North American riot police: Start by arresting P. Diddy!

Chapter 193 The Story of Chief Griffin (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

Time goes back to a month ago.

Chicago City Hall.

"Griffin, are you sure you want to do this?"

The mayor put down the documents in his hand, frowned, and looked at the man across the desk: "Early retirement means you'll lose more than four thousand dollars a month, which is no small amount."

Director Griffin shrugged indifferently: "What would a bachelor like me need so much money for? A monthly pension of ten thousand dollars is enough for me to live comfortably."

"bachelor?"

The mayor raised an eyebrow. "I remember your daughter was a teacher in the East, wasn't she?"

When his daughter was mentioned, the bureau chief's expression paused slightly, but he quickly regained his composure: "She doesn't need me to worry about her. And even if I offered her money, that girl wouldn't take it."

“Pete, we’re old friends,” the mayor continued, “Chicago’s crime rate is skyrocketing, especially in the South Side, which is practically a drug dumping ground. This city needs you.”

He was reluctant to let Griffin leave easily. After all, although the other party had not achieved anything significant in the past two decades, the crime rate in Chicago had indeed been decreasing every year, and the numbers did not lie.

Griffin remained silent for a long time before finally sighing softly, "I'm just too tired. Popper sent me a postcard from Europe the other day. I also want to take advantage of the time I can still walk around and see more of the world."

Upon hearing this, the mayor stared at him for a while, then thought about it and decided not to insist.

Given their qualifications and age, they are indeed eligible for early retirement. However, according to federal regulations, early retirement will result in a 4% reduction in annual retirement benefits.

In summary, after retiring five years early, the police chief, who earns an annual salary of 300,000 yuan, will see his monthly pension plummet from over 16,000 yuan to just over 10,000 yuan.

However, as Griffin said, this amount of money would be enough to live a comfortable retirement in any American city.

Half an hour later.

After completing the formalities, Griffin returned to the police station office.

He sat in that leather bureau chief's chair for the last time, lit a Cohiba cigar that he usually couldn't bear to smoke, and gazed absently at the familiar cityscape outside the window.

Chicago's security has been deteriorating lately, and City Hall is rife with unsavory and chaotic situations.

He had planned to launch a citywide crackdown on crime, but a week ago City Hall signed an immigration amnesty policy, and soon a large number of illegal immigrants from Mexico and Brazil will flood into Chicago.

Having spent many years in the law enforcement system, Griffin knew these people all too well.

While he was increasing security patrols on this side, his superiors kept cramming illegal immigrants, who were most prone to breaking the law, into the city.

After thinking it over all night, he finally decided to resign.

Perhaps it's a bit of shirking responsibility, but he believes the system is completely rotten, and no matter how much he does, it's meaningless. He might as well get out early and enjoy life.

Not long after, after attending a farewell party prepared by his colleagues, he put down his badge and left alone.

As for that police gun that had been with him for many years?
He has applied to have the number removed and the record deleted from the internal system.

From now on, this "gun of kindness" will be his personal sidearm.

Griffin glanced back at the Chicago Police Department building one last time, smiling and nodding at the officers standing in salute.

After getting in the car, he put in his favorite music CD and drove off into the distance to the sound of George Street's songs.

Looking at the clear blue sky outside the police station, Griffin suddenly felt a sense of relief.

He has already planned his first retirement destination: New York for a year or two.

Since Rorschach got out of prison, he hasn't made a single phone call. He's been making a name for himself in New York. I need to go see what that kid's up to now.

The vehicle drove further and further away, only the singing drifted out of the car window:

"On the road again, I can't wait to get back on the road!"

"And I can't wait to get on the road again (at this moment, I just want to head out to the distance and set sail once more)~"

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Soon, in less than a day, old Griffin packed his bags and arrived in New York.

To be honest, he didn't bring much with him.

Aside from a 1963 Mercedes-Benz 190SL antique car that he had treasured for many years, he brought almost nothing else.

Oh, and there's also the millions of dollars I've saved in my bank account over the years.

Now he has both money and free time.

Although Chicago is one of the top metropolitan areas in North America, it is far behind New York City in terms of both prosperity and cultural diversity.

However, Griffin didn't care about any of that. He came to New York for only one purpose: to see Rorschach and have a good talk.

Come to think of it, he felt that he bore some responsibility for Luo Xia's current reputation as a "terrorist?"

After all, it was he who advised Rorschach to "unleash the beast within" and stop suppressing his true nature.

But who knows what this kid actually understood it to mean?

Judging from his actions over the past six months, he's not some beast; he's clearly a demon who treats human life and social order like a joke!
As an elder who watched Rorschach grow up and an old friend of his mother, Griffin felt it was his responsibility to have a face-to-face talk with Rorschach and hear his true thoughts.

However, since we're going to be staying here for a while, the first thing we need to do is find a place to stay.

Instead of renting a hotel long-term, he looked at houses in several different areas.

Our first stop was a rental apartment in Manhattan.

But old Griffin went in, took a quick look around, and left without looking back, completely ignoring the real estate agent's desperate attempts to persuade him to stay.

The reason is simple—the entire apartment, from wallpaper to carpet, is decorated in pink Hello Kitty—a decorating style that's bursting with girlish charm.
Let's just say that even Schwarzenegger would have to wear two stickers before he could leave.

Old Griffin has always prided himself on being an even tougher, more ruthless man than Rorschach. Although he has gained weight and lost his shape, he is still a tough guy who takes his shit out of the toilet and faces outwards. Naturally, he can't stand this kind of place where sissies live.

For his second residence, he chose Queens, a borough with a relatively poor security record.

It's not that he's trying to save money. Even after retirement, with his millions in savings and a monthly pension of over ten thousand US dollars, he can afford to live anywhere in New York except for the most luxurious mansions.

I chose this place simply because the environment is a mixed bag.

He felt that if he were Rorschach and had to hide in New York, he would definitely choose this kind of shady place.

As soon as the landlord took him to see the apartment, before he could even observe the surroundings, his Cuban neighbor from the apartment across the street sneaked up to the window with a gun and fired a whole magazine of bullets.

Just as Griffin was considering whether to take the kid to the police station, the Cuban, taking advantage of the landlord's inattention, smugly told him that he was "helping" him.

He would fire shots into the air at different times every three days to create the illusion that the place was dangerous.

This way, you can live here at a rent far below the surrounding market price.

After hearing this explanation, Griffin was utterly astonished.

Having worked in the industry for over fifty years, this was the first time he had ever heard of such a novel and effective way to negotiate prices.

So he immediately decided to rent the apartment.

The landlord, who originally demanded a lump sum payment of six months' rent, softened his stance instantly under the "deterrence" of the gunshots. As if afraid that Griffin would change his mind, he offered to pay the rent monthly.

And so, our former Midtown Chicago Police Chief and business crime slayer, Mr. Pete Griffin, officially settled down in New York.

Life in New York is much more relaxed than it was in Chicago.

Griffin did not deliberately search for Rorschach's whereabouts.

He knew very well that with Rorschach's abilities, even the CTU and FBI had searched New York thoroughly for so long without any results, so it was even more impossible for him to find the other party on his own.

He was waiting for Rorschach to make his move again.

When that time comes, he will try to get close to the scene and see if there is a chance to meet Rorschach.

Every morning, Griffin brews himself a cup of black tea, trims his cigar, and then sits on the balcony, puffing away while reading detective novels he never had time for before.

Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle, Raymond Chandler, Stephen King.
Of all mystery writers, Griffin's favorite was not Conan Doyle, nor Edgar Allan Poe, but an elderly British lady—Agatha Christie.

He especially loved Hercule Poirot, the mustachioed detective in her novels, because he felt he was very similar to the detective.

No, no, no, don't misunderstand. This similarity doesn't refer to Poirot's short, stout physique and signature mustache, but rather to their shared sense of humor in extreme circumstances, as well as their warmth and solitude.

Detective Poirot had no children, no family; his existence seemed solely to be about solving cases. Griffin felt he was now exactly like that detective. The old Griffin had a family, and if it weren't for them, he wouldn't have chosen to return to his hometown of Chicago for work; given his resume, he could have easily chosen any federal law enforcement agency.

But at that time, he had a wife and a daughter.

Griffin originally thought he would be like most American fathers, watching his daughter grow up, hand in hand, and handing her over to another man who would take care of her for the rest of his life.

After his daughter has children, he, as her grandfather, will teach her how to drink, how to shoot, and most importantly, how to become a real man.

At this point, he suddenly remembered that he had once planned to introduce his daughter to Luo Xia.

But after one of Rorschach's invitations to take him to a strip club for drinks, Griffin immediately abandoned the idea.

This guy might be a good cop, but he'd definitely never be a good husband.

However, just like the formulaic Hollywood cop movies, every good cop seems unable to escape the fate of a broken family.

Griffin is no exception.

Every few years, his wife would have a big fight with him because she couldn't stand his frequent overtime and endless work. Until one particularly heated argument, his wife, in a fit of anger, took the children and went back to her parents' home in the south to separate and cool off.

He thought it was just an ordinary argument, but that night became their last.

A sudden car accident took the wife's life, leaving only their teenage daughter to survive.

Griffin bravely endured his grief to hold a funeral for his wife, while his daughter seemed to blame him for everything.

From that day on, his daughter never spoke a word to him again.

After graduating from university, she applied to study in the far East and stayed there after graduation. She is currently a professor at a university and has not returned to the country in recent years.

Now, Griffin can't even remember what his daughter looks like.

So many years have passed, and he doesn't know what that little girl with the ponytail looks like now.

"dong dong dong"

Just as he was engrossed in the novel, there was a gentle knock on the apartment door.

Judging from the light footsteps and the location of the knock, Griffin hadn't even seen who it was when the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and he put down the book in his hand.

When the door opened, a little girl holding an apple pie in both hands stood outside with a smiling face.

"Uncle Griffin, I've brought you breakfast."

Old Griffin looked at the little girl, who was barely waist-high, and smiled helplessly, "Haven't I told you many times that I'll just go get it myself in a little while?"

"Hehe, I..." The girl lowered her head shyly, her toes lightly rubbing the ground, her voice barely audible, "I still want to hear you tell the story of the great detective Hercule Poirot."

Seeing the girl's shy and bashful appearance, old Griffin couldn't help but chuckle and opened the door to welcome her inside.

The girl's name was Eileen, and she was the daughter of my neighbor across the hall.

That's right, it's that Cuban genius who created the illusion of community insecurity by firing shots and used his subjective initiative to lower rents.

After spending a few days with the family, Griffin figured out their background:
This father and daughter are impoverished immigrants who smuggled themselves from Cuba. They barely survive on the food and shopping vouchers distributed by the community each month.

The Cuban kid was a complete layabout, spending his days wandering the streets doing petty theft.

Surprisingly, this good-for-nothing had an exceptionally well-behaved and sensible daughter.

Griffin still remembers the first time he met Eileen, when the little girl offered him a homemade pastry, politely saying it was a gift for her new neighbor.

What moved him even more was that the little girl specifically explained that her father might sometimes have a bad temper and hoped that he could be more understanding.

What a sensible child!

This reminded him of what his daughter looked like when she was little.

Back then, there weren't so many unresolved issues between father and daughter, and the daughter was as innocent and carefree as Eileen.

Unfortunately, the girl's father was not good enough; he couldn't even afford to send his daughter to school.

That's why Eileen would use the excuse of delivering breakfast to listen to old Griffin tell stories from his books every day.

This poor little girl still can't distinguish between novels and textbooks.

"Where did we leave off yesterday?" Griffin asked casually, taking a bite of the apple pie the girl had made.

"Murder on the Orient Express, we just got to the part where Poirot discovers all the passengers are suspects." Eileen sat opposite Griffin, looking up at him expectantly.

Griffin took a sip of black tea to moisten his throat, and continued, "Poirot noticed subtle contradictions in the testimonies of each passenger."

Not long after, half an hour later, the entire case was thoroughly analyzed and dissected.

After hearing the story, Eileen scratched her head and asked curiously, "Since they already know who the murderer is, why doesn't Poirot arrest them?"

Griffin smiled, considered for a moment, and then answered seriously, "Because often, the perpetrator is not necessarily a bad person, and the victim is not necessarily innocent. Poirot's choice to conceal the truth is actually to allow justice outside the law to be served."

"Oh~~~" Eileen opened her mouth wide and nodded as if she understood.

Seeing her bewildered expression, Griffin couldn't help but shake his head with a smile.

These words are indeed too profound for an eight or nine-year-old girl.

The two chatted about everyday things, mostly Griffin talking and Eileen listening.

The little girl had an inexplicable admiration for Griffin, as if she regarded him as a real-life detective Hercule Poirot.

As Erin was about to leave, she suddenly turned around and told Griffin, somewhat sadly, that she might be going to Florida in a couple of days.

Her father has a friend who does business there, and he heard it's quite large. Her father can't wait to go and make money together.

"Florida?"

Old Griffin frowned.

Based on his understanding of Eileen's father, this friend was probably some shady character as well.

Seeing the girl's reluctant expression, Griffin felt a pang of sadness as well.

After spending more than half a month together, he had come to love Eileen as if she were his own daughter, and was even planning to find a suitable opportunity to sponsor her to go to school.

But in the end, I'm just a neighbor, and only a tenant.

Griffin could only offer the girl a few words of comfort before giving her his treasured deluxe edition of "Murder on the Orient Express," along with a new cell phone.

He saved his number in the account and told the girl she could contact him if she encountered any difficulties in the future.

Eileen clutched her book and phone tightly, her eyes reddening as she nodded vigorously.

As time went by, the neighbors next door had all moved out and their house was now empty.

Old Griffin's life suddenly lost its former vibrancy, until that suffocating midday.

His phone suddenly rang, and the name "Eileen" on the screen made his heart leap with joy, but his smile froze the moment he answered.

All that came through the phone was Eileen's heart-wrenching screams; the girl was pleading for help in the most desperate of voices.

It turns out that her father's so-called friend was a complete fraud who tricked them into going to Florida to kidnap Erin.

Her father was brutally shot and killed while resisting, and now Eileen can only hide in her locked room, trembling as she dials the only contact in her phone.

Hearing the girl's cries of despair, Griffin forced himself to calm down after a brief moment of shock and quickly asked for more details about the kidnappers.

He knew better than anyone that Eileen couldn't hide for long, and now he had to race against death.

Suddenly, a loud bang came from the other end of the phone as the door was kicked open, followed by Eileen's terrified scream.

The call then abruptly ended.

Inside the apartment, listening to the jarring busy tone on his phone, old Griffin slowly put it down.

At that moment, Rorschach's "horror live broadcast" was playing on the television, and a series of incredibly familiar voices were coming from it.

Griffin gripped the "Gun of Kindness" tightly at his waist, his fingertips rubbing the police gun serial number that had already been destroyed on the handle.

"It seems we'll have to wait a few more days to see each other again, Rorschach."

(End of this chapter)