Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Chapter 6 The Missing Child

When Li En walked out of the apartment, the landlady's door was closed.

I hesitated for a second, wondering whether to knock on the door and ask her what she wanted to say last night, or just let it go.

When he pushed open the police station door, his eyelids were still drooping.

After those three gunshots last night dragged him out of bed, he hasn't closed his eyes since.

Around 4 a.m., there was another explosion in the street, this time two shots, very close together, like someone fired two shots and then ran away.

He stood behind the curtains and looked outside for almost an hour, but saw nothing.

There were no screams, no sirens, not even footsteps.

As he walked out of the garden apartment after daybreak, he encountered his neighbors in the hallway. They all looked refreshed, and some even nodded and greeted him.

He walked out of the apartment building, and across the street, the homeless man had already packed away his sleeping bag and was squatting against the wall eating a piece of dry bread.

There was a burnt smell in the air this morning, drifting over from somewhere a few blocks away. It could be that a trash can was set on fire last night and has been smoldering ever since.

Everyone is living their lives normally.

It seems that the gunshots last night were just his own hallucination.

Li En entered the police station and went to the break room first.

The old coffee machine leaned against the corner of the wall, with several scratches on its exterior and the handle of the coffee pot wrapped with tape twice.

He pressed the switch, and the machine hummed for a few seconds. The dark brown liquid flowed into the pot slowly, each drop like constipation.

He filled a large cup with a disposable paper cup, carried it back to the office area, and held it in his hand.

Clark Pace, who sits at the next table and is known as Cherry (though no one knows where that nickname came from), is putting his feet up on the table and flipping through a newspaper.

He saw Li En holding that cup, his nose twitched, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

"Li En, the coffee beans at the police station aren't much better than those from the sewers, and you're actually drinking them?"

Li En glanced down at the liquid in the glass; the color was quite normal, and it didn't smell strange.

He brought the cup to his lips and took a sip.

A sour, foul smell rushed into my nasal cavity along my tongue.

He turned his head and spat the contents of his mouth into the trash can next to him, then turned on the tap and rinsed his mouth for half a minute.

Police officers are paid weekly, and they receive about a thousand dollars a week.

It sounds like a lot, but anyone who lives in Hell's Kitchen knows that this amount of money has to cover rent, food, transportation, and occasionally a few drinks over seven days.

Most people can't last until the fifth day before they start tightening their belts.

Li Engang has just moved in, and the furniture isn't all in place yet; it's obvious he's short on cash.

Cherry watched his retreating figure, hesitated for a moment, and moved her lips as if she wanted to say something.

In the end, he simply shook his head, put his feet off the table, and turned back to his seat.

Li En sat back in her chair, placed the spoiled coffee on the corner of the table, and rubbed her temples.

A strong smell of alcohol wafted past him.

Brock swaggered over from the other end of the corridor, his tie askew, two buttons undone at the collar of his shirt, and stubble still stained with remnants from some unknown bar the previous night.

He didn't even look up as he passed by Li En. He went straight to his desk, leaned back, and fell asleep, snoring within two seconds.

Li En didn't ask him if he was going out on patrol today.

The words Brock said before leaving last night were still on his mind.

"Evenings are for adults, newbie, go home and watch TV."

He didn't want to know what the adult world was all about, nor did he intend to explain the car accident scene from yesterday afternoon to Block.

Some impressions, once formed, cannot be reversed in a short period of time.

He turned on his computer and accessed the police station's internal file system.

The files consist of tens of thousands of criminals who have already been arrested.

Photos, names, charges, physical characteristics, methods of committing crimes—flip through the pages one by one.

Some people have been imprisoned three or four times in the system; some have gone from stealing cars to committing armed robbery; and a few have had photos in their files from ten years ago because they were imprisoned for so long—yellowed out, blurry, and looking like ghosts.

He looked at them one by one.

The tall, thin man turned out thirty-two.

With the turtleneck top added, there are two left.

Next, look for someone who is stable, clean, and has no history of violence.

None of them match.

It's not that we're going in the wrong direction.

The enemy wasn't even in the system.

A person who can manipulate others with their will doesn't need to steal cars, rob money, or kill people in the street.

His hands were always clean, and his fingerprints were always left on other people's doorknobs, but the victim opened that door himself.

Li En closed the file page, her fingers remaining on the keyboard.

The veins in my temples started throbbing again.

"My child! My child is missing!" The voice boomed from the police station entrance.

Li En turned her head.

A middle-aged woman stumbled into the room, wearing one slipper and one sneaker, her hair sticking up in a mess.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the tears didn't fall; they were all held back in the whites of her eyes, making her eyeballs glisten.

She stood at the doorway for a brief moment, her gaze sweeping over several desks, past the police officers smoking and chatting, and finally landing on the light blue uniforms behind the dispatch desk.

Bright was organizing a stack of forms when he heard the shout and looked up.

"Bright!" The woman rushed towards him, grabbing the edge of the dispatch console with both hands, her fingers digging tightly into the metal edging. "Cortel is gone! Cortel is gone!"

Bright put down the form, walked around the dispatch desk to her, and put his hands on her shoulders to help her sit down.

He knew the woman; they lived in the same Black neighborhood, just across the street.

"Monica, calm down." Brett's voice was neither loud nor soft, but his pace was a beat slower than usual. "Cortel is fourteen years old, and it's not uncommon for him to stay out all night..."

"No!" Monica shook her head violently, the veins in her neck bulging. "You know Cortel! He's a good kid! He never stays out all night!"

Bright led her to sit down in the row of chairs against the wall.

As someone born and raised in Hell's Kitchen, Brett certainly understands the plight of Black children growing up there.

He was still in prison at the age of fourteen, which truly makes him a good kid.

Even he himself had been to the police station several times when he was a child, but no record was left, which is why he was able to pass the exam to become an auxiliary police officer.

He took out a notebook and pen from his pocket.

"When did Cortel leave home, and did he say where he was going?"

Monica's breathing hadn't calmed down yet; her chest was heaving violently.

She stretched out her thin, bony hand, drew her fingers in the air twice, and finally patted it on her knee.

"After dinner he said he was going to play basketball, at the basketball court in Thun, you know, the one you used to go to when you were kids."

"I know," Bright wrote down the time and place in his notebook. "And then? He went?"

"He's gone, he's gone," Monica nodded. "He's back an hour later."

Bright looked up, his pen resting on the paper.

"You're back?"

"She's back," Monica repeated, her voice trembling. "She came back, had a glass of water, and then left again."

Bright looked up at her for two seconds.

"You let him leave?"

Her right hand gripped the fingers of her left hand, their knuckles twisted together.

"I wasn't quite lucid at the time."

Bright closed his eyes briefly.

He knew what that meant.

Monica's words were not entirely clear, but in this neighborhood, there was only one meaning: she had taken something.

Half the people in the entire community live like this.

He himself often saw the same scene when he opened the door of his house when he was a child.

The mother was huddled in the corner of the sofa, her eyes half-open, and no one knew what was on the TV.

Kotter came back, drank a glass of water, and then left.

I stayed in that house for less than fifteen minutes.

Bright already had a conclusion in his mind:

The boy couldn't take it anymore and ran away.

This had happened at least seven or eight times among the people he knew.

At the age of thirteen or fourteen, they either sink completely into poverty and become another generation living on relief food.

Either turn around and leave, and find your own path on the street.

Sell ​​some small items, run errands for a gang, and if you're lucky, you might drive back in a few years with a decent used car.

If you're unlucky, you might not even be able to find the body a few years later.

Monica seemed to understand Brett's expression, and suddenly reached out and grabbed his forearm, her nails digging into the light blue fabric of his uniform.

"Cotter is a good kid, he won't abandon me."

Her eyes widened, blood vessels radiating from her pupils, and broken red lines covering the whites of her eyes.

"He's been fine these past few days, eating and talking normally, but he suddenly started acting strange yesterday!"

Her voice grew louder and louder, and finally one of the police officers sitting at the desks in the back row looked up, glanced at her, and then looked down again.

Suddenly something was wrong.

These six words made Li En pause for a moment as she rubbed her temples.

Li En stopped rubbing her temples with her fingers.

He had seen the same description on the wall in the dark room.

Several neighbors of the victimized families have said the same thing:

"They were perfectly fine the day before, but suddenly they started acting strangely."

It's not yet certain that these are the same things.

He stood up from his chair and walked around the two rows of tables toward the dispatch desk.

As I passed the Brock's seat, I heard a very soft snore coming from under his hat, and then it stopped.

Brock's hand peeked out from under the brim of his hat, and he pulled the hat down a little with two fingers.

Lee En walked up to Monica and stood in front of her.

"You said he suddenly started acting strangely, but what exactly is wrong with him?"

Monica's gaze lingered on him for a moment.

He wore a dark blue police uniform with a silver badge pinned above his left breast pocket, and the grip of a Glock pistol peeked out from under his jacket.

She's lived here her whole life, and she knows better than most newly recruited police officers what each color of uniform means.

The light blue officers are auxiliary police officers who handle street disputes, illegal parking, and noise complaints.

The dark blue ones are patrol officers; they have guns, the power to arrest, and they handle real matters.

"Officer." Her voice carried an extra respectful tone compared to when she had spoken to Bright.

"Cotter, that kid, never leaves any food behind, he always finishes everything, but last night, he actually left some food."

"Is it because the food you cooked isn't to your liking?" Li En asked.

"Of course not, dinner yesterday was the same as usual!" the woman immediately retorted loudly.

Lee En glanced at Brett.

Blythe nodded, then shook his head.

"Isn't it normal to have leftovers from dinner every day?" Li En asked.

"These aren't ordinary leftovers," Brett said in a low voice.

"Monica's family eats relief meals, which are distributed on the streets three days a week."

Bread, corn chips, and sometimes canned beans—this is how most people in the community survive. Many children only get to eat their fill three days a week.

He paused, as if recalling something from a long time ago.

"I ate that when I was a kid. Back then, the food was even simpler than it is now, just a loaf of bread and a cup of milk."

But you'll never leave anything behind; you won't leave anything edible on your plate.

Li En nodded, his gaze returning to Monica.

"Don't worry, I'll help you find him."

Monica stood up from the chair, her knees buckling slightly to steady herself.

She held Li En's hands in her own; her palms were dry and thin, and her bones were hard against her skin.

You can't tell anything from the skin color because it's very dark.

But the feel of her hand told Li En that this woman had been lacking in nutrition for many years, and her bone density and muscle mass were below normal.

"Thank you, officer, thank you so much."

Li En withdrew her hand and nodded at her.

I will do my best.

He didn't say he would definitely find it, because getting involved in this matter was for personal purposes.

Bright took his notebook and walked to the side, and Lee followed him.

The two of them stood with their backs to Monica, speaking in hushed tones so that only the other could hear them.

"You've only been here a few months, there are some things you might not know," Bright said.

There are far too many cases of children like Cortel's age suddenly leaving home one day.

Sometimes it's because I can't stand the situation at home, sometimes it's because I've started hanging out with other kids, and sometimes it's for no reason at all—I just want to leave.

He gestured with his chin towards the office area.

Li En followed his gaze.

Smokers, coffee drinkers, people staring blankly at their computers, people yawning while reading newspapers—not a single person turned their gaze toward Monica.

Brock's hat was still on his face, and he was breathing evenly.

"Are you really going to get involved in this?" Bright asked.

There's something very complex in his voice.

His face held a mixture of doubt, expectation, and an inexplicable sense of guilt.

There was also a hint of something that seemed to instinctively recoil as if someone had gently touched it.

Li En looked into his eyes.

"I already agreed to her."

Bright let out a heavy sigh.

"If there's anything I can help you with, just say so, Officer Lee."

This time he didn't use his name, but his title, and the honorific in his voice wasn't just a formality.

I'll contact you if I need anything.

Li En patted his upper arm, turned around and walked to the Block table, standing there without moving.

The breathing sounds under the hat were so even they seemed unreal.

"Brock".

no response.

We have a case.

A sigh came from under the hat, thick and long, like air that had been held in all night finally letting out.

"This is trouble you brought upon yourself, so deal with it yourself."

Li En pulled out the chair opposite Brock and sat down, pushing the box of donuts on the table to the side.

"A child has gone missing."

"Children go missing every day in Hell's Kitchen."

Brock lifted his hat a crack, revealing one eye.

"Come back on your own the next day, or don't come back."

"This is different."

"What's different?"

His mother said he suddenly started acting strangely.

Brock's eyes lingered for a second in the gap of the hat.

The impatience in that eye hadn't disappeared, but something else had been added.

He lifted his hat completely and sat up.

His stubble was still covered in icing sugar, and his eyes weren't fully open yet, but the way he looked at Li En was completely different from how he was behind the desk earlier.

"This is Hell's Kitchen, newbie."

"This is the territory we are in charge of."

Brock stared at him for a few seconds, then reached into the drawer, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one out, and put it in his mouth without lighting it.

"Go to the grocery store on West 37th Street and look for Turk Barrett."

The cigarette rolled up and down his lips twice.

"That kid has been around this area for over twenty years. He knows better than the mothers which way their kids go when they leave."

"And you?"

"I'm going to catch up on my sleep." Brock pulled his hat back over his face, his voice coming from under the fabric.

"You brought this trouble upon yourself, so resolve it yourself."

Lee En stood up and walked to Bright's desk.

"Cortel's address, and a photo."

Bright tore a piece of paper from his notebook and handed it to him. It had an address and a short description written on it:

Black male, 14 years old, 5 feet 6 inches tall, thin build, wearing a gray sweatshirt when he went missing.

Li En folded the paper twice, stuffed it into his pocket, and turned to walk out of the police station.

……