Hawk felt all the dissatisfaction from moments ago vanish into thin air.

Working with Dean was just too damn satisfying!

He immediately instructed the young officer beside him to call for an ambulance.

Watching this group of "bandits" brazenly discussing what to do next after knocking out his wife, the middle-aged man trembled with fury.

We're the ones who reported this, the victims, the vulnerable ones!

How dare you!

Aren't these bastards afraid of this incident being exposed and facing public condemnation?

He shook with anger.

A single glance from Dean, however, sent such an intense shiver through him that he didn't dare move.

The man avoided Dean's gaze, lowered his head, and spoke with none of his earlier arrogance or haughtiness, his attitude no longer overbearing. "Sorry," he said politely, "my wife is just very worried about our son. She's not mentally ill."

"I know she just lacks manners," Dean replied. "If she's willing to apologize to me and my colleagues after she wakes up, perhaps the psychiatric assessor will provide an appropriate evaluation."

With that, Dean stopped looking at him and walked towards the car wreckage.

It was a fairly common German model, black, with signs of gasoline burns. However, its basic shape remained intact, showing no signs of an explosion.

Beyond that, the car's edges were blackened, and the paint on the top was discolored.

This indicated the fire had started inside the car before spreading to engulf the entire vehicle.

Dean looked at the tires.

Now things are getting interesting.

Although the car's four tires were smoke-stained, they were intact. Additionally, faint tire marks were visible around the car.

This suggested the car was already in its current state before arriving here.

Seeing this, Dean was almost certain this wasn't the car's original dump site, but a secondary location. The car might even still be drivable.

After completing this initial evidence gathering, he approached the forensic officers who were taking photographs to ask about their findings.

"Folks, found anything?"

A female officer's eyes lit up when she saw Dean. Nudging aside her colleague who was taking pictures, she raised her notebook. "Detective Dean, you're much more handsome than the rumors say."

"Thank you, but right now I'm more interested in what this car has been through. As for my looks..." Dean raised an eyebrow at the woman, who wasn't conventionally attractive but had a striking figure, "...that involves genetics. If the opportunity arises, we can find a place to study it in detail."

"I look forward to it."

The woman returned a flirtatious glance, then her expression turned serious as she began her report.

"The car's owner is confirmed to be Azak, the son of the reporting party.

"Someone poured gasoline inside the car, then set it on fire while driving it here. The entire process lasted about three to four minutes.

"No bloodstains or other signs of anyone being harmed were found inside the vehicle.

"Actually, we couldn't retrieve a single fingerprint. It seems someone cleaned the car and then carefully set it alight.

"Based on the traces left inside, the only thing we can be certain of is that there used to be a lot of 'money' on the back seat.

"It's all ash now, melted together with the car seat material.

"But, if I'm not mistaken, it was real money, at least the material was consistent with genuine currency."

Dean nodded. "From your description and my own observations, it's clear the person who abandoned the car had ample time to take the cash. But they didn't. I'm more inclined to believe it was counterfeit. Can you verify that?"

The woman shook her head. "The fire was too thorough; nothing remains. Based on experience, we can only assume it's the ash of banknotes. But if the counterfeit money used the same material as real currency, we can't determine its authenticity from the ashes."

"Alright, I understand." Dean glanced around the car's interior and handed the female officer his business card. "If any new clues surface, call me immediately. You can come and report to me even at night."

"All in the line of duty?"

"Yes, all in the line of duty!"

After their friendly but covert understanding, the two predators parted ways.

Harry was keeping an eye on the victim's father, the middle-aged man, while casually chatting on the phone with a friend.

Seeing Dean had finished inspecting the scene, he hung up and walked over to Dean, lowering his voice. "Dean, I asked a friend. About half a month ago, a lot of kids who weren't in school used to hang out around here. But after a few disappearance cases, they moved to a different spot."

Disappearance cases?

Dean made a mental note of this and gestured towards the middle-aged man, who still maintained his previous posture, terrified of being dragged off and declared mentally ill. "What's his story?"

Harry's no fool. He must have questioned the father while I was busy with the car.

Speaking of which, Harry rolled his eyes. "Dean, this guy might genuinely be unhinged. I asked him how he knew his son's car was here. Guess what he said?"

"A divine revelation?"

"More like a revelation from the dead!" Harry recounted. "He said that two nights ago, while he and his wife were sleeping, they heard their son crying for help. So they called the police, who found his son at a bar. Then, last night, they supposedly saw their son in flames, still crying out to them for help. They claim they clearly saw the shape and name of this factory."

Eventually, Hawk and his team found this place using the factory's name.

As he spoke, Harry looked skeptical. "Dean, there wouldn't actually be traces of fatty residue from a burned body in the car, would there?"

Normally, in cases like this, the person reporting the crime is treated as the prime suspect. Nine times out of ten, that's correct. The tenth time, it's an informant merely using a dream as a pretext to provide evidence.

But the way the man recounted these events—his tone, his expression—it all seemed too real. So much so that even Harry was beginning to doubt.

"You think that's possible?" Dean was amused by Harry. "If we actually find their son's charred corpse in the car, your job is to handcuff them immediately and take them in for interrogation, not to stand around wondering if spirits really exist in this world!"

"Alright..." Harry rubbed his nose, somewhat embarrassed. "So, what's next? Do we go tracking the missing car owner, Azak?"

"No need." Dean pointed to Azak's father, who was so scared he'd almost turned into a statue. "Just take him back to our turf. I guarantee this guy knows what happened to his son."

It was the same old story. In cases like this, there was no need to overthink. Just apprehend the eccentric reporting party and interrogate them; it usually worked out.

Azak's father had been watching them out of the corner of his eye. As a charlatan, the most important skill is to observe people's expressions and speech. Their earlier behavior might have seemed crazy and overbearing. However, looking at Hawk's reaction, it was clear that tactic was very effective on lower-ranking police officers. It forced them to endure it, leaving them with no energy to analyze the information revealed by the case.

But this couple was unlucky; they had run into Dean, someone even more overbearing.

A mental hospital!

When Azak's father thought of that place, his legs nearly gave out. Having dealt with all sorts of people, they knew some of the sordid details about such institutions.

That place concealed humanity's most depraved darkness and every conceivable form of bloody madness...

So, when Azak's father saw Dean speaking and then suddenly point towards him while talking to his colleague, his body went limp, and he fainted dead away from sheer terror.

THUD. Dust plumed into the air.

Dean, his finger still pointing, turned to Harry with a somewhat awkward expression. "Buddy, seriously, do I look that scary?"

Harry nodded sincerely. "Dean, when you're standing next to a bad guy, if you don't tone it down a bit, I instinctively start to worry about the bad guy's physical safety."

"I don't believe you!" Dean silently retrieved a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his pocket and put them on.

What a joke.

How could I possibly be the bad guy?

So many American ladies shout "God!" when they're with me.

And God, in the hearts of Americans, represents sanctity and charity.

Therefore, it's clear.

I, Dean, am not a bad guy.

Harry stared. He looked at Dean, who, now wearing gold-rimmed glasses, projected an air of scholarly refinement but still unmistakably resembled a wolf in sheep's clothing. Harry silently walked over to Azak's father, hoisted him onto his shoulder, and put him in the backseat of the arriving car.

As a playboy, Harry was now genuinely worried that if he spent too much time with Dean, he'd evolve from a simple playboy into a utterly shameless one.

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