America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Two o'clock in the morning.

The detention center in Lower Manhattan, a gloomy red brick building.

This place holds suspects awaiting trial, but none of them are serious offenders. The guards are not strict, and the interior is dimly lit and flickering.

Harry, the guard on night duty, was sitting in the duty room, idly reading the newspaper.

If someone were to look closely, they would discover that the newspaper was indeed Arthur's serialized novel.

Just then, there was a heavy knocking on the door.

Harry frowned and put down his newspaper. At this hour, there was usually no one around except for people bringing in drunks.

He opened the small window in the door and saw two people in police uniforms standing outside.

Their hat brims were pulled low, obscuring their faces, but their uniforms and the pistols at their waists put Harry at ease.

Harry asked, "What is it?"

One of them said in a hoarse voice, "Special interrogation."

He handed me a crumpled document.

"Regarding the case of that clerk, Cronin. There's something urgent they need to ask."

Harry took the document and glanced at it. It bore the stamp of the city police chief and seemed to be in good standing.

But something felt off to him. Interrogation at 2 AM? That wasn't in accordance with regulations.

Harry turned to grab the phone on the table: "I need to make a call to confirm."

Just then, the policeman who had been speaking suddenly reached into the iron gate, grabbed Harry by the collar, and slammed him against the bars.

The policeman's voice suddenly became incredibly fierce:

"Listen, you idiot. This was arranged by the gentlemen of Tammony themselves. You don't want to lose your job tomorrow and be lining up for relief bread, do you? Open the door."

Harry was completely disoriented from the impact. In this day and age, the word "Tamanny" carried more weight in the police system than the chief.

He shakily pulled out his key and opened the iron gate.

Two "police officers" walked in. They completely ignored Harry and went straight to Cronin's solitary cell.

One of them pulled a thin wire and a dark glass bottle from his pocket; these were tools used to fake a hanging suicide and cardiac arrest.

Although Harry was just a doorman, he was still an old prison guard and had seen this kind of thing before. He tried to shout, but found that he couldn't make a sound.

Just as the two men reached the door of Cronin's cell and were about to unlock it, a clear, ringing sound of a lighter came from the shadows at the other end of the corridor.

A flame lit up, illuminating a rugged face covered in stubble.

That was Patrick's nephew, Connor O'Reilly.

He was leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and fiddling with a heavy pipe wrench in his hand.

"Good evening, officers. It must be tough working so late."

The two intruders suddenly turned around and reached for their gun holsters.

Another voice sounded from behind them:

"If I were you, I wouldn't do that."

Liam O'Reilly emerged from the shadows of the duty room, a solid iron rod in his hand, which he tapped lightly against his palm.

Connor slowly straightened up, stretched his neck, and made a cracking sound.

"This is a detention center. If a shot is fired, the patrols will come. But if it's just a fight, no one should hear it. How about we have a fight?"

The two men exchanged a glance. They were thugs hired by Dila from the gang, and they were ruthless characters.

But the pressure of being sandwiched between two burly dockworkers, who were as big as Irish bulldogs, in a narrow corridor made them uneasy.

The leader of the assassins shouted sternly:

"We're on official business! Get out of the way! Or we'll arrest you all!"

Connor sneered, then swung his pipe wrench and slammed it against the iron railing next to him, making a loud noise that shook the entire corridor.

Connor roared:

"Stop talking nonsense! I'm not easily intimidated. Do you think I don't have a gun? Mr. Kennedy said there will be 'rats' trying to sneak in tonight, and I'm waiting for you."

Without any unnecessary words, the battle erupted in an instant.

This was a crushing defeat with no suspense whatsoever.

Before the two assassins could even draw their guns, Connor and Liam rushed up and pinned them to the ground.

The dull thuds and the cracking of bones sounded especially clear on this cold night.

Five minutes later.

The two assassins lay on the ground, their faces bruised and swollen, their hands and feet cuffed behind their backs with the handcuffs they had brought with them.

Terrified, Cronin huddled in a corner of the cell, watching the scene through the bars, his pants already soaked.

Connor wiped the blood off his face; it wasn't his.

He crouched down and looked at the leader of the assassins, then searched his pocket and found a one-way ticket to Mexico and a check, which even had Dilla's signature on it.

Connor shook his head. "Tsk tsk tsk. Looks like you guys don't want to stay here either. Too bad, this ticket is now evidence."

He turned to look at Harry, the guard who was completely dumbfounded, and grinned:

"Hey buddy. Remember to call your boss tomorrow. Tell him... we found two lost mice."

……

Six o'clock in the morning, on the park slope.

In Arthur's house, the telephone suddenly rang.

He sat up in bed, grabbed the receiver, and Patrick's voice came through the line, filled with barely suppressed excitement:

"Got them. Two rats, alive, and a boat ticket too."

Arthur gripped the receiver, paused for a moment, and then asked, "Is he alright?"

Patrick said, "Cronin was so scared he wet himself, but he survived. Connor and Liam got scrapes, and the other guy broke a few bones."

Arthur said, "You've worked hard. Tell the guys the bar bill's on me."

After hanging up the phone, he sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the sky outside the window as it gradually turned white.

The Manhattan skyline was emerging in the morning light. Just hours earlier, someone had attempted to kill a witness in that shadow.

Fortunately, they failed.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Arthur opened the door, and Isabella stood outside, carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of freshly baked bread.

Her hair was a little messy from the cold morning wind, and her cheeks were red from the cold.

Isabella noticed his expression and paused for a moment: "What's wrong? You look..."

Arthur stepped aside to let her in and said, "They made their move. Dira's men went to the detention center last night."

Isabella nearly spilled her coffee.

She put the paper bag on the table and quickly asked, "Where's Cronin?"

Arthur said, "Alive. Connor and Liam were there and they caught the two killers red-handed, along with tickets to Mexico."

Isabella paused for a few seconds, then let out a long breath.

She handed the coffee to Arthur, picked up another cup for herself, and said:

"Hasn't Cronin already turned himself in? He's confessed to the case, so why are they still...?"

Arthur took the coffee, took a sip, and said, "That's the problem."

"It seems Cronin has handled more than just our case. He's been a clerk for ten years; he's got a lot more to his name now."

Arthur paused, then continued:

"For example, who approved the rejection of a certain case, who called to inquire about a certain defendant, and who sends money to the clerk's office every month. Some of those cases haven't been investigated yet, and some haven't been explained."

Isabella understood, and continued Arthur's words:

"So every word he says now could lead to a new case."

Arthur said, "Yes. He knows not just the inside story of one case, but the whole line. Which judges listen to whom, how some cases are suppressed, and how much money some people have taken. These things keep the people of Tammony up at night."

Isabella said, "So his confession actually made things more dangerous."

Arthur said, "Before, they could gamble that Cronin could hold out. Now he knows he can't, so he has no choice but to confess. Dira's only option is to make sure he never speaks again."

Outside on the street, newsboys were already busy stacking newspapers onto their carts.

Isabella asked, "How do you plan to write it?"

Arthur walked to his desk, spread out the stack of blank manuscript paper, and picked up his pen.

He said, "Before, the Tammany Association could shift blame for our actions, claiming it was political persecution. But now, they've sent assassins. The assassins have checks signed by Dilla and uniforms disguised as police officers. Every single one of these items is irrefutable evidence."

"Dila thought he was destroying evidence. In reality, he was helping me write the ending of this report."

"Let me use this report to toll their death knell."

Arthur began to write.

The room was quiet, with only the scratching sound of a pen nib gliding across the paper.

The streets outside the window gradually came alive, with car horns, newsboys' cries, and tram jingling creating a symphony of the city's morning.

Isabella didn't disturb him. She stood quietly by the window, sipping her coffee, which was gradually getting cold, and watching Arthur write each word on the manuscript.

After a long while, Arthur put down his pen. He picked up the stack of manuscript papers, read them from beginning to end, and then handed them to Isabella.

Isabella took it and began to read.

The article's title is just a few simple words: "This is a murder."