American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

Chapter 728 Caught by Lynn!

“None of those,” the sheriff continued. “I’m giving you a chance to explain why the side door of the service corridor was padded, why that fake old lady was able to freely enter and exit the staff staircase and internal corridor last night, and why there is an 18-second gap in the equipment layer video recording in your security system.”

Thomas's eyes finally flickered: "Missing video footage?"

The deputy sheriff handed him the tablet. The screen displayed the system log. From 6:32 AM to 6:32:18 AM, the old camera outside the equipment layer was manually switched to "maintenance mode".

"Who has the authority to do this?" the sheriff asked.

Thomas stared at the line of record: "Security Supervisor, me; Night Shift Supervisor; System Administrator (Remote Backend)".

“The system administrator works at the state government’s outsourced company and hasn’t logged in today,” the deputy sheriff said. “The night shift supervisor handed over his shift and left before six o’clock. That’s all that’s left.

Thomas looked up, his voice still steady: "That could also mean someone took over my privileges."

"Who can take it?" Lynn asked.

"The person who knows the password."

“Who knows?” Lynn took a step forward. “Gwen knows? Violet knows? That fake old lady knows? Or the writer who sat in the restaurant with the deceased for dessert last night?”

Thomas didn't say anything.

Lynn looked at him: "Where were you at 7:03 this morning, before the front desk received the call?"

"Patrol the fourth floor."

"Who can prove it?"

"Corridor surveillance."

"Where were you between 10:58 and 11:10 last night?"

"Patrol the building."

"And who can prove it?"

Thomas looked up this time, his gaze finally revealing a hint of impatience: "The entire resort is under surveillance."

“But there are always people who know which spots are just out of sight,” Lynn said.

There was a moment of silence in the room. Thomas met his gaze; the professional composure on his face remained, but his eyes had hardened.

The sheriff suddenly asked, "What did you do before?"

Thomas looked at him: "Retired from the Army. Later worked in private security."

"Do you know how to use extremely fine cutting tools?"

"This question is absurd."

"answer."

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Many people do.”

"Can you unlock the technical lock?"

"I learned it in the basic courses."

"Do you know how to create fake access control systems, delete surveillance footage, and lead people through employee entrances?"

Thomas stood up: "Enough. I've been helping you collect evidence at the scene this morning, and now you want to pin the blame on me just because of a missing video clip and an assumption in the system?"

The sheriff didn't move, but looked up at him: "Nobody said you're the murderer. Why are you in such a hurry to find a word for yourself?"

Thomas paused for half a second.

This half-second interval is small, but enough for everyone in the room to see it.

Lynn didn't chase after her to press her down, but suddenly changed direction: "Do you know Ruth Mason?"

Thomas frowned. "I don't know him."

"Have you seen that old lady in 608?"

"I saw it. There were too many guests, I couldn't possibly—"

“She spent a long time on the rooftop last night,” Lynn said. “You’ll pass by there when you’re on patrol.”

"I didn't notice."

Lynn looked at him and lowered his voice: "Violet said last night that you remember people's faces."

Thomas was truly stunned this time.

The sheriff immediately followed up: "Why would the deceased say that about you?"

“I don’t know.” Thomas quickly came to his senses. “Maybe it’s because I’m good at reading people when I’m working.”

“Not every guest thinks you’re being too observant,” Lynn said. “Only those who know you’re picking out routes, remembering habits, and room numbers will say that.”

Thomas laughed, but the laugh was cold: "Are federal agents all so good at making speculation sound like evidence?"

“The evidence will come,” Lynn said.

He had barely finished speaking when the door to the monitoring room was pushed open. The female forensic investigator poked her head in, her face showing the kind of tension one can't suppress after finding a crucial clue: "Chief, fingerprints have been found on the inside of the bed frame in room 608. Also, two sets of usable fingerprints have been preliminarily identified on the book cover."

"Whose is it?" the sheriff asked immediately.

“One set matches the ‘Ruth Mason’ fingerprint left on the 608 room card, but the other set is male, with a broken old scar on the thumb,” the female forensic officer said. “We just quickly compared it with the employee files—only one person’s registered fingerprints in the resort have a similar broken pattern.”

The room suddenly became so quiet it was as if even the machines had stopped.

The sheriff slowly turned his head: "Who?"

The female forensic officer glanced at Thomas: "Security Supervisor, Thomas Weil."

Thomas's expression went blank for half a second for the first time, then he immediately said, "I might have touched some lost item that was brought upstairs. A book? Who knows."

“You don’t need to touch the inside of the 608 bed frame to find lost items,” Lynn said.

Thomas turned sharply to look at him, his eyes turning completely cold.

The sheriff had already stood up: "Thomas Weill, I'm asking you to hand over your service weapon and access card."

"You do not have an arrest warrant."

“I have good reason to detain you first,” the sheriff said. “Put the things on the table.”

Thomas stood still.

The deputy sheriff had already placed his hand on his holster. The air was tense, like a thread about to snap.

Lynn suddenly spoke up: "R is not Ruth."

Thomas looked at him.

“Violet said ‘he’ last night,” Lynn said slowly. “She wasn’t waiting for that fake old lady. That old lady was just a messenger and scout. The person who really scares you and her is a man.”

Thomas's facial muscles twitched very slightly.

It was very small, but Lynn saw it.

“You know who it is,” Lynn continued. “Shut up,” Thomas said.

“You know. You even know what he wanted in the box.” Lynn took a step forward. “Violet only took half to the top floor. The other half isn’t in 507, nor is it in her bag. None of you got the whole set after she died, which is why you didn’t leave today. You were waiting for someone else to show up first.”

Thomas's eyes finally changed. It wasn't guilt, but a ruthless determination born of being pushed to the brink.

The sheriff shouted sternly, "Put the things down!"

The next second, Thomas grabbed the tablet from the table and smashed it against the light screen. The screen exploded with a sharp crack, and the lights and shadows in the monitoring room flickered for a moment. He turned and shoved past the deputy sheriff as he rushed out, his movements unusually fast for a security guard.

Lynn chased after them almost simultaneously.

The officers in the corridor had just looked up when they saw two figures dart past, one after the other. Thomas didn't run towards the elevator; instead, he lunged at the staff staircase. The stairwell door slammed shut with a loud bang, the metallic sound echoing harshly in the narrow corridor.

"Block the logistics exit!" the sheriff yelled from behind.

By the time Lynn chased Thomas down two floors, he could already hear the heavy thud of Thomas's footsteps on the stairs. He turned very quickly, clearly familiar with the building. Reaching the fourth-floor platform, he didn't continue down, but instead cut across the narrow corridor leading to the laundry room. Carts, laundry bags, and hot steam all blocked his view, fragmenting his perspective.

A laundry worker was hit so hard that her entire basket of sheets flew out of her hand, and she cried out in surprise.

"Police! Get down!" Lynn yelled, his body already cutting through the hot steam.

Thomas glanced back at him, but that look was no longer the professional composure he'd shown that morning; it was now raw ferocity. A black access card had appeared in his hand, which he swiped to open the side door of the logistics department and rushed out.

Outside was the unloading ramp on the east side of the resort. The afternoon wind suddenly rushed in, as cold as blades. Two delivery trucks and a laundry van were parked at the bottom of the ramp, and in the far corner was a gray SUV—similar in shape to the one in the surveillance footage.

The driver's side door was open.

A person wearing a baseball cap was about to board the bus. Hearing the noise, they turned around. The face beneath the cap was that of an ordinary middle-aged woman, with slightly high cheekbones and thin lips, though a trace of unremoved, flesh-colored smudge remained behind her right ear. She wasn't an old lady. Nor was she any of the guests registered at the resort who seemed like they would quietly read a book.

When she saw Thomas rush out, her expression changed instantly: "You've been bitten?"

"Drive!" Thomas yelled.

The woman cursed and reached for the gearshift. As Lynn went downhill, he grabbed a pile of wheel chocks from the side and slammed them down on the front wheel. The chocks hit the underside of the wheel, and the woman floored the accelerator, causing the car to jerk and not immediately surge forward. Thomas turned and lunged at Lynn, his fist flying towards his face.

Lynn tilted his head to avoid the blow, his elbow slamming into Thomas's ribs. Thomas grunted, reaching for his lower back—he hadn't had time to withdraw his gun. Lynn grabbed his wrist, and the two slammed against the SUV's side door, the metal body rattling loudly.

The woman had gotten off the bus from the other side, holding a slender object in her hand that gleamed in the sunlight like a folded metal pen.

"Lynn!" someone shouted from behind; it was the sheriff's voice.

Before the woman could utter a second sound, she flicked her wrist, and a thin, bright line shot out from the slender metal pen. It wasn't a knife. More like a taut steel wire.

Lynn's pupils contracted, and he immediately released Thomas, stepping aside to avoid the tear. The line grazed past the cuff of his coat, leaving an almost invisible but instantly visible rip. A gust of wind blew, and the edge of the fabric emitted a faint smell of burning.

It smelled the same as what Gwen smelled.

The woman tried to walk around the front of the car to get in, but the sheriff had already drawn his gun: "Don't move! Drop your weapon!"

She ignored him completely and turned to run towards the treeline on the back slope. Thomas used that half-second to break free from Lynn and slammed his elbow into his throat. Lynn blocked it, then slammed his knee into her, and the two of them lost their balance and crashed onto the gravel almost simultaneously. Thomas was incredibly strong, with a hard back and shoulders; in close combat, he was like an unyielding iron plate. He used one hand to press down on Lynn's wrist while desperately reaching for his waist with the other.

Lynn bumped his forehead directly into his nose.

With a sharp "click," Thomas groaned and relaxed for a moment. Lynn seized the opportunity to twist his hand behind his back, forcefully pulling the gun out and throwing it to the side of the slope. The deputy sheriff finally pounced on him, and together they pinned him down. Thomas was still struggling, his throat filled with heavy breathing and curses.

On the other side, the woman had already darted into the edge of the treeline.

The sheriff chased after him for a few steps, when he heard a short, sharp shout coming from the woods ahead: "Don't move!"

He's not one of his people.

The next second, the woman was forced back from behind the tree. Blocking her way was Harold, the stable master, carrying a lasso and his face as dark as a storm. He had clearly come from the horse farm after hearing the commotion.

“Take one more step,” Harold said in a deep voice, “and there’s a scree slope below. You can’t outrun a horse, and you can’t outrun me.”

The woman cursed, her hand trembling as if she were looking for an opening. Lynn had already gotten up and rushed over. The moment she raised her wrist, Lynn kicked her forearm, sending the thin wire veering off course and cutting a small gash in the bark. The sheriff pounced from the side, and the two of them together pinned her to the damp soil beside the tree roots. She struggled a couple of times, but was eventually handcuffed from behind by the deputy sheriff.

She lay on the ground, her face pressed against the cold mud and pine needles, yet she still managed a smile.

“The Federation.” She turned to look at Lynn, her voice hoarse. “No wonder that little girl wasn’t nailed to the ground so easily.”

Lynn looked at her: "You know me."

“I know people like you,” she said. “They always try to find a fourth act in a script that someone else has already written.”

The sheriff grabbed her and pulled her up: "Name."

The woman did not answer.

"I'm asking for your name."

She still didn't answer, only glancing up at Thomas, who was being held down, as if he were a broken tool.

Thomas had blood at the corner of his mouth, and it was still dripping from his nose. He stopped struggling and just stared intently at the woman: "Didn't you say he wouldn't be able to reach the equipment layer before you made your move?"

The woman sneered, "I said don't touch that book."

"Enough!" the sheriff shouted.

Lynn, however, stared at the last bit of adhesive residue behind the woman's ear: "Rachel Morrow."

The smile on the woman's face faded slightly.

The sheriff immediately turned around: "You know her?"

“We didn’t know each other,” Lynn said. “Two years ago, there was a case of a stolen laboratory data transfer station in Connecticut. The case file contained a peripheral messenger. There was no photo of her face, only one characteristic—she used fake age makeup, had an old burn behind her left ear, and would leave asymmetrical glue marks when she removed her makeup. Among the names she used, one was Rachel Moore, and another was Rina Mace.”

The woman really didn't smile this time.

“Looks like I was right,” Lynn said.

The sheriff turned her toward the police car: "You'd better start talking."

Thomas was still panting when he was lifted up. He glanced at the woman being taken away and suddenly said, "You've got the wrong person in charge."

The sheriff paused, "What do you mean?"

Thomas chuckled, blood smearing from his nose at the corner of his mouth, making him look both disheveled and fiercely twisted: "She's just after the money. So am I."

“Just for whom to open the door?” Lynn looked at him.

Thomas stopped laughing.

Lynn took a step forward, her voice flat: "Who is R?"

Thomas shut his mouth.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Lynn said. “Violet only took half of it to the top floor; she hasn’t found the other half yet. Whoever wants to get it first will be R.”

Thomas's eyes flashed, too fast, but Lynn still caught him.

“They’re not from outside,” Lynn said softly. “They’re still at the manor. At least they were here this morning.”

The sheriff turned around abruptly: "Who?"

Lynn didn't answer immediately, but looked at the gray SUV on the back ramp. The back seat was half open, and an ordinary breakfast paper bag had fallen out. The bag was printed with the logo of the mountain resort breakfast bar, but there was a little dark brown powder on the corner, like coffee, or like some kind of dissolved painkiller packet.

The image of the fragment of a pharmacy label under the trash can in room 608 flashed through his mind. (End of Chapter)