What the hell is the "kill line" when you're in America?

Gordon returned home, fumbled for the light switch on the wall, and pressed it.

The lights came on, and he saw his wife sitting on the sofa in the living room, not watching TV, but just sitting quietly, hugging a cushion.

"You're back."

"Hmm." Gordon took off his shoes and hung his coat on the hanger.

He walked over and tried to hug her, but she instinctively flinched away.

Gordon's hand froze in mid-air.

"Is Annie asleep?" he asked.

"I went to bed a long time ago," the wife said. "Today she asked me if Daddy doesn't love us anymore."

Gordon's heart was pierced by those words.

"I'm off tomorrow, I'll take you out," he said.

The wife didn't answer; she just buried her head even deeper.

Gordon knew that nothing he said now would make a difference.

He went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

Bills, GG, community notifications...

I remembered that file folder.

He tore open the seal and poured the contents onto the kitchen table.

A paper.

A piece of paper that has been processed and looks like it survived a fire.

Gordon put on the spare gloves he had retrieved from the car and carefully picked up the paper with tweezers.

A pungent chemical smell, mixed with a burnt odor, filled his nostrils.

He had smelled that smell before, in the ruins of the cannery.

His gaze fell on the blurry handwriting on the paper.

"Hall..."

"Five hundred thousand..."

"East District...renovation..."

More detailed content than the videos I saw on my computer before!

Representative Hall is currently pushing a bill concerning the redevelopment of the East End.

The Sacred Heart Charity Association is the largest unofficial supporter and potential beneficiary of this project.

Everything makes sense.

Gordon drove directly back to the city police department.

The Serious Crimes Unit office was empty at 3 a.m.

Gordon sat down at his desk and turned on his computer.

He entered all the recognizable keywords on the paper into the internal search engine.

"Insufficient permissions".

Immediately afterwards, the phone in his office rang.

Branch Chief, Miller.

"Jim, do you know what time it is?" Miller's voice on the other end of the phone was filled with suppressed anger.

"I'm investigating a case," Gordon said calmly.

"What case do you need to access a level-three database to investigate? Do you know who I just received a call from? The information security department! They think our police system has been hacked!"

"Boss, I think I've found it..."

"Stop everything you're doing right now," Miller interrupted him. "Come to my office after dawn."

"Also, don't touch that case again, not a single word about it."

The call was disconnected.

Gordon stared at the glaring red warning box on the screen and remained silent for a long time.

Early the next morning.

Gordon walked into Miller's office.

Miller sat behind his desk, his face grim.

"sit."

Gordon didn't sit down; instead, he placed the evidence bag, along with the charred piece of paper, on Miller's desk.

"What is this?" Miller asked, frowning.

“Evidence,” Gordon said. “Someone sent it to me anonymously, about Congressman Hall and the Sacred Heart Charity.”

Miller put on his reading glasses, picked up the paper, glanced at it, and then threw it back on the table.

"A piece of scrap paper picked up from who-knows-where, and you call that your evidence?"

"Boss, the contents of this document perfectly match the East Side redevelopment plan," Gordon said. "There must be something behind this..."

"Enough." Miller stood up and walked over to Gordon. "Are you out of your mind? Congressman Hall? Sacred Heart Charity? Do you know what you're getting into?"

"I know I'm doing what a police officer should do."

"What you're supposed to do is obey orders!" Miller's voice rose several octaves. "I told you, this case is over! Why won't you listen?"

"Because they killed people!" Gordon raised his voice. "More than twenty people died in the cannery, and there are those homeless people who went missing in the shelters. They're not trash, they're human lives!"

"That's a fucking gang war!" Miller roared. "The official conclusion is out! Why do you have to pick a fight with everyone?"

"Because that's not the truth!"

The two stared at each other, neither willing to back down.

"Jim."

Miller's tone suddenly softened.

He patted Gordon on the shoulder and sighed.

"Take my advice and stop."

"You are not alone. You have Annie and your family."

"Some people and some things are not for people like us to get involved in."

Is it worth sacrificing everything for something so vague and uncertain?

Gordon looked at Miller.

He saw weariness and compromise in his old boss's eyes.

"It's worth it," Gordon said.

He took the bag of evidence from the table, turned around, and walked out of the office.

When Gordon returned to his seat, he felt the atmosphere in the entire office had changed.

His colleagues were whispering among themselves, but when they saw him approaching, they immediately dispersed, pretending to be busy with their own things.

No one greeted him, no one looked him in the eye.

He was like an outcast, isolated by everyone.

His partner, the young police officer, came over with a cup of coffee.

"Boss..." He placed the coffee on Gordon's table, his eyes darting around.

"What's wrong?" Gordon asked.

"Chief Miller... he transferred me to another case," the young officer said softly. "He said... I should stay away from you."

He looked at Gordon, his face filled with remorse.

"I'm sorry, boss... I... my daughter is starting school next month, I can't..."

"I understand." Gordon nodded, interrupting him. "Go."

The young police officer turned and walked away quickly.

Gordon picked up the still-warm coffee, but didn't drink it.

He became a lonely man.

But he didn't stop.

Two days later.

Two men in black suits with serious expressions walked into the Major Crimes Unit's office.

They went straight to Gordon's seat.

"Detective James Gordon?" one of the men asked, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"I am."

"We're from the Internal Affairs Department." The man flashed his badge. "You've been suspended. Come with us."

In the office, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked over.

Gordon neither resisted nor offered any explanation.

He simply looked calmly at the two men.

Why?

"You are suspected of fabricating evidence, abusing your power, and maliciously harassing public officials," another man said. "You will need to surrender your badge and service weapon until the investigation is complete."

Gordon laughed.

He took off his police badge and the Glock 17 from its holster and placed them on the table.

The police badge, polished to a gleaming shine, and the sidearm he had used for over a decade.

"I need to pack my things," Gordon said.

"Can."

Gordon took a cardboard box from under the table and began packing his personal belongings.

A well-worn legal code.

A mug printed with my daughter's doodles.

A photo of him and his wife.

Everyone was looking at him with complicated expressions.

There was sympathy, regret, and also schadenfreude.

Gordon packed his things, picked up the cardboard box, and stood up.

He didn't look at anyone and walked straight out of the office.

He sat in the empty office, looking out at the city lights.

He felt an unprecedented sense of loneliness and powerlessness.

Late at night, he drove alone in his old Ford to a private club frequented by Congressman Hall.

He decided to continue the investigation in his own way.

Gordon parked his car across the street.

He opened the glove box.

Inside, there was an old Smith & Wesson M10 revolver.

It wasn't his sidearm.

It was left to him by his father.

He took out his gun and checked the magazine.

Six bullets, fully loaded.

He closed the glove box and turned his gaze back to the clubhouse door.