Russell nodded. "Not only that, but our team also tested the murder weapon, the double-edged dagger. Blood type analysis confirmed that there are two types of blood on it. The blood on the blade is type AB, which matches the housekeeper's blood type. The blood on the handle is type O, which matches both the boy, Hubble, and his father, T.C. Riordan."
James Bryce abruptly stood up, the flesh on his cheeks trembling from the sudden movement, looking rather jiggly.
"I'd love to hear how this son of a bitch explains all of this."
---
"I contacted the San Francisco Police Department, your hometown's precinct. I originally just wanted to verify something about your housekeeper, but I discovered your past is not as simple as it seems."
The room they were in now was actually set up like an interrogation room—a single table with an emergency lamp on top, and just one chair on either side of the table.
Russell sat on one side, while the missing boy's father, T.C. Riordan, sat on the other.
The speaker was Detective Bryce, who was slowly pacing around the table, seemingly using this as a tactic to pressure the other party.
Jack was pretending to be a note-taker, having pulled up a chair and seated himself next to Russell, hiding his body completely in the dimly lit corner, appearing like an insignificant bystander.
Russell opened the file in front of him, the same stack of faxes from the San Francisco Police Department that Detective Bryce had earlier, and continued from where the detective left off.
"Earlier, you said your wife passed away five years ago, but you seemed to forget to mention how she died. Drowning in your own pool is indeed suspicious."
Jack appeared to be engrossed in his note-taking, the pen scratching against the paper, creating a soft rustling sound. In reality, he was doodling circles, drawing pig heads, while covertly observing T.C. Riordan out of the corner of his eye.
This was a man whose wealth and status were immediately evident from his appearance. His well-maintained face made it hard to tell if he was in his thirties or, as the file indicated, forty-five. He had sharp facial features, short black hair, and a very polished demeanor, somewhat reminiscent of Tom Cruise, but with a persistent sorrow between his brows. He spoke calmly and clearly, indicating a high level of education.
"What does this have to do with my son's disappearance?" T.C. Riordan asked, clearly confused as to why he was summoned.
Detective Bryce stopped pacing and stood beside Russell, his hands pressing down on the table, his chubby face exuding a natural authority.
"I'll get straight to the point. The San Francisco Police have always suspected that you killed your wife in a fit of rage, and I believe you did the same to the housekeeper, then got rid of the only witness—your son."
"So, are we going to find your son's body next, is that it?"
He finished, staring intently at T.C. Riordan, whose head was bowed.
"This whole kidnapping story was just a charade, wasn't it?"
T.C. Riordan suddenly looked up, locking eyes with the old detective, his gaze filled with anger, disdain, and suppressed pain.
"I told the San Francisco Police, and now I'm telling you again, I'm innocent. Everything I've said is true."
"Yes, but you seem to be ignoring some crucial facts, like who Hubble's biological mother really is," the old detective interrupted.
"Your housekeeper, Shelby Bryce."
Jack suddenly looked up, catching every nuance of T.C. Riordan's expression. Interestingly, it wasn't fear of being exposed or anger at being wronged, but rather disdain. It was like a rebellious teenager being falsely accused by their parents, preferring to take the punishment than explain, exuding an inexplicable teenage angst.
"We confirmed with the local hospital in San Francisco that she is indeed Hubble's biological mother," Russell said softly.
It was still the classic good cop, bad cop routine. The old detective was playing the tough guy, creating a tense atmosphere, while Russell naturally took on the role of the understanding figure, trying to gain the subject's trust.
"Now it all makes sense." The old detective pressed further as T.C. Riordan remained silent, his head bowed.
"Your wife found out Shelby was carrying your child. She wanted a divorce, to take your money, and then ended up dead in your pool."
"And then there was your mistress, Shelby. She ended up dead in your backyard. I must say, you really know how to deal with women, buddy."
But T.C. Riordan simply opened his mouth, then closed it again, choosing to remain silent.
The old detective and Russell exchanged glances, feeling the situation was becoming tricky. The former then opened the PAD on the table, showing a picture of the long dagger.
"Seen this knife before?"
This was a photo just sent over from the lab. The body couldn't undergo further autopsy, and due to the lack of power, common blood test methods like centrifugation and micro-column gel methods couldn't be used. The former requires a centrifuge, and the latter a fully automated blood typing analyzer. Fortunately, the lab had some anti-A and anti-B reagents in stock, and by using the slide method, they could observe whether the red blood cells clumped together with the naked eye or a regular microscope, thus determining the blood type.
The long dagger in the photo was covered in blood, and just when everyone thought T.C. Riordan would maintain his silence, he unexpectedly admitted it.
"I've seen it before. It's mine, from my home."
"More precisely, it was in Shelby's back," the old detective added, causing T.C. Riordan to look at the two in shock.
"We found that the blood on the blade is hers, but your blood is on the handle. How do you explain that?"
To everyone's surprise, T.C. Riordan calmly admitted.
"Yes, that's my blood, but I didn't kill anyone."
He paused, as if struggling with something, then seemed to resign himself, continuing in a tone that suggested they could believe him or not.
"I was simply offering blood to the dead."
Russell, sitting across from him, instinctively exchanged a look with the old detective, both of their eyes filled with disbelief. What kind of bizarre twist was this?
Even Jack, who had been pretending to take notes, couldn't help but stop his doodling and look up at the wealthy man again, wondering if he had misheard.
Seeing their confusion, T.C. Riordan straightforwardly pulled up his right sleeve, revealing a wrist wrapped in gauze.
"During the summoning ritual, I used this knife to cut my vein and offered some of my blood."
"What nonsense are you talking about?" The old detective was stunned, feeling as if his well-planned strategy had just been rendered completely ineffective.
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