Chapter 65: Undercover? (Please keep reading! Please add to your favorites!)

Leaving the office area of Investigation Group Five, DEA Special Investigator Marlon walked down the corridor with a sullen expression. He hesitated for a moment, then glanced back to see Augustus with his arm around Roan’s shoulder, laughing heartily. Marlon’s lips curled downward.

“I told you before, Marlon,” said Norton, an agent from the FBI’s Organized Crime Division, noticing his friend’s mood. He patted Marlon’s shoulder and smiled. “Roan has only been a full agent for less than a week, yet he’s already cracked a brutal serial dismemberment case. He’s not one of those naive kids you can talk into going undercover in a gang, willing to risk everything just because you give them a pep talk.”

“Hey, Norton, going undercover isn’t foolish, okay?” Marlon protested, but before he could explain, Norton spread his hands and asked, “How many of your DEA undercover operatives actually make it back alive? How long do they stay undercover? Do they get promoted when they return? Do they get a bonus? Your methods for sending people undercover are too rough. Roan Greenwood is a promising FBI agent. I warned you before—he would never agree to that kind of work.”

Without waiting for a reply, Norton chuckled, patted Marlon’s shoulder, and strode into the elevator.

The FBI’s Organized Crime Division also dealt with gangs, and although Norton didn’t know the exact statistics for DEA undercover success rates, he could guess.

It wasn’t high.

“Hmph.” Marlon snorted coldly, stopped wasting words, cast a chilly glance at Group Five’s area, and strode into the elevator.

—

“Well done, Roan,” Augustus said at the entrance to Group Five’s office, seeing Norton and Marlon enter the elevator. He patted Roan’s shoulder, laughing with satisfaction and nodding repeatedly. “When you took the check just now, I was about to warn you, but you saw through the DEA’s intentions yourself. Not bad. You’ve got brains—smart!”

“Thank you, sir,” Roan replied with a chuckle, saying little more.

As a killer, the most important thing was trusting his instincts. From the moment he met Marlon, Roan felt something off about him. He’d initially thought the problem lay with Black Yoan or something inappropriate he’d said, and Marlon was here to pick a fight. But Marlon was there to hand him a check.

Even after taking the check, that uneasy feeling remained. Considering the nature of DEA’s work, Roan easily guessed Marlon’s true purpose: he wanted to recruit Roan to go undercover.

Roan’s thoughts on undercover work could be summed up in one word: laughable.

Going undercover was one of the most dangerous jobs in the world.

To survive to the end, you needed brains, strength, luck, and reliable superiors—miss any one, and you might wake up to find yourself sunk at the bottom of the Hudson River.

Roan glanced down at himself—he had money, looks, and a bright future. Why take on such a thankless job? Especially when it wasn’t even FBI work?

So he’d decisively blocked Marlon’s pitch: Thank you for the check. If you ever need anything, I’ll provide you with support—anything but help.

They returned to Group Five’s office area. Augustus tilted his head and asked, “So, any progress on the ‘Lake Victim Serial Murder Case’?”

“A little,” Roan nodded, explaining the connection he’d found among the four victims—their weddings at Saint Phil’s Chapel. He continued, “Next, I’ll look into the list of couples married at that chapel to see if I can find new victims and thus more information about the killer.”

“OK.” Augustus didn’t say much, simply nodded in affirmation and told Roan to message him if he needed backup before heading to Veronese’s office—apparently, she wanted to see him.

Roan sat back at his workstation. Mona, at the next desk, was typing furiously. She stopped when Roan returned, pointed at her computer, and tilted her head with a dissatisfied look. “Good news and bad news, Roan. Which do you want first?”

Roan paused, speechless. “Let’s start with the bad news.”

Mona pursed her lips and pointed at the screen. “The bad news is, you asked me to investigate every murder, rape, stalking, and molestation case centered on Saint Phil’s Chapel, but it’s impossible! The area’s too big, and the number of cases is overwhelming. Just in New Jersey alone, there are more than a dozen unsolved murders reported by the police! And that's only the ones officially reported. Some people die on the street, and after the police collect the bodies, no conclusions are ever reached…”

Roan’s forehead darkened at her words.

No wonder in America, where an average of 120 people die from gunshots daily, death was hardly a big deal—especially in densely populated places like New York and New Jersey.

“What about the good news?” he asked.

Mona pursed her lips and tapped the keyboard a few times, bringing up a circle on the computer screen. “As you asked, I drew a three-mile radius around Saint Phil’s Chapel while investigating nearby cases. Turns out, both the state-border lakes where the victims were found and their homes are within this circle.”

“What?” Roan’s eyes widened in surprise at the circle on the screen. But seeing the never-ending case list on her computer, his mouth twitched. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Since the first victim, Linda Chippo, disappeared and died eight months ago, when you search cases, limit the timeframe to the past year. Ignore cases where the perpetrator has already been caught and is in prison. Focus on those released within the last year who still live within three miles of Saint Phil’s Chapel.”

“Alright,” Mona sighed, took a sip of bitter coffee, slapped her cheeks, and returned to her keyboard with renewed energy.

After a while, Ryder arrived, carrying two large cardboard boxes, followed by Lacey with another box.

“Phew—” They dropped the boxes in the conference room and exhaled deeply.

“Good work,” Roan poured them coffee and started sorting through the papers detailing newlywed information.

“Roan, these three boxes only cover records of couples married at Saint Phil’s Chapel in the past two and a half years,” Lacey explained, taking a gulp of coffee and slumping into a chair, her face tense. “The chapel hosts weddings every day. With a crowd, it’s one ceremony every 15–35 minutes—up to eight couples per day. When it’s quiet, ceremonies last 45–60 minutes, still three or four couples daily. If you really want to check all couples married in the past ten years, forget it. Our ten-person Group Five could never get through them all.”

“Exactly,” Ryder nodded, putting down his coffee. “Just during our round trip, the chapel hosted another wedding.”

Roan frowned, fell silent for a long moment, then suddenly slapped his forehead, stood up, and shook the papers in his hand. “No, we still need to check.”

Seeing Lacey and Ryder’s faces sink at his words, Roan shook his head and said firmly, “But we’ll focus on couples married within the past seven months, and those married in the last two weeks.”

“Why?” Ryder perked up, but Lacey asked in confusion, “But you said Mara Terry was married eight years ago, and she died two weeks ago. This…”