Chapter 59: New Jersey (Please follow and save!)

"Good." Seeing the expression on Roan’s face, August nodded in satisfaction. He knew Roan had always been measured and discreet, so he did not waste any more words, instead changing the subject to ask, “Well, do you have any thoughts on the ‘Lake Corpse Serial Murder Case’ yet? I remember Ryder gathered quite a bit of information over the past few days.”

At these words, Roan’s eyelid twitched, and he felt a headache coming on.

After a moment of silence, he replied, “According to the case files, the killer took the ring from each victim’s hand. I suspect their husbands might know something, so I plan to talk to the husbands of the victims.”

“OK.” Seeing that Roan already had a plan, August nodded after taking a sip of coffee. “If you run into any trouble, call immediately. The Fifth Investigation Unit is ready to assist at any time.”

“Yes, sir.” Leaving the supervisor’s office, Roan first took out his Nokia from his pocket and called Mona to confirm that their communication methods were working fine. This time, he brought Ryder with him to the armory.

Inside the armory, Roan donned his tactical suit and plate carrier, grabbed a ballistic helmet, stuffed five smoke grenades and ten stun grenades into his pockets, and strapped two Glock 18 submachine pistols to his waist.

After picking up three extended magazines for the pistols, Roan paused. This time, he was heading to the border between New York and New Jersey, a fair distance from headquarters, so backup wouldn’t be able to respond instantly.

He grabbed seven more extended magazines to make it an even ten.

“Roan, if you were in SWAT, you’d definitely outlive everyone else!” Ryder, watching the scene with bright eyes, decisively tossed aside his standard-issue Glock 18, took off his small bulletproof vest, and switched to gear identical to Roan’s.

The difference was, since Ryder had a broader waist and more strength, he took a full twenty extended magazines.

Once suited up, Roan and Ryder exchanged looks, saw each other fully armed, laughed heartily, and strode out of the armory.

The rest of the Fifth Investigation Unit: “...”

—

New Jersey, neighboring New York State, was the fourth smallest state in the U.S. but had the highest population density, nicknamed the “Garden State.”

Their destination was Northville, the northernmost district under New Jersey’s jurisdiction.

Originally, this case should have fallen to the New Jersey police, but since the lake where the body was found lay on the border between New York and New Jersey, and the New Jersey police didn’t want to deal with the hassle of cross-district jurisdiction, they simply reported the case to the FBI in New York.

“The first victim, Linda Chipo, twenty-eight, disappeared eight months ago.

The second victim, Beatrice Lyon, thirty-four, disappeared two months ago.

The third victim, Natalie Carlisle, twenty-five, disappeared one month ago.

The fourth victim, Tamara Terry, thirty, disappeared two weeks ago.”

After Ryder finished, Roan, sitting in the passenger seat, reviewed the autopsy reports for all four victims, then nodded and said, “Let’s visit the fourth victim, Tamara Terry’s home first. She disappeared two weeks ago, so her husband should still remember a lot—like who might have been watching his wife.”

“No problem.” Ryder nodded, turned the steering wheel, and drove the SUV in the new direction.

Ryder’s recent investigations weren’t in vain—at the very least, he now had every victim’s home address memorized.

As the SUV crossed the bridge into New Jersey, Roan didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. In fact, he thought the scenery was quite nice and there were plenty of parks.

But as they neared Northville, Roan began to feel something was off.

Why were there more and more scantily clad women on both sides of the road? And what did it mean when they waved at passing drivers?

“Most of those women earn a living with their bodies—some full-time, some part-time,” Ryder explained, noticing Roan’s confusion and shrugging nonchalantly. “You know how it is here; everyone’s got to hustle to make a living.”

“Uh...” Roan didn’t know what to say at first, then hesitated before asking, “Don’t the New Jersey police do anything about them?”

“They do! But only when necessary.” Ryder nodded, then shook his head. “There are only so many officers, and sometimes a single cop has three cases at once. Where would they find time for these women’s business?

Even if they get arrested, the punishment is just a short stint in jail, and with bail they’re out even sooner. The cops don’t want to waste their time on these matters.”

“I get it.” Roan pressed his lips together and nodded. Police here weren’t like those in the East—here, it was just a job, clocking in and out for a paycheck.

And local police in America were often instructed by their superiors to consider the cost of enforcement. With these women, the cost far outweighed any benefit.

Unless the department heads gave direct orders to crack down, or a major incident occurred, most of the time the officers simply couldn’t be bothered.

The dark SUV drove on and soon arrived at Northville, the northernmost region of New Jersey, stopping outside the home of the fourth victim, Tamara Terry—a rectangular red bungalow.

The two men got out and walked to the door. Ryder raised his hand and knocked hard on the door, calling out loudly, “Sanderson! Open up! It’s Special Agent Ryder from the FBI! We’ve met before!”

Sanderson—Tamara Terry’s husband.

There was no response from inside.

Ryder knocked again, harder. Still no answer.

Roan raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, “Should we have Mona call him?”

Ryder frowned at the suggestion, about to reply, when suddenly a loud crash came from inside—a heavy object hitting the floor and breaking.

Bang!

“Shit, someone’s inside!” At the noise, Ryder didn’t hesitate. He drew his pistol, kicked open the door, and rushed in, shouting, “FBI! Don’t move!”

Roan cursed under his breath but quickly followed, clearing each room to confirm safety.

The kitchen and living room were empty. Roan, gun raised in a tactical stance, rushed into the master bedroom—still no one. But near the corner of the wardrobe, a piece of nightwear was caught in the door.

“Whoever’s in the closet, raise your hands and come out!” Roan stood at the side of the wardrobe, shouting, “If you’re not out by the count of three, I’ll open fire! Three!”

Soft sobbing came from inside, but no one emerged.

It was the cry of a child.

Ten minutes later.

On the living room sofa, Ryder sat holding toys in both hands, softly comforting a little blonde girl, still hiccuping with tears.

Roan, speaking on the phone nearby, let out a sigh at the scene.