.
But Detective Vance wouldn't accept it. She suspected he had forged his identity. If she could just prove he had kidnapped that girl, she could mobilize police resources and conduct a thorough investigation.
That night, Detective Vance fabricated orders from above and led a raid on his home.
Sure enough, the missing person was in his basement.
By the time Detective Vance's team searched the entire house and reached the basement.
The hostage and the captor were both dead.
Forensics reconstructed the scene. Seeing no way out, the killer had snapped the hostage's neck before the police reached the basement, then killed himself.
In that basement, Detective Vance found evidence of his forged identity.
Yes—he was the same man who had killed her father.
Detective Vance asked me, "Strange, isn't it? My guess was right. My intuition was spot-on, as if my father's spirit was guiding me."
And yet a girl who could have lived died because of me.
The victim's family wailed before her portrait.
Detective Vance stood in the crowd, gazing at the girl in the frame. The girl was silent; Detective Vance said nothing.
She knew that her presumption of guilt had cost her both procedural justice and substantive justice.
She had no excuse to absolve herself—because what the girl lost was her life.
There was one more thing I hadn't guessed about Detective Vance's despair.
She had been facing serious disciplinary action from the force. It was those same uncles and seniors who protected her—and the media's draft of the incident report was suppressed by them as well.
In that moment, she saw her own ugliness—because she stayed silent and didn't refuse.
That guilt and gnawing conscience had always surrounded her. When Dr. Ashmore deliberately guided her, it fermented into despair, telling her: Go die. Your death is the best form of redemption.
When Detective Vance finished this story, we fell into silence.
It made sense—we hadn't known each other for long. Having seen into her heart so suddenly, I felt like I should probably look away.
I fished a cigarette pack from my pocket and shook it. Empty. Detective Vance handed me a slim cigarette from beside me. I took it; she lit it for me.
Detective Vance twirled a strand of hair between her fingers and said, "Actually, there's one more thing I haven't told you."
I mumbled through the cigarette, "Hm?"
She said, "I lost my investigative authority a long time ago. Because of last year's case, I'm basically just a nominal position at the squad. I've been helping you investigate this whole time because I wanted to use you."
I said, "To get your position back?"
She said, "How could you think that?—I saw myself in you. Obsessive, presumption of guilt, refusing to let go. I wanted to help you abandon presumption of guilt and bring the perpetrator to justice the right way. It's my way of making up for my own regret."
I smiled. "Then we're the same kind."
She said, "Also, after your case is over, I'm going to resign."
I said, "You're giving up being a cop?"
She said, "Done with it. I was never cut out for it. My old man's dying wish nearly killed me."
She stretched her arms wide and looked up at the sky, shouting, "I just want to go on a proper date for once!"
On both sides of the street, traffic flowed and neon lights flickered. I watched Detective Vance's silhouette against the neon glow, and for some reason my eyes itched.
But this time, no shadow figures appeared.
My heart was calm.