The tiger "Charlie" was chewing raw meat, staring intently at a man wearing a baseball cap. Its thoughts echoed in my mind: ["This man reeks of a little girl's blood. Very strong. He was here three days ago too. Back then, he had another woman's blood on him."] I whipped my head around, following Charlie's gaze. The man was leaning against the railing of the viewing area, holding up his phone as if photographing the tiger. His movements were as natural as any other tourist around him. Charlie spoke in my mind again: ["He has a knife in his pocket. Metallic smell, very new. Sharpened just yesterday. I can smell it."] The metal bucket in my hand crashed to the ground with a clang. Every visitor in the area turned to look at me, including the man in the baseball cap. Three days ago, a serial disappearance case that shocked the entire nation had broken out in the city. Three young women had vanished within a week—no bodies, no trace of life. The task force had turned the entire city upside down without finding so much as a strand of hair. But now, I—a temporary worker at the zoo—had spotted the real culprit that even surveillance cameras couldn't catch.
I took a deep breath, pulled out my cracked-screen burner phone from my pocket, and dialed 911. "Hello, I need to report something! I'm at the city zoo's tiger pavilion. There's someone here who might be the serial disappearance suspect." After two seconds of silence, the operator's voice came through with professional calm: "Please describe the situation in detail." "Male, about five-foot-nine, wearing a gray baseball cap, black windbreaker, dark blue jeans, white sneakers. He has a knife in his pocket." "How did you discover this?" I glanced at Charlie, who was licking his paws behind the glass, and forced out the words: "I saw the outline in his pocket." It was a lie, but I couldn't exactly say a tiger told me. "Understood, ma'am. Please don't alert him. We'll dispatch someone immediately! Keep your phone on." After hanging up, I leaned against the iron door of the feed room, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of my throat. My name is Samuelle. I'm twenty-four years old, an utterly ordinary temporary zoo worker. A month ago, I came down with a high fever—104.4 degrees. I lay in bed for three days. After the fever broke, this happened—I could hear what animals were thinking. I'd thought the biggest use for this ability would be helping tourists find their lost pet dogs for spare change. Never imagined my first real case would be reporting a murderer. I returned the metal bucket to the feed room and walked to the employee passage of the tiger pavilion, acting casual while secretly observing the man through the one-way glass. He was still there. Phone raised, he took two photos of Charlie, then slowly walked toward the exit. Charlie's voice came again: ["He's leaving. Always like this. Watches for a bit then leaves. Does he like watching me eat? No. He likes watching blood."] I clenched my phone, staring at that retreating figure with only one thought in my mind. Don't go. Don't leave. The police will be here any second. But his footsteps didn't stop. I bit my lip, rushed out from the employee passage, circled around to the visitor path, and followed him at a distance. He walked unhurriedly, even stopping briefly at the monkey mountain to watch for a few moments. The macaques in the monkey enclosure went wild, screeching as they fled behind the artificial mountain. An old monkey's voice entered my mind: ["Danger. This human reeks of death. Stay away. Everyone stay away."] My stomach clenched violently. Even the monkeys feared him. Just then, sirens wailed at the zoo entrance. Two police cars stopped at the entrance, and four uniformed officers strode in quickly. The man in the baseball cap paused for just a moment. Only a moment. Then he removed his cap, ruffled his hair, stuffed the cap in his pocket, changed direction, and headed for the side gate. I panicked and broke into a run. "That man!" I shouted toward the police. "Black windbreaker! He's going to the side gate!" The officers reacted quickly. Two immediately ran toward the side gate. But the man was faster. As if he'd already scouted the route, he twisted through a couple turns and disappeared behind the park's landscaping. By the time the police reached the side gate, they found only an empty pathway. He was gone. I stood there, feeling as if all the strength had been drained from my body. An older officer walked over and looked me up and down. "You made the report?" "Yes." "You said that man is a suspect in the serial case. What's your evidence?" I opened my mouth, realizing I had no way to explain. I couldn't say a tiger told me he reeked of dead people's blood. "I saw a knife in his pocket." I repeated what I'd said on the phone. The officer frowned. "Having a knife in your pocket doesn't prove anything. Plenty of people carry folding knives. Do you have any other observations?" "He always stares at the tiger eating meat whenever he comes." I pushed forward with my improvisation. "And the times he's come match up with when the disappearances happened. I've worked here over a month. He's come at least four times." The officer's expression softened slightly. He pulled out a notepad and jotted down a few notes. "Can you describe his appearance?" "His cap was pulled down low. I only saw the lower half of his face. Sharp chin, pale skin, thin lips. There's a scar on his left wrist—very thin, looks like an old wound." These were details I'd desperately memorized while following him. The officer finished writing and handed me a business card. "If he appears again, contact us immediately. Don't follow him yourself. It's dangerous." I took the card and nodded. After the police cars drove away, I stood alone in the empty park, my legs still shaking. Charlie's voice drifted over from the distance, lazy: ["He got away? Shame. I wanted to smell him more. That scent was special—like he buries his prey somewhere very deep underground. Earthy smell, rotting smell, and disinfectant."] Underground. Earth. Disinfectant. I burned those three words into my memory.
Three days after the police left, there was no news whatsoever. The news said the task force was still investigating with full effort, but there had been no breakthrough. A fourth woman had disappeared. Every day at work I was on edge. While feeding the animals, I nearly poured the monkey food into the crane enclosure. My supervisor Giovanni yelled at me twice: "Samuelle, where's your head? Make another mistake and don't bother coming back next month." I apologized with a forced smile, but my mind kept circling back to the man in the baseball cap. He hadn't returned to the zoo. On the fourth evening, passing by the back gate after work, I spotted a skeletal orange stray cat crouched by the entrance. It saw me and meowed, but the voice in its mind made me freeze in my tracks. ["That white van again. It passes down this road every night. There's crying inside. A woman crying. Muffled, like her mouth is covered."] I crouched down, my heart pounding. "Which road?" I whispered. The cat obviously couldn't understand me. But its thoughts continued: ["The dead-end road out back. The van drives to the abandoned factory at the end and stops. Always around midnight. Always stays for about an hour. Then the van leaves and the crying stops."] Abandoned factory. I knew that place. Behind the zoo was an old industrial area, abandoned for years, with half the walls collapsed. I stood up, legs trembling, but my mind was unusually clear. I pulled out my phone, found the police officer's business card, and called. "Hello, Officer Clinton? This is Samuelle from the zoo. I have a new lead." Clinton clearly paused. "What lead?" "The dead-end road behind the zoo. There's an abandoned factory at the end. Recently, every night around midnight, a white van goes there, stays about an hour, then leaves." "How do you know this?" "I get off work late. I've heard the commotion." Another lie. Clinton was silent for a few seconds. "I've noted it. I'll report it up the chain. Don't go to that place yourself, understand?" "Understood." After hanging up, I stood under the streetlight, staring at the dark abandoned factory area in the distance. Of course I wouldn't go there myself. I'm not suicidal. But that night I couldn't sleep. Lying on the hard board bed in my rental room, tossing and turning, my mind filled with everything Charlie had said. Earthy smell. Rotting smell. Disinfectant. Underground. The fourth missing girl was only nineteen years old. The news had shown her photo. Round face, ponytail, two dimples when she smiled. I closed my eyes, and that face floated in the darkness. The next morning, before I even reached the zoo, my phone rang with an unknown number. "Samuelle?" A male voice, deep, with an undeniable authoritative pressure. "Speaking. Who is this?" "Criminal Investigation Division. George. Regarding the lead you provided yesterday, I need you to come in." The Criminal Investigation Division's office building was older than I'd imagined. The hallways were plastered with wanted posters and anti-fraud flyers. Someone walking past looked at me curiously. I was led to an office at the end of the third floor. The door plate read "Major Crimes Unit." Pushing the door open, a man stood facing a whiteboard, his back to me. The whiteboard was covered with photos, maps, and red connecting lines. He turned around. Very tall, broad shoulders, wearing a dark gray shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms. Deep-set features, prominent brow bone, slightly sunken eye sockets. When his gaze landed on me, it felt like two knives. "Sit." He pointed to a chair by the desk, then sat down himself and opened a file folder. "Samuelle. Twenty-four years old. Local resident. Associate degree. Currently employed as a temporary keeper at the city zoo. Last week, reported spotting a possible serial case suspect at the tiger pavilion. Failed to apprehend on scene. Yesterday, provided a lead about an abandoned factory." He raised his eyes to look at me. "What's your source?" "I get off work late. I heard it while passing by." "From the zoo's back gate to that dead-end road is an 800-meter walk. You take that route after work?" "It's a shortcut." "Your rental is in the east district. The zoo is in the west. Taking the back gate is the long way around." I was stumped. George closed the file folder, leaned back in his chair, and stared at me. That gaze made me feel like I'd been stripped naked and thrown under a spotlight. "Samuelle, I don't have time to dance around. Both leads you provided have value. First, the man at the tiger pavilion—we reviewed surveillance and confirmed he appeared near the zoo before and after all four incidents. Second, the abandoned factory—we sent people to stake it out last night. A white van did appear, but it turned around before entering the area." He paused. "This tells us two things. First, your information is accurate. Second, the suspect may have already noticed someone's paying attention. He's cautious." Cold sweat broke out on my back. "So I need to know," George's voice dropped half a tone, "exactly how you discovered these things. A temporary zoo worker with no investigation training background, yet you've provided consecutive valid leads. Either you're a genius, or you have an information channel I don't know about." I sat in that hard chair, palms drenched with sweat. Tell the truth? Say I can understand what animals are thinking? He'd think I'm insane. Don't tell the truth? He's already caught me lying.
The silence lasted about ten seconds. George didn't rush me. He just watched me like a leopard stalking prey—patient. Finally, I made a decision. "Captain George," I said, "if I tell you something that sounds really absurd, can you not call a psychiatrist right away?" His eyebrow moved slightly. "Speak." "I can understand what animals are saying." The office went silent for a full five seconds. George's expression didn't change. No mockery, no surprise, not even confusion. He just stared at me, as if evaluating the credibility of intelligence. "Continue." "At the tiger pavilion, the tiger told me. It said that man reeked of blood—another woman's blood. Yesterday's lead came from a stray cat by the zoo's back gate. It sees that white van every night. There's a woman crying inside." When I finished, I felt like a defendant making a final statement in court. George was silent for a long time. Then he stood up, walked to the door, closed it, and came back to sit down. "This ability you're describing—is there a way to verify it on the spot?" I froze, then nodded. "Any animal will do." George picked up the radio on his desk. "Johnson, bring Paul to my office." Less than two minutes later, the door opened. A young officer led a black Labrador inside. The dog's tail started wagging like a propeller the moment it entered, nose pressed to the ground, sniffing everywhere. Its voice immediately flooded my mind: ["Captain George's office! Smells like coffee! And that suspect's shoe sole from yesterday—mud plus gasoline. Wait, who's this woman? She smells like tigers. So cool."] I couldn't help the twitch at the corner of my mouth. "His name is Paul?" I asked. The young officer nodded. "Right. Drug detection dog. Three years old." I looked at Paul. He was pawing at George's pant leg. ["Captain George, do you have beef treats in your pocket? I smell them! Give me one, just one! I did great today. Found three targets at the training ground."] I turned to George. "He says you have beef treats in your pocket and wants one. He says he did great today and found three targets at the training ground." George's hand paused. He actually reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sealed bag of beef treats. The young officer's eyes went wide. "Captain George, since when do you carry snacks?" George ignored him, his gaze fixed on me. His expression had changed. No longer scrutiny, but something I couldn't quite read. "Johnson, out. Leave Paul." The bewildered young officer was shooed out. After the door closed, George tossed the bag of beef treats to Paul, then crossed his hands on the desk and looked at me. "Samuelle, I'm giving you two choices now." "First, you walk out that door, go back to being a keeper, and we pretend today's conversation never happened." "Second, you stay as an investigative consultant and help me solve this case." I looked into his eyes. Paul was crunching happily on beef treats beside us, his mind full of blissful fireworks. "Is there pay?" I asked. The corner of George's mouth moved almost imperceptibly. "External consultant standard. Three hundred a day." Three hundred a day. I made three thousand a month at the zoo. "I choose the second." From that day on, my life completely changed. Daytime at the zoo working normally, evenings "overtime" at the Criminal Investigation Division. George arranged a temporary workstation for me in the corner of the Major Crimes office, next to a stack of old case files no one read. At first, everyone in Major Crimes looked at me like I was an exotic animal. An old detective named Patterson, fortyish, beer belly, voice loud enough to shatter glass. On the first day, right in front of everyone, he asked George: "Captain, who's this girl? New intern? Doesn't look like police academy." George didn't look up. "External consultant." "Consultant?" Patterson looked me up and down. "Consulting on what? Feeding fish?" A few others suppressed laughter. I said nothing. George didn't defend me either. That's the kind of person he was. No explanations, no protection. He'd wait for me to prove myself. The chance to prove myself came quickly.
That evening, the task force held a briefing. The whiteboard displayed photos of four missing women, with dense timelines and location markers below. George stood in front of the whiteboard, voice cold and hard: "Current information. Four victims, ages nineteen to twenty-six, all living alone. Disappearances concentrated between 9 and 11 PM. Disappearance locations scattered across four different city districts with no obvious geographic pattern. Crimes committed in surveillance blind spots. No witnesses. No physical evidence." He paused. "The only lead is a suspect description and possible hiding place provided by a citizen. But the suspect is already alert. No vehicles appeared at the abandoned factory last night." Patterson leaned back in his chair, voice gruff. "Is that citizen's lead reliable? Could be some internet sleuth who watches too many crime dramas." I sat in the corner, head down, pretending to look at my phone. George's gaze swept over, pausing on me for a moment, then moving on. "The lead has been preliminarily verified and has some credibility. But it's not enough. We need more." After the meeting ended, everyone dispersed. I still sat in the corner, unmoving. George walked over and placed a photo in front of me. The photo showed a street with several parked cars along the roadside. The image was blurry. "This is the only surveillance footage near the abandoned factory. White van. License plate obscured by mud. We can only see the last digit is a 7." I stared at the photo, heart sinking. "Tomorrow," George said, "go around the abandoned factory area." "Didn't you say it's dangerous there?" "Go during the day. Take Paul." He placed a leash on the desk. "See what the stray animals in that area can tell you." I picked up the leash and nodded. The next day was my day off. Early in the morning, I set out with Paul. Paul was thrilled, his mind full of: ["Going out! Going out! Not a park but so many new smells! That tree over there—three cats peed on it, one dog peed on it, and a human male peed on it about three days ago."] I dragged him forward wordlessly. The abandoned factory was about a kilometer behind the zoo, in an old industrial area. Half the walls had collapsed, weeds growing from cement cracks over six feet tall. In daylight it didn't look scary, just desolate. I didn't enter the grounds, just slowly walked along the perimeter road. Paul's nose was pressed to the ground when he suddenly stopped. His tail stopped wagging. ["Blood. Old blood. Underground. Very deep. And disinfectant smell. Same smell as that suspect's shoe soles in Captain George's office that day."] My feet felt nailed to the ground. "Where?" I whispered, though I knew he couldn't understand. Paul walked a few steps toward the northeast corner of the factory area, then sat down and looked up at me. This was a drug detection dog's alert posture. I memorized the location and quickly led Paul away. Only when we reached the road outside the factory did I dare pull out my phone and message George. "Northeast corner of factory area. Underground. Paul reacted." The reply was almost instant: "Received. Don't approach again. Come back." I led Paul back. Passing a small alley, a three-legged black cat crouched at the entrance. Seeing Paul, it arched its back and hissed. Its voice entered my mind, sharp and thin: ["Get lost, dog. This is my territory. That human who drives here at midnight is annoying enough. Now a dog too."] I stopped. ["That human always brings a big bag. Very heavy, carries it on his shoulder. Has the bag going in, nothing coming out. The smell underground is getting stronger. I don't even dare catch rats over there anymore."] I crouched down, pretending to tie my shoe, actually frantically memorizing every detail. Big bag. Carries it in, comes out empty-handed. The smell underground is getting stronger. When I stood up, my legs were weak.
That afternoon, I returned to the Criminal Investigation Division and told George everything. After listening, he was silent for a long time, then picked up the phone: "Notify the tech team. Prepare underground detection equipment. Operation at dawn tomorrow." Hanging up, he looked at me. "You're staying at the station tonight. Don't go anywhere." "Why?" "If that person really noticed someone's paying attention to the abandoned factory, he might want to know who. You've filed a police report and appeared in that area." My blood went cold. George saw my fear and, rarely, added a sentence: "Major Crimes has a duty room. Sleep there tonight." That night, lying on the hard cot in the duty room, listening to occasional footsteps in the hallway, I didn't sleep a wink. At 4 AM, urgent footsteps and lowered voices suddenly echoed in the hallway. I bolted upright and pushed open the door. In the hallway, George was striding out, wearing a bulletproof vest with a gun at his waist. Seeing me, his steps didn't slow. "Go back to sleep." "Did you find it?" He didn't answer. He'd already disappeared at the stairwell. I stood in the hallway, wrapped in that thin blanket, and waited for four hours. At 8 AM, the Major Crimes team gradually returned. Everyone's face looked terrible. When Patterson passed me, that usually carefree face showed no expression. He walked into the office, threw his bulletproof vest on the desk, sat down, and covered his face with both hands. I stood in the doorway, not daring to enter. Half an hour later, George returned. His shirt was stained with dirt, his face ashen. Walking to the whiteboard, he removed the four photos of the missing women one by one and moved them to the other side of the board. Then he picked up a red marker and wrote "DECEASED" under each photo. Four people. All killed. The bodies were buried in the basement at the northeast corner of the abandoned factory. I leaned against the doorframe, stomach churning. George turned around, saw me, and walked over. He stood in front of me, looking down, eyes bloodshot. "Your lead was correct." His voice was hoarse as sandpaper. "Basement. Four bodies. Times of death match the disappearance times. However." He paused. "We didn't catch him. No suspect in the factory. No van appeared. The scene was cleaned. Almost no usable trace evidence left." My heart sank to the bottom. "He knew we were coming?" "Very likely." George's jaw tightened. "He's more cautious than we imagined. The only thing recovered from the scene was a footprint. Size ten running shoe, matches the white sneakers you described. But it's not enough." He looked at me, gaze heavy. "Samuelle, this case is much harder than we anticipated." The following week, the task force hit a dead end. The suspect seemed to have evaporated. Never appeared at the zoo again. No activity around the abandoned factory either. Surveillance, canvassing, screening—all conventional methods were used. Nothing. That man in the baseball cap had dissolved like a drop of water into the ocean. Every day I went to the zoo as usual, then sat at the Criminal Investigation Division after work. But without new leads, I was just furniture. Patterson's attitude toward me shifted from initial dismissal to a strange courtesy. He no longer mocked me to my face, but he didn't talk to me either. Once, getting water in the break room, I heard him quietly telling another colleague: "That girl, uncanny. She said there's something underground, and there really was. Where did Captain George even find her?" The colleague asked: "What's her background really?" Patterson shook his head. "Don't know. Captain George won't say. Who dares ask?" I retreated to my corner with my water cup. On the eighth day, a breakthrough came. Not from an animal, but from a person. That afternoon, I was cleaning the aviary at the zoo. The aviary housed dozens of parrots, mynahs, and thrushes. Usually noisy as hell, their minds full of "food," "that female bird is pretty," "I want out"—that sort of nonsense. But that day, a gray African Grey parrot suddenly went quiet, tilting its head and staring outside the aviary. Its thoughts were much clearer than other birds: ["That person's back. Last time he came, he stood here and made a phone call. He said, 'Move the stuff to the old place, under the third bridge opening by the river.' I remembered because his voice is ugly, like a crow."] The broom in my hand nearly fell. I followed the parrot's line of sight. On the path outside the aviary, a man was walking leisurely past. Not the baseball cap man. This person wore a checkered shirt, glasses, slightly overweight—looked like an ordinary middle-aged office worker. But the parrot said he'd made a phone call here last time. "Move the stuff to the old place, under the third bridge opening by the river." I put down the broom, pretended to take out trash, and followed the checkered shirt man at a distance. He stopped in front of the monkey mountain, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number. I couldn't get close enough to hear what he said. But the old monkey in the monkey enclosure could. ["This human is talking. He says, 'Is it clean?' Can't hear what the other side said. Then he says, 'Good, I've already chosen the next target. Lives near the zoo.'"] My blood froze. The next target lives near the zoo. I turned and walked away, practically running back to the feed room, pulling out my phone to call George. "Captain George, new development. The suspect might not be working alone. There's an accomplice."
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "NovelMaster" app ? search for "401071", and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster