The flight time is only one hour and fifteen minutes. If I want to know one-fifth of my time before and after, I need to start. I read all the twenty pages of faxes and found that the autopsy photos were mysteriously missing. I have spent a full hour and twelve minutes on this case, and people from the FBI have started to trouble me. They may think that sending me to first class can make up for their lack of affinity. idiot.
The main points of these reports are as follows: Two women were forced, beaten, and turned into jigsaw puzzles, and their eyes were treated as prizes on the door. The most interesting is the first victim, Ingrid Greer. She is pregnant. The DNA shows that the father is her brother, Tristen Greer. Tristen is the prime suspect. The New York Times called him "Meniak" and there is a small article about him. If this is the case, it will be even more sad: "We have no news at this time."
After the plane landed, I walked into the corridor of Bangor International Airport and realized that I had put the fax document in the front seat pocket. Oops, it looks like someone is reading for the next flight.
There is nothing I can do at this point, so I bought a Michael Clayton book called "Timeline". I heard that this book was made into a bad film. I found the airport bar, Aliville Bar, and retreated to a corner in the distance. Fortunately, the bar’s service is better than the bar’s name. In less than 90 seconds, I had a cup of Irish coffee and a club sandwich on the road. I read about fifteen pages of Clayton's novel, and I couldn't understand it, because I was one of the few people on this planet who didn't have a PhD in quantum physics, so I joined this club.
When I just started to read the first page, two guys appeared from behind my left shoulder. They are all wearing black suits and black ties. I have a weird feeling when shooting "Men in Black".
If I were to use two words to describe everyone in front of me, they would be short, beautiful, tall, and black. In fact, before this, I worked with tall&black on several cases. We never hated each other, which is very rare for me. I'm a little annoying sometimes.
I stood up and stretched out my hand: "How are you, Gillis? How long has it been, a year and a half, right?"
Wade Gleason smiled, his teeth were almost too white, and he said, "How can I forget? You lost a hundred dollars to me in a one-on-one game. My wife would like to personally thank you for letting me Had a nice evening in this town. Speaking of which, have you married that Jennifer girl?"
"No. Two weeks before the wedding, she left me for a Dalmatian." A not far lie.
It seemed that Wade did not intend to introduce me to this short and beautiful caddie, so I asked, "Who is your caddie?"
Wade suppressed a smile and introduced us to each other. Todd Gregory is no more than five feet three inches tall, and when he tries to vote in November this year, he is likely to be recorded. I held Todd's petite, probably just manicured hand and said, "What did you do, did you stuff the bodyguard with fifty dollars?"
His smiling muscles were obviously atrophy, and he did not respond to my jokes, and said dryly: "You are funny. I heard you are funny."
I watched Gleason throw my best side to him. You must be playing me. Is this guy serious? Look, and say, "You must be kidding me. Is this guy serious?"
The three of us got into a black Capris, and only the gangsters and FBI agents drove. When the driver said his name was Tim instead of Figoli, I was disappointed.
I tried to figure out my level of involvement in this case, and then said, "Let me figure out this command system. First Minister Mangrove, then you." I pointed to Gleason in the front seat. "Then it's me." I pointed to myself. "Then Fagioli." I pointed to the driver. "Then that guy." I pointed to a tramp lying on an airport bench. "Then the nanny." I pointed to Gregory on my right.
Gregory did not smile, and I began to wonder if he was hearing impaired. Gleason said: "It's actually him, then me, then you."
Gregory stared out the window, sucking in the meaning of the news deeply. I was wearing a black Armani dress and shoes, touching my tonsils, it was difficult to speak, but I still managed to say: "Are you trying to tell me this little bastard is the agent in charge?"
"This is part of our new image."
"I can't believe this bag belongs to SAC. Grice, you have been in a suit and leather shoes for twenty years, and now they let you work for Michael J. Fox's brother. How the hell can you accept it?"
If Wade is Denzel Washington and I am Michael J. Fox. Who are you then?"
I wanted to say, "I'm Brad Pitt, you fucking idiot," but I'm not that bad ass, so I said, "I'm Stephen Baldwin."
Gillis couldn't help laughing. I said to my friend Todd: "I said you are the younger brother of Michael J. Fox, not Michael J. Fox."
For the next hour and 20 minutes, I stared at this stretch of scenery—Maine. Sequoia, yellow maple, green spruce, orange, everything you can think of. It makes every snapshot I took in the past look black and white. When God painted the world, Maine was the place he used to wipe off excess paint. Layers of green sè, glowing yellow sè, sleeping in red sè, avoiding orange sè.
Another thing I noticed is that when you move north along the coast, you seem to be back in the United States around 1960. (Maine seems to be 0 years behind 49 states. Well, 47. I think Dakota is about the same.) The cable stretches for miles along the country highway, and I have a quiet feeling, the car is racing against the current, There may be time.
We stopped at a place that looked like a train station, and recalled my conversation with the director of the mangrove forest, "Campobello is a Canadian territory," I deduced that it was a border crossing.
see it? One part is an arrogant bastard, and the other part is a jīng-ming detective.
I opened the car door and realized how dim the color of the car window was. The sky is not heavy, but a perfect cobalt blue. Gillis grabbed his accessory box from the suitcase, and the two of us walked to a small group of people gathered next to a sign that said "Roosevelt Bridge"
There are three people in the group. A short, fat, bald man, apparently got the short end of the stick. Todd Gregory, with a stick in his butt. There was also a beautiful blonde woman who looked desperately in need of a stick.
Gris and I squeezed into the crowd. It turned out that the bald man was not George Costanza, but a Canadian rider named Francis Jǐng. Francis was wearing a neatly ironed small red suit, and the three hairs on his head somehow turned into a ball of hair. We shook hands. He didn't say "Uh". I doubt if he is really Canadian.
More like a blond nuclear bomb Jan Haru. She is very beautiful, her eyes are cobalt blue like the sky, and she has a soft angelic face. She was wearing a white shirt with a collar, a tan shirt, a skirt that reached the knees, and a pair of black stilettos. She looked like she had just walked out of Wall Street, and I was shocked when I learned that she was the Fed’s contact in Bangor Jǐng. The delicious Dr. Caitlin Doz.
We were all introduced, and I hope that Dr. Caitlin thinks that Dr. Caitlin Prescott is not bad, not bad at all, but she looks more like the type that makes me adopt her last name.
There was not much small talk, after each of us signed a form, we huddled together and went back to the car. I hesitated for a few seconds, trying to find out the end of this thin bridge and the origin of this so-called island, I stared across the Atlantic Ocean. My hesitation is out of ulterior motives. When I strode behind this good doctor, my hesitation took effect. To say that Jing is magnificent is still conservative. Her professional skirt can't cover the well-maintained Class A car under the fabric.
Thomas Dodds, I can handle it.
Before the FBI people arrive, no one is allowed to enter the crime scene. This is an extremely stupid policy, and everyone is angry. Except for the FBI. And I. Francis, the semi-Canadian royal rider Jǐng, didn't seem to be so depressed. So I guess Caitlin. Dr. Caitlin Doz is very angry.
I got into Dr. Doz’s car deliberately, and when I asked her to sit in the back seat, Dr. Doz greeted me. No one else submitted it, and the reason was clear within ten seconds: Dr. Caitlin is a weird bitch.
The car started to drive towards the bridge. She stared at me awkwardly for a few seconds, and then asked loudly, "What? Your clothes were lost in the laundry?"
I always have an incredible ability. Whenever I tell the truth, it will give people the impression that I am lying, and vice versa, so I said, "I am not the FBI."
"Well, you are not from the FBI, as if I wasn't in my damn time." She rummaged through her wallet and found something that I could only guess was a tampon.
I tried to roll out of the car and jump into the Atlantic Ocean, but my car door could not be opened. Damn federal allowance. I turned around and saw that what I thought was a tampon was actually a pack of Mentos. There will be a good advertisement now. fresh blood.
After eating a Mentos, she forgot to give me one. Doz unbuttoned her jacket and revealed that she had hidden three deadly weapons. Although they are all thirty-eight, they are all equally special, only one is Smith & Wesson. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)