Chapter 8: I Can Be Somebody's Hope

David's POV

Back at the station, we headed straight to the tech department.

Jake Morrison, a young guy in his twenties with thick glasses, looked up from his multiple computer screens as we approached. He was the department's surveillance specialist, and right now, he was our best hope for tracking down Jane's tormentor.

"Jake, we need to pull all surveillance footage from around the Riverside Heights apartment building," Detective Martinez said, placing our evidence bag on his desk. "Time frame is 2 AM to 5 AM on the night of the incident. We now have evidence suggesting a third person was at the scene."

Jake's fingers flew across the keyboard, and massive display screens began showing multiple camera feeds. "The apartment building's own surveillance system malfunctioned, but all the street cameras were working normally."

"Wait, there's someone here." Jake pointed to a blurry figure in the upper right corner of one screen. "The night of the incident, a male figure left through the apartment building's back door."

On screen, a person wearing a black hoodie, mask, and baseball cap hurried out, deliberately keeping his head down to avoid most cameras. But his gait was distinctive—there was a noticeable limp in his left leg.

"He knows this area well," Richard observed, studying the person's walking route. "Look at his path selection—completely avoiding the main surveillance points. This suggests he did detailed reconnaissance work beforehand."

"Enhance this angle," I said to Jake. "I want to see his physical characteristics clearly."

Jake adjusted the image, making the mysterious figure clearer. He was about 5'9", medium build, with that pronounced limp in his left leg clearly visible.

"Continue tracking his route," I commanded.

Jake switched to a camera at the other end of the street. "Here, he appears at the intersection of Maple Street."

The screen showed the man walking quickly, occasionally looking back to check if anyone was following. His movements were urgent and nervous, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"He disappears for twenty minutes here," Jake said, switching to the next surveillance point. "Then reappears at 3 AM, but this time he's changed clothes."

Indeed, the same limping figure reappeared wearing a dark blue jacket instead of the black hoodie, but the left leg limp remained obvious.

"Smart guy," Detective Martinez said. "He changed clothes somewhere to confuse surveillance tracking."

I pointed at the screen. "But he made one mistake—didn't change his gait. A limp is a very difficult physical characteristic to fake."

"I found a clearer image at First National Bank's ATM three blocks away," Jake said excitedly. "He was withdrawing money at the ATM."

The new footage showed the man standing at the ATM. Though still wearing a hat, the angle allowed the camera to capture part of his profile. He appeared to be 35-40 years old, white, with a scruffy beard, focused and grim eyes.

"Facial recognition system is running," Jake said. "Database includes all individuals with criminal records."

Twenty-five minutes later, the computer chimed.

"Match found!" Jake announced excitedly. "Mason Taylor, 38-year-old white male. Has previous convictions for theft, harassment, and stalking."

Mason's detailed file appeared on screen: born 1985, 5'9" tall, left leg with mild limp due to childhood car accident. His most recent arrest was last year for stalking a female college student.

"Address?" Detective Martinez asked.

"Registered address is a subsidized apartment downtown, but records show he hasn't paid rent for three months," Jake continued reviewing the files. "However, he has a frequent location—the Golden Horseshoe Casino. According to casino membership records, he's there almost every night."

Richard grabbed his radio. "All units, BOLO for Mason Taylor, homicide suspect. Possible location Golden Horseshoe Casino. Use caution."

An hour later, David, Detective Martinez, and Richard arrived in plainclothes at the Golden Horseshoe Casino downtown. Neon signs flashed garishly against the night sky, the parking lot filled with various vehicles.

"I contacted the casino security chief," Detective Martinez said, pocketing her phone. "Mason is indeed a regular here, usually at the blackjack tables or slot machine areas."

Walking into the casino's main hall, we were hit by deafening music, the ding-ding of slot machines, and people's shouting voices. The air reeked of cigarettes and alcohol, while colorful lights flashed constantly.

Richard scanned the hall. "Too many people. Let's split up. David, you take the slot machines; Martinez, check the roulette tables; I'll cover blackjack."

We spread out, each maintaining contact through wireless earpieces.

I carefully searched the slot machine area, observing every male matching the description. The area was crowded with various types of gamblers—well-dressed middle-aged businessmen alongside shabby-looking people from the bottom rungs of society.

"Martinez, no target found in slot machine area," I reported through my earpiece.

"Roulette tables clear too," Detective Martinez responded.

"Wait..." Richard's voice came through, tinged with excitement. "Blackjack table, seat number 3. That's him!"

Detective Martinez and I immediately converged on Richard's position. Through the crowd, we spotted a familiar figure sitting at the blackjack table. It was definitely Mason Taylor—scruffy beard, focused eyes, and when he shifted his leg, the limp was unmistakable.

He was playing blackjack with some chips stacked in front of him, and his fingers showed the heavy, yellowed tobacco stains of a chain smoker, consistent with the cigarette butt we'd found.

"Target confirmed," Detective Martinez whispered. "Prepare for action. Richard, approach from the front; David, circle to his left; I'll take the right side to prevent escape."

We began quietly closing in on Mason's position. He seemed completely absorbed in gambling, unaware that danger was approaching.

When Richard was about two meters away, Mason's instincts suddenly kicked in. Maybe it was Richard's distinctive law enforcement bearing, or the barely visible badge on his chest—Mason suddenly looked up, fear flashing in his eyes.

"Mason Taylor! Millbrook Police!" Richard shouted, displaying his badge.

Mason's face went white instantly. He violently pushed over the blackjack table, red and black chips scattering across the floor with crisp clinking sounds. The dealer screamed and backed away as other players panicked and scattered.

"Stop! Don't move!" Detective Martinez closed in from the right.

But Mason was already running. Limping on his left leg, he desperately charged toward the exit, pushing over a server carrying a drink tray. Glass shattered on the floor, alcohol splashing everywhere.

The entire casino hall erupted in chaos. Patrons screamed and scattered, some thinking a robbery was happening and dropping to the ground. Slot machines continued ringing, but no one cared about gambling anymore.

Mason limped through the crowd, his left leg obviously affecting his speed, but desperation gave him extraordinary energy.

I circled around the slot machine area, trying to intercept him at the main door. "Mason, stop! You can't escape!"

Casino security noticed the commotion and joined the pursuit. A burly guard tried to block Mason but was knocked aside by his shoulder.

Richard pursued relentlessly, his police training keeping him balanced and fast in the chaos. "All exits are blocked, Mason! Give up!"

Mason rushed toward a side door, but Detective Martinez was already waiting there. She drew her weapon, aiming at Mason: "Millbrook Police! Stop immediately!"

Seeing the gun, Mason stopped and raised his hands. He was completely surrounded—me in front, Richard behind, Detective Martinez to the side, and casino security blocking other exits.

"No way out, Taylor," I said, walking forward.

Mason's eyes showed despair and fear, sweat streaming down his forehead.

"Get down! Hands behind your head!" Richard commanded.

Mason slowly knelt, then lay face-down on the casino carpet. Richard approached and handcuffed his hands behind his back.

"Mason Taylor, you're under arrest for the suspected murder of Michael Washington and evidence tampering," Detective Martinez announced, pulling out a small card to begin reading the Miranda rights. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

Surrounding gamblers began filming with their phones. The casino manager hurried over, trying to restore order.

Mason was pushed into the back of our police car, Richard beside him, Detective Martinez driving, me in the passenger seat. The car slowly left the casino, heading toward the station.

The atmosphere inside was extremely tense. Mason stared out the window, refusing to speak, but his hands trembled and sweat soaked his shirt.

Mason finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "I never meant for it to go this far."

The car suddenly fell silent. This was Mason's first revelation of information related to the case.

Back at the station, we brought Mason to interrogation room 3. Detective Martinez sat across from him under the harsh fluorescent lights while ADA Johnson stood in the corner with thick evidence files. I was granted permission to observe from behind the one-way mirror.

"Mason Taylor, you've been read your Miranda rights," Detective Martinez said calmly and firmly. "Do you confirm waiving your right to attorney representation?"

Mason nodded, his eyes shifting restlessly. "I... I just want to get this over with."

Detective Martinez placed a transparent evidence bag on the table containing the cigarette butt from the dumpster. "DNA test results are in, Mason. Your saliva was on this cigarette butt found at the crime scene."

Mason stared at the cigarette butt.

"And these shoes." Richard pushed bloody size-10 sneaker photos toward Mason. "Your size, victim's blood on the soles."

Mason suddenly looked up. "He was a bastard!"

The room's air seemed to freeze. Detective Martinez keenly caught the key information: "What do you mean?"

"I'd been... I'd been watching Jane Miller. I know how that sounds, but she writes these incredible novels. Dark, complex stories that spoke to me," Mason said, his voice cracking. "But Michael... that piece of trash was stalking her! I saw him waiting outside her apartment, photographing her, following her everywhere she went."

"So you killed him?" ADA Johnson asked directly.

Mason was silent for a long time. Only the humming of air conditioning and distant traffic could be heard.

"I went to confront him that night. Tell him to leave her alone. But then I thought... maybe I could make some money off this. Threaten to expose him," Mason's voice became smaller. "I owed people money."

"Then what happened?" Detective Martinez continued.

"He laughed at me. Said I was just another creep like him. That made me... I lost it. We fought, and I grabbed a kitchen knife from his counter."

"Yes," Mason finally admitted fully. "I killed Michael Washington."