Chapter 62: Lies (Please keep reading! Please recommend!)

"Alright."
Lade nodded to accept Johann’s words, while Rowan raised an eyebrow and pointed to the scars on Johann’s elbow, asking,
"What happened to your elbow?"
Johann was momentarily stunned, then looked down at the scabbed, not fully healed wounds on his right elbow. He lifted his head and replied with a relaxed expression,
"The nurse Lucia’s cat scratched me.
Her car broke down a few days ago, and when she brought it here for repairs, I didn’t notice there was a cat in the passenger seat, so I was accidentally scratched."
As he spoke, a white car pulled up in front of the garage. Johann’s mouth twitched and he muttered something under his breath, but still pointed to the driver of the white car and said,
"That’s her—Lucia, a nurse from Maria Hospital nearby."
Rowan and Lade followed Johann’s gesture and saw a robust white woman struggling out of the driver’s seat. She then called out with booming energy into the garage,
"Boss! Fix my car!"
...
Seeing Nurse Lucia’s burly figure, Lade remained impassive, but Rowan’s lips twitched. An image flashed through his mind: a Russian matron shouldering timber.
"I’ll be right there!"
Johann called out casually, then turned to Rowan and Lade, shrugging.
"If there’s nothing else, I’ll get to work. I don’t want the boss yelling at me after you leave."
Lade was about to nod in agreement, but Rowan shook his head and said directly,
"No, Johann, you can’t leave.
You haven’t told us the truth."
"What?"
Johann’s heart skipped a beat at these words; he froze, his face darkening with irritation.
Meeting Lade’s puzzled gaze, Rowan raised his right arm, placing his elbow before his throat and stared intently at Johann, explaining,
"Only when someone is strangled with an elbow like this, and struggles, would the assailant’s arm end up with marks like yours.
So, Johann, tell me—what really happened to your arm? Are you sure it was a cat? What kind of cat could make six short, horizontal scratches like that?"
After Rowan’s explanation, Lade finally understood, and hurriedly shifted his gaze to Johann, instinctively resting his hand on the pistol at his waist.
"What nonsense is this?"
Johann was shocked by Rowan’s words and unsettled by Lade’s movement, but he shouted angrily,
"I already told you! The scratches are from a cat! Is it because I’m Black that you think I’m lying? Damn you..."
"It has nothing to do with your skin color! You’re simply lying!"
Rowan tilted his head toward Nurse Lucia, who was leaning to one side in confusion, and addressed her seriously,
"Nurse Lucia, hello, I’m Agent Rowan from the FBI. Johann claims the wounds on his arm were caused by your cat. Is that true?"
Lucia was taken aback by Rowan’s question and was about to answer when Johann’s expression changed drastically. He suddenly lunged at Lade, hands reaching for the gun at Lade’s waist.
Bang!
"Ah—"
A gunshot rang out. Johann collapsed to the ground, clutching his right hand and wailing in pain.
Lade, who had noticed Johann’s move but had only managed to step back and was just about to draw his weapon, looked at Rowan, his face solemn.
He hadn’t expected Rowan to react so quickly.
Calmly holstering his Glock 18, Rowan shot Lade a glance, signaling him to cuff Johann, then said coolly,
"According to federal law, lying to the FBI is a felony. Attempting to seize an FBI agent’s firearm is an even greater felony. Congratulations, Johann, you’ve earned yourself the prison package. Enjoy your stay."
"Goddamn bastards! Sons of bitches..."
Handcuffed by Lade, Johann lay on the ground cursing, showing not a hint of regret. Rowan knocked him out with a kick, motioned for Lade to lock him in the car, then pulled out his Nokia and made a call.
Half an hour later, Lacey arrived with several SWAT officers and took Johann back to the FBI’s New York headquarters. Rowan and Lade proceeded to Johann’s home.
On the way, Lade, after a long silence, said to Rowan,
"Thank you, Rowan."
"It’s nothing."
Rowan, sitting in the passenger seat, replied offhandedly. His attention was still on the victim’s file in his hands. Hearing Lade’s words, he asked,
"Lade, do you think Johann could be the perpetrator of this serial murder case?"
"Impossible."
Lade, driving, answered decisively,
"Johann may have killed before, but he’s definitely not the serial killer in this case."
"Oh? Why?"
Rowan looked up, intrigued by Lade’s certainty.
He remembered Lade wasn’t much for case analysis, preferring to follow orders.
As for criminal psychology, Lade was utterly clueless.
"It’s simple, Rowan."
Lade grinned as he drove,
"I once heard a wild theory: ninety percent of serial killers in America are white. I don’t believe we’re lucky enough to run into a Black serial killer."
Rowan: ...
Johann’s home wasn’t far from the garage—a shabby brown bungalow.
The dark SUV rolled to a stop across the street. Rowan and Lade stepped out, crossed the broken-down fence, and entered the yard.
Both gripped their Glocks, crouched in ready stance, one on each side of the doorway. After counting down from three, Lade kicked open the door and rushed inside.
"FBI!"
Rowan shouted the call as he swept through each room in the house.
"Clear."
"Clear!"
They checked the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and found no signs of habitation. Rowan and Lade regrouped in the living room.
Lade casually pulled a small bag of white powder from beneath the coffee table, tossed it aside with a grimace, then asked,
"Should we call the forensic team?"
"Not yet."
Rowan shook his head, declining Lade’s suggestion. He frowned, scanning the room from side to side, even pacing out the dimensions of the bedroom and living room.
"What’s wrong?"
Lade asked, puzzled.
"The size of the house doesn’t add up. Did you notice?"
Rowan walked around the kitchen and living room, then stepped outside, stroking his chin as he examined the building’s exterior.
Lade realized what Rowan meant, but couldn’t pinpoint anything. Rowan studied the house for a while, then entered the kitchen and decisively moved the refrigerator aside.
A small door, barely waist-high, appeared behind the fridge.
"Nicely done, Rowan."
Carefully pushing open the small door, they found a narrow, pitch-black staircase leading downward.
This stairwell occupied a small portion of the house’s space.
Perhaps alerted by the unfamiliar voices, a weak female cry echoed from the darkness at the bottom of the stairs:
"Help..."