American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

“Yes,” Lynn said.

After watching his colleagues leave, Lynn turned and went back to the scene. The bomb disposal team was carefully examining the remains of the explosive device, and forensic personnel were taking photos and collecting evidence.

Lynn stood aside, carefully observing everything, his brain working at high speed.

The previous five explosions were accompanied by the following messages: "Start," "Remember," "History," "Won't," and "Repeat."

This time it's: "History will repeat itself."

This is different from the previous pattern. Before, it was a single word; now it's a complete sentence. Furthermore, "history repeats itself" contrasts with the previous "history does not repeat itself"—it's a contradiction.

The murderer is changing his narrative. He previously said history doesn't repeat itself, but now he says history will. Why is that?
Was it because no one heeded his warnings that he decided to prove his point in a more drastic way?
Or is this all part of his plan—first a warning, then concrete action, to demonstrate that history does indeed repeat itself?
Lynn needs more information.

Lynn stayed at the explosion site until evening, assisting the evidence collectors in recording all the important details. He took photos of the scene, documented the location of the explosive device's remains, and carefully studied the note—though it had been put into an evidence bag, he memorized its contents.

History repeats itself.

The sentence echoed repeatedly in his mind. It had some kind of intrinsic connection to the messages from the previous five explosions, but Lynn needed more time to think about what exactly it was.

Captain Reynolds approached, looking somewhat weary. "Almost done, Agent Holt. The evidence collection is largely complete. The body has been sent for autopsy, and the evidence has been properly preserved. Next comes the analysis phase."

"Have the identities of the two deceased players been confirmed?" Lynn asked.

“Confirmed,” Reynolds said, pulling out his notebook. “One is Marcus Jenkins, 27, a midfielder for the Red Bulls. The other is Daniel O’Connor, 24, also a midfielder. Both are important members of their teams; while not star players, they have a certain level of recognition.”

"What do they have in common besides being on the same team?"

“It’s not clear yet,” Reynolds said. “We’ll investigate their backgrounds further to see if there are any clues. But for now, it seems they just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I don’t think so,” Lynn said. “This killer was very deliberate. The locations of the previous five explosions were all carefully chosen, and this one will be no exception. There must be a reason why he chose this stadium, this lounge, and this specific time to detonate it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Reynolds agreed, “but figuring out the reason will take time. We need to investigate the players’ backgrounds, the stadium’s history, and analyze—”

His phone suddenly rang. Reynolds answered it, listened for a few moments, and his expression became complicated.

"Yes, sir, I understand. Okay, I will cooperate."

After hanging up the phone, Reynolds looked at Lynn, his expression somewhat awkward: "Agent Holt, there's a situation."

"What's going on?"

“The city police chief just informed me that they’ve brought in an outside consultant,” Reynolds said, his tone clearly displeased, “a so-called renowned detective specializing in serial crimes. He’ll arrive tomorrow morning and take full control of the investigation.”

“An external consultant?” Lynn frowned. “What’s their background?”

“He’s supposedly a private investigator who’s solved several major cases in Britain and Europe, and recently moved to the United States,” Reynolds said, pulling out his phone to show Lynn an email. “His name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” Lynn couldn’t help but repeat, “Are you kidding me?”

“I wish it were a joke,” Reynolds said with a wry smile, “but it isn’t. It’s his real name, though it sounds like it came straight out of a novel. He’s supposedly incredibly capable, with an amazing success rate, but also…very difficult to work with.”

"Difficult to get along with?"

“Arrogant, conceited, and disdainful of other law enforcement officers,” Reynolds listed. “The mayor’s office specifically reminded me in the email to give him full autonomy and not to interfere with his work methods. And…”

He paused, his expression becoming even more troubled: "Moreover, he explicitly requested that personnel from other departments be prohibited from participating in the core investigative work during the investigation. He will only accept assistance from NYPD personnel and will not accept involvement from the FBI or other federal agencies."

Lynn paused for a moment, processing the information. This wasn't the first time he'd encountered something like this—jurisdictional disputes between different law enforcement agencies, detectives with individualistic heroism, and personnel changes due to political pressure. But the timing was particularly bad this time.

“So you mean I’ve been excluded from the investigation?” Lynn asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“I’m sorry, Agent Hall,” Reynolds said sincerely, “this wasn’t my decision. If it were up to me, I would be happy to cooperate with the FBI, especially with an excellent agent like you. But… the pressure from above, you know.”

Lynn understood perfectly. In a big city like New York, a bombing that results in deaths would generate enormous public attention and political pressure. The mayor needed to demonstrate to the citizens that the government was taking action, and bringing in a "renowned detective" was a good public relations strategy, even if that detective might not be more capable than the existing investigators.

“I understand,” Lynn finally said, though reluctantly. “So what am I supposed to do now? Hand over the information I have to you?”

“I would appreciate it if you would,” Reynolds said. “Although Mr. Holmes might not appreciate it, I still want to gather as much information as possible.”

Lynn spent half an hour meticulously recounting all the details he had observed, his preliminary analysis of the case, and his insights from the previous five explosions to Reynolds. The captain took careful notes, asking questions from time to time, his attitude professional and respectful.

“Thank you very much, Agent Holt,” Reynolds said, closing his notebook. “This information is very valuable. I will contact you immediately if the situation changes.”

“I’m ready to go,” Lynn said, handing Reynolds a business card. “If you need any assistance from the FBI, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

The two shook hands and said goodbye. By the time Lynn walked out of the stadium, it was completely dark. The parking lot was empty, except for a few police cars and evidence collection vehicles. In the distance, news media vans could be seen, and reporters were still waiting for the latest news.

Lynn avoided the media, leaving through a side door and taking the PATH train back to Manhattan. The train wasn't crowded; most passengers were looking at their phones, probably browsing news about the bombing. He arrived back at his apartment at eight o'clock in the evening. Lynn felt exhausted—not physically, but with a sense of frustration. He wanted to continue the investigation, to catch the murderer, but he was kept out by bureaucracy and political games.

He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of beer, sat on the sofa, and turned on the TV. The news channel was reporting on today's bombing.

Two New York Red Bulls players were killed in an explosion in the team's locker room. Police say the blast may be linked to the recent series of bombings. The mayor's office announced today that it will hire an internationally renowned criminologist to assist in the investigation.

Lynn turned off the television. He didn't want to watch those exaggerated political pronouncements and media hype. What he wanted was concrete action, to catch the murderer, and to seek justice for the victims.

His phone rang; it was his supervisor, Jason, calling.

“Lynn, I heard about what happened today,” Jason’s voice sounded serious. “Were you there?”

“Yes, sir,” Lynn gave a brief report, “but the NYPD brought in an outside consultant, and I was excluded from the investigation.”

“I know, I just spoke with the NYPD Commissioner,” Jason said. “Their decision was foolish, but understandable given the political pressure. However, Lynn, as your superior, I must say—perhaps this is for your own good.”

"What's the meaning?"

“You just got back from Alaska and are still recovering,” Jason said. “You should have been resting, but then you got involved in a bombing. Being spared this time gives you a real chance to rest.”

"But sir—"

“No buts,” Jason interrupted him. “This is an order, Lynn. You're to rest for the next two days. Don't think about the case, don't do any investigations, treat it like a real vacation. We can get involved when Mr. Holmes messes things up.”

Lynn knew arguing was pointless. Jason had a point—he did need rest; he hadn't fully recovered. Besides, forcibly intervening in a case that didn't welcome the FBI's involvement could cause more political trouble.

“Understood, sir,” Lynn said. “I will take a break.”

"Very good. Go do something you enjoy and relax. This is an order, not a suggestion."

After hanging up the phone, Lynn leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Do something he enjoyed? He thought for a moment, realizing he hadn't truly relaxed in a long time. Work occupied most of his life; what else did he enjoy?
He recalled a long time ago, when his father was still alive, they would occasionally play golf together. It was a sport that required focus and patience, a way to temporarily forget one's troubles. Lynn's golf skills weren't exactly professional, but they were decent enough that he could at least hit the ball in a reasonable direction.

Perhaps this is a good idea.

The next morning, Lynn slept in until he naturally woke up—something that had almost never happened in the past few weeks. He got up, washed, had a leisurely breakfast, and then called a golf course on Long Island to reserve a single tee.

“We have a table available at 2 PM, Mr. Hall,” the receptionist said politely. “Would you like to rent clubs?”

“Yes,” Lynn said. “Also, if possible, I’d like a quiet time, somewhere with fewer people.”

"Absolutely. It's a weekday, so it's usually not crowded at 2 PM. We'll arrange it for you."

After hanging up the phone, Lynn rummaged through the storage room and found his golf shoes and gloves—equipment that hadn't been used for months and was covered in dust. He quickly cleaned them, changed into casual clothes, and drove to Long Island.

It takes about an hour to drive from Manhattan to the golf course on Long Island. Lynn drove his Honda Accord east along Highway 495, gradually leaving the hustle and bustle of the city behind. The scenery outside the window changed from skyscrapers to suburban detached houses, and then to stretches of green fields and woods.

Lynn rolled down the car window, letting the cool autumn breeze in. He took a deep breath, feeling the pressure on his shoulders ease slightly. Perhaps Jason was right; he really needed this kind of rest.

It was exactly 1:30 when we arrived at the course. "Green Shade Golf Club" is a mid-range course, not as luxurious as those top private clubs, but the environment is well-maintained and the price is relatively reasonable. Lynn checked in, rented a set of clubs, and then went to the driving range to warm up.

There were only a few people on the practice range. Lynn chose a corner spot, took a few balls from the basket, and began practicing his swing.

The first shot wasn't great; the ball went to the right. Lynn adjusted his posture, relaxed his shoulders, and recalled the technique his father had taught him: "Don't use too much force; let the weight of the club do the work. Maintain rhythm, maintain balance."

The second shot was much better; the ball flew straight out, about 150 yards.

Lynn continued practicing and slowly regained his touch. The repetitive, rhythmic swing helped calm his mind.

Half an hour later, feeling ready, he went to the first tee.

The course manager arranged for him to play solo, meaning he could play at his own pace without waiting for or coordinating with others. This was exactly what Lynn wanted—time to be alone, quiet, and to talk to himself.

The first hole is a par 4, 385 yards long, with a dogleg right turn and two bunker hazards. Lynn set up his ball, got into position, took a deep breath, and swung.

The ball flew out, streaking across the blue sky, and landed in the middle of the fairway, a distance of about 220 yards. Not a perfect shot, but good enough.

Lynn shouldered his golf bag and walked along the fairway toward his ball. It was quiet all around, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the treetops and the occasional chirping of birds. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the grass.

This tranquility reminded Lynn of her time on St. Lawrence Island—although the environments were completely different, one being a snow-covered wasteland and the other a meticulously manicured lawn, both possessing a sense of purity far removed from the hustle and bustle.

On his second shot, Lynn used a 7-iron to get the ball onto the green, about fifteen feet from the flagstick. His third shot was a putt; he took a moment to observe the slope of the green before gently placing the ball. The ball rolled toward the hole and stopped just short of the pin.

The fourth shot was easily slid in. Par, par.

Over the next few holes, Lynn's performance was a mixed bag. He hit some beautiful birdies, while on others he suffered bogeys due to mistakes. But he wasn't concerned with the scores; he enjoyed the process—walking on the open course, focusing on each swing, letting his thoughts soar with the ball. (End of Chapter)