Chapter 1151: The Body and Life and Death

At dawn, the seagulls awoke from their slumber, flying in large flocks over the seaside.

Sometimes they would also stop on the masts of ships, standing in rows on the cables or the ship's rails, searching for nearby food.

Only tourists from inland areas like these birds. For people living by the sea, seagulls are actually not very well-liked.

They are like thieves, secretly stealing the property of coastal residents, such as small items left on windowsills.

If you forget to close the window, seagulls will fly in and snatch things away.

They don't necessarily want to eat them; it's more likely just curiosity. When the curiosity fades, they casually toss it aside.

For the seagulls, it might just be a small, uninteresting object, but for their owners, it could be something very important, holding significant meaning.

Waking up just as early as the seagulls were the dock workers. Under the protection of the Lance Family, the wages and benefits for the dock workers were much better than before. More importantly, there was no more conflict here.

It wasn't like before, when under the guidance of some people—perhaps the federal government—there was always ideological opposition between different races, and between locals and illegal immigrants.

Fierce conflicts, such as strikes, marches, and riots, would break out from time to time, making the living environment in Golden Port City not very good.

But after the Lance Family rose to power, these problems all disappeared, because everyone was a "partner" of the Lance Family.

Moreover, the exit of the union did indeed bring everyone a very new experience, making people realize they might not really need the union, and the union might not really be able to provide them with any high-value services.

Not as good as the Lance Family, at least. They provided free safety equipment, which saved the workers a lot of money.

A worker responsible for inspecting the port's nuts and bolts started his work early in the morning, carrying a heavy cloth bag on his back and holding a huge wrench in his hand.

His job was simple: walk the length of his assigned section. There were many bollards on the dock. He needed to use the wrench in his hand to tap on these nuts and bolts to confirm they were all tight.

For various reasons, sometimes vibrations, or the force generated when a ship's rope is pulled, can cause the nut to turn, thus loosening the bollard.

In truth, a little loosening wouldn't cause a major problem, but no problem is always better than a problem.

He tapped his way along, when he suddenly noticed a large flock of seagulls gathered on the beach not far away, with more constantly descending from the sky. He felt curious and walked over.

As far as he knew, unless there was some food, seagulls wouldn't gather like this.

As he began to approach the spot, a bad feeling welled up in his heart. He was a little scared, but he still mustered his courage and walked over.

Every year, some bodies would float to the port. They could be people who fell into the water by accident, or suicides. Anyway, there were always some.

He already had some resistance to dead bodies, but being this close, he was still a bit spooked.

When he vaguely saw what the seagulls were surrounding, he couldn't help but scream.

He had never imagined his own high-pitched voice could pierce the sky above the dock. Before long, the woo-la-woo-la of police cars arrived.

The police pulled up a cordon, continuously shooing away the curious seagulls nearby.

Deputy Chief Duke's police car soon stopped on the road by the sea. He walked over from a distance with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The police officer responsible for maintaining order immediately lifted the cordon tape, allowing him to duck under without bending over.

Deputy Chief Duke glanced at the reporters surrounding the seaside, a bit of a headache. “You guys arrived even later than them?”

The deputy sergeant from the city police department's criminal division scratched his head. “Someone called the reporters. You know, once one person knows, many people will know.”

In the Federation, even an ordinary person who hasn't had much schooling knows the importance of news, and knows that news can be sold for money.

When someone found out a body was discovered here, and it looked like a gang execution, someone called the police, but someone else called the newspaper reporters—

Almost every newspaper's middle page, and behind some major columns, there are phone numbers for "paid news tips."

For local reporters, the news they get can not only be used by themselves but also sold to their peers.

There are many "news companies" in the Federation. They have a large number of reporters, gathering news from all over the Federation, then sending it to the headquarters, which then sells it to newspapers and magazines.

Cities like Golden Port City or Creek Valley City have news every day, which is decent. But some cities are duller, with not much news happening. They can't just... not publish a newspaper because of that.

Or publish based on the day's news. More news, more papers printed. Less news, fewer papers printed. This is obviously unreasonable. This would only change the publishing cycle from daily, to semi-weekly, to weekly, then bi-weekly or even monthly. This is not suitable for newspapers or magazines.

The purpose of capital investment is to make money, not do charity. If you can print a newspaper every day, why save it up for a week?

To make readers feel the newspaper has enough content and enjoy reading it, these newspapers will buy a series of news from these large news companies. They usually sign long-term contracts.

This way, they don't need to send out more reporters to other places to gather news. They just need to typeset and print the news faxed over from the news company every day. They even save on writing.

News like today's, if someone writes it up first with photos, can often be sold for a high price of twenty or thirty dollars.

For this, they are also willing to spend five or ten dollars to get the latest news.

Chief Duke cursed a few times. These guys, like wild dogs, always added trouble to the police department's work. He said to the sergeant, "Go warn them. No publishing in the paper before the case is investigated, or we reserve the right to prosecute them for leaking case clues!"

This was one of the few methods the police had, but it wasn't very effective, because some major newspapers would still publish. Compared to the influence and economic growth brought by reader attention, the police department's warning was not on their minds at all.

The sergeant nodded. He hesitated, "You'd better go in and take a look first."

Deputy Chief Duke glanced at him, realizing this might not be an ordinary case, and walked deeper in.

To avoid being photographed by the gawking reporters, and to keep more people from seeing, they had gotten some tarps from the dock and isolated the place where the body was found. From the outside, you couldn't see the situation inside at all.

The moment Deputy Chief Duke came in from the outside, he was stunned when he saw the body. He cursed "Motherfucker," and wanted to turn and leave.

But in the end, he turned his head back.

The body's hands were behind its back. A spear-like object had pierced through his body from his back, pinning him to the beach. He was looking down, and the blood that had come out of his mouth and nose had already turned dark red, clearly having oxidized for some time.

The medical examiner responsible for the scene didn't even have to do much. He just introduced it to Deputy Chief Duke.

"His left hand is holding his tongue, and his right hand is clutching his own heart. His face was peeled off and stuffed into his mouth."

"Then this long spear was pierced through his body from his back. And look at his chest and stomach, the words 'Thief,' 'Liar,' 'Traitor' are written on them."

"Without a doubt, a very typical ritualistic execution."

"It's highly probable he was a gang member when he was alive, but he was killed and nailed here for doing something he shouldn't have."

Deputy Chief Duke took two harsh drags on his cigarette. "I have eyes, I see it..."

He paused. "Do you think it could be..."

Could it be the Lance Family? That's what he wanted to say. Not because he had any thoughts about the Lance Family, but because if this matter involved them, it would become somewhat troublesome.

The medical examiner nodded. “It should be them. I'm just a little curious why they didn't hang the body from a lamppost this time, so it makes me a bit unsure.”

“Aren't you on good terms with Mr. Lance?”

“You can call and ask.”

The medical examiner knew the relationship between these police officers and Lance , and the Lance Family. And he himself was a member of the vested interest group under this relationship. He received an extra "bonus" of about eighty dollars a month from a fund established by the Lance Family.

This money was a great help to him, and it had completely changed his life.

Moreover, after the Lance Family rose to power, vicious crimes in the city became rare. They didn't allow people to mess around on their territory. Those who didn't listen were basically cleaned up in secret. The ones left were all cooperative and obedient.

Deputy Chief Duke took two more drags. "Yeah," he grunted. "I'll make a call."

He soon arrived at a phone booth by the road. To prevent anyone from eavesdropping, he had his officers block the nearby reporters from surging over to try and listen in.

The call connected quickly. “Mr. Melo, they just found a body on the beach. I wanted to know if it was...”

“Yes.” Melo gave him the answer with almost no hesitation. “This was the Boss's decision.”

Deputy Chief Duke was stunned. “Mr. Lance is already back?”

“Yes, he's in Golden Port City right now.”

Hearing this news, Deputy Chief Duke had no more confusion. “I know what to do.”

“There are a lot of reporters here. Should I let them take photos?”

He felt that if this was something Lance made a special trip back for, maybe he needed to use the power of the media to publicize it?

Lance seemed to be right next to him; Melo was talking to him. After about seven or eight seconds, Melo spoke into the receiver, “No need for special publicity. You can give them some information. Just say... it's suspected a gang is executing a traitor.”

Traitor. This was a keyword. Deputy Chief Duke didn't know what kind of traitor would make Lance make a special trip back, but he knew he had to handle this matter well.

He gave Melo his assurance and then came out of the phone booth. The reporters immediately surged toward him like a tide. The officers at his side dutifully pushed them back, not letting them get close.

Deputy Chief Duke coughed. “If you continue to be this unruly, I'm not planning on saying anything.”

The scene instantly quieted down. All the reporters looked at him with expectant eyes. Deputy Chief Duke cleared his throat and then spoke about the case.

“Based on our on-site investigation, examination of the body, and inspection of items left at the scene, we believe this is very likely a gang's honor execution. The victim belonged to a certain gang. He betrayed this gang, did something he shouldn't have, and ultimately triggered all this.”

“This is as much information as I can provide you right now. If there is more news, we will release it through the police department's press officer.”

“Alright, that's all...”

How could the reporters let him go? Someone immediately shouted, “Chief Duke, which gang do you think carried out the execution?”

This reporter listed many gangs, but deliberately left out the Lance Family. After all, living here, he had to have some sense.

Someone else asked, “Were you just on the phone confirming the source of the body?”

“Can you tell us who you were calling, and whether the body's origin has been confirmed?”

Faced with these fatal questions, Deputy Chief Duke could only put on a stern face, shake his head saying "No comment," and then quickly leave.

After the body on the beach was photographed for the record, the medical examiner cut it down. But because it had been a while, it was completely stiff.

So, they had to use some small tools to straighten it out. In the process, some joints were inevitably damaged, but that didn't matter.

The body was put into a body bag and sent to the car. As the police left, the place where the body was found was swarmed by reporters again. They used their cameras to photograph the small patch of sand stained red with blood, and in their minds, they were writing the first draft for today's explosive news.

Lance didn't much care about the outside world's opinion of the case. As he had always said, only a crime that has evidence, and where the evidence is caught by law enforcement, is called a crime.

If there is no evidence, then it is not a crime.

Since it's not a crime, no one can accuse him.

This is the rule of the Federation—when a person has a certain amount of power and status, the law will provide them with all-around protection.

This is unlike the masses at the bottom. If these people become the target of law enforcement, sometimes it's not important whether the enforcers have evidence.

None?

Then fabricate some. That should do it.

But this trick doesn't work on people with status and influence like Lance.

When he walked into a room in the "family prison," the Senior Agent Supervisor sitting in the corner shot to his feet, but his body immediately swayed twice.

From last night until now, he hadn't eaten or drunk, and had only rested for a short while in a daze.

His stamina and energy were completely overdrawn. Being able to stand up already said a lot about his physical condition!

“Are you crazy?” The Senior Agent Supervisor looked at Lance. He recognized Lance. He had not only seen him in person once, but had also seen his photo many times.

Photos of Lance taken from many angles. So the moment Lance walked in, he recognized him at a glance.

He didn't scream hysterically, but used "Are you crazy" as his opening.

His gaze was very fierce, but not malicious, because he couldn't muster the malice. “Do you know what you're doing?”

Lance walked into the room. Melo brought him a chair from outside. He sat down. “Smoke?”

He took a brand-new cigarette case from his pocket. It looked high-class, silver, and inlaid with some gems, looking very stylish.

This was the cigarette case Barbara had given him. That was the reason for their last meeting; Barbara felt Lance's cigarette case was a bit too old.

She had asked around, found it had no special meaning, so she picked out a hundred-dollar-plus cigarette case to give to Lance.

Lance wasn't averse to it. It's all the same, whatever you use. The feel of the old cigarette case was nice, but it was indeed a bit yellowed.

He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, asked the question out of the other side of his mouth while lighting it, and took a drag.

The Senior Agent Supervisor hesitated, but still accepted the offer. He really needed nicotine's help right now.

"You ask if I'm crazy. Actually, don't you already have the answer?" Lance licked his lips and exhaled the smoke.

“Roland was the one who went crazy first. But that's not important for you right now. What you need to consider is yourself, how to get out of here alive.”

“Not whether I'm crazy, or anything else.”

The Senior Agent Supervisor's expression was a bit grim. He stared at Lance intently, as if assessing the truth of his words, guessing... if Lance really dared to kill him.

After a while, perhaps he felt Lance wasn't lying. His spirits seemed to fall. "I am a senior FBI official. Killing me will be big trouble for you."

Lance laughed twice. “Even if I don't kill you, will my trouble be any smaller?”

“C'mon, we all know, Roland will keep hounding me, like a mad dog. It's just that this dog has a collar, and someone is holding his leash.”

“Whether you die, or you don't die, he will bite me. Why should I care?”

“Compared to that, I'm more interested in knowing... do you want to live, or are you willing to die here for someone else's ideals, career, ambitions, or whatever.”

“I don't know if you've heard the legend of Angel Lake, but I will definitely pick out the sturdiest oil drum for you!”