But he still put down the lighter, spinning the unlit cigarette between his fingers a few times. “David Clark said that around eight o’clock the night before last, he picked you up at the entrance of Chengguang Mansion, and you didn’t leave until midnight. He can vouch for you during that whole period.”

“I arrived a little before eight and left at ten past midnight. I did greet him at both times,” Edward Bennett said calmly. “The host’s activities were quite ‘eventful.’ If I said he was in my line of sight the whole time, that wouldn’t make sense, and you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

William Carter absentmindedly tore at the cigarette paper. “Why? Weren’t you two fooling around together the whole time?”

Edward Bennett propped his elbow on the table, leaning forward slightly. A faint, damp cologne scent, as if swept in by rain, drifted over. “Because I don’t like sharing partners with other men—Captain Carter, if you keep asking such boring and fake-innocent questions, I’ll have to say goodbye.”

“Didn’t expect you to be so particular,” William Carter retorted in a businesslike tone without even raising his eyebrows. “So, in other words, you can’t prove that David Clark didn’t commit murder at Chengguang Mansion that day.”

“I can’t, but someone else can. If needed, I can have everyone who interacted with him that night come over within two hours. One designer handbag each should be enough for their trouble.”

William Carter jabbed the pen tip into the table. “Are you implying that you plan to bribe witnesses with money and sex?”

“What, worried that a few little models giving false testimony would fool you elites?” Edward Bennett shook his head. “No, I’m telling you why David Clark couldn’t possibly be the killer.”

Edward Bennett leaned back in his chair, putting some distance between himself and William Carter, and spoke in his signature lazy drawl. “If it were David Clark, it would be unwise for him to do it himself. He could have easily had someone tie the victim up and bring them back—illegal detention, secret murder, whatever. The West District is full of transients; people disappear every day without a word. If someone vanished, no one would notice. Even if the police were called, no one would care.”

Hearing this lawless speech, William Carter couldn’t help the itch in his palm—he really wanted to drag this bastard surnamed Fei out and beat him up, but barely managed to restrain himself. The pen tip tore through the paper with a ripping sound, leaving an angry gash. “Murderers usually aren’t ‘wise’ when they kill.”

“Oh, you mean a crime of passion.” Edward Bennett paused. “Other than the blow that knocked the victim out, were there any other blunt force injuries?”

William Carter: “Are you asking me, or am I asking you?”

“Sounds like the answer is ‘no,’” Edward Bennett said in a remarkably calm tone. “In a crime of passion, the killer’s emotions explode, rage peaks in an instant, and the outburst is usually violent. A victim who’s collapsed on the ground and can’t fight back—their head should be smashed like a watermelon. Strangled?”

He propped his elbow on the armrest, fingers supporting his chin, and smiled. “Strangling someone is a slow, drawn-out, almost enjoyable way to kill. Sometimes it even has a certain… ‘undertone.’ Would a man dying of thirst sit down and slowly ‘sip tea’? Personally, I don’t think that’s very natural.”

William Carter’s face darkened. “So you think murder is like ‘sipping tea.’”

“It’s just a metaphor,” Edward Bennett shrugged evasively. “David Clark wouldn’t kill anyone. Even if he did, he wouldn’t dump the body. Even if he dumped the body, he wouldn’t do it in a narrow alley in the West District, a place he’s completely unfamiliar with. That’s the rational analysis. As for intuition—David Clark is such a useless coward, the type who’d at most curse when angry. He doesn’t have the guts to kill.”

Ever since this Fei guy sat down, only that last sentence sounded remotely human.

David Clark was the son of Director Zhang, a child born late in life, with a well-off family, spoiled rotten, both delicate and useless. William Carter had met him a few times and really didn’t think he had the nerve or psychological fortitude for murder.

As for everything else, it was up to the police to investigate. Nothing more could be gotten from Edward Bennett, so William Carter closed his notebook and stood up to leave.

“Hey.” Edward Bennett suddenly called out from behind.

William Carter turned around, and a small object flew toward him. He instinctively reached out and caught it—Edward Bennett had tossed him a USB drive.

Edward Bennett said, “There are a few types of criminal cases that easily attract public attention. First, those on a large scale, like terrorist attacks—that’s news. Second, cases with especially bizarre or cruel methods, or urban-legend-like serial killers—that’s curiosity. Third, when the victim is from a low-risk group, like students with regular routines, office workers, or law-abiding middle class—that’s when people identify with the victim and collective panic sets in. Fourth, cases that touch on long-standing social tensions, like those involving public power, privilege, or moral failings among the elite—that’s a hot topic. Your case doesn’t fit any of these, yet it’s attracted unusual attention from the very start.”

The muffled sound of thunder, about to die away, rumbled faintly in the far distance, adding a lingering echo to his words.