Chapter 76: Fentanyl (Please keep reading! Please vote for me this month!)

Stepping out of the team leader's office, Roan announced that August had already informed the Organized Crime Investigation Division about the presence of bombs. The agents of the Fifth Investigation Group, upon hearing this, collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

They were all FBI, and though not particularly close, none wished to see their own injured or killed.

As everyone returned to their desks, preparing to retrace Sean's movements from the past month, Ryder suddenly pushed open the door of the Fifth Investigation Group and walked in with a broad smile, calling out loudly, “Good news, everyone! The transparent packaging bag Roan found at the crime scene has half a fingerprint on it! After matching, it’s a complete match with Sean!”

Back when Sean went undercover in the 'White Horse Gang,' Marlon had arranged for him to serve a minor sentence in prison, so the police had Sean's fingerprints on file.

“Fantastic!”

“Nicely done!”

Hearing Ryder’s words, the agents of the Fifth Investigation Group all smiled and applauded.

With this critical evidence, all that remained was to wait for the Organized Investigation Division and DEA’s joint operation to conclude tomorrow, after which Sean would be handed over to the Fifth Investigation Group and sent to prison.

The State Lake serial murder case was now eighty percent solved. After a brief celebration, the agents returned to their seats and began...

Slacking off.

“Good work, Ryder.”

Ryder dropped heavily into his seat. Roan poured him a cup of coffee and smiled, “By the way, did the Trace Analysis Division figure out what was in the transparent packaging bag before?”

“Nothing much, just riding the elevator back and forth.” Ryder, who hadn’t found time to drink water, shook his head and drained the cup of coffee in one gulp. The bitterness twisted his face, but he still replied, “It wasn’t rock candy, nor was it conch; it was fentanyl.”

Fentanyl is a narcotic analgesic, its potency eighty to a hundred times greater than morphine, fifty times stronger than conch, highly toxic yet several times cheaper than conch.

So after 2000, many gang members began mixing fentanyl with conch in proportional amounts; the addictive effect was better, but the cost much lower.

Americans have been using “flour” for ages, and doctors readily prescribe painkillers at the slightest trouble. Hearing that the bag contained fentanyl, Roan said nothing more, shaking his head as he sat back in his chair.

“By the way, Roan.” As he settled into his seat, Mona handed him a folder, tilting her head as she spoke, “This is a file Supervisor Verinice asked me to pass to you earlier. Sorry, I’ve been busy all day and forgot.”

“No worries.”

Roan took the file, opened it, and realized it was about the unresolved bank robbery case previously mentioned by Broson.

In New York, a city of quaint customs, bank robberies occur every month. Citizens and bank employees have grown accustomed: when robbers appear, they drop to the floor, and most robbers simply take the money, refraining from violence.

The NYPD is used to it, too. Upon learning of a robbery, they evacuate the public and contact the FBI.

The FBI is even more accustomed. They drive to the scene, and if the robbers have fled, they check surveillance footage to trace escape routes.

If the robbers are trapped inside, they negotiate to prevent harm to hostages while seeking ways to apprehend or neutralize the perpetrators.

According to the data, from the beginning of last month to last week, six banks in Queens, the Bronx, and Brooklyn were robbed.

From partial surveillance and accounts from bank staff and local citizens, the robbers were two men, both dressed in black clothing and pants, wearing black hoods and gloves.

One robber would enter, fire a shot upward, and simultaneously hold up a phone playing a pre-recorded message from a TV show: “Nobody move.” He would then approach the surveillance camera and spray it black.

The other robber would toss a black bag to the teller and hold a transparent folder containing newspaper cut-out letters.

The contents were personal and family information about the bank employee, accompanied by another pre-recorded message: “Fill the bag now. If you don’t do exactly as I say, press the alarm, or slip in a tracker, dye pack, or any such thing, someone will kill you or your family.”

Seeing their personal and family information, the tellers were terrified and complied, not daring to make any moves.

Two and a half minutes later, the robbery was over.

Regardless of whether the bag was full, the robbers would grab it and leave, always remembering to take the transparent folder with them.

Because the staff didn’t dare press the alarm, the NYPD only learned of the crimes after the robbers had fled, and by the time the FBI arrived, the two thieves were long gone.

It wasn’t that security guards didn’t try to stop them.

But the robber with the phone and spray paint always took a hostage and threatened the guard with a recorded message: “You shoot, I shoot.”

The guards, unable to resist, handed over their weapons and lay down, following the instructions from the phone.

Roan: “...”

After reading the case details, Roan scratched his head, utterly puzzled.

Has bank robbing become this competitive?

“Isn’t this the case Supervisor Broson of the Fourteenth Group has been handling lately?” Mona, seeing Roan’s confusion, leaned over for a glance and asked, “Are you planning to get involved?”

This bank robbery case had caused quite a stir recently; all thirteen investigation teams knew its primary investigator was Supervisor Broson from the Fourteenth Group.

Of course, they only knew the basics, unaware of the progress or that Broson had been forced to set a deadline at the meeting.

“No, just looking.” Roan shook his head and changed the subject, smiling, “By the way, are you free tonight?”

Mona was taken aback, a hint of wariness in her eyes. “Why?”

Roan grinned, rubbing his hands together like a fly. “I want to...”

—

Deep within a street in Brooklyn.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunshots rang out as Broson and Matthews, accompanied by several agents from the Fourteenth Investigation Group, successfully brought down two Black men who had fired at them.

The two men collapsed, unmoving. Broson and Matthews approached cautiously, guns drawn. Finding them unconscious from blood loss, Broson glanced indifferently, holstered his weapon, and instructed, “Call an ambulance.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Fourteenth Group agents began clearing the scene and calling for medical assistance. Broson, about to discuss the next investigative steps with Matthews, was interrupted by Matthews’ phone ringing.

“Hello?”

Matthews answered casually, but after a few seconds, his expression shifted to surprise. He clenched his jaw and said in a low voice, “Thank you for letting me know.”

Noticing Matthews’ face, Broson, while checking his gun, furrowed his brow. “What happened?”

Matthews hung up, took a deep breath, his voice hoarse. “Sir, our colleagues in Trace Analysis just told me the Fifth Investigation Group has found the culprit in the serial murder case.”

Instantly, Broson’s face darkened. He raised his gun and fired several shots into the trash bin beside him.

Bang bang bang bang bang—

After venting his frustration, Broson holstered his weapon, took another deep breath, and his expression gradually returned to normal. He turned and walked away.

Matthews hurried after him. “Sir, what do we do next?”

Broson’s voice was cold and curt. “Solve the case. Catch them.”