American forensics, but the gourmet system

Brooklyn Criminal Investigation Center.

The pothos plants in the office, soaked with water, stood tall and imposing.

"Could a leg that was dumped in a sewer two years ago belong to a football player who went missing seven months ago?"

Captain Hansen frowned, looking at Marty in disbelief.

"That's what Russell told me anyway." Marty shrugged, his speech clearer than usual. "He and Jesse have already gone out on fieldwork to investigate the missing football player."

"absurd."

Diaz remained as taciturn as ever.

"It's truly absurd..." Captain Hansen sighed. "But the case report is already finished... Wait, Dr. Russell is out on a field mission too?"

……

A Ford Explorer pulled up on the side of the street, and Russell and Jesse got out and looked around.

The whole street is lined with row houses, which sounds luxurious, but looks rather desolate.

Generally speaking, forensic pathologists do not need to go out on fieldwork in cases that do not involve corpses. Moreover, even when not handling homicide cases, Russell still needs to return to the forensic center to organize the data and check backlogged cases.

But when Dr. Beckman heard that Russell had found a lead in the broken leg case, he immediately allowed him to stay at the forensic center for the next few days.

"This place is a bit deserted. Have we driven into New Jersey?"

Jesse commented rather unfairly.

Russell curled his lip and said, "No, this is Greenland, and these are all polar bear houses."

"Ah, you're so funny..." Jesse said as he walked towards a house, "but I still find it hard to believe that an amateur player could afford a detached house like this..."

"Perhaps his main job is very lucrative?"

Russell said casually.

"Yes, he made so much money that his actual job wasn't even listed in the records."

Jesse said in a very serious tone.

"Let me think... Romo Simmons frequently travels between New York and New Jersey. Is it possible that he might use this opportunity to occasionally sell some pleasurable pills, or participate in some exciting youth groups?"

Russell had to admit that Jesse's speculation was not without merit.

In New York, many people disappear without a trace, and many more are never found.

However, more than half of the missing persons cases that were solved were related to drug trafficking or gangs.

"Hopefully, after seven months we can still find something..." Russell said. "This place is obviously inhabited; there are empty milk bottles by the door, so it seems we haven't come away empty-handed."

  

Russell stood on the steps in front of a house and raised his hand to ring the doorbell.

"Wait a mininute……"

A voice rang out in the room, and a dozen seconds later, the door opened.

A man with a large, hooked nose poked his head out, his face full of doubt:

"You are—"

"I'm NYPD Agent Jesse Wilson." Jesse pulled an badge from his pocket and waved it in front of the hook-nosed man. "This is my partner, Russell. We're here to investigate the disappearance of Romo Simmons... Are you a tenant or the landlord?"

"This is my house, Detective." The hook-nosed man, speaking with a Southern accent and looking somewhat troubled, said, "It's that missing person case again... Please come in, gentlemen... My name is Weatherby Clarkson. I moved in three months ago. Before that, I usually lived in Miami..."

As soon as he entered the foyer, a large-eared beagle rushed out of the house, curiously sniffed Russell's shoes, and then suddenly ran back to the sofa inside, howling loudly.

"Shut up, Kawhi!"

Mr. Clarkson, with his hooked nose, walked into the living room, grabbed a cushion, and threw it at the beagle, which swung its ears to avoid it.

"What a lovely little fellow... We're here today because there's been a new development in the case of Romo Simeny's disappearance..." Jesse said in a businesslike tone, "Mr. Clarkson, how much do you know about Romo Simeny, your former tenant?"

“I didn’t know him very well; I’d never even met him. I bought this property about five years ago, planning to settle here after I retired. Before that, I decided to rent it out… Romo Simeone was my third tenant. He saw my rental ad online, we connected online, agreed on a contract, he transferred the rent to me, and moved in. He lived here for one year and seven months before he disappeared…” Mr. Clarkson said patiently. “I’ve said this to your colleagues many times over the past few months.”

"Thank you for your cooperation with the police investigation," Jesse said casually. "One more question, Mr. Clarkson. I saw in the previous police report that some of Romo Simone's personal belongings were left in this house. Did you dispose of those things?"

"No," Mr. Clarkson shrugged. "They're all in the basement."

"Would you mind taking us to see it?"

A few minutes later, the three of them stood in the basement, with a pile of messy junk stacked in the corner.

A beagle named Kaka, with its big ears swaying, ran around excitedly and knocked over an empty plastic bucket.

"I'm going upstairs to watch some TV, Officer Wilson," Mr. Clarkson said tactfully. "Everything Romo Simmons left behind is here. If anything happens, I'll be in the living room... Kac, come upstairs... hurry up, you idiot..."

Clarkson bent down, grabbed Little Ka by the scruff of his neck, picked him up, and carried him up the stairs.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Clarkson."

Jesse said to Clarkson's retreating figure.

Russell had already bent down to examine the pile of miscellaneous items left behind by Romo Simone.

"Can you believe it, Jesse? Here's Romo's toothbrush, towel, teacup. And his T-shirt and sneakers, and we don't even have his fingerprints or DNA samples in our database..."

Russell rummaged through the dusty junk as he complained to Jesse.

“That’s normal.” Jesse shrugged. “Too many people go missing in New York every year. If you were the head of the NYPD, you wouldn’t want to waste precious police resources looking for someone who moved to Iceland and left no way to contact you… Unless there are clear signs of a serious crime, these kinds of disappearances are closed by the patrol officers and never even reach the criminal investigation center.”

Russell thought Jesse was right, but something felt off.

He pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, put them on, picked up a toothbrush from the pile of junk, put it in the evidence bag, and sealed it.

"Are you really going to test that leg for Romo Simmons' DNA?" Jesse blinked and asked. "I think the chances are slim, Russell. Unless a time machine has already started operating somewhere in the world, I can't imagine how someone who disappeared seven months ago could have left their right leg two years ago..."

"Witnesses can lie, but DNA won't," Russell said calmly, putting the evidence bag away. "I think we should give it a try."

"Okay..." Jesse said noncommittally, his eyes scanning the pile of clutter before finally settling on a picture frame.

In the photo frame, a brown-skinned man is standing on a soccer ball, smiling at the camera.

"Russell...don't you think this person looks a little familiar?"

Jesse suddenly asked.