Next morning,
Blugh and Stone walked down the corridor of the command building.
"This Inak guy," Blugh started, with a low tone. "Something's off. I'm telling you, I think he's tied to the kid's disappearance."
Stone glanced sideways. "And?"
"I checked his GPS logs. Night of the 13th, his car was seen near the west-end bridge. But his phone pinged around his workplace—miles away."
Stone raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I also tailed him yesterday," Blugh continued. "Confronted him lightly. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to spook him. And he made a move."
"What kind of move?"
"Later that evening, I saw him exit his apartment with a large luggage bag. Shoved it into the backseat of his car in a hurry. Middle of the night."
Stone frowned slightly. "You open it?"
"No. I wasn't ready to blow the cover. But everything about him screams guilty."
They stopped at Stone's office.
Stone turned to face him. "Look, I know your instinct's usually on point. But legally, this is paper-thin. You can't build a case off a bad feeling, a luggage sighting, and a GPS ping."
Blugh didn't respond.
"I'm not saying drop it. I'm just saying get me something real. Something that'll hold up in a report."
Stone reached for the door handle. Then paused.
"Also… there's something else. My son. Fresh out of training. I need him learning under someone. Can't keep him buried in paperwork, and I'm tied down here. So I'm assigning him to you."
Blugh's brow tightened. He shook his head.
"You know I don't do partners. I work alone. Always have."
Stone exhaled sharply and opened the door.
"That wasn't a request. It's an order. Do it, or I pull you off the case."
A long silence.
"Fine," Blugh said through gritted teeth. "Where is he?"
Stone took his seat behind the desk.
"He should be here already. Probably waiting downstairs. Main gate reception. Name's John. Go introduce yourself."
Blugh turned and walked out without another word.
---
Blugh stepped into the elevator and hit the ground floor. When the doors slid open, he walked out into the reception hall.
There, near the front desk, stood a young man—early twenties, short brown hair, button-down shirt tucked into black tactical pants, a sidearm clipped to his waist. He looked up as Blugh approached: tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a bright blue suit.
The two locked eyes for half a second.
Blugh came to a stop just a step away and looked down at him.
"I'm guessing you're John. Detective Blugh."
The kid stood and extended a hand. "Yeah, I know. My father told me all about you."
A pause.
"Over eight hundred cases, right? Solved. All of them. Hundred percent accuracy." He gave a nervous smile. "I think the entire U.S. police database knows who you are…"
(Second most was a detective in Chicago—around 360 cases and an accuracy of 92%. Blugh wasn't just ahead. He was in a league of his own.)
Blugh returned the handshake. Then looked at John.
He gave John a look. "How's your shot? You know how to aim, or are you just for decoration?"
Without a word, John pulled the gun from his holster in one smooth motion, raised it, then stopping just short of Blugh's face.
Blugh didn't flinch. But his hand moved fast, pushing the barrel down.
"You trying to blow my head off?"
John chuckled, slipping the gun back into its place. "Relax, sir. Safety's on."
Blugh just stared at him.
"You keep that twitchy hand in check unless you're told. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
Blugh turned, walking toward the exit.
"Let's go. I'll show you the case I'm working on."
They then walked through the glass doors, into the heat of the day.
---
They pulled up outside Blugh's place. Nothing fancy. Just a regular house at the edge of the city.
Blugh unlocked the door and walked in.
John followed behind. As soon as he stepped inside, he stopped.
Stacks of books towered on every surface, papers spread like a storm had hit. Scribbled notes, open case files, coffee-stained mugs, newspaper clipped on the walls.
John stood still, taking it all in. The air smelled like ink.
He thought, How alone must someone be to live like this…
Then another thought:
No... He's right. To master an art—any art—you have to be mad.
Blugh pulled a folder from one of the stacks and dropped it on the kitchen table.
"This is the case," he said flatly. "Michael Elren. Missing. Seventeen years old. I want you to read through it and tell me what you think. I need to see how your brain works."
John nodded and picked it up, flipping the cover open.
They both sat.
John opened it and started scanning the pages.
Meanwhile, Blugh reached for a clean sheet of paper and started writing numbers. 7 → 22 → 11 → 34 → 17 → 52 → 26 → 13 → 40…
John glanced over, puzzled. "What's that?"
"Collatz sequence, take any number. If it's even, divide by two. If it's odd, multiply by three and add one. Repeat the process. No matter where you start, you always end up at one." Blugh muttered, not looking up. "Looks random, right? But it always settles down eventually. That's what I do when I hit a wall."
He tapped the paper once, then leaned back.
"People are the same. They act like they're complicated. Different. Unpredictable. But they're not."
He looked at John, his voice steady.
"Everyone follows the same pattern. You just have to stick around long enough to see it."
He pointed at the file.
"Now let's see if you can."
---
John finally closed the folder, exhaled, then looked at Blugh.
"I don't think this was a suicide."
Blugh didn't respond, just kept staring at him, letting him continue.
"With water deaths, the body almost always turns up—sooner or later. If it doesn't, that's a problem. It usually means it didn't end up in the water at all."
He tapped the file lightly.
"I'd investigate the first three vehicles that passed the bridge after 11:24 p.m. The timeline suggests they're the only real leads. Even if they weren't involved directly… maybe someone saw something. Strange behavior. A parked car. A second figure. Anything."
Blugh stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly nodded, just once.
Not bad, he thought.
"Not bad at all."
"That's exactly what I did. I tracked down the three vehicles."
He held up three fingers.
"First one? Farmer. Old guy. Drove that road every night heading home. Harmless."
"Second one was a family. Nothing stood out. No strange behavior, no gaps in their story."
He dropped his hand and leaned forward.
"But the third… was Doctor Fredrick Inak."
Blugh's eyes narrowed slightly, voice cooling.
"Now he is my main priority."
He tapped the edge of the table, slowly.
"I don't think he planned to leave the bridge at the time that he did. He's smart. I think he knew the only traffic cam was at that entrance to the bridge. So he waited, the bigger the gap between the disappearance and him showing up on the camera the safer..."
"But then another car... the farmer. Started coming up from the other end. Inak panicked. Didn't want to be the only car seen standing there on the middle of the bridge. So he drove off too, as soon as he saw the lights of the other car approaching he moved. Then slipped out right in front of the truck, just in time to be caught on camera, but not alone."
He paused, eyes scanning John for a reaction.
John blinked. "That's… clever." He paused, thinking it through. "So, he didn't just drive off randomly. He calculated the timing. Used the farmer's car as cover."
Blugh gave a short nod, then leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"Now… you're the detective on this case," he said, tapping the file on the table. "What's your next move?"
---
That evening, Michael opened his eyes, confused. He didn't understand how he was still alive. He was lying on a double bed. Then, looked down, he realized his legs were gone, from the knee down.
He turned his head and saw Inak sitting on the floor nearby. Next to him were four cages, each with two rats inside. Inak had been forcing them to breed, collecting parasite eggs, and moving his equipment from his apartment to this new place.
Inak saw Michael was awake and looked up at him calmly.
"I chopped your legs off so you'd fit in the suitcase," Inak said plainly. "My mother used to have a tree out back. Every spring, I'd help her cut it down. That's why I had an axe."
"I stitched you up carefully. Cleaned all the blood. Gave you antibiotics—just enough to keep infections away."
He looked at Michael in the eye.
"I need you alive… for now."
Michael didn't respond. He just laid his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. No fear. No anger. Just exhaustion.
"I made a mistake," said Inak quietly. "I slipped. I let my emotions get the better of me. I infected the board… all of them. That wasn't the plan."
"I needed test results before anyone noticed. Before the cops got close. I planned to start with homeless people. Anyone who was a low class and had no one looking for them. But I let my pride decide. I wanted it to be them—my former bosses."
He stopped and looked back at Michael.
"But it matters not... my plan is not going to fail"
A pause.
"I will cheat death, Michael. I swear it."