Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 125 National Security
Tampa in June is not a good place; the weather is unbearably hot and humid.

Alisa Randall sat in the police station's open office, where the air conditioning was blowing cold air.

On the computer screen in front of me, the name "Linda Morales" was clearly displayed.

She had been staring at the file for ten minutes but hadn't typed anything in.

She found the woman a few days ago in a villa in the Westshore community.

Wearing a dark gray shirt, his head was tilted to the side on the sofa armrest. There was no blood, no struggle, and no medicine bottle.

But the angle—she knew something was wrong at a glance.

His neck was snapped cleanly and swiftly.

It doesn't seem like a crime of passion, nor does it seem like a home invasion robbery.

It appears to be some kind of execution method.

Clean, fast, and showing signs of training.

It is highly professional.

Alisa had never seen so many deaths like this.

She is neither a member of the serious crimes unit nor a war correspondent.

On ordinary days, the most common problem we deal with is dealing with a few mentally ill people running around with knives.

Or perhaps a man who has been unemployed for years sits in his front yard and shouts, "The federal government is listening to me!"

Alisa took a deep breath and pulled up the limited preliminary autopsy reports available in the system.

"C2-C3 cervical vertebrae dislocation and fracture".

"There were no obvious external injuries, pinch marks, or drug reactions on the skin."

The report concludes with a vague statement:

"Further investigation is needed to rule out the possibility of atypical self-harm."

Self-harm? Breaking your own neck? With what, telekinesis?
She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and returned to the deceased's file.

He has no criminal record, no police reports, no extreme statements, and his social media presence is almost nonexistent.

A person who was "as normal as could be" suddenly died on his own sofa, with no signs of a struggle in his home.

The door lock was intact, and the windows were tightly closed.

Something is very wrong.

Alisa accessed the state's professional database and, after entering the name "Linda," found the real estate company she worked for:

Coastal Realty Group.

The page shows her as an independent agent, and her most recent registered transaction was two months ago.

The buyer is a trust institution with a long and complicated name, making it impossible to discern its specific identity.

She wrote the company name in her notebook and then accessed the local consumer protection agency's online platform to check if the agency had any complaint records.

Several messages popped up:
Minor violations, unclear contract audits, and concealing the buyer's background—these are not criminal cases, but accumulating them can be unsettling.

Alisa wrote a few lines of notes to remind herself that this might not be an isolated incident.

Just as she was about to take a screenshot, print it out, and keep it for future reference, there was a knock on the door behind her.

She turned around and saw it was McKinley, the police station's administrative assistant.

At this moment, the man spoke expressionlessly: "Someone is looking for you."

Alisa frowned, put down her notebook, and followed him through the office area.

At the end of the corridor, the meeting room door was ajar, and a man was standing by the window with his back to the two people.

“She’s here.” McKee said and then left, as if he knew all along that he shouldn’t have stayed a second longer.

Alisa walked in, and the man slowly turned around.

He was in his forties, tall and thin, wearing a well-fitting gray suit and carrying a briefcase. He wore no badge, no insignia, and had no other identification.

“Officer Randall, right?” His voice was deep and clear.

"Who are you?" Alisa stood still, her posture wary.

"I'm here to handle the case you dealt with a few days ago, case number 0608-B."

Upon hearing those familiar numbers, Alisa quickly realized, "You mean, Linda Morales' case?"

“Yes.” He nodded. “From now on, the authority to handle this case no longer belongs to your branch office. All relevant reports, physical evidence, and interview records will be re-filed.”

Alisa narrowed her eyes suspiciously, crossing her arms over her chest: "FBI? DHS? Or... some other department?"

The man didn't answer.

Just then, the door on the other side of the conference room was pushed open.

Director Norman walked in, his usual smile on his face, but he was clearly a little nervous.

“Alissa.” He walked to her side, seemingly trying to defuse the situation. “This gentleman is the Federal Affairs Coordinator; he came here specifically today—”

"I didn't ask you." She didn't look at the bureau chief; her eyes remained fixed on the man.

The man chuckled softly, as if he were already used to this kind of reaction.

“It’s not the FBI, nor does it belong to the Department of Homeland Security,” he said. “The exact affiliation is not within the scope of this notification.”

"Then why should I believe you?" Alisa's tone turned sharp. "You came to our precinct, took over our case, took our files, and refused to provide a clear identity?"

“It’s not a refusal.” The man glanced at her, his tone even somewhat gentle. “It’s ‘unnecessary disclosure’.”

Alisa frowned: "You think I'm not qualified to know?"

“I don’t think you need to put in any extra effort for this.”

The man shrugged. "Case No. 0608-B has now crossed the line of national security."

"Under the federal priority procedure, local law enforcement agencies no longer retain leadership or investigative authority over the case."

"In other words, it will be outside the regular judicial process."

"National security?!"

Alisa's expression turned strange, as if she had heard some lame joke:

"A real estate agent died on his own sofa, the door was locked, there were no witnesses, no motive, no evidence, and you're telling me this has anything to do with national security?"

"Yes."

The man admitted it quite naturally.

"Who exactly is she? Do you have some information I can't find?" Alisa's voice was tinged with impatience. "Or is it—"

“We have the relevant information,” the man politely interrupted her, “but those materials are not part of the open channels and will not be included in the sharing scope of the local system.”

Alisa Chen wanted to argue further, but the director finally couldn't help but cough twice:
“Officer Randall, this gentleman is right.”

"This case is no longer within our scope of handling."

Alisa abruptly turned her head to look at the director beside her: "You just accepted it like that? Without even asking why?"

The bureau chief avoided her gaze and did not respond.

The man casually straightened his clothes and strode out.
"I understand your frustration right now, that's normal."

"Many frontline staff have similar reactions when faced with this kind of handover."

"But some cases concern whether specific information should exist in the public system."

After he finished speaking, he stopped at the door, nodded to the director, and then gave Alisa a smile.

“That’s the end of the matter, Constable Randall.”

"If you have any further questions, you can submit an inquiry through the department's internal mechanism, and we will handle it as appropriate."

(End of this chapter)