North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws

"Name!"

"I'm not a criminal! You're violating my human rights! I want to see a lawyer!"

In the dim interrogation room, a middle-aged man frantically looked toward the light in front of him. He attempted to stand up several times, but since his hands were cuffed to the welded seat, he could only roar at the light!

"Human rights?" Dean, legs propped up on his chair, said languidly, "Harry, show Mr. Haver the paperwork. As a detective chief dedicated to protecting citizens, we value your human rights and freedom above all else."

Haver was the father of the missing Azak and the male half of the charlatan couple. His wife had already been taken to the hospital for treatment. As for him, he had been brought to the Central Division's interrogation room. This place was much more rudimentary than the Detective Bureau's interrogation rooms, but it also lacked many of the procedural hassles. Here, Dean was the boss. His word was law!

After Dean finished speaking, he silently lit a cigarette and gestured for Harry to step forward and put on his act.

Hearing Dean's command, Harry rose with a grin. Holding a document, he walked over to Mr. Haver, pointed to the signature and official stamps inside, and said, "Buddy, this is a certificate issued by the division's psychologist. Given your and your wife's emotional instability, we have the right to place basic restrictions on you to ensure your own safety. If you don't cooperate, we can apply for medical sedation, so don't make this difficult for us!"

The certificate was real. However, the psychologist had prepared many copies. After receiving Dean's request, the psychologist employed by the division took out a document in front of Harry. He then wrote down Haver's full name, signed it, and stamped it, all without ever having met Haver in person. This was the true face of the Central Division; behind its facade of justice, it still employed methods characteristic of an earlier era.

Hearing about medical sedation, Haver's face twisted. "Fuck! You're the crazy ones! I'm not mentally ill!"

"How can you prove you're not?" Harry shrugged. "Mr. Haver, unless you can prove your sanity, the judge will only trust the division psychologist's authoritative assessment. Even if you find a lawyer later, they won't believe the ramblings of a madman!"

"Fuck you! You're asking a sane person to prove he's not mentally ill?" Do you even fucking hear yourself? Haver struggled furiously. If the handcuffs weren't such high quality, he would have definitely pounced on Harry, using his teeth to make that black devil in front of him reconsider what he was saying!

Seeing this, Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haver, but you're being so aggressive that I feel threatened. In that case, I have no choice but to request medicinal intervention." He imitated Dean's earlier manner, leaning close to Haver's ear and whispering, "Don't worry, Mr. Haver, all procedures will be strictly followed. Your human rights and freedom will absolutely not be infringed upon in the slightest!"

With that, he took out a pager, pretending to call someone to bring the medication.

Haver despaired. He knew all too well that he had encountered people who didn't play by the rules. Making a sane person prove he wasn't mentally ill... Fuck! It seemed absurd, but that only made it more despair-inducing.

Haver broke down. "Stop it! Don't inject me with those damn drugs! I know what you want to ask. I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"

Upon hearing this, Harry smoothly put away the pager and nodded. "Good. I hope you're not trying to fool us. The psychiatric hospital is currently in dire need of 'volunteers' for treatment and drug trials."

After speaking, he gave Dean an "OK" gesture and gleefully returned to his seat. Dean had taught him all of this. Previously, Harry had wondered if it was going too far. But seeing it in action now—efficient, precise, striking right at the weak spot.

This was a stark contrast to before. Back then, he'd have to question suspects or informants amicably. He wouldn't dare talk back even when berated, terrified of being counter-sued by their lawyers. It used to disgust him so much he'd lose sleep for nights. One word: exhilarating! Indeed, following Dean was not only stress-free but also allowed him to truly feel the power that came with his badge!

"Name!"

"Haver..."

"Your relationship with the missing person, Azak!"

"Father and son!"

"Tell us, why did you and your wife know that Azak's car would be at the abandoned XX factory?"

Haver's eyes betrayed his internal conflict. Ultimately, he resignedly lowered his head and said dejectedly, "Because my wife and I took the car there and burned it... but we did it to save our son."

It turned out that while Haver and his wife relied on their charlatanry and had dealings with some gullible fools, not everyone they associated with was a complete idiot. Many people simply used 'séances,' 'tarot cards,' and similar activities as a pretext for exchanging benefits, having illicit affairs, wife-swapping, or holding orgies and the like. After all, people with some social standing had appearances to maintain. The establishment Haver and his wife ran thus became a convenient cover and an outlet for the darkness within those people's hearts.

As for believing in divination and fortune-telling? Such individuals existed, but they were rare among the circles Haver and his wife frequented. The smarter a person was, the less likely they were to believe in such mumbo-jumbo. Instead, it was the lower-class public, dissatisfied with their current situation, who were more likely to pin their hopes on such intangible things. They were either hoping for a change in fortune or seeking an escape from reality. These people, far more fervent than mere hobbyists, were the true source of income for Mr. and Mrs. Haver.

Originally, their reputation was built on a clientele of high-end 'customers.'