North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws
Chapter 40: Dean’s ’Psychological Counseling Program’ _1

Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Dean’s ’Psychological Counseling Program’ _1

Outside the interrogation room.

Anthony stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Dean.

"Agent Anthony, you look a bit tired. Need a cup of coffee?" Dean greeted enthusiastically, showing no awkwardness from just having beaten up Anthony’s men.

"The coffee here isn’t good." Anthony lowered his hands and pointed to the LCD screen outside the interrogation room. "It looks like you’re recovering well from your injuries."

On the LCD screen, a replay showed Dean taking down two blockheads. With one punch and one kick, his actions were clean and sharp, perfectly exhibiting his strength and speed.

Since when was there an LCD surveillance monitor here?

Dean, unfazed, changed the subject. "Harry said you’ve been using the interrogation room since last night, and it’s still not over. Seems like the interrogation isn’t going smoothly?"

"It’s going smoothly, but it’s not what we want," Anthony said, taking a file from the side and tossing it to Dean. "Amodeo has pushed all the crimes onto Bill. This is his testimony."

Dean picked up the file and quickly flipped through it.

The handwriting in the testimony was sloppy, and it essentially stated:

During high school, Amodeo happened upon the dark web by chance. Out of a morbid curiosity, he secretly bought some niche videos to watch. Not long before, Bill had suddenly approached him, threatening him with the purchase records of those videos, forcing him to commit three crimes and providing full criminal guidance.

Beyond that, regarding the Lucifer Game Organization, Amodeo claimed that he was just a coerced puppet, a victim himself, now greatly traumatized, and knew nothing about that damn gaming organization.

No wonder Anthony said it wasn’t what they wanted.

Dean put down the file. "If these testimonies are used for prosecution, how long could Amodeo be sentenced?"

"Amodeo has provided the chat logs of Bill threatening him. If the judge accepts these testimonies, and considering his guilty plea, he could go from being a principal offender to an accessory. His sentencing wouldn’t exceed ten years," Anthony said, exhaustedly lighting a cigarette.

"And his family has some money. Although it’s not enough for bail, there are plenty of ways to get his sentence reduced. In my experience, Amodeo won’t serve more than five years."

That short?

Dean also took out a cigarette and started puffing away.

Three lives lost, and the criminal might serve less than five years.

So American.

Moreover, in the prisons here, having money versus having none meant two entirely different experiences, not to mention the existence of numerous private prisons.

However, these things didn’t concern Dean.

He wasn’t someone who abhorred evil; his visit was solely to extract more intelligence on the Lucifer Game Organization from Anthony.

Amodeo wasn’t talking, but Anthony still had the findings from Bill’s house.

Just as Dean was about to ask, Anthony spoke first. "I thought you might ask why we’re being so gentle with Amodeo."

Dean shrugged. "Alright, why?"

The FBI didn’t have as many petty restrictions as their detective bureau. They had numerous means to strip an ordinary criminal of citizenship; after that, the criminal might as well be livestock, entirely at their mercy.

So the current situation was abnormal.

Anthony crushed the cigarette underfoot. "Take a look from the observation window, and you’ll understand. In another hour, we’ll have effectively interrogated him for twelve hours. Then we must hand Amodeo over to you and leave."

Is that so?

Curious, Dean approached the observation window and looked inside.

In the interrogation room, there were only two people.

One was a thin, blond Caucasian young man. He was hanging his head, his face unclear, but his handcuffed hands clearly identified him.

This was Amodeo, Bill’s chosen Angel Envoy, codenamed Kaz. He was also a wealthy young man from a Los Angeles family with a fortune exceeding ten million, making them substantially well-off.

Dean hadn’t expected him to be so young.

Next to Amodeo sat a middle-aged man in a suit, wearing gold-framed glasses. A black briefcase rested at his feet; he looked like a lawyer.

He was seated right beside Amodeo. Even though it was just the two of them in there, the man held a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. A recording pen was conspicuously displayed on his chest, contributing to his meticulous air.

"The FBI conducts interrogations with a lawyer present?" Dean looked at Anthony with doubt.

This was outrageous.

Anthony lit another cigarette, his expression forlorn. "The man sitting next to Amodeo is the dedicated lawyer of the Los Angeles Truckers Union, brought in by Amodeo’s father."

"Very formidable?"

"Not formidable, but very troublesome."

Anthony’s sunken brown eyes gleamed with discontent. "The Truckers Union influences many votes, so its president is on good terms with many members of Congress. While they might not directly affect us at the FBI, they can influence those congressional members and our direct superiors!"

"He doesn’t say a word, and with that damn lawyer present, many of our tactics are rendered useless!" Anthony sighed.

The FBI was indeed powerful. But with a call from above, there was nothing he could do.

"How about this, Anthony," Dean crossed his hands and pressed his fingertips together. "I’ll take care of this little trouble for you, and if it’s convenient, share the findings from Bill’s house with me."

"You’re serious?"

"Of course. If you agree, give me twenty minutes."

"OK, pleasure doing business!"

Anthony had actually agreed to Dean’s coming because he wanted to use the unfair facts at hand to provoke this youngster, making it easier to later win Dean over. Now that Dean suddenly offered to help, Anthony naturally wouldn’t refuse.

Successful or not, it would be a chance to closely observe Dean’s methods.

Anthony muttered into his collar. The interrogation room door opened in response. "Go in, Dean. Just don’t get physical; do whatever else you need to!"

"Wait a second."

Dean took his handgun from behind him, dismantled it, fiddled with the parts for a moment, reassembled it, then casually shoved it into his waistband.

"All set. Remember to turn off the surveillance and recording. Turn it back on when it counts." Dean quirked an eyebrow at Anthony, then walked into the interrogation room.

Hearing the noise, Amodeo still kept his head down.

The middle-aged lawyer glanced at Dean and calmly lifted his watch. "You have fifty-seven minutes left. If it goes beyond that, I’ll file a lawsuit against your FBI branch!"

"Sorry." Dean reached out and roughly dragged the other long table in front of the lawyer and Amodeo. "I’m not with the FBI; I am a psychological counselor."

"Hey, what’s this about?" Anger flashed across the lawyer’s face. "My client doesn’t need psychological counseling!"

Amodeo, who had been keeping his head down, couldn’t help but look up at the lawyer’s exclamation and the sound of the table dragging, surveying Dean with bloodshot eyes.

He wasn’t as tense as the lawyer. The FBI’s helplessness assured him that the organization hadn’t reneged on its promises. His father lacked the influence to bring in a dedicated lawyer from a major union, especially with elections looming!

"’He stated in his testimony that his psyche had suffered immense trauma... We need to make an assessment for him,’ Dean explained in a gentle and soothing tone to the displeased lawyer.

"’Then what... are you dragging the table over for?!’ As the lawyer spoke, he suddenly noticed the interrogation room’s surveillance camera was off. Realizing something was amiss, his voice faltered.

Dean’s tone remained gentle. "’Don’t worry, Mr. Lawyer. As a professional psychological counselor, I need a table to place some common psychological counseling props. Isn’t that quite normal...?’"

As he spoke, he took out a handgun, a blade, nail polish, a small packet of fine needles, and seven or eight slips of paper from his person, laying them out one by one before the two men.

At this, even the relatively composed Amodeo involuntarily swallowed hard.

Something didn’t seem quite right.

"Apologies for the crude setup; my preparations are a bit lacking. Please bear with me." Dean propped his hands on the table, offering the two men a benign smile. "Who wishes to be the first to enjoy my psychological counseling session?"