I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 147 Doing the Right Thing (8K long chapter, please vote and subscribe)

"Master, Samuel and Dali are dead in prison. They're said to have committed suicide!"

Richard's first reaction upon hearing the news was not anxiety, but rather delight.

They've finally made their move!

If those guys don't make a move, how can I catch them red-handed?

Richard smiled and asked, "When did this happen?"

"The forensic report states that between 3:30 and 4:00 AM this morning, Samuel knelt on the bed and strangled himself with a sheet. Daryl used a toothbrush to stab his own throat! But no one saw it. All surveillance footage went black forty minutes before the incident. All 24 officers on duty at the time are suspects. Isabella's credit has turned into a huge problem!"

Such an outrageous way of dying is clearly not suicide, but a cover-up.

The party that committed the murder was acting with impunity, clearly demonstrating their power.

Debbie called out from the yard, "Did you see that, Richard? The shadow just went crazy! It ran away! Did it disappear without a trace?"

Richard smiled and waved his hand, covering the microphone: "It's okay, it'll be back in a bit."

The shadow is clever; it knows that having it around is beneficial.

Then he said to Brian, "Make arrangements. I need to see the body, and the detailed information and photos of those 24 officers."

Brian paused for a moment: "Okay."

The night was dark.

An hour later, Richard, wearing a mask and sunglasses, walked into the morgue. The police officers looked at Richard with suspicion, wondering who he was.

But the forensic doctor specially dispatched from above should be very professional, right?

Samuel is on the left, and Dali is on the right; they are already placed on the control panel.

Richard pretended to be a forensic doctor and quickly performed a physical examination.

Samuel's skin showed V-shaped marks from the pressure of the rope, with the opening facing upwards. His face was bruised, cyanotic, and had pinpoint hemorrhages in the conjunctiva, confirming that he died by hanging.

Whether it was voluntary or not is unclear.

Richard gained 10 memories the moment he made contact, but he didn't look at them.

He then examined Dali's body.

He died a horrible death. A blunt toothbrush had caused an open wound in his throat, leaving him a bloody mess. His body had been cut open by a forensic doctor and then haphazardly stitched back together, leaving him in a terrible state.

Richard gained 11 more memories.

"OK, it's all over."

Richard turned and left. The officer looked at Richard with a puzzled expression: "What's the conclusion?"

"I need to analyze this," Richard said, and hurriedly left.

He got back to his car and began to examine his memory.

First it was Samuel.

First paragraph.

Samuel sat on the bed smoking.

The second paragraph.

Samuel assigned unimportant tasks to the telephone.

The third paragraph...

In the seventh paragraph, Richard finally sees a valuable memory:

Samuel was terrified in the darkness when a man stood before him, slowly twisting a sheet into a rope and handing it to him: "Shall I help you, or will you do it yourself?"

Richard couldn't see the other person's face clearly, but the person had a distinct Northern Irish accent, an angel tattoo on their arm, and was at least 190 cm tall.

This is the killer!

Dali's videos are more varied, mostly showing him distributing profits with his subordinates.

It's not very valuable.

Richard opened the information on 24 police officers and quickly found two of them to be of Irish descent.

By comparing their heights, Richard identified his target: Officer Black Burns, who lived in a mid-range neighborhood in Queens.

Richard immediately drove to Blake's house.

Upon arriving at the apartment building, a deathly aura was already emanating from the fifth floor.

Blake lived on the fifth floor.

"Hmph, they're pretty quick." Richard said dismissively.

There's a security guard on the first floor, who's drowsy in the early hours of the morning.

As Richard put on his rubber gloves, he walked to the back of the apartment building, jumped lightly, grabbed the ventilation window on the second floor of the stairs, and easily climbed over.

He went all the way up to the fifth floor, and in this old apartment building, there wasn't a single security camera.

Richard stood in front of the Black family's house, his magical hand reaching into the room, where there was no one alive.

Blake was sitting on the sofa; he was dead.

With a deft twist of his magic hand, Richard entered and inspected the door.

The windows were locked from the inside, and there were no signs of forced entry on the door.

Blake sat on the sofa in the living room, his head hanging low, as if he had just come home from get off work and fallen asleep before he even had time to change his coat.

There was a clean knife wound on his chest, straight to his heart, with no signs of struggle, as if he had been suddenly stabbed by someone he knew who had held his shoulder down.

Blake's hands were covered in blood, apparently from covering a wound.

There were no signs that any of the items had been disturbed.

The other party came to silence them.

For any detective, this situation would be extremely difficult to find clues in.

But Richard was different; he touched the corpse and gained nine memories.

Furthermore, he possesses crucial memories of Blake's murder:

There were two murderers.

A black jacket with a big smile on his face.

A gray-clad man with a stern expression.

The man in the black jacket chuckled, "Blake, you did a great job. The boss is very satisfied."

Blake exclaimed in surprise, "Then, my money?"

The man in gray said unhappily, "Don't just think about money. I can help you pull some strings, and you can become a sheriff next year."

Blake was very unhappy: "But we agreed..."

'

The man in the black jacket walked over with a smile, one hand in his pocket and the other on Blake's shoulder: "Don't listen to Roderick's nonsense, he's just kidding you. Of course he has the money."

Blake looked at the black jacket expectantly.

The man in the black jacket pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket and brandished it with a series of swift movements.

"You!" Blake tried to dodge, but it was too late.

puff!

Blake clutched his wound, and his vision went black instantly.

Richard shuts down the memory fragment.

The man in the gray shirt, named Roderick, must be a high-ranking official in the NYPD to have promised Blake a promotion.

The man in the black jacket was the direct perpetrator; he mentioned "the boss," so he was likely an underling of the mastermind.

We finally caught the "boss" by the tail!

Now it's finally come to this: I'm in the dark, and you're in the light!

Richard left without touching anything else in the room, then closed the door and left.

Next, all we need to do is keep an eye on Roderick.

An emergency investigation meeting was held the following morning.

Isabella sat at the head of the long table, her face pale; she hadn't slept all night.

.

A list lay open in front of him, with the names and photos of the 24 police officers on duty that night neatly arranged on the paper.

The conference room was filled with high-ranking officials, and a deliberate silence permeated the air. Everyone sat upright, and except for a few people, no one looked at Isabella.

They looked at the table, at the window, at the pen in their hands, but not at her.

"Two suspects committed suicide in prison at the same time. Tell me, what exactly happened!" Isabella began, her voice not loud, but loud enough for those in the last row to hear. "From the head of the temporary prison, to the duty officer, to the IAB's chief of general affairs, tell me one by one, until someone tells me what really happened last night!"

As soon as she finished speaking, the sound of chairs being pulled out came from the back of the conference room.

Everyone looked behind them and saw Miller stand up. He glanced around at his colleagues and saw the encouragement in many eyes before saying, "Chief, I think this is not right. We should investigate the 24 officers first."

"Of the 24 officers on duty last night, 17 are prime suspects. We should start the investigation with them, gradually narrowing down the scope, and then interview key personnel once we have preliminary evidence."

Others chimed in, "Yeah, yeah, isn't it a bit unreasonable to investigate a police superintendent right now?"

"Perhaps it really was suicide?"

"Investigating a police superintendent without any evidence will cause internal concern."

Isabella listened quietly, suppressing her anger.

Those damned insects!

It's clearly just a perfunctory response.

By the time the full investigation was completed, a week had passed for 24 police officers!

As the acting director, I had just taken office and this happened. If I couldn't resolve it quickly, Manterson would definitely find an opportunity to criticize me.

That jerk called me last night: "You can't even keep an eye on a prison? You want to manage the NYPD?"

Even if he had the video to threaten Menterson, he couldn't act too weakly.

otherwise..

Her gaze swept across everyone's faces, finally settling on Deputy Director Tyreke's face.

Tyreke's eyes were vacant, and a half-smile played on his lips.

It must have been that guy Tyreke who tipped them off last night, otherwise how could Mentorson have gotten the news so quickly!

Even if it wasn't Tyreke who did it, this guy is probably just eager to see him make a fool of himself, right?

There were others too! Isabella suppressed her anger.

Especially Miller, that bastard. I promoted you to head of general affairs, and this is how you repay me, you piece of trash?

She realized for the first time that using mediocre talents wasn't necessarily a good thing.

This piece of trash has no idea what he's doing!

"Fine." Isabella suppressed her anger. "Call all 24 officers in and begin the interrogation immediately. O'Connor, you're in charge."

O'Connor nodded: "OK."

Just then, a secretary rushed in, flustered, and said, "Director Rose..."

""

"What's wrong?" Isabella felt a sense of foreboding.

"A police officer named Blake has just been found dead in his home! He was stabbed through the heart and died instantly."

Blake? Isabella immediately looked down to check the names of the 24 officers.

She looked at the list of 24 people countless times last night.

"Blake Bowman?"

"Yes! It's him!"

The scene was deathly silent.

Miller's expression froze.

He never expected that the people from the Justice Salon would be so bold as to kill even their own people!

Everyone was stunned.

The act of silencing Samuel and Dali was insane, but they could understand it.

After all, the Hart Island incident involves illegal arms dealing, and those arms come from only a few large corporations.

Which large corporation doesn't have one or more political heavyweights standing behind it?

If we really investigate further and find something, it will be a complete disaster.

It's better to be dead, then everyone can pretend they know nothing.

They silenced them, and that was that.

But Black-Bauman was different!

Don't underestimate him just because he's a lowly police officer; he represents the dignity of the NYPD.

You dare to silence a police officer who is still on duty?

If the NYPD doesn't retaliate, won't it become a laughing stock?

Last time, when Sheriff Mike was publicly shot and killed by a gang member, the NYPD almost went on a full-scale crackdown on all the gangs in New York.

This time, you silenced a police officer?!

Moreover, the timing of the appointment, which coincided with the new director's recent inauguration, would be seen as a challenge to his authority by anyone who was the director.

The members of the Justice Salon looked at each other in bewilderment.

FXXK!

What lunatic did this? This is insane!

"Hahaha!" Isabella laughed unrestrainedly. "Very good! Very good! Very bold!"

There's no need to investigate the 24 police officers anymore; the murderer must be Blake, and he's already been silenced.

"Some of you, I was originally planning to give you some face and let you back down," Isabella said brazenly, glancing around the room. "It seems the Congressman was right; sometimes, force works better than reason!"

According to Brian Anderson, they should conduct internal reviews, select people, and then transfer them directly to the Ravens squad.

There's no need to issue notices for jurisdictional adjustments; we can talk to each person individually. There are fewer than 80 police superintendents in the entire jurisdiction, so if we talk to two people a day, we can finish the process in a month.

The NYPD has over 300 inspectors, with a very complex classification system. Only 80 inspectors have district jurisdictions, while the others hold honorary positions or are specifically responsible for a particular area, such as drug enforcement, counterterrorism, or public safety.

Moreover, there are bound to be people willing to follow Isabella, after all, she is the director, and with O'Connor's cooperation and Brian's old subordinates, at least 20 people could easily defect to Isabella.

With the cooperation of these 20 people, dealing with the other chief inspectors will be much easier.

But Isabella had her own ideas.

It has now been proven that Brian was right; he did indeed know the NYPD better than anyone else.

Isabella threw all the materials on the table: "O'Connor, let's go! Let's go check it out on site!"

Chaos has begun to spread within the Justice Salon.

A dozen or so members gathered together.

Miller confronted Tyreke: "You did this? You're insane!!"

Tyreke was incredulous and vehemently denied it: "Bullshit! Why would I kill a police officer? I'm a deputy chief! Even if I can't compete with that bitch, I'm still a deputy chief!"

"Killing a police officer could send me to hell! I've sent countless criminals to prison; to me, prison is hell!"

"Who is that? Who has that ability?"

"What's it to me!"

"Is it you? Roderick?" one of them asked.

Yesterday, Roderick was the most agitated.

Roderick, like a cat with its fur standing on end, retorted, "Don't frame me!"

"You said you wanted to ruin her achievements."

"I'm furious! Besides, my target is Superintendent O'Connor. Killing an officer will only drive her crazy. What good will that do me? Even if Isabella steps down, I still won't become the commissioner!"

Everyone agreed.

So, if Isabella steps down, who will benefit the most?

Everyone looked at Tyreke.

"What do you mean?" Tyreke was startled. "F*** you! This has nothing to do with me!"

The group of people looked at each other, and no one admitted it.

But everyone knew that the real killer was among them.

Roderick thought to himself.

A mob!

They may come together solely for immediate gains, but they could also fall apart at any time due to other matters.

Miller said in a deep voice, "Whoever did it, it's good for us. We can just watch Isabella's performance. She has no intention of messing around with that ridiculous Iron Raven and territory swap until she gets to the bottom of this!"

Everyone thought to themselves, "That's certainly true."

For Isabella, the most important thing at this stage is to become a full-fledged agent, not anything else.

Upon closer reflection, everyone realized they were actually just watching a show.

It makes sense when you think about it; since the killer killed Blake, it's practically impossible for him to leave any clues behind.

This case will definitely not be clear in less than two months.

If necessary, they can easily set a harmless little obstacle and drag the matter out for four or five months.

If Isabella fails to catch the killer in the Black case, the mayor will definitely get annoyed. Let alone four or five months, she might not even be the acting chief anymore after a month.

The Owen family was originally a peaceful and devout Christian family.

"Owen! Why did you do this!" The mother was furious, her voice shrill. "You've ruined our lives! I thought you were just young and impetuous, but I never imagined you'd actually become a traitor! A traitor!"

"I'm not a traitor," Owen tried to explain. "Mom, I'm doing the right thing. You've always taught me to do the right thing."

"The right thing to do!" the mother sneered, then roared furiously, "The right thing to do isn't to make you a traitor! Now your father and I have our welfare applications suspended, and even our retirement pensions are under review! What are we supposed to do?! Our lives are ruined! It's all your fault, Owen!"

The mother's face was filled with vicious resentment.

Irving looked at his mother in disbelief.

He had never seen such a sharp-tongued and mean-spirited mother.

The father continued, "Owen, I've told you to be rational and consider the consequences of your actions, but you didn't listen. You think you're doing something righteous, but righteousness doesn't put food on the table. There's still a chance. Chief Marlowe told me through Fungon that if you take the initiative to admit your mistakes and promise not to do such foolish things again, he will end this disaster! Go! Apologize to Chief Marlowe! Fungon and I are good friends; he will help."

Irving's heart sank: "Mom and Dad, is this what you taught me to be right since I was little? Is being right about bowing to authority at the right time?"

The mother's face flushed even redder with anger: "Owen! This isn't about being right, it's not about being damn right! We have to live! We have to live in this community! What do you think you're fighting? You're fighting a terrifying behemoth! You're not even as good as Don Quixote. At least Don Quixote had a broken gun. What about you? You have nothing!"

No, I have a gun. Irving took a deep breath and thought to himself.

He got up and pushed open the door.

His father's voice rang out behind him: "Owen, this needs to be resolved. Go apologize to Chief Marlowe. You can't ruin your family's life with a moment of impulse."

Irving stood there, listening quietly without interrupting or arguing.

He recalled the things his parents would say at the dinner table when he was a child.

"We should be people of faith, and we should stand up when it's time to stand up."

"7

Justice is not given by others, but earned through one's own efforts.

'

He remembered those words for many years and always believed they were true.

He did it, and now his parents are telling him it was a mistake.

The mother's voice held a sharp, broken edge: "Go apologize to Chief Marlowe! Now!"

The father said, "Owen, you're still young. You don't understand how the world works. You think you're doing the right thing, but the world won't reward you for doing the right thing. You'll only be punished!"

Irving walked out the door without looking back.

It's so late at night.

Dad, Mom, you didn't even ask me if I wanted to finish my meal before leaving.

Irving drove toward the chapel of an old church in Brooklyn.

The gathering of the Holy Thorn takes place here every other day.

Irving came three times, and the doorman didn't stop him. He was allowed to go in and sit in the last row, quietly listening to the person on the podium speak.

The first speaker was wearing an old suit and his hair was neatly combed.

He rambled on for an hour and twenty minutes, his core point being that "we must express our opposition in a legal way, abide by the law, and strive for change within the rules."

How to change it?

Did not say.

What to do when encountering obstacles?

Did not say.

If the rules are changed, are you sure you can outmaneuver those lawyers and politicians?

The second speaker was a young woman with long hair and a pleasant voice, but her words were empty and bland.

If we could follow the Lord's guidance and save this terrible world, it wouldn't be the way it is today.

The third speaker was a poor old man with gray hair. He stood up and spoke for twenty minutes, then asked a question that no one could answer: "What exactly are we going to do?"

He didn't know it himself.

Irving sat there, and the more he listened, the more something seemed off.

These people who discuss seeking change "through legal means" and "within the bounds of the rules" are unaware of the fact that those rules are precisely what are meant to trap them.

enough.

This kind of beggar gathering is meaningless.

As he reached the door, the guard warily stopped him: "It's not over yet, Meng, why are you leaving?"

Irving stated bluntly, "It's all empty talk, completely worthless. I can't waste my life here."

His voice was soft but not quiet, and everyone looked at him.

The old man on the stage also stopped.

Irving turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the entire side hall.

Everyone was looking at him; some frowned, some looked puzzled, and some looked disdainful.

"The Mengs are too weak. Their Jiang and Zhang are worthless." Owen turned around and shouted.

He didn't have a prepared statement; he just spoke casually: "I worked at OCME for five years and personally witnessed thousands of unidentified bodies being transported to morgues. Some of the bodies were covered in wounds, and the forensic doctor would just write something down, and the body would be marked as unclaimed," before being sent to the incinerator.

"I asked others: 'Is nobody going to do anything about this?' The answer I got was: 'Meng should focus on his work and not meddle in other people's business.'"

"I've seen a clerk who received $1200 and signed off on the transfer of a body without any documentation, then sold it to a body collector. He put the photo of the body in the bottom of his drawer and never looked at it again."

"I was a soldier, a medic. Back in Afghanistan, there was a time I had to use a gun to kill a child. He wasn't even as tall as me..." Owen gestured, his voice low and choked with emotion. "I asked my superior why. He said, 'Just do what you're supposed to do,' and then he killed the child's entire family and dragged the child's mother into the house."

"I've never understood why we would fly thousands of kilometers away, to another world on Earth, to kill the elderly and children of another country? To rape their mothers?"

"I don't understand why killing poor people who can't even get enough to eat in those remote mountains without electricity can defend American freedom and democracy?"

"I don't understand why there are so many starving poor people in Brooklyn and the South Bronx. Isn't America the most powerful country?"

"I don't understand why young people have to spend so much money on school and accumulate student loans for a lifetime?"

"I don't understand why we spend the most on healthcare in the world, yet our average life expectancy is lower than that of developing countries?"

'

"I don't understand why the streets are full of drug addicts, sluts, and idiots who can't even calculate 3 x 7. Is this what Tian Jiang wanted? Is this the world Tian Jiang desired?"

"I don't understand, are we defending American freedom, or are we defending the wallets of arms dealers, healthcare companies, and financial institutions!"

Irving's voice was soft and low, but it had a strange infectious quality that silenced the entire side hall.

Everyone was looking at him.

"Justice cannot be just talked about; it requires action."

"So, a few days ago I submitted a formal complaint, accusing OCME of selling corpses, and then what? My life is completely over. I lost my job and can only sell my blood to pay for gas for my car. My parents told me to apologize to those bastards. They have always taught me to do the right thing since I was a child. Why are they unhappy that I did the right thing?"

"Now I understand, it's because I'm too weak. I touched their interests, so they took what I wanted, and I had no money to eat. They ruined my parents' retirement savings, and my parents couldn't survive."

Justice does not come automatically; it requires guns and fire. The ideal state of Tianjiang does not arise automatically; it requires barbed wire and a court of judgment. Therefore, what we need to do is not to ask for pardons, but to build a power stronger than theirs.

"When they embezzled Meng's money, when they threatened Meng's parents' retirement pensions, when they sent Meng thousands of kilometers away to kill, when they lied to Meng and made him kill children, when they made Meng's children pay hundreds of thousands in student loans, what Meng needed were weapons, not ridiculous empty talk!"

"Saint-Debbie taught me that our hands aren't just for prayer; they can also hold AR-15s and scepters. I think she was absolutely right!"

The vice-chairman remained silent for a long time.

Then applause broke out, first from a few people, and then more people joined in.

The applause was loud.

But Irving just sighed and turned to leave.

The guards did not stop him again.

In the last row, a man in a gray trench coat listened quietly to the full price.

He neither clapped nor spoke.

As Irving left, he followed, walked up to him, and extended his hand: "My name is Sean. The foundation behind me can provide financial assistance to Meng. Would you like to talk?"

"Sponsorship?" Irving asked in surprise.

"We support Meng's views, but we do not support illegal activities. As long as Meng's actions do not cross that line, we can provide funding—funding that Meng cannot even imagine. Of course, this funding will not be provided all at once; Meng will gradually demonstrate his value."

Irving paused for a moment, then said firmly, "What's the point of not crossing that line? How can there be any change without bloodshed!"

Sean gave Irving a deep look, as if to offer some kind of assessment.

Irving simply looked at him quietly, without wavering in the slightest.

Finally, Sean pulled out a card: "In that case, Meng can make this call. Perhaps Meng can get unexpected help. But I must remind Meng to be careful. In this beggar's den, there are at least three people who are government officials, such as the FBI, CIA, Department of Homeland Security, ICE, etc. Meng understands."

After saying that, Sean turned and left, disappearing into the shadows that the Silk Road could not see.

Irving stood at the entrance of the side hall.

He looked in the direction Sean had left, then looked down at the card in his hand.

Pure white, without any decorations, no logo, just a single line of phone number.

Mentorson's soft voice came through the phone: "Isabella, Meng has disappointed me greatly. Her performance as Director Meng is far worse than her performance in the IAB!"

Isabella, legs propped up on the desk, said brazenly, "So, how about in bed?"

The voice on the other end immediately lowered: "Damn it! We're talking business! Miss Isabella Rose! Please maintain your composure!"

"Tch!" Isabella scoffed. "Come on, the entire NYPD and city government know I've slept with countless men. What's so solemn about that? Meng and his ilk are just one of them."

Manterson was furious: "I'm not going to fight Meng! Three days from now, remember, three days from now I'm bringing people to the NYPD to hear the investigation report. If Meng can resolve this, he'll be the director! If not, I'll get others involved in the investigation, like the FBI, the state attorney general..."

'

Snapped.

The phone hangs up.

The relaxation on Isabella's face vanished instantly; she was as restless as a wild beast trapped in a silken snare.

There are delays in the investigation of some people within the NYPD.

Like a rusty machine, every part screams and creates enormous resistance when she tries to push forward.

Brian is right, we must do a cleaning first.

Otherwise, this bastard won't cooperate with me!

Isabella resumed talking to them one by one, following Brian's method.

However, due to her major mistake of revealing her intentions at the outset, coupled with the deaths of Samuel, Dali, and Black, most of the middle and senior management had little confidence in her. Who knows if this acting director will be ousted tomorrow?

The effect of using fresh silk is very poor.

On the first day, she spoke with twelve police superintendents and inspectors. Most of them neither directly refused nor agreed.

She sat in the beggars' council room until dark, and only three people agreed to cooperate, and even then, it was with great reluctance.

She talked for three days and finally decided on 23 people.

Five of them were O'Connor's people, and seven were from the IAB, her former subordinates.

The remaining 11 people were all Brian's old subordinates.

She recognized those names at a glance. Each one had worked for the NYPD for over twenty years, each one had held a key position, and each one had been transferred to a position at Worldwide after Brian left.

To date, her influence within the NYPD has not surpassed that of Brian, who has been away from the NYPD for nearly 20 years.

"FXXK!" Isabella smashed a pen. "Everyone's just waiting to see me make a fool of myself!"

Richard drove the vehicle slowly toward the blood donation center in Manhattan.

Brian's voice came through the phone, low and weak: "She's about to collapse. Should I help her?"

Richard calmly replied, "No. Let her hold on. Anyone who can't hold on doesn't deserve that position."

If you can't even handle something as small as this, what good are you?

It would be better to find someone else to support them as soon as possible.

Brian's plan foreshadowed a bloody future, and Isabella had to withstand the pressure and support the NYPD.

Whether she stubbornly resists, lacks the willpower to act, or resorts to some shameless methods, she must secure her position as director of the NYPD.

This is her mission.

Brian remained silent for a moment, seemingly calculating how many more days Isabella could hold on: "What if she can't?"

"Then let's change it," Richard said. "The NYPD has no shortage of people who want to be the chief, like... O'Connor."

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