North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws Chapter 8 Letters (Happy National Day)1

He got out of the car.

Looking at the detached villa in front of him, Dean was sowhat surprised.

In his mory, Mas’s parents had divorced early, and Mas had lived with his father, leading a life that was far from affluent.

Could a private detective make so much money?

Niel led the way, explaining, "This is my mother’s house. After I ca back, my mom gave the house. I thought the villa was too large, so I invited my brother to live with . However, he’s often out and about, rarely coming back, so most of the ti, it’s just here alone."

"Doesn’t your mother like Mas?"

Dean looked surprised. From Niel’s words, he understood that Mas had only been able to live in this house after she returned.

Niel shook her head sadly. "My brother and I actually have different mothers."

That was sothing Dean had not heard from Mas before.

He closed his mouth and said no more.

The villa was three stories tall. Mas lived on the third floor. The two of them took the elevator to Mas’s room.

The room was large but quite ssy. Many old photographs hung on the walls. Opposite the bed was a whiteboard with so mind maps still on it, not yet erased. Next to the whiteboard were several bookshelves cramd with books, and across from them was a large pile of videotapes and a projector.

Niel pointed to a pile of things in the corner of the room. "Dean, these are the things my brother left for you. Take your ti looking through them; I’ll go get you a drink."

"Ice water is fine, thank you."

Dean nodded. After watching Niel leave, he approached the pile of things.

It was a stack of docunts. At the very top was an unfranked letter addressed to Dean, including his phone number and his mother’s address. The letter was sealed; it only needed a stamp to be mailed.

Unfortunately, Mas never had that chance!

Dean took a deep breath, picked up the letter, and confird the envelope hadn’t been opened before taking out the letter paper inside.

There wasn’t much written on the letter paper:

Dean, do you rember our promise from back then?

You are my best brother!

I once said that if I had the chance, I would help you look into your father’s situation.

In fact, after I had established so connections, I bribed soone in the Los Angeles Coroner’s office and obtained so information regarding your father’s death.

There was sothing strange in the photos of your father’s body.

The coroner’s death report has problems!

I wanted to find that coroner.

But the coroner responsible for your father’s autopsy disappeared shortly after your father died, and I could never find him despite pulling strings.

Your father’s death raises many questions!

Fearing it would upset you, I never told you about it.

However, Dean!

You are very lucky!

I found him!

He is in Las Vegas!

I’ve already got a handle on his situation.

Dean, my best brother, I believe that by the ti you get this letter, I will have dealt with him and uncovered the truth behind your father’s death.

Haha.

I can almost see the excited look on your face.

It’s a big surprise, isn’t it?

-- Your good brother, Mas.

After reading the letter, Dean was silent for a mont.

His predecessor had a good brother!

He carefully tucked away the letter, squatted down, and began examining the other docunts.

These were all related to his father: his case-solving style, interpersonal relationships, performance at the police station, and details about his last case. The files highlighted so colleagues, forensic information, and included a blurred, bloody photograph.

The main subject of the photograph was Dean’s father.

He lay on his back on the cold autopsy table, eight small, densely packed, and fatal bullet holes in his back.

As he focused on the appearance of the bullet holes, Dean’s pupils contracted.

During flight, bullets, due to high rotation and other factors, tend to create small entry wounds, while the internal injuries present as burst and torn areas. The surface of a gunshot wound will also present different characteristics depending on the bullet type and distance traveled.

Dean, in his forr life, had handled plenty of bodies and was very familiar with these details.

Based on the information revealed in the photograph, a scene imdiately ford in Dean’s mind: An unknown gunman, standing less than five ters behind his father, took advantage of his lack of preparation and fired eight shots... The assailant’s intention was clear—to kill. Yet, despite such a short distance, so many shots were needed. The shooter either had poor marksmanship or knew his father! No wonder Mas said he found sothing suspicious.

An experienced forensic doctor, upon seeing such injuries, would guess that my father had been shot from behind at close range. However, the police report stated that my father died in the line of duty, and the perpetrator was killed by other officers who arrived while he was fleeing.

Dean’s mories of these events had begun to blur.

Mas, however, had sohow managed to get all this information. It must have taken considerable effort!

Dean found the coroner’s file, morized the man’s appearance and details, and then carefully repacked the materials into the file bag.

Just then, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

A knock ca from the door.

Niel stood in the doorway with a glass of iced water. "Dean, your water is here."

The door wasn’t closed. Niel’s knocking was a deliberate courtesy, showing respect for his privacy. She’s a very thoughtful and considerate young woman.

"Thank you."

Dean stood up, took the iced water, and drank it down in one gulp. The chill spread through his stomach, and he felt as if all the pores on his body relaxed, the internal heat dissipating completely.

AH... this weather really calls for a cold drink.

After putting down the glass, Dean looked into Niel’s eyes and said earnestly, "Niel, do you know what Mas has been working on lately?"

Niel shook her head. "Being a private detective is a profession that values privacy a great deal. My brother never discussed his work with . If it weren’t for his accident, I wouldn’t have even co into his room."

As if a thought suddenly struck her, Niel’s red, swollen eyes fixated on Dean. "Dean, do you suspect my brother’s death is connected to a case he was recently investigating?"

She then glanced at the file bags behind Dean. She hadn’t looked through them; she had only called Dean because his na, phone number, and address were on the envelope.

Dean shook his head. "Not necessarily. Otherwise, these docunts wouldn’t have been left for you to give to . However, I still need to find out. If Mas died because of these docunts, then both of us are in danger now!"

He wasn’t sure if Mas’s death was related to contacting that coroner. These were things he needed to investigate before drawing any conclusions.

Niel said solemnly, "Dean, what do you need to do?"

"Take to see Mas’s body!"

Soti later, after Mas had been shot, his body was taken by the Las Vegas Police Departnt to the morgue at their forensic science division. This was standard procedure. Dean looked up the address of the forensic division and drove Niel there.

Soon, a boxy building appeared before them.

Dean parked the car but didn’t imdiately get out. Instead, to Niel’s astonishnt, he retrieved an unnumbered M1911 pistol from under the car seat and began to check it ticulously.