In the fading light of dusk, the once-bustling town of Wrightwood had settled into a quiet hush. It was in this remote hamlet that Ethan's fate took a sharp turn, a twist of events that left him on the chilly ground. The locals, upon discovering his motionless form, hastily alerted the authorities. Officially, the incident was chalked up to a tragic mishap—a mere slip and fall.
For seven long years that followed, Ethan lay in a deep, motionless slumber. Yet, beneath the still surface of his coma, his mind wove an intricate tapestry of dreams. In this subconscious realm, he birthed the persona of Dennis, a figment of his imagination so vivid, it blurred the lines between fantasy and reality.
Upon the abrupt resurgence of his consciousness, Ethan grappled with a perplexing theory. He pondered if, in some twisted reversal of roles, the real Ethan had remained trapped in the dream world, leaving Dennis to awaken in his stead. This speculation was fueled by a startling metamorphosis—from an ordinary man to one endowed with extraordinary faculties.
His curiosity piqued, Ethan delved into extensive research, uncovering cases with eerie similarities. Even seasoned psychologists lent credence to his hypothesis. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Dennis, an alternate personality forged in the crucible of Ethan's comatose state, had assumed control upon his reawakening. This phenomenon, though rare, had precedents both in the United States and abroad.
In this new chapter of his life, Ethan explored the boundaries of his enigmatic abilities with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
Years prior, Ethan had graced the stage of "Mastermind," a local television show that celebrated intellectual prowess. But it was only after earning the title of "Case Consultant" and immersing himself in the world of criminal investigation that he discovered his true gift—deductive reasoning. This newfound skill swiftly propelled him to success, solving case after case and earning him a reputation within the police force.
It was during this time that he acquired the moniker "Detective Steele."
Behind this nickname lay a mosaic of sentiments—admiration, jest, and even a hint of derision.
Yet, for Ethan, the sobriquet held little significance. His thoughts were anchored to the enigma of that night seven years ago. Was it truly an accident? Haunting his memories were visions of ghostly, pale hands—were they reaching to save him, or were they the malevolent force that cast him into the abyss? If their intent was rescue, why the delay in seeking aid? And if malice was at play, what dark history lay between him and the owner of those spectral fingers?
"Here we are," Jennifer's voice pierced through his reverie. Ethan glanced up to find they had arrived. The car was parked outside a quaint residential area—Trevor's last known address.
Regaining his focus, Ethan stepped out of the vehicle, his gaze sweeping over the serene neighborhood. He approached the security booth, presenting his identification to complete the necessary formalities. Jennifer, who had quickly parked the car, joined him moments later. There was a hint of apprehension in her voice as she spoke, "Um... I might have said something wrong in the car earlier, please don't mind. It's probably because it's the first time I've had the opportunity to participate in a case investigation, and I was a bit excited, so I spoke without thinking."
As Ethan offered a subdued smile in response, his voice tinged with a reflective note, he reassured Jennifer, "You're too sensitive. I was just recalling some past events."
Jennifer's tension eased at his words. The pair made their way to the floor housing Trevor's rented abode. Ascending the stairs, Jennifer produced the keys, unlocking the door while remarking, "Captain Bowen's team has already combed through here, but they turned up no leads of value."
Stepping into the apartment, Ethan was immediately struck by a delicate aroma wafting through the air. The living room presented itself in pristine condition: sofa cushions aligned with precision, a pair of bamboo pots gracing the coffee table, their leaves tinged with hints of yellow. A collection of succulents added a touch of life, while a tea set held the center stage. Across the sofa, a television stood, flanked by a bookshelf.
Notably absent was the scent of tobacco; no ashtrays lay in sight, either on the coffee table or the dining area.
For a solitary young man's dwelling, such meticulous orderliness was a rarity. Jennifer handed Ethan a pair of shoe covers. As he stooped to don them, his eyes briefly surveyed the shoe cabinet. Inside, an assortment of footwear, ranging from formal leather shoes to casual wear and hiking boots—all from renowned global brands—were arrayed with exacting neatness.
With shoe covers in place, they ventured further into the living space. Passing the bathroom, Ethan's gaze flickered inside. An automatic air freshener hung on the wall, its periodic sprays likely responsible for the persistent, pleasant fragrance.
The true testament to one's tidiness, however, lay in the kitchen and bedroom. Ethan first nudged the kitchen door open. The sight that greeted him was one of impeccable cleanliness: the floor, induction cooker, and walls all shone spotlessly. Even the range hood was devoid of any grease marks. On opening the refrigerator, instead of the typical instant meals, it was stocked with a vibrant array of fruits and vegetables.
The sink was free of dish piles, and the cabinets housed neatly arranged plates and utensils.
Jennifer, following Ethan, couldn't hide her amazement. "My goodness, this is almost too much. Someone who cooks regularly, and yet there's not a single grease spot on the range hood. I have the same model in my apartment, and it's always a chore to clean," she observed. Her tone shifted to one of speculation as she added, "This level of cleanliness borders on obsessive-compulsiveness, don't you think? Trevor might have OCD."
Ethan remained silent, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere, as he made his way out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. The bed was impeccably made, the sheets stretched taut without a single wrinkle. He opened the wardrobe to find the clothes jumbled together, not sorted by color or type, an unexpected contrast to the rest of the apartment's orderliness. The walls were barren, devoid of any personal photographs. On the bedside table lay a well-thumbed book, 'The Greatest Salesman in the World,' its yellowed pages bearing testament to frequent reading.
Delving deeper, Ethan pulled open the bedside drawer, revealing an assortment of watches, all authentic and from notable international brands. In the lower cabinet, a vintage tape recorder caught his eye, surrounded by a dozen or so tapes. Crouching down, he carefully extracted one of the cassettes—a collection of Johnny Cash songs, its surface visibly worn from years of use.
The adjacent tapes exhibited similar signs of age. Ethan inserted the tape into the recorder and pressed play. The iconic strains of 'Ring of Fire' filled the room, though marred by the crackling and interference of aged audio, rendering Johnny Cash's voice somewhat distorted.
Attracted by the music, Jennifer entered the bedroom. She crouched beside Ethan, eyeing the tape recorder. "My brother had one just like this when we were kids. I remember it from my childhood," she remarked nostalgically.
After a moment, Ethan switched off the recorder and stood up, turning to Jennifer. "Having seen Trevor's apartment, what are your impressions?" he inquired.
Jennifer replied thoughtfully, "In two words: clean and tidy. It's more orderly than any guy's room I've ever seen, even more so than my own place. Makes me feel a bit lacking in comparison. But this level of tidiness, it's almost over the top, don't you think? Trevor might have OCD."
Ethan considered her words, then responded, "It's not quite OCD. Look at the kitchen—utensils aren't matched in pattern, just arranged meticulously. The spoon holder has forks and spoons facing different directions. The fridge's crisper drawer mixes fruits and vegetables of varied hues. His wardrobe is unsorted by color or type, and even the pillowcases on his bed are of differing shades. The bedding and sheets aren't uniform either," he observed. "Trevor's habits suggest a long-standing personal discipline, not a compulsion. A person with such self-control wouldn't likely accept financial support, casting doubt on those rumors. Yet, the question remains: how did he afford so many luxury items?"
Ethan pondered aloud, "The salary of a real estate agent isn't insignificant, and Trevor leads a lifestyle free of vices like smoking or drinking. It's feasible for him to indulge in a few luxury items." He strolled from the bedroom back into the living room, his eyes scanning the environment. "Although these items are branded, their prices vary considerably. The shoes and suits are on the pricier side, as are the watches. These are likely choices made for his professional image, to present himself as respectable and tasteful. The other items are popular, widely accessible brands."
Jennifer emerged from the bedroom, adding her observation, "A young man who is meticulous, refined, and well-dressed would naturally attract the attention of older women."
Ethan approached the bookshelf opposite the sofa. The books there were not mere ornaments; they bore the marks of frequent reading, predominantly focused on sales techniques.
On the bottom shelf, he spotted a gym membership card for 'Sophie Fitness Center.' Picking it up, he handed it to Jennifer, instructing, "Look up this fitness center on the city map. It should be in the vicinity."
His attention then shifted to a certificate of honor displayed in the top left compartment of the TV cabinet's bookshelf. It recognized Trevor's volunteer efforts in 2011, issued by the Gainesville City Volunteer Service Center. "Trevor was in college then?"
"University of Florida," Jennifer confirmed, searching for the gym on her phone. "It's ranked as a third-tier university."
Ethan deduced that Trevor had likely graduated around 2011 and devoted some time to volunteering, though the specifics of his service were not detailed on the certificate. He then turned his gaze towards the coffee table.
Approaching the table, surrounded by an array of over a dozen potted succulents, Ethan crouched to inspect them closer. Jennifer joined him, announcing, "I've located the fitness center. It's a twenty-minute walk from here."
"Don't call me sir; it feels too formal," Ethan replied, still focused on the succulents. "Just use my name."
"Okay," Jennifer acquiesced, crouching beside him to examine the succulents on the table. "This one is called Red Ruby, this one Lipstick, here's Frost Palace, and that's Black Prince. I had a lot of succulents in my dorm. They're easy to care for; they don't require much attention."
Ethan's response was delayed as his focus honed in on one of the succulent pots. With deliberate movements, he sifted through the soil beneath, eventually extracting a crumpled piece of paper. The soil had left its mark on the paper's surface. Carefully, Ethan unfolded it to reveal an ATM withdrawal receipt. The printout detailed a transaction on April 30, 2021, at 22:00, where five thousand dollars were withdrawn from an ATM on Avalon Boulevard.
Reflecting on the timeline, Ethan mused, "On April 30th, Trevor had a plane ticket for a business trip, but he abruptly altered his plans. Instead, he went to Avalon Boulevard and withdrew five thousand dollars." His eyes narrowed slightly, "I recall Captain Bowen's team confirming through surveillance footage that Trevor, suitcase in tow, left the community on April 30th and never returned. Is that correct?"
Jennifer affirmed without hesitation, "Exactly. He left with his suitcase, presumably for a business trip. We scrutinized all the security footage from that day, and there was no sign of him coming back."
Ethan handed the ATM receipt to Jennifer. "This complicates things," he said, a hint of intrigue in his voice. "This receipt indicates Trevor made a withdrawal that night. If he never returned, how did this receipt end up here? Unless Trevor came back, the only other possibility is the murderer. Could it be that after eliminating Trevor, the killer entered this apartment? The community's surveillance footage from April 30th is in police custody, right?"
Jennifer, taking the receipt, nodded in agreement, "Yes, it is."
"Then we need Captain Bowen to authorize a thorough reexamination of the surveillance footage, not just for April 30th but for the subsequent days as well. It's possible the killer was captured on the community's cameras."