Brian was not very familiar with the local area.
He didn't know where the Little Sparrow Inn was.
Considering that the target, Andres, was more familiar with the surrounding environment,
the location of the inn should not be too far from the other's residential community.
After wandering around for a while,
Brian finally saw the neon-lit figure of a little sparrow on a rundown street.
"Thank God for privacy laws!"
At this time of night in downtown Los Angeles, many public places still had not installed surveillance equipment; instead, private residences, due to the not-so-great security environment, usually had surveillance cameras in their courtyards.
Brian chose a spot without surveillance to park the car, avoiding those monitored private residences, and after turning left and right for seven or eight minutes, he arrived at the back alley of the Little Sparrow Inn.
All around was pitch darkness.
In most cities in the United States, it was not safe in the early hours of the morning.
At this time, very few people would be out and about.
Brian, carrying a flashlight and the screwdriver from the car repair kit, groped around for a moment and finally came to an electrical box, after a bit of fiddling, he cut the power supply to the small inn.
After all this,
Brian pricked up his ears, listening for any movements inside the Little Sparrow Inn.
The silent night.
Apart from the occasional barking of dogs and meowing of cats from afar, there was no sound coming from the inn.
This was normal, though.
It wasn't like it was a bar or nightclub.
At over three in the morning, even those playing table tennis would have long since gone to bed.
He guessed that no one inside the inn had realized the power was out yet.
After waiting for another moment,
Brian then returned to the front door of the Little Sparrow Inn.
He glanced at the now-darkened inn sign, squatted down, and stuffed the sponge he had pulled from the backseat of the car into his shoe covers, then slipped the covers back onto his feet.
This not only effectively reduced the sound of his footsteps but also blurred the distinctive traces that the shoe covers might leave.
Even if he accidentally left traces in the inn,
even the most skilled trace expert could only conclude that the owner of the traces deliberately disguised them, but it would be difficult to obtain precise information.
...
The Little Sparrow Inn was a typical community family-style inn.
Compared to the complicated procedures required for renting a house,
many families with unstable work income would live in such small inns for the long term.
Some engaged in affairs or solicited prostitutes
would also choose this kind of place as their meeting venue.
Therefore, the inn's front desk was very simple, more like a long table placed haphazardly, with a small gap near the wall for entry and exit, and a sofa in the not-so-large space behind it.
A fat man with a full beard was sound asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly.
There was also a small desk lamp plugged in on the table.
This lamp must have had a charging reserve feature,
so it was unaffected by the power outage.
This made Brian's task easier.
He moved gently, making his way through the small gap to the fat man's front desk, found the right spot, and with gloved hands, he firmly grasped the other's mouth and the carotid arteries on both sides of the neck.
The fat man, deep in snoring sleep, began to struggle noticeably.
But before his consciousness could fully return, the blockage of blood flow from his carotid arteries meant that in just a few seconds, the fat man returned to a baby-like, peaceful sleeping pose.
Brian quickly withdrew his hands.
Fainting caused by insufficient blood supply
would last a few minutes, depending on each person's constitution.
In severe cases, it could be fatal.
A few minutes were enough for Brian to move freely.
He first picked up the notebook on the desk, found the registration for room 304, and confirmed that the target Andres was indeed staying there, then he took the key for room 304 from the wall where the keys were hanging.
In a moment,
Brian stepped on the poor-quality carpet and inserted the key into the lock.
With the room door opened a crack,
Brian silently extended his hand in the dark, feeling for the mounted door latch chain, removed it, and then quietly pushed open the door before gently closing it again.
The dim moonlight filtering through the window,
Brian saw on the high, thick mattress against the wall of the inn's room, a figure not so tall lying there.
The room had a heavy scent of alcohol.
Clearly, the person on the bed must have drunk quite a lot before going to sleep.
Brian did not relax his vigilance because of this.
Like a phantom, he approached the bed and extended his hand more adeptly.
Once bitten, twice shy.
The figure on the bed, presumably under the influence of alcohol, was sleeping deeply, barely struggling even as his breathing was obstructed, and a few seconds later, the struggle ceased as well.
Only then
did Brian exhale a sigh of relief, withdrawing his hands.
He first tied up the figure's hands and feet, stuffed something in his mouth, and then switched on his flashlight, searching the room until he found the other person's driver's license.
Comparing the portrait on the license
Brian confirmed that the person sleeping soundly on the bed was indeed his target—Andres.
By the light of the flashlight,
Brian noticed that Andres, that guy, hadn't even taken off his clothes or shoes. It seemed the police thought he was too drunk, so, without even questioning him, they let him find a place to sober up on his own.
The arrangement seemed a bit sloppy.
But in this country, being a police officer is just a job.
No one wants to look for trouble.
...
Identity confirmed,
Brian didn't hesitate and moved forward to fulfill the obsession of Andres' wife.
Just then,
Cough, cough~
A torrent of vomit erupted from Andres' mouth.
The vomit not only woke Andres up but also expelled the gag from his mouth.
Andres didn't seem to realize what had happened. Trying to get up, he found his hands and feet were bound.
His first instinct was to cry out in alarm.
A sharp Phillips screwdriver, following his wide-open mouth, pressed against Andres' throat.
Brian's exposed gaze was ferocious.
His entire body pressing down on Andres, he huskily whispered, "If you want to die, make a sound!"
Andres still had a lot of alcohol in his system and couldn't muster much strength. Realizing he was bound and at knife-point, he dared not resist and quickly began making whimpering noises to indicate he wouldn't fight back.
Brian had intended to get it over with quickly.
But Andres had just happened to wake up.
This was a good opportunity to test the mechanism of obsession.
With that thought,
Brian slowly withdrew the screwdriver from his hand, waved the flashlight directly into Andres' eyes, making the latter squeeze them shut, before he softly asked, "Why did you kill your wife and the single mother next door?"
"What?"
With his eyes tightly closed, Andres, blinded by the sharp light, suddenly opened his panicked eyes and stammered in an attempt to defend himself, "I... I didn't... huh?"
He seemed to realize something; his panic slowly subsided into calm, "Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about, but I must tell you, whatever your identity, you are now violating my personal safety, and that's against the law!"
Watching his reaction,
Brian's brow furrowed.
Was this guy not afraid of dying?
Seeing Brian remain silent,
Andres became more confident in his theory and tried to draw Brian out,
"Although I don't like my wife, I wouldn't kill her, nor would I harm that poor single mother. If you, the detective, suspect me,
please present your evidence, or else please release me."
Brian understood suddenly.
So, Andres took him for a detective who didn't play by the rules, trying to intimidate him into talking.
That made sense.
The case had just been reported, and someone showed up at the Little Sparrow Inn to catch him, then questioned him about the case.
Anyone slightly clever
would guess it was some police officer taking matters into his own hands.
Brian's eyes glinted with scorn.
What a pity, he wasn't.
Won't talk, huh?
The hell with you wanting to talk or not!
The next moment,
a sharp screwdriver pierce Andres' throat through his carotid artery with a ruthless precision.
Andres' eyes bulged, trying to scream his last,
but the surging blood from the damaged artery drowned out his voice, leaving only a desperate gurgling sound.
Brian didn't linger.
Using a bedsheet to press against the wound, he removed the screwdriver, cleaning off the blood, closed the room door behind him, and walked away.
Behind him,
a great deal of blood, propelled by internal pressure, sprayed from the wound, slowly staining the white comforter covering it with blood...