"Is this the only footage?"
Captain Finch nodded. "Yeah. After the task force disbanded yesterday, I was already packing up to leave. Then first thing this morning, someone anonymously sent this video straight to my inbox."
He paused. "And it wasn't just me. It was a mass send. Every single person at the precinct got the same video. So did every news outlet in the city."
"The internet's on fire right now. The video's everywhere, and public pressure is through the roof. The task force has been reactivated. Everyone's demanding we catch the real killer."
I frowned. "Why didn't this anonymous person hand over the footage sooner? Why wait until the task force was dissolved, then blast it out to everyone?"
It made no sense.
The video was critical evidence — a key lead. If whoever filmed it had turned it in right away, it could have helped crack the case much earlier. And they would've collected the ten-million-dollar reward Silas had posted.
So why the silence before? And why this sudden, very public move now?
Captain Finch exhaled heavily. "We suspect it was deliberate. Whoever sent it wanted to stir things up again."
"We've tried tracking the sender, but the message was anonymous. The IP was masked. We can't trace it, and we can't make contact."
Silas jumped in immediately. "Can't you use the surrounding surveillance cameras to track down the man in the video?"
"He couldn't have appeared out of thin air and vanished into nothing. Check every camera within a few miles of the scene — there has to be footage of him coming or going."
Captain Finch said nothing. He turned to Myron Dickerson, the forensic technician seated at the computer beside him.
Myron kept his eyes on the screen as he reported: "We're pulling surveillance from every storefront and municipal camera within a two-mile radius of the crime scene. We've gotten through about seventy percent so far, but we haven't found the man from the video."
The words had barely left his mouth when Captain Finch's phone rang.
"Captain, we just spotted someone during our street canvass — a limping man whose build and clothing are an exact match for the figure in the video."
Finch shot to his feet. "Stay on him. I'm on my way with a team."
Silas and I followed Finch to the car.
They moved fast.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up outside a run-down apartment complex.
Several officers were already waiting downstairs. The moment they saw Finch, they approached.
"Captain, we asked around the neighborhood. The guy goes by 'the Limping Man.' He makes a living collecting scrap and recyclables — people see him wandering the streets all the time."
"He lives on the ground floor. Went inside and hasn't come back out."
Finch nodded, then led a few officers toward the Limping Man's door, their footsteps careful and quiet.
I stayed close behind Finch, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Silas was even more worked up. He gripped his wedding ring, knuckles white, murmuring under his breath: "Julia... we're finally going to find the monster who killed you and our baby."
His voice trembled. He'd clearly been waiting for this moment for a very long time.
Finch knocked on the door, his tone calm and even. "Hello — community inspection, checking gas lines. Could you open up, please?"
Footsteps shuffled inside. Then the door swung open.
Standing before us was a limping man, his face a ruin of burn scars.
His eyes — they were exactly the same as the man's in the video. An exact match.
He stared at the uniformed officers crowding his doorstep instead of community workers, and froze for two seconds.
Then he smiled.
