Gwen walked downstairs.
Helen and George were already in the dining room.
Next to George was a cradle with the family's newest member, Andy, sleeping inside. As for the background characters, the three boys including little George, they had been picked up by their grandparents yesterday.
"Wash your hands and let's eat."
"Okay."
Helen blanked slightly, looking at Gwen who had walked to the kitchen and washed her hands. She exchanged a glance with George, sat down, and looked toward Gwen.
"What's wrong?"
Gwen glanced at Helen. "Locke isn't coming back tomorrow."
"Hmm?"
George raised an eyebrow and looked at Gwen. "What?"
Holy cow.
As expected, getting rich makes a man go bad.
My knife...
No.
Where is the Barrett sniper rifle I just added to my arsenal?
If private citizens could buy mortars, George would have already entertained the idea of executing Locke with a mortar.
Looking at George's expression, Gwen blanked slightly, then shook her head.
"No, it's just that Locke feels this case is a bit strange, so he wants to stay for a few more days. He will be back by the 31st at the least."
Helen glanced at Gwen. "Then that's fine, it's just three days. What, is there some sort of program on the 31st?"
Gwen was speechless. "Mom~"
George, however, frowned and asked, "There's a problem?"
Gwen leaned forward, covering little Andy's ears in the cradle, and looked at George. "Locke said that suspect died on the spot right after he finished speaking. Didn't Uncle Cop tell you?"
"Dead?"
"Mhm."
After saying this, Gwen sat back and nodded. "Yes, and judging by the tone of Locke's voice, it feels like that suspect was already not long for this world to begin with."
George shook his head, checked his phone, thought for a moment, and looked at Gwen. "Cop called me right after he caught the suspect, but it seems he hasn't called today."
Gwen shrugged.
George then frowned. "That's not right. Even if there's a problem, Cop would handle it over there. What is he staying for?"
Gwen said, "Probably because of Carrie."
According to Locke, the fact that Carrie was Chester's illegitimate daughter was only known to Locke when they were in Texas, and Chester was Locke's godfather.
Therefore, Gwen felt that if it was because of Carrie, it was very likely for Locke to stay behind. After all, Locke also frequently mentioned at school that Carrie was his younger sister.
Over there, George put down his phone. "Didn't pick up."
Helen thought for a moment. "If that suspect is just like what Locke described, Cop certainly wouldn't have time to answer the phone right now."
George nodded. "True."
A dead person wasn't an issue.
But...
A suspect dying right inside the interrogation room, even with surveillance footage, would cause an immense amount of trouble, especially with a death as bizarre as today's.
What witches.
What curses.
The suspect had actually spat out his own lung right after speaking, followed by a very bloody death scene. This meant the trouble wasn't just big, it was humongous.
But even so, the New Orleans Internal Affairs Bureau must be extremely busy today. As the interrogator, it was completely normal for Cop to have no time to answer the phone at this moment.
After all, he had to be busy dealing with that group from Internal Affairs who existed solely to pick out their own people's mistakes.
However, this time George and Helen clearly guessed wrong.
Cop himself had also guessed wrong.
After putting away his service weapon and cell phone according to instructions, Cop entered the room. Looking at the two guys wearing sunglasses sitting on the other side of the room, he narrowed his eyes.
He glanced around the room to reconfirm that this was still his New Orleans Police Department, then looked at these two men who were still wearing sunglasses indoors. "Who are you? Where is Roy?"
Roy was from the New Orleans Police Department's Internal Affairs. Although he was from Internal Affairs, he had the best popularity, so usually, Internal Affairs investigations involving detectives or above would be handled by Roy first.
But the two men in the room were clearly not him.
"Detective Thornton."
One of the men dressed in black with sunglasses looked at the alert Cop, spoke softly, and produced a Homeland Security badge.
"We are from the Department of Homeland Security."
After sitting down, Cop took the man's badge, glanced at it, and looked up. "Clint Barton?"
"Yes."
Cop handed the badge, which he had verified as authentic, back to Clint Barton sitting opposite him. "Does the Department of Homeland Security have informants inside our precinct?"
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent known as Clint Barton, who was actually Hawkeye, put away his badge. "I know what you're thinking, Detective Thornton, but we came here to offer assistance."
S.H.I.E.L.D. was originally a secret agency, so credit was utterly useless to them.
"Assistance?"
"Yes, but before that, Detective Thornton, could you tell us about this case first?"
"The case files are available!"
"I know, but..."
"The surveillance footage in the interrogation room is also available, intact and undamaged."
"That is not the point."
Hawkeye Barton said, "This case is very clear, Detective Thornton. You don't have any issues, I can assure you of that. But we need to know what Ian Mullen said to you right before he died. That is all. We are here to offer assistance, Detective Thornton."
Cop crossed his arms, staring at Hawkeye Barton who took off his sunglasses while saying this, seemingly trying to show his sincerity.
After a long pause.
Cop spread his hands. "Fine, since you requested it."
With that, Cop recounted everything Ian Mullen had said in the interrogation room from beginning to end, entirely verbatim. Witches, curses, not a single word was left out.
At the end, Cop looked at the other agent who was diligently taking notes without speaking, and couldn't help but shake his head. "You guys don't actually believe this guy's nonsense, do you?"
What era is this?
Witch curses?
These days, aren't there plenty of people who don't smoke but still get lung cancer?
There are also plenty of people who don't drink but still get cirrhosis.
Hawkeye Barton looked at the agent beside him, who nodded. Barton then said to Cop, "Detective Thornton, we are aware of that. There are no more questions, you may leave."
Cop frowned. "That's it?"
Hawkeye Barton stood up, put on his sunglasses, and looked at Cop. "Detective Thornton, we said from the very beginning that you don't have any issues."
But they had an issue.
And a very big one at that.
"Witches?"
"Yes."
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New Orleans office, Hawkeye Barton looked at Maria Hill, who was connected on the office screen. She wasn't at the Triskelion but seemed to be on a video call from home. Barton nodded.
"We pulled Mullen's physical examination report from last year, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical examiner performed an autopsy. It's confirmed that a lung like that could not have formed within a single year. At the very least, it would take thirty years."
And how old was that Ian Mullen this year?
Thirty-five years old.
In other words, to have a lung like that, Ian Mullen's lungs would have had to start developing pathology when he was five years old.
"By the way."
"What is it?"
Hawkeye Barton frowned, looking at Maria Hill on the screen. "We have an acquaintance in this case."
Hill, who was wearing casual home clothes and surrounded by a few large dogs, knit her brows. "An acquaintance? Who?"
"Locke Broughton!"
"...He?"
"Yes."
Maria Hill blanked slightly, then said, "Isn't he in New York? Why did he suddenly run off to New Orleans?"
Hawkeye Barton told Maria Hill the information he had gathered.
He was originally on vacation, and his ranch was right here in New Orleans. To be precise, it was right next to Lake Pontchartrain, near Lake Maurepas.
Upon receiving word from the agency that an informant in the New Orleans Police Department reported a suspect had literally spat out his own lung, Hawkeye Barton temporarily came over to investigate.
After all, it was Christmas right now. Generally, when there were no operations, S.H.I.E.L.D. field agents were all on holiday. To avoid having Natasha or Barbara rush back from abroad, he had no choice but to step up.
"The deceased is Locke Broughton's friend?"
"Carrie Chester's friend. Locke Broughton and Carrie Chester are friends."
"Carrie?"
Maria Hill's eyes lit up. "Carrie... why does this name sound a bit familiar to me?"
The next second, Maria Hill remembered.
The witch in the story that occurred in Augusta also seemed to be named Carrie.
However...
Just as Locke had said, Carrie was a very common name. In the federal jurisdiction, there were many girls named Carrie, ranging from five-year-old little girls to eighty-year-old elderly women.
Furthermore, Carrie's identity had been meticulously prepared and ambiguously constructed by Locke.
Maria Hill merely muttered this for a brief moment and didn't take it to heart, nodding. "I understand."
Hawkeye Barton said, "Then should I..."
"No need."
Maria Hill shook her head. "Since it involves witches, it's not something we can manage. Contact the Dolan Church. Have the New Orleans office keep a close eye on things during this period. Thank you for your hard work, Agent Barton."
Hawkeye Barton said, "Understood, Director."
Maria Hill wished Barton a good night and then hung up the phone.
Her biggest difference from Nick Fury was that she very clearly knew S.H.I.E.L.D. could be extremely powerful but also extremely weak. For instance, letting S.H.I.E.L.D. handle terrorist operations was fine, but when it came to supernatural matters?
Heh.
Only after Maria Hill took office did she realize that, for some unknown reason, her predecessor, the grand Director Nick Fury, had actually managed to offend every single supernatural member of the Howling Commandos, whom Captain America had created and Ms. Peggy Carter had reeled in to keep behind.
Before those supernatural members of the Howling Commandos returned, what Maria Hill had to do was very simple.
Putting out fires afterward is always better than taking the blame when things happen!
However...
Locke Broughton?
Recalling Locke's trajectory of actions, Maria Hill couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
It seemed...
Wherever Locke went, a story always unfolded.
Was it just an illusion?
***
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