Clarice's excited voice crackled through the phone.
Luke felt a surge of energy. Finally, real progress. Even though only a few days had passed, it felt like weeks.
"Good. I've got so new leads here too. I'll wrap things up and head over."
He hung up and walked straight to Chief Woody's office.
The hotel manager's death had made one thing clear: the shareholders behind the Dolphin Hotel were way above his pay grade. If he kept digging, the brass would shut him down fast.
Better to hand this hot potato to the one person who loved heat.
Knock knock knock.
"Co in."
Luke stepped inside and nearly did a double take.
One wall was lined with every kind of firearm imaginable—old revolvers to modern assault rifles, all well-worn. The opposite wall was covered in newspaper clippings: "Chief Woody Strikes Again," "Lone Hero Battles Gang," and similar headlines. Every photo showed Woody standing on so criminal's corpse, grinning at the cara.
"How about it, Luke? These are my babies. My whole career's up there!"
Woody stood up from behind his desk, cigar in mouth, looking proud as hell.
Luke gave the wall an honest nod.
"Damn impressive."
"Alright, enough ass-kissing. Tell how your case is going."
Luke paused, testing the waters.
"Chief, what if… and I'm just saying if… this case leads to soone really high up? How would you handle it?"
Woody's eyes went wide. He crushed his cigar in the ashtray.
"My God, did you find that bastard Carter? I always knew that son of a bitch wasn't fit to be president. Let's go—grab the boys, we'll take the helicopter straight to Washington and drag him out of the White House ourselves!"
He jumped up and reached for a rifle on the wall.
Luke's forehead broke into a sweat. He lunged forward and grabbed Woody's arm.
"Chief, it's not that big. Just so local businessn here in the city."
Woody froze, excitent draining from his face. He dropped back into his chair with a disgusted sigh.
"Oh. I thought we had sothing real. Fine. Tell which idiots thought they could mix with a cult murder case in my city."
Luke exhaled and laid out everything—the manager's statent, the Frankenstein talk, and the man's bizarre death right in the interrogation room.
Woody listened, then broke into a wide grin and slapped Luke's shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Got it. I'll take this one off your hands."
He suddenly squinted.
"Did you record the manager's statent?"
Luke thought for a second.
"Steve said he'd handle the recording when I went in."
"What?"
Woody's voice shot up ten decibels. He shot across the room and grabbed Luke by both shoulders, shaking him like a rag doll.
"You gave sothing that important to that useless lump?"
Luke's head spun.
"I thought Steve was pretty reliable…"
"Reliable my ass!"
Woody snarled.
"He's my son! You think I don't know what a waste of space he is?"
He stord out without another word.
Woody's son?
Luke rubbed his ringing ears, picturing Steve—the timid, chubby guy who hid behind paperwork and looked more like an accountant than a cop.
How the hell did that connect to a six-foot-three muscle-bound maniac?
Genetic mutation?
Luke shook his head. Since Woody had taken the case, he was more than happy to be done with it.
Ti to see what Clarice had found.
---
On the other side of the station, Woody kicked open the evidence room door.
Steve was fumbling with an old tape recorder.
"Steve, you stuck your nose into a criminal case? That's dereliction of duty."
Steve jumped, voice small.
"Dad—Chief, I was just helping Officer Luke with the recording. I didn't actually—"
"Save it. How many tis have I told you?"
Steve looked down and muttered.
"Stay in the office, handle paperwork, don't get involved in any investigations or field work…"
"But Dad, I really want to be a real cop…"
"Shut up!"
Woody cut him off.
"Just rember what I said. Don't do anything extra. And in here, you call Chief."
He snatched the tape from the recorder and walked out without looking back.
Outside the interrogation room, Woody found Hoffman and slapped the tape into his hand.
"This is part of Luke's case. Round up everyone ntioned on it and give them a proper interrogation."
The way he said "interrogation" carried extra weight.
Hoffman nodded.
"Understood, Chief."
Once Woody was gone, Hoffman's respectful expression faded into a small, knowing smile. He locked the door and dialed a number.
An older voice answered.
"How are things on your end?"
Hoffman answered respectfully.
"You were right. Luke is very capable. More efficient than we expected. He's already found quite a few sinners."
A low chuckle ca through the line.
"Good. Ti to start an interesting ga. I'll have the disciples set the stage properly."
Hoffman hesitated, then asked carefully.
"What about Luke? I think he could be useful."
The old voice replied calmly.
"Not yet. Let him finish what he's doing. We still have cleanup to handle."
Hoffman let out a quiet breath, eyes flashing with excitent.
"Understood, Mr. Jigsaw."
---
Inside the FBI hideout, Clarice pulled out the record with barely contained excitent.
"This record had no markings, but our equipnt picked up the mold impressions from when it was pressed. We traced it back to the factory that made it."
"It's an abandoned plant on the west side of the city—been shut down for almost ten years."
Luke nodded. Finally, a solid target.
Clarice continued.
"As for Myers' nanny, we're pretty sure she was connected to the cult, but it was too long ago. We couldn't find any trace of her identity or movents."
Luke shrugged.
"That's fine. One lead is enough. They're a big organization—they can't erase every footprint."
He turned and headed for the armory, where Marcus was cleaning weapons.
"Marcus, mind if I borrow the range for a bit?"
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