The FBI investigators arrived quickly.
In fact, in three days, they arrived at the embassy late in the evening of the second day and met with the FBI, who were permanently based in Tokyo, to talk at length about 'Satan'.
There were thirty-two investigators on the mission, most of them regular investigators, with three senior investigators and a special agent supervisor.
The meeting started at three in the morning.
The room was brightly lit, each participant was given a folder, and a senior investigator presided over the meeting, giving the group ten minutes to review the material.
Logan, one of the regular investigators, sat near the front of the room and opened the file with a very serious mind.
[6.4 Neighborhood Attack.]
[Time: 1984.06.04, 04:12.]
[Location: xx-cho x-chome.]
[Survivors: None.]
No survivors.
This means that all the people who were attacked were not injured, but simply died.
Even though he had already known about the incident on his way here, Logan's heart sank when he saw this message, he tactically adjusted his sitting position and looked around silently, soon realizing that his colleagues were tactically adjusting their sitting positions one after another, so he looked down again.
After the incident, the Tokyo police organized the scene, and after the second terrorist attack, the FBI stepped in to assist in the handling of the incident, the incident and the attacker's course of action has been roughly recapitulated.
The attacker started from an intersection, and his first target was close to the street, but not the closest house.
There were three bodies in the first place, in the doorway and at the ends of the living room, and it is assumed from the condition of the bodies that the first had just opened the door and was completely unresponsive, the second had reacted by moving forward, and the third was on his knees, begging for his life.
This murder scene is labeled: [The victim was carrying three firearms, three were lost, one was at the scene of the second murder, one was at the scene of the fifth murder, one was at the scene of the sixth murder, and the magazines were all empty according to fingerprints.]
Each murder scene is similar to the first.
The only difference is that the other crime scenes no longer have victims who were attacked with the door open, and all the other victims died knowing that they had been attacked.
From the condition of the bodies, it is assumed that there were many of these victims who were hiding in ambush and tried to counter-attack, those who resisted, those who surrendered and begged for mercy, and those who fled.
Among those who fled, there were those who tried to escape by jumping from a building but fell to the ground and were chased down and killed by the assailants, and there were those who left the house in advance to escape but were killed by the assailants from a distance on the balcony.
There were even those who jumped the gun and called the police.
They all ended up with a name: the dead.
The people who organized the files were kind enough to describe in detail what each of the victims had before they died, labeling them with the symbol [1 from 1] for the first death in the first murder, and attaching color photographs to the side.
Judging by the speed at which the police arrived, the bodies must not have been cold when the photos were taken.
...Even the worst of the police could not have survived a terrorist attack of this magnitude for twelve hours. Twelve hours is how long it took for the bodies to cool down.
In other words, this is a fresh, hot photo.
Looking at them, Logan adjusted his sitting position again, propping up his chin with the hand that hadn't touched the photographs, naturally blocking his mouth with part of his fingers.
He tried not to scan the photographs and the large black and white text in order to curb the ridiculous feeling of revulsion he felt.
Yes, revulsion.
It was the most instinctive of human beings, a combination of repulsion, panic, fear, and anger at having their own kind killed one by one like pigs in a slaughterhouse.
In the face of not too gory, not even split up the body of the murder scene photos, an FBI investigator actually rose stomach feeling, is a bit embarrassing.
Logan can only try to endure the discomfort, hurriedly read through the first terrorist attack, and then look at the font size of the summary section, randomly scanned a few eyes, synthesized his own speculation, "The attacker is a cold-blooded butcher."
"He was about twenty-five to fifty years of age, in the prime of life, a skilled hand, frighteningly calm from start to finish, uninjured," he raised his voice, "left no traces of himself at the scene of the crime."
"Blood, saliva, hair, fingerprints, footprints, etc., nothing,"
"But fortunately, we can infer the victim's height from the location of his wounds, about one meter eight to one meter eight three, the error will not be more than two centimeters."
After a pause, Logan added, "Assuming, of course, that he didn't deliberately depress the muzzle of his gun, or wear high heels."
"However," he shrugged, "I personally find the veracity of the height values questionable."
The reason was simple, "A veteran so skilled would not forget to fake his height if he wanted to hide his tracks completely, and we don't have the footprints to verify the authenticity."
"This is a premeditated, almost flawless murderer."
Logan repeats, "Nearly."
He looked around and smiled, "He may not appear to have revealed any information, but he has revealed the most vital point of all: identity."
"I suggest that we have the Tokyo police do a thorough check of Tokyo's unidentified personnel, focusing on documenting any guys suspected of being retired, and at the same time extracting the files and sifting through the list of retired and active personnel to find some of the best of the best."
"Believe me, such a horrible attacker is not a nobody, even if he is a retired person, the superior officer will still remember him."
"If he's arrogant and hasn't left Tokyo, there's a good chance we'll find some trace of him."
The reasoning was sound, and much of it coincided with the documented viewpoints that were now the prevailing viewpoint of the FBI and the Tokyo police.
Senior Investigator A, who was in charge of chairing the meeting, nodded his head in satisfaction and cast an approving glance, then swept over the other two colleagues and smiled at his superior, "Good reasoning, Logan, but there is one correction that needs to be made,"
He flipped through the file, "Move the age range back ten years overall and limit it to thirty-five to sixty-five."
"Don't be overly cautious, twenty-five is far too young, even if he's still fighting in the last few years, it's unlikely that he'll be able to make such a... brilliant, I hate to use brilliant, it's a very inappropriate word, but it fits perfectly."
"Only a veteran could have fought such a beautiful battle, it needs time to be honed, not a young man who is too young."
Said Senior Investigator A, weighing his vocabulary, and added: "And setting the maximum number for the range at sixty-five is a somewhat bold prediction, and one that perhaps many people don't quite agree with,"
"However, the document mentions one thing, which you will have noticed: the hit ratio."
"This assailant was very skilled, and some of the shots surprised me in their decisiveness and accuracy, but equally, some of the shots surprised me in their accuracy, and while maintaining a high hit rate, he also maintained a low hit rate."
That's a contradiction in terms.
But everyone who saw the document understood it clearly.
The high hit rate is due to the fact that each of the victims was dead, and there were at most three gunshots in the bodies.
That means that the murderer took at most three shots to hit the enemy in the vitals, between walking, dodging, etc.
And that's with one person facing two or three enemies.
The low hit rate is due to the fact that: ...there are many bullets that do not hit the enemy.
And most of them surrounded the bodies of the enemies.
Senior Investigator A cautiously surmises, "If it was a veteran with shaky hands, it would make sense, wouldn't it?"
It makes sense.
Everyone nods, convinced.
Even the Agent Supervisor nodded slightly in agreement.
"Of course," said Senior Investigator A, with another smile, "this is a good way to verify Logan's suspicion that the height was faked."
He swore, "Not to mention a sixty-five year old Japanese, even a thirty-five year old Japanese, a guy over five-foot-eight is impressive."
"If there was a guy in Tokyo who fit the bill, the Tokyo police would have arrested him already."
"So, is it possible for a veteran to jump from the second floor to the first floor in overpriced shoes, reload, and then move on for the kill?"
Senior Investigator A swept past his two colleagues, volunteered this, thought about it again, and nodded approvingly, "Yes it is possible."
He looked to the Agent Supervisor and hung his head, "In fact, I've met many retired veterans in New York, most of them are already old, but they still have the same bravado and competence as the young."
Like your father.
He said this explicitly, without actually delivering the compliment, pausing for a few seconds with a smile, and after receiving a smile from the agent's supervisor, looked around the room and added, appropriately enough, to the part Logan had purposely left out, "There is also one other point to be borne in mind,"
"These dead, most of them are black people, some of them are wanted criminals, some are not wanted, but often touch the gun familiar, and some, the police can not find the identity."
He solemnly said: "And the dead, also prepared, they are in the recent collective moved to the neighborhood."
"They both knew about each other, it's just that the assailants got the upper hand and chose a time to strike that the victims didn't expect."
That means one thing. "We have to consider the killer's motive."
"One more thing," A senior investigator sitting next to him, B, spoke in a thoughtful tone, "I noticed that in the vicinity of the first terrorist attack, there was a murder and a short interval between it and the terrorist attack, within twenty minutes."
"The victim of that murder was a member of the police force."
"A career officer," he emphasized, "in his forties or fifties, a police officer who had been in the police department when he was younger and was now a police replacement."
The New York FBI didn't really understand things like career groups, but they got the idea: this police officer had been demoted, there was something unusual about him.
Senior Investigator B turned his face sideways to the agent supervisor and bowed his head slightly as he spoke, "According to the informant, this police officer has ties to the black power."
He smiled, "I've been going through the files, and the Tokyo police seem to have forgotten about it, and didn't mention it."
"I think that's one of the clues."
"Indeed," Senior Investigator A agreed, smiling in compliment, "the Tokyo police are still a bit confused, it's a good thing you have someone in Tokyo."
"But what are you doing in..."
"Oh," He revealed a look of understanding, not saying it right away, only in the direction that the agent supervisor could not see, scowling and making a derisive expression, while verbalizing slowly, "you have always been interested in neon, looking for one or two good helpers, I remembered."
Most of the investigators had their ears to the ground, their noses to the heart, and were looking down at their papers.
Logan did the same, he caught his boss's teasing look and automatically translated: Oh, your father is a veteran too, he used to come to Neon, maybe he contributed to Neon's height rate, haha, then it makes sense that you have an informant in Tokyo, maybe a half-brother.
The banter was so crude that it couldn't be rebutted without a direct voice.
Senior Investigator B's face immediately darkened.
"Ahem," said the third investigator, breaking the inexplicable silence of the meeting, "you all seem to be adjusting well to Tokyo."
"I thought you'd be tired from the long hours of traveling, but I didn't expect you to be so energized and dedicated to the case," he said to the agent supervisor in an exclamatory tone, "It's thanks to one of our backbones that we're able to speculate with such confidence and boldness."
This was a reminder: wake up, this is not in New York, tearing the head flower, and tearing it will not get you much profit, and it will be a big trouble if you make your boss unhappy.
The atmosphere has lightened up a bit.
At least on the surface.
Senior Investigator C looked at the time again and pinched his brow in a tired-looking manner, "It's past three o'clock Tokyo time."
He was older, so he put on a tired, strong face and asked the agent supervisor, "Do you think..."
"Let's all take a break," said the agent supervisor, who was also tired, or else he wouldn't have remained silent, "Let's take a thirty-minute break, and then have some coffee to refresh ourselves for the discussion of the second terrorist attack."
"And one more thing," he pinched his brow, "if the attackers hadn't left and had gotten wind that we were coming, there was a possibility that they could have struck."
A common criminal, of course, wouldn't be able to strike just because the police were investigating, but was the target this time a common criminal?
No.
The Special Agent Supervisor said lightly, "Take care."
He announced, "Break."
The room immediately loosened up, and most of the men went out after asking for permission, while some of the remaining men closed their eyes and some pretended to look at the documents with great attention.
Logan's eyes flicked to his boss.
After receiving an unmoving nod, he picked up his cell phone, also asked for permission to go out, found a relatively secluded corner, dialed the phone, "Hey, how's the situation."
The person on the other end answered in heavily accented English, "The news of the FBI's early arrival hasn't been leaked yet, and the Tokyo police are still waiting for the appointed time to arrive."
Most of the embassy was lit.
Logan was about to speak when he caught a glimpse of the lights in the hall below flickering, as if they had a bad contact, going out for a split second, and then coming back on again.
He subconsciously turned his head to look at, frowned a few more eyes, some dissatisfaction, but still the first to catch up with the business, after a few simple chat and hang up the phone, began to hold up the cell phone to consider the wording of the report.
Of course, it's a report to the boss of the boss.
When working across the border, when there are colleagues who don't get along with each other, it's not very convenient for a senior investigator to come out, otherwise he may encounter some trouble that he can only endure if he's not careful.
Logan had a bit of insight and knew how to get out of trouble.
He leaned on the edge of the small balcony, while paying attention to the nearby corridors, alert to colleagues over, while a thousand, a thousand carefully edited text messages.
First recapitulating the events in detail, then choosing from among them to select information that would not cause impatience.
This is a test of ability, more than the ability to test the murder, after all, there is a major case, and did not solve the case in time, it can be a handful of, can also support angle, but if the disgust of some people, the rest of their lives will be over.
Logan thought about it and considered whether to keep the banter to himself: it was a bit unethical, but it was well established that the FBI guys were no slouches.
Of the FBI guys who were out in Tokyo, Logan could guarantee that almost every one of them was a jackal, and every one of them was guilty of dirty deeds, dealing in white drugs and dabbling in the color red, as was normal.
The fact that the bottom-feeders were like that meant that some of the bosses who sent them to Tokyo weren't clean enough to care about morality, and it seemed okay to make fun of them as a joke.
...Never mind, this boss had a friend who was the son of a general, and more work is more work.
Eventually, twenty-five minutes into the break, Logan adjusted his clothing, sent off his report, and walked quickly toward the conference room.
The conference room was lit, the doorway was open a finger's width, and from a distance, he could see that the seats inside seemed to be full, with people lying on their backs or stomachs, resting their eyes, waiting for the break to end.
His heart was tight: has deliberately not stepped on the last two minutes of the point, how still late.
Shouldn't it be the last five minutes before people start coming in? These guys have no morals!
Logan walked over and hurriedly pushed the door open, "Sorry, I..."
There was a subtle odor.
The conference room was indeed almost full.
Almost, because there were people in every seat except Logan's.
But they weren't sitting in the same order, they weren't exactly sitting, they weren't talking, they weren't making eye contact, they were...
They were corpses.
Some of the bodies were sitting on their backs in their seats, as if sound asleep, their clothes rather wrinkled, and there was a lot of blood.
Some of the bodies were lying on the table, bleeding all over the table.
Others were sitting with their heads hanging down, as if their heads were about to fall off.
These are the obvious ones.
Most of the bodies were clean, no dagger marks on the necks, no indication of the cause of death.
Logan: "..."
Before he can react, his body freezes and his mind goes blank.
In the silence, he heard a door slam.
It came from behind him.
Logan stiffened and slowly turned his head.
He saw a young man standing behind the door.
The young man was dark-haired and red-eyed, looked to be 16 or 17 years old at most, was wearing a black baseball uniform, a baseball cap, and a black open-fingered glove on his hand that was pressed against the door.
The glove stops at the base of the fingers and protects only the palm prints, while the fingerprints are protected by red Band-Aids.
The Band-Aids were originally brown.
The side of the dark-haired young man's face had a stark splatter of blood that almost grazed his eye, making him look like Satan crawling out of hell.
He thought for a moment, "Mr. NPC, Surprise?"