Chapter 1117: The Murder Weapon (Patreon)

"A coming-of-age celebration, huh?" Jack had a pretty good idea of what had happened. In California, the legal drinking age was 21, but in Mexico, it was 18. Once American kids turned 18, they often crossed the border into Tijuana to get completely wasted, and some even tried illegal substances while they were at it.

"If they went together, how did Lee end up dead while Rosie made it safely back across the border? Doesn’t something about that strike anyone as off?" Aubrey asked.

"That’s not all," Alice added, having completed a quick check on Lee Kern and then pulled up Rosie Bantar’s profile.

"Interestingly, I found that Rosie has a SENTRI pass."

"A what?" Clay asked in confusion.

"It’s an electronic ID used by frequent travelers at the U.S.-Mexico border, available only to U.S. citizens, to allow for expedited entry and exit."

As Alice explained, she accessed the CBP database and pulled up a long list of travel logs.

"Lee Kern was visiting Tijuana for the first time, but Rosie crosses back and forth nearly every week—and with different people each time."

Aubrey raised an eyebrow, wearing a smug 'I’ve got this all figured out' expression. "An 18-year-old girl crossing the border that frequently with a different companion each time... you’re all thinking what I’m thinking, right?"

"Drug mule?" Jubal frowned. Though he was a seasoned FBI agent, as the father of two girls, this sort of thing still managed to get under his skin.

"Good thing we’re landing in San Diego. After we get off the plane, JJ and Aubrey will go have a talk with Rosie. Clay, you’re in charge of checking the gear. Hopefully we won’t need to use any of it."

The Fugitive Task Force had inherited the BAU's excellent tradition: once Jubal finished assigning tasks, everyone except Alice—who remained focused on her computer—gathered around the dining area and set up a game of mahjong. Some stood, some sat, casually building the walls of tiles.

——

"Thank you for letting me assist with the autopsy, Dr. Granado," Jack said as he pulled the retractable hose toward him, carefully washing off the red paint covering the corpse.

The paint, while visually disturbing, was relatively easy to remove—plain water was enough to rinse it off.

As previously planned, once the Fugitive Task Force landed in San Diego, they split into three teams. Jack and Hannah crossed the border first and made their way to the forensics office in Tijuana.

While rinsing the body, Jack closely examined the wounds. Most were clearly postmortem—like the rope marks on the wrists and arms, indicating the victim had been bound.

He had already inspected the rope—it was just a common plastic cord. This was Mexico, not the U.S., and there was no robust criminal database here. Hoping for fiber matches was unrealistic.

Across the stainless-steel autopsy table, the middle-aged woman—whom Jack referred to as Dr. Granado—was inspecting the wound on the victim’s neck.

She smiled at Jack’s words. Though her expression was hidden behind a mask, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes gave her away.

"Actually, I should be thanking you, Agent Tavolar. As you can see, we’re terribly short-staffed, and the workload is overwhelming."

Her English was excellent—no noticeable Spanish accent—and her attitude toward the two FBI agents was very friendly.

Jack understood completely. Tijuana was Mexico’s fourth-largest city, with a homicide rate second only to Ciudad Juárez. The city averaged nearly ten murders a day.

Hannah stood off to the side with her arms crossed, shifting awkwardly and glancing around with nowhere to rest her gaze. Despite having charged into the Wolf brothers’ slaughterhouse back in Texas and authored several shooting reports during her FBI years—not to mention being no stranger to danger—she still wasn’t comfortable with autopsies. That kind of discomfort was hard to shake, no matter how mentally strong someone was.

Of course, it wasn’t just Hannah. Even veterans like Jubal or battle-hardened agents like Clay couldn’t keep up with Jack when it came to working alongside medical examiners while casually chatting about dinner plans.

It wasn’t that Jack had some natural antisocial personality. He simply had more exposure. There were still some corpses he couldn’t stomach—like those that were heavily decomposed and stinking.

But he had deliberately trained himself to get used to bodies and always brought a team member along so they could all build that same tolerance. The more comfortable they were, the less likely they’d miss a critical clue.

Dr. Granado glanced at Hannah and said understandingly, "Even after all these years, I still feel uneasy every time I see a corpse.

Especially when it’s a kid this young. And from the U.S., too—he should’ve had a brighter future."

"Maybe," Jack replied with a snort—not at the woman, but at what he had just scraped from beneath the fingernail of the victim’s right hand: some white powder.

"Is that... some kind of narcotic?" Dr. Granado accepted the glass slide containing the powder and examined it under a magnifying lamp, then turned to retrieve several portable drug test kits from a nearby medicine cabinet.

"Let me handle this one," Hannah said, stepping forward a bit sheepishly to take on the relatively simple task.

Dr. Granado returned to the autopsy table, while Jack moved the shadowless lamp directly above the corpse’s head.

"It looks like we can confirm the cause of death. The carotid artery, trachea, and larynx are all completely severed. There are no other fatal injuries on the body. The abrasions show he was bound postmortem."

Dr. Granado nodded in agreement but quickly furrowed her brow. "But the weapon used to cause this injury seems unusual. The wound tapers from right to left, with limited depth but enough length to span nearly half the neck."

Jack bent down next to her, their heads almost touching. "That suggests the murder weapon had a significant curve. The wound is extremely clean, with no signs of repeated cutting. The edges are smooth, so it definitely wasn’t a serrated knife."

Dr. Granado mimicked several cutting motions, finally settling on a gesture resembling a backhanded slash across the throat from behind. "That seems like the most plausible angle of attack. But what kind of weapon could create such a clean cut in one strike?"

One of the capitalist’s most feared tools, of course. Jack removed his mask and gloves, grabbed a notepad from the workbench, and sketched a quick diagram.

"A scythe?" the medical examiner said, removing her own mask and looking surprised.

Just then, Hannah called out with the test results. "This powder—it’s cocaine."