American forensics, but the gourmet system

The photo is a long shot, showing Romo dribbling the ball while someone is defending and interfering with him.

"He suddenly grew a beard?"

Captain Hansen frowned as he looked at the blurry photo and asked a question.

"And he completely covered his right leg with a sock and shorts," Russell emphasized. "And, there's another problem..."

He took out his phone and played a recording.

A strange man's voice said, "Romo started out as a striker in the team. He had excellent physical attributes and great shooting skills..."

Russell's voice rang out: "Start? So you mean he changed positions later?"

"Yes," the man continued, "Later he switched to midfield... It must have been after that injury that he said he had some psychological trauma and was afraid to go into the penalty area to fight those tall defenders. We all understood him, but we later found that he was also quite good in midfield, always able to make a few good passes, so we simply let him play in that position... until he disappeared..."

Russell turned off the recording and looked at Captain Hansen, saying:

"From Romo's injury on October 13th to his return to the field a month later on November 12th, he grew a beard, wore long socks, and even played in midfield, a position he had never played before..."

"At this point, Romo was already Joey in disguise..."

Captain Hansen said softly.

"So, even if Joey wasn't the one who cut off Romo's right leg, he was at least deeply involved and knew about it... otherwise he would have no motive to impersonate Romo," Russell concluded. "As for the truth of the case... we need to piece together more clues."

"We need to find Romo's body first, then pry open Carey Rupert's mouth..." Captain Hansen said thoughtfully. "I'd like to hear your opinion, Russell... where do you think we should start?"

Russell remained silent for a moment, organizing his thoughts. Captain Hansen didn't urge him, but instead shifted his position in the chair and stretched his slightly sore back.

After a moment, Russell finally spoke and asked:

"Can we issue a search warrant now, Captain?"

"A search warrant?" Captain Hansen paused slightly. "What place do you want to search?"

"Mr. Clarkson's house is where Romo used to live," Russell said. "After Romo disappeared, the person living there was actually Joey, meaning that all the clutter left in the house was left by Joey. If Joey really did kill Romo, we might find the murder weapon and tools used to dispose of the body among those things..."

Captain Hansen nodded slightly:

"That makes a lot of sense, it's pretty much what I was thinking... I'll call the district attorney right now and ask him to issue a search warrant..."

"We also need to bring police dogs," Russell added. "No remains matching Romo's severed leg have been found in the New York area in the past two years, so I suspect that the rest of Romo's body was not actually disposed of..."

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Captain Hansen was slightly startled:

"This is something I didn't expect... Okay, let's bring the police dogs and the crime scene investigation technicians as well..."

He was about to pick up his phone to make a call, but then stopped and looked at Russell:

"It's late, Russell. You can go home now, or you can come with us to the scene... it's up to you."

Russell glanced at the clock on the wall and smiled:

"I think I'll stay, Captain. If you guys dig up a skeleton under a floorboard, I'll have to rush to the scene from home."

Captain Hansen nodded at Russell:

"Thank you for your hard work, Dr. Russell."

……

Weatherby Clarkson stood up from the sofa in the living room, turned off the TV, and rubbed his eyes.

His retirement life was as leisurely as he had imagined; even if he watched TV until 11:30 p.m., he didn't have to worry about not having the energy to work the next day.

As long as Kawhi doesn't wake him up at 4 a.m....

Speaking of Kawhi Leonard...

"Little Ka, Little Ka?"

Clarkson searched from the living room to the kitchen, but still couldn't find the big-eared beagle.

Then he suddenly noticed that the door leading to the backyard was slightly ajar.

"You went to the backyard again, you bad dog..." Clarkson muttered, opening the door and walking into the backyard.

On the lawn in the yard, Little Ka was energetically and tirelessly digging a hole in the grass with its two front paws. Its two big ears swayed back and forth beside its head with its movements. It had already dug a small hole a few centimeters deep in the ground.

"I have no idea what you're thinking all day, Kawhi," Clarkson complained. "You're digging in this damn lawn again! And you've got your paws all dirty! You're not sleeping in my bed tonight!"

He walked over, picked up Little Ka by the scruff of its neck, and used his foot to fill the hole with the dirt Little Ka had dug out.

Little Ka started howling defiantly, and Clarkson reached out and grabbed its muzzle.

"You stupid dog, shut up! Do you want the neighbors to call the police and complain about us?"

A jumble of whimpers came from Little Card's throat. It squirmed in Clarkson's arms, but Clarkson eventually carried it back into the house.

"You better behave yourself!" Clarkson bent down and placed Kawhi on the floor, then turned and closed the door to the backyard. "You're practically the only trouble I've had since I retired, Kawhi!"

Little Ka flapped his big ears and ran off.

"Hmm...it's not the only problem..."

Clarkson muttered something, remembering the pile of clutter in the basement. He decided to place a lost and found ad in the newspaper when he had time; if no one claimed the things, he'd have to get rid of them...

Boom boom boom!

The knocking came from the front hall.

"Who is it?" Clarkson asked, puzzled, then instinctively becoming alert. "Who's knocking?"

It's already 11:30 at night, which is clearly not a good time to visit.

"Oh oh oh oh oh!"

Little Ka started howling at an inopportune moment.

"Mr. Clarkson," a steady voice came from outside the door, "we are agents from the NYPD Brooklyn North Homicide Unit. We are here with a search warrant to investigate the murder of Romo Simmons..."

……

Outside Clarkson's house, besides Captain Hansen who was standing on the steps knocking on the door, Jesse and Russell stood on either side of him, while the police dog handler stood below the steps with a black Labrador police dog on a leash.

There were two on-site survey technicians nearby, and their faces were even darker than the Labrador's.

Unfortunately, working late into the night is definitely not a pleasant experience.

A dozen seconds later, the door in front of Captain Hansen opened.

Clarkson appeared in the doorway, looking shocked. He looked at the serious-looking middle-aged police officer in front of him, then at the two familiar young men behind him, and asked:

"Murder? You mean my last tenant..."

"He was murdered, that's right." Captain Hansen pulled out his police badge and search warrant and showed them to Clarkson. "We need to search his belongings left in your residence."

"Okay... alright..." Clarkson didn't know what to say for a moment. He opened the door, a little bewildered. "Please come in, you guys..."

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Xiao Ka squeezed past his legs, wagging his tail as he approached the black Labrador police dog.

It tilted its head and curiously sniffed the police dog's rear end.

The Labrador sat there calmly, as still as a mountain.

"Little Ka!"

Clarkson is on the verge of a breakdown.