Once Jane had finished what she'd been assigned, she returned to where Larry was and whispered, "Do we start?"
Larry gave a brief nod. "Yes. Suit up before approaching the scene."
Jane came back minutes later, dressed in a white protective suit. Larry shone his flashlight on the dark area at the back of the old hot dog cart parked over a manhole. The rusted metal creaked with every movement. Among the debris, a thick steel rod appeared.
Jane stepped aside, pulled on an extra layer of gloves, and wrenched it out. Dust and fragments of rubble scattered, filling the air with the smell of rust and stale grease.
The rod was heavier than expected; its end hit the floor of the forensic van with a metallic thud.
The impact dislodged several forgotten items inside. One in particular caught Larry's eye.
It was a large knife. Not a common kitchen tool, but a heavy cutting instrument, with two cylindrical handles and a rectangular blade nearly a centimeter thick. A deep notch ran through its center, and a crack extended along part of the edge. It looked discarded due to the damage, but it still carried an intimidating presence.
Jane studied it carefully. "This isn't from some ordinary street stall."
Larry held the weapon, assessing it calmly. "No. This was fixed onto a surface. It was used with pressure."
After saying this, he turned to Jane. "I want to know why it was hidden here."
They searched the cart again but found no further relevant evidence. They decided to transfer what they had and, along with a couple of investigators, headed straight to the police department.
In the interrogation room, Captain Jack was waiting, standing in front of the one-way mirror.
"You're here. Go in and take over."
Jane and Larry set the evidence box down and stepped forward.
Inside, a middle-aged man sat with his hands cuffed. His T-shirt was stained with grease and sweat. He introduced himself as Alan Rodriguez, owner of the hot dog cart found over the manhole. His nervous gaze betrayed him, though he tried to appear calm.
Jane sat across from him. "That cart in front of building eighteen, is it yours?"
"Yes… I bought it with my cousin," Alan replied, avoiding her eyes.
"Cousin?" Larry cut in, his tone clipped.
"Yes. His name is William Limon. He runs a taco stand a few streets down."
The interrogation continued. Alan explained that the previous night he had closed his cart around eight, after selling near the university area, and had gone home to prepare supplies for the next day. He insisted he had followed the same routine for years.
Jane placed photographs of the three victims on the table. "Do you recognize these people?"
Alan hesitated for a few seconds before nodding. "Yes… I've seen them. Customers, acquaintances… some came by the area often."
His voice trembled. His fingers tapped against the table, restless. Larry observed in silence, noting every nervous tic, every averted glance.
Jane leaned forward. "I need you to be precise. Did you have recent contact with any of them?"
Alan swallowed hard. "Last night one of them came by for a beer… we talked for a moment, that's all. The receipt's still in my wallet."
An officer verified and indeed found the crumpled receipt. Jane accepted it as evidence, though it didn't clear him of suspicion.
The interrogation ended with Alan escorted out of the room.
Minutes later William entered— younger, his face marked by fatigue. He answered quickly, trying to seem cooperative. He confirmed that he had worked in the university area for years alongside his cousin. When Jane showed him the photographs, he recognized two of the victims as "regulars from the neighborhood."
Jane kept the pressure on: "Where were you last night after five?"
William hesitated, then answered: "The business was busy until late. We closed the cart together a little afterward, and I went home. My cousin was in a hurry to catch a game."
Jane and Larry exchanged a silent glance. The story matched Alan's, but both knew such consistency could be rehearsed.
As they left the room, Jane let out a brief sigh. Larry, always restrained, studied her for a moment longer than usual before speaking: "We'll need to search their homes. And find out who else had access to that cart."
Jane nodded, knowing there was nothing better to do. "I know."
But even without solid leads, Larry seemed unusually calm—hardly the reaction one would expect from a criminal profiler.