American forensics, but the gourmet system

boom!

Jesse kicked open the wooden door of the apartment and, gun in hand, charged into the room.

Diaz nimbly slipped into the house, raising his gun and scanning the surroundings.

The room was pitch black, but Captain Hansen, who followed him in, illuminated the living room with his tactical flashlight.

"No one's in the bedroom or kitchen, Captain."

Jesse's voice came from the bedroom.

"There's no bathroom or balcony either."

Diaz said in a deep voice.

"Did we alert the killer and let him escape?" Jesse came out of the bedroom, looking somewhat puzzled.

"Immediately contact the traffic department to track down Dawn's Ford pickup truck, request the bureau to send people over to secure the scene, and search for the murder weapon and tools used by the killer..." Captain Hansen issued the orders methodically.

"I don't think Dawn escaped..." Russell calmly walked in from the apartment door. He had been hiding outside, wary of a possible gunfight. "During our investigation at the theater today, we didn't show any suspicion towards him. We were just investigating the clues step by step..."

Jesse shrugged:

"Yeah, but I don't think Dawn would go to the police station to turn himself in... We need to find out where he went first."

“Very reasonable.” Russell leaned against the wall, examining the paintings in the apartment. “If I were Dawn, what would be the first thing I would do if I knew the police hadn’t given up investigating the murder I committed…”

……

While the major crimes squad was in a flurry of activity, John Dawn drove a Ford F-150 to a detached house.

He stopped the car and, using the dim light of the streetlights, tidied his meticulously styled gray hair.

Even though he was no longer the respected surgeon he once was twenty years ago, he still pays great attention to his image.

John Dawn graduated from New York University School of Medicine.

Twenty years ago, he was thirty-four years old and an attending physician in the thoracic surgery department of a private hospital.

He has an enviable salary, an enviable social status, a beautiful wife, and two lovely children.

Dawn loves art, and in his spare time, he often visits theaters all over New York, enjoying musicals, plays, and ballets.

However, life took an unexpected turn.

A drug addict tricked Dawn into giving him an overdose of painkillers using forged medical records, and the police handling the case determined that there was a quid pro quo between Dawn and the addict.

The drug addict was an engineer at a medical device company. Dawn did take some kickbacks from him, but that was an industry practice and not illegal.

Dawn swore to the police that the profits had absolutely nothing to do with the painkillers he prescribed to drug addicts.

However, despite Dawn's numerous defenses and the large sums of money he spent on lawyers, he was still sentenced to two years in prison.

After his release from prison, Dawn lost his job, his property, and his wife left him with their children.

  

No hospital was willing to accept a doctor whose medical license had been revoked, so Dawn had to work illegally and sell his blood. He even considered selling a kidney...

Overnight, Dawn went from a comfortable middle-class life to rock bottom.

He was just a hair's breadth away from being killed on the spot by the sharp blade called life.

He began to blame everyone and everything, he began to hate the policeman who sent him to prison, and he even began to hate the entire police force...

Fortunately, he saw a job posting on the street; the theater needed a prop master.

Dawn went for the job interview.

His love for art and his understanding of the repertoire led him to this job.

Gradually, he began to save money. He had a stable place to live and savings, and life seemed to have hope again.

But he accidentally discovered that the young and beautiful musical actress in the theater was actually engaging in prostitution by befriending loyal audience members.

Dawn was furious.

His life was ruined by deception, and he hates deception.

His life was revitalized by art, and he was grateful for it.

Dawn decides to kill that bitch who deceived her colleagues and tainted art...

Memories are long, but they only flash through the mind.

Dawn took a pair of nitrile gloves out of his pocket, put them on, and then took out a pair of tactical shooting gloves and put them over the nitrile gloves.

He was a meticulous person, meticulous when performing surgery, and meticulous when killing.

Dawn opened the glove box in front of the passenger seat, took out a handgun, and put it in his jacket pocket.

Those foolish policemen were completely fooled by him.

Dawn couldn't help but laugh at the thought of their disheveled appearance as they kept going in and out of the theater, searching for clues.

They're probably still figuring out what that bitch's clothes mean...

It doesn't really mean anything. A prostitute should dress like a prostitute. She doesn't deserve to stand on stage in a ballet tutu.

Just like that bitch from six years ago, she doesn't deserve to stand on stage and perform "The Great Gatsby." She should be lying in a garbage dump, among maggots and rats...

But Dawn didn't want to expose himself; he needed a scapegoat to take the blame for his crimes.

Six years ago, he successfully found a suitable candidate, and sure enough, those stupid police officers didn't find any flaws and closed the case.

Today, Dawn is ready to repeat his old tricks.

Dawn got out of the car at a leisurely pace, took out a backpack from the car, and put it on his shoulder.

Inside were his will, a sharp scalpel, and a set of blood-stained clothes, all prepared for the unfortunate man.

If you hide these things in the unfortunate man's house, the stupid police will believe you without a doubt.

Stupid cops...you value evidence...now I'm showing you all the evidence...

Dawn closed the car door, walked up the steps to the front of the detached house, and rang the doorbell.

Who is it?

A deep male voice came from inside the house.

"NYPD," Dawn said calmly, "I'm here to investigate the murder of Miss Vera Kubaeva. Please open the door, sir."

It sounded like the man inside the room mumbled some obscure swear word.

Footsteps approached, and a bald man opened the door.

"Didn't I give you an alibi?!" Dr. Brown said angrily to Dawn as he opened the door. "Your colleague told me to go home!"

"We have new evidence, sir." Dawn slowly pulled something from his pocket; it was a little hard to see in the dim light. "Look at this..."

A strange smell wafted through the air.

Dr. Brown leaned closer, puzzled.

"What are you going to show me—"

Suddenly, Dawn quickly covered Dr. Brown's mouth and nose with what he was holding.

It was a towel soaked in ether.

"Waaah! Waaah—"

Dr. Brown struggled, but Dawn held him firmly in her arms. The office-bound internist was no match for the prop master who was used to manual labor.

Dr. Brown's fingers weakly scratched at Dawn's chest, but Dawn was wearing a canvas jacket today, so there was no way Dr. Brown's fingernails could leave any crumbs.

This was all planned in advance by Dawn; his meticulous style would never allow him to make any mistakes.

Before that bitch named Vera died, she grabbed a handful of his hair, and Dawn picked up every single strand of hair from her body with a flashlight.

He will not leave any trace for the police, not even a chance.

Dawn felt the body in his arms gradually stop resisting. All he needed to do next was drag this unfortunate fellow into the room, and then—

"Hands up, John Dawn," a calm voice said behind him. "There are three guns pointed at your back. Don't move, or we'll shoot you on the spot."