Detective in Time

　　After apprehending “The Professor,” the most brutal serial killer in the city’s history, veteran Pittsburgh Police Department detective Ian McCarthy finds himself once again entangled in a serial killer case. His accidental discovery of the “Timequake” leads him to uncover the universe’s deepest secrets.The “Time Quake” gives the detective the opportunity to travel back three months to solve this “serial murder case that has not yet occurred,” but the case takes a turn far beyond his expectations…

Prologue A black Victoria Crown appeared at the top of the hill—one of those old-fashioned sedans that bore no markings yet still exuded the aura of law enforcement. Close behind was a Chevrolet Yukon, a V8-powered, burly SUV that embodied a piece of the American spirit. The last to appear at the top of the hill was a clearly marked van, its black body emblazoned with the striking yellow letters “CSU,” beneath which was spray-painted the full name of the unit: “Pittsburgh Crime Scene Unit.” After racing down the ramp, the lead sedan began to accelerate, reaching 90 miles per hour, and the three-car convoy sped silently along Route 79 north of Pittsburgh. The road was flanked by the endless northern wilderness, where weeds and shrubs glinted white in the sun. The summer heat baked the pavement, and the asphalt heated the air above it; looking out through the windshield, the distant road seemed to be melting and bubbling. Even with the air conditioning in the old Crown cranked up to full blast, Nicholas Gu, the lawyer sitting in the passenger seat, was still sweating profusely. He kept dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, but the sweat kept pouring out. The fabric under his armpits was already soaked through, and the two wet patches were well on their way to meeting at his chest—perhaps because of his slightly overweight frame and the tie tightly knotted at his collar, which he refused to loosen, making the situation all the more unbearable. Mc Carthy, sitting in the back seat, also felt the sweltering heat, but the temperature was far from his primary concern at the moment—they had been speeding down Highway 79 at 80 miles per hour for an hour now. Less than 30 miles further north, they would enter the jurisdiction of the Erie County Sheriff’s Office, which meant they would have to notify the local sheriff’s office to coordinate the investigation, adding a great deal of hassle. Mc Carthy glanced at “Professor” Kilgo Trout beside him. Through his thick glasses, the “Professor” gazed out the window with a serene expression, as if lost in the summer scenery of the northern American wilderness. It was all an illusion, Detective Mc Carthy knew full well. The gentle, refined man sitting next to him was actually a master manipulator; not a single expression he displayed could be trusted. “Professor…” “I know what you’re worried about, Detective,” the “Professor” interrupted Mc Carthy. “There’s no need for that.” He suddenly raised both hands toward Mc Carthy. The chains and handcuffs clattered loudly. Mc Carthy instinctively reached for the holster under his arm, while the uniformed officer sitting on the other side of the “Professor” had already drawn his service weapon and pressed it against the “Professor’s” head. But they soon realized that the handcuffs on the “Professor’s” wrists hadn’t come loose, and the chain connecting to the restraint at his waist was locked tight—he’d raised his hands merely to point out the window. Mc Carthy sheepishly withdrew his overreactive hand from his armpit and signaled with his eyes for the uniformed officer to put his gun away. He turned his head and looked in the direction Kilgo Trout was pointing; within his field of vision, he could already make out patches of small woods. “We’re almost there,” Kilgo Trout said. “Officer, do you see that patch of woods? That’s where we’re headed.” The three cars drove through the woods and stopped on a patch of soft mud by an unnamed cove. It was a small inlet formed by tributaries of Lake Erie; one could always find such secluded retreats along the shores of the Great Lakes. Everyone couldn’t wait to get out of the cars; even Nicholas Gu, the lawyer who usually took great care of his appearance, no longer cared if the mud would ruin his shiny leather shoes. “Damn old clunker!” he muttered under his breath, then stood professionally beside his client. Before them lay a cluster of abandoned vacation fishing cabins—three in total—though the two closest to the river were little more than ruins. Clearly, the builders had underestimated the power of the summer floods that could sweep through the Lake Erie tributary. The CBS exclusive follow-up team began unloading their equipment from the “Yukon,” setting up the satellite dish,The cameraman hoisted his camera and began shooting test footage of the female reporter. Sean Miles, the police department’s public relations director, who had ridden in the same vehicle, and another uniformed officer followed behind the crew, watching their every move so they could control the interview’s progress at any moment and prevent footage the Pittsburgh Police Department didn’t want the public to see from making it onto camera——Although this was one of Pittsburgh’s biggest cases in nearly a decade, the interview wasn’t being broadcast live, so Sean didn’t seem particularly nervous; he appeared quite at ease. “This is the place,” Trout said, pointing at the relatively intact wooden house while facing the camera. The atmosphere on set shifted instantly; the relaxed mood from stepping out of the car vanished, and everyone began to feel tense. “Inside the house?” Ian Mc Carthy asked. “The Professor” nodded. Mc Carthy gestured for the uniformed officer accompanying him to open the door. The burly officer pulled a large crowbar from the trunk of the police car and knocked the padlock off the door with a single blow. Every officer present, with the exception of the crime scene team, had their guns drawn—though it wasn’t strictly necessary, Sean Miles had insisted during the pre-operation briefing that every officer display their tough side on camera, lest they be upstaged by the most brutal serial killer in Pittsburgh’s history. The wooden door groaned under the strain as it was slowly pushed open. Even in the height of summer, the interior remained gloomy and dim, and a pungent, musty odor hit their noses. The officers turned on their flashlights, held them in their non-dominant hands to steady their pistols, and cautiously stepped inside, scanning the room. “Clear!” With that, everyone holstered their guns. Next to enter the room were Sean and the interview crew. The camera assistant turned on a portable light, and the room instantly became as bright as the outdoors. “Professor” Kilgo Trout and his lawyer, Nicholas Gu, crossed the threshold, followed closely by today’s other protagonist—the protagonist on the side of justice—Pittsburgh Police Department Third-Class Detective Ian Mc Carthy, and then the crime scene investigation team carrying their toolboxes and the assistant medical examiner. Only one uniformed officer remained behind to set up a perimeter and stand guard at the door. Mc Carthy looked around. The house was a single-story bungalow with no partitions except for the bathroom. Perhaps because of the excessive pile of old furniture and clutter, the room felt much smaller than it had from the outside. He had expected the house to accommodate at least twenty people, but once the crime scene investigators entered, he barely had enough space to bend down and tie his shoelaces. The forensic team members frowned, their expressions betraying extreme displeasure. They were always hostile toward any outsiders at a crime scene—including the police—but there was nothing to be done about it. Everyone present in this house today had their own valid reasons for being there, and by comparison, the forensic team played a relatively minor role. Nicholas Gu began wiping the sweat from his brow again. No, something wasn’t right. Even cluttered with odds and ends, this room shouldn’t feel this cramped. Ian Mc Carthy’s question was soon answered. “Stop wasting everyone’s time, Trout.” He turned to “The Professor.” “Where did you bury the body?” “In the wall,” the “Professor” replied. Only one member each from the crime scene investigation team and the exclusive interview team remained in the room; the rest, along with attorney Nicholas Gu, were asked to step out, barely making enough room for the two uniformed officers. The attorney had initially insisted on staying by his client’s side, but after the “Professor” whispered a few words in his ear, he relented. The two officers moved aside the furniture and clutter and began tearing down the wall with the shovels originally intended for excavation. The layers of cement and plaster on the wall were thick—thick enough to mask all odors in the summer—and kept the two uniformed officers busy with shovels and hammers for an hour. When the cement finally cracked and the desiccated corpse rolled out, a suffocating stench instantly filled the cramped space. It was just a stench—nothing to get worked up about. Everyone left at the scene had been to far worse places. Even the female reporter from CBS News, who had stayed inside, merely covered her nose and furrowed her brow, yet she still resolutely approached the corpse to capture firsthand footage with her handheld camera. Most of the furniture and clutter had already been cleared from the room, leaving enough space for everyone. Sean walked to the doorway and motioned for those who had been asked to step outside to come back in. Everyone’s attention was focused on the body; no one noticed Kilgo Trout. By the time Mc Carthy realized something was wrong with Trout beside him, it was too late. Before he could react, the deathly pale Kilgo Trout—the serial killer nicknamed “The Professor” who had committed all these brutal crimes—had already vomited all over him. Mc Carthy frantically tried to dodge the filth Trout was spewing, but the cramped space left him with nowhere to hide. Trout continued to vomit, his words mumbled and weak with “I’m sorry”—everyone stood frozen in place. Sean and Mc Carthy hadn’t failed to consider the possibility that the scene might be sickeningly disgusting. That’s why the officers Mc Carthy had borrowed from the patrol unit were all known for their nerve—the kind who’d use a dead man’s skull as a beer mug. Sean had also specifically requested that CBS send seasoned “tough guys” to avoid anyone throwing up on the spot—but no one had expected that the one to vomit would be Kilgo Trout himself. The first to jump to her feet was the crime scene commander, a petite woman with short red hair. She screamed furiously, “Look what you’ve done, you bastard! Get the hell out of my crime scene!” Mc Carthy suppressed his anger as he watched the officer on duty at the door rush inside and escort Kilgo Trout out. He took off his ruined new suit and tie and began wiping the filth from his shirt and pants with the back of his jacket, muttering bitterly, “What a fucking brilliant performance, you son of a bitch!” Sean Miles, standing nearby, feeling both embarrassed and frustrated, was likely thinking the exact same thing—that devil had already won plenty of sympathy in front of the cameras, and no matter how much they tried to prevent it, it was always the Pittsburgh Police who ended up making fools of themselves. Just you wait and see who has the last laugh—Mc Carthy threw his soiled suit on the ground with a vengeance, and once again, loud protests came from the red-haired woman on the forensic team behind him. Kilgo Trout sat on the hood of the Crown car, watching as the bodies, each in a black body bag, were carried out one by one and loaded into the van. One, two, three, four. After the fourth body, no more were brought out. Uniformed officers, the assistant coroner, the exclusive interview team, and the police department’s public relations director, Sean Miles, filed out of the building one by one. The last to leave was the detective in charge of the case—Ian Mc Carthy, who had been vomited on—leaving only the crime scene investigation team inside to finish up their work. The team had been at it for over four hours. Exhaustion and hunger were written all over their faces, yet no one touched the sodas and sandwiches waiting in the Yukon’s cooler. Stepping out the front door, Mc Carthy headed straight for Trout, his face wearing the kind of expression one gets when you’re about to beat someone up. Nicholas Gu stepped in front of his client, and Sean Miles gently grabbed the detective’s arm, whispering in his ear, “Don’t do this. Not in front of the cameras.” Mc Carthy stopped in his tracks, standing face-to-face with Nicholas Gu. The lawyer fearlessly stood between his client and the detective. Mc Carthy knew full well that he would undoubtedly be the first to back down. His gaze swept past the lawyer’s shoulder, fixating on Kilgo Trout behind him—if only for one more second. “Get in the car!” he finally ground out, the words almost coming from between clenched teeth. The uniformed officer pulled Trout up from the hood of the sedan. The lawyer spoke in his usual measured tone, his voice steady and unflinching: “My client has fulfilled his part of the bargain. Now I’d like to know…” “Yes, and I’ll keep mine too. The deal stands.” Mc Carthy cut him off harshly. “Now get the hell in the car!” Nicholas Gu opened the passenger door of the Crown. Kilgo Trout suddenly asked, “Wait a minute, Officer, shouldn’t we grab a bite to eat before we go? I think we’re all hungry.” “There’ll be time for that later!” Mc Carthy snapped. “Come on, Officer,” Kilgo Trout complained. “It’s getting late, and we still have two more places to go!” “What did you say?” Mc Carthy’s eyes widened, and everyone turned to stare at “The Professor.” “Two more burial sites—didn’t I mention that?” Kilgo Trout paused for a moment, then suddenly looked as if he’d had an epiphany. “Ah, I see. You didn’t notice—look, yesterday, when we were talking about ‘burial sites,’ I used the plural—and you didn’t catch it.” Mc Carthy realized he’d been played again. He could no longer control himself. He lunged at the “Professor,” and before anyone could stop him, he had already driven a fist into the plexus between the “Professor’s” chest and abdomen, not caring in the least that the “Professor” had once again vomited a stomachful of acid all over his new shirt. I The hardest part of this job isn’t how dangerous it is. In fact, for Ian Mc Carthy—a detective who spent his entire adolescence in the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods—“danger” isn’t even a real word—but calls from the police dispatch center after hours are different, especially the kind that ring in your bedroom on a Saturday morning and can easily ruin your whole weekend. There was an old adage about the bad guys that had been circulating in the Pittsburgh Police Department’s Robbery and Homicide Division for decades: “They never work when you’re on duty.” Mc Carthy grumbled as he struggled out of his warm bed. His wife, roused by the noise, rolled over irritably. She didn’t ask a single question—not whether he was going to work or anything else—it was always work; what else could it be? Mc Carthy glanced at his wife, who had turned her back to him, and said nothing, not even bending down to kiss her. He pulled on his shirt as quickly as possible, tied his tie—there wasn’t time to shave, but he still had time to whip up a cup of instant coffee. The weather was as dreary and chilly as it had been for the past few days, like wearing underwear that had been wrung out but not yet dried—for Pittsburgh in February, this wasn’t bad weather; at least the bitter cold that could freeze the tip of your nose was over, but spring still existed only in people’s hopes. Unfortunately, the defroster in Mc Carthy’s twelve-year-old Ford Mercury was acting up. In this damp, chilly weather, he had to keep the window half-open to keep the windshield from fogging up. Within minutes, his hands were as cold as the steering wheel that had been out all night——as he alternated his hands near the air vent to keep them from freezing, he silently resolved to drive that Mercedes home next weekend—after all, the letter appointing him head of the Robbery and Homicide Division had already been issued; now he was just waiting for the bureau to give him a new contract. Twenty minutes later, the Ford Mercury exited Highway 139 at the suburban exit. According to the dispatch center, the scene was just a mile ahead in the woods. Mc Carthy pulled into a clearing at the edge of the forest, which was already packed with vehicles—three patrol cars, a GMC Pukki pickup, a Chrysler 300C,a ’96 Toyota Camry, and a Chevrolet Trailblazer. Two officers were setting up a second perimeter line at the edge of the woods—a stand of North American redwoods and metasequoias that remained dense even in winter. Looking in from here, he could see a perimeter line already established thirty feet into the woods, with two officers stationed there—this was no ordinary incident. Mc Carthy clipped his gold badge to the left breast pocket of his suit, nodded to the two uniformed officers, and stepped over the tape into the woods. At the first line of tape, the uniformed officers told him the scene was another fifty feet in, by a small stream—the fact that two lines of tape had been set up in this remote spot, especially on a weekend, gave Mc Carthy a bad feeling. The scene was livelier than Mc Carthy had expected: two uniformed officers, two plainclothes officers, and a man holding a fishing rod—most likely the one who’d discovered the body. Two forensic technicians in heavy protective gear were busy at the body’s side, moving with such care as if it were not a corpse but a museum exhibit. Those guys were frighteningly serious when dealing with “physical evidence”—corpses, fibers, DNA—but in reality, such evidence rarely helped solve cases. Unlike what you see on TV, catching a killer still required dealing with living people—they might be the prosecutors’ darlings, but detectives generally didn’t care for them. Mc Carthy glanced at the body on the floor. It was undoubtedly a woman, her lower half naked, her underwear gone. There seemed to be something over her eyes, but it was too far away to make out clearly. Other than that, there was nothing unusual about it—it looked like a typical rape-murder. He didn’t even see any blood. Yet for some reason, the unease in Mc Carthy’s heart hadn’t subsided in the slightest. Something just didn’t feel right. The taller of the two plainclothes detectives had spotted him from a distance. Mc Carthy recognized him as his former partner, Jason Greg—having risen to Mc Carthy’s rank, he no longer needed a partner. The shorter detective, who had been facing away from him, also turned around. Oh, damn it! Mc Carthy immediately realized what had been bothering him all along. —Sean Miles. What the hell is he doing here? II “Good morning, Ian. I’m really sorry to call you in at this hour,” Sean Miles said quickly, sounding sincere but not the least bit apologetic. “But I think it’s best to have someone at the managerial level on the scene for a situation like this. Jason suggested calling you, and I agree you’re the best person to handle this case.” Mc Carthy shook hands first with Sean, then with his old partner Jason, his mind racing. Sean was the department’s press secretary and head of public relations. Having dealt with the media—those pesky flies that got into every crack—for sixteen years, he was a seasoned veteran. Although he was generally a decent guy, none of the detectives wanted to see him on the job, especially those in the Robbery-Homicide Unit—his presence usually meant dirty, grueling work. Since scenes where he showed up rarely had just one body, he’d earned a nasty nickname in the unit: “The Grim Reaper.” If there was only one body at a scene where he showed up, unless the victim was the mayor, a councilman, or a Hollywood star, there was only one possibility… “A serial killer?” “You guessed right!” Sean nodded. Mc Carthy turned around. The crime scene team had already finished processing the scene, and officers were loading the body into a body bag. He strained to recall the victim’s appearance, trying to connect “her” to previous cases. “Remember that rape-murder in the alley behind that Texas barbecue joint two weeks ago?” Jason reminded him. “The one Frank was handling.” Hmm... no, Mc Carthy had absolutely no recollection of it. He pretended to be racking his brain. “It’s okay if you don’t remember. We all thought it was just a routine case back then—a blonde waitress who’d been raped and strangled. The odd parts were that two coins were placed over her eyes, and her genitals had been flushed with a large amount of cleaning fluid. Frank thought it was the work of those Native American descendants—you know, those weird rituals. He investigated that lead but didn’t find a single clue.” Mc Carthy only registered one phrase from Jason’s words—“It’s okay if you don’t remember”—but how could it be okay? You remember it, even Sean from PR remembers it, and yet I, as the new head of the Homicide Unit, don’t—even though he knew full well that wasn’t what Jason meant, Mc Carthy still felt a pang of unease. He knew plenty of people thought he’d gotten this position purely by luck. “Yeah, I remember that case,” Mc Carthy said, his expression darkening. “Let’s talk about the current one.” “Let’s have Catherine from Forensics walk us through the scene. She’ll give us a clearer picture,” Sean suggested—only then did Mc Carthy notice that the senior forensic technician who had taken off her hazmat suit was a woman—yes, the red-haired woman who had been in charge of the scene in that case that had catapulted him to success, but Mc Carthy had never been able to remember her name. “Kathleen Gretchen, Day Shift Supervisor.” The woman in her early forties, with short red hair, pulled off her rubber gloves and shook his hand. Her hands felt cold and slippery from wearing rubber gloves all the time; to Mc Carthy, it felt like shaking an eel—yet another reason he disliked the crime scene investigation team. “Tell us about the scene, Supervisor Gretchen.” “Just call me Cathy. Rigor mortis has already set in, so the estimated time of death is twelve to fourteen hours ago—yesterday evening…”She raised her wrist to check her watch. “It’s 6:50 a. m. now. She was killed sometime between 5:00 and 7:00 p. m. yesterday. The preliminary cause of death is asphyxiation by strangulation. There are clear ligature marks on her neck, no defensive wounds on her arms, and her fingernails are clean—I think you know what that means.” “The victim likely knew the killer. Was it an acquaintance?” Mc Carthy asked. “Perhaps her boyfriend. Did the victim have any identification on her, Cathy?” “No, no wallet, no driver’s license, no ID whatsoever. It’s up to you gentlemen to figure out who she is. “We found no signs of the body being moved. There were only some footprints from size 4½ rubber sneakers—the shoes were quite old, with the soles worn down. We believe those were left by the killer. There were footprints leading both in and out, while the victim’s footprints only led into this grove—in other words, we believe this is the primary crime scene.” “Tell us what’s unusual, Cathy,” Mc Carthy urged. “Oh, yes, there are two unusual things—the victim’s eyes were covered with two coins, ordinary twenty-five-cent pieces minted in 2002, with no fingerprints found on them; and also…”Catherine swallowed hard, a look of revulsion crossing her face. “The victim had obvious vaginal lacerations. I’m certain she was raped. Furthermore, a large amount of chlorine bleach was poured into her uterus. Gentlemen, that girl’s genitals were completely destroyed——I examined the victim’s genital area thoroughly and found no hair that didn’t belong to her. Most premeditated rapists shave their pubic hair, but the bleach was clearly intended to destroy the DNA in the semen. I suspect the killer didn’t use a condom.” “Is there any chance of obtaining a DNA sample from him?” Jason asked. “No. Even if we were lucky enough to get a small amount of undamaged DNA, a sample contaminated like that wouldn’t hold up in court. Damn that ‘CSI’—now even high schoolers know how to destroy DNA evidence!” Yeah, it’s all thanks to that hit TV series. If it weren’t for that show, how could the government possibly allocate millions of dollars every year to fund a lab and staff working day and night? If it weren’t for that show, you’d probably still be teaching at some high school, Miss Catherine—Mc Carthy thought sarcastically, but he asked in a serious tone: “Miss Catherine, I have one more question…” “Cathy. And please don’t call me ‘Miss.’ ” “I’m sorry. Cathy, can you tell me whether the victim was raped before or after her death?” “What?” Catherine seemed not to have heard his question clearly. “Was she raped before or after her death? It’s important,” Mc Carthy explained. ““As you said, no defensive wounds were found on the victim’s arms, nor were any traces of the killer found under her fingernails. If there had been signs that her hands were bound, you would have mentioned it—so I assume there weren’t any. That means the victim didn’t resist during the rape. I suppose unless she was already dead at that point, or unconscious, or… there was more than one killer.” “That hadn’t occurred to me. I can’t tell you for certain whether the rape occurred before or after the murder, but once we’re back at the lab, I’ll run a toxicology test on the victim to determine if she was drugged—you’ll receive a detailed report, Detective.” “Thanks!” A faint smile crossed Mc Carthy’s face; he felt he’d finally salvaged a bit of his pride—even with machines that can see things we couldn’t before, solving cases still often comes down to the wisdom of an old-school detective. “Hey, are we done here?” Sean urged. “Did you hear the commotion outside? I think the media has caught wind of this. Even though I’ve set up an eighty-foot perimeter, those four guys out there might not be able to handle it. I don’t want rumors of a serial killer making tomorrow’s headlines. Listen, guys, don’t say a word when you go out—I’ll handle everything.” “Now, I’m going to check in with our witness.” He gave the two detectives a “see you later” wave and turned toward the body discoverer, who was already growing a bit impatient from the interrogation.