As Jimmy drove back, he noticed that there seemed to be more beautiful women around Manhattan, all fashionably dressed and tall. Many were walking in groups of two or three or standing on the sidewalks chatting, as if spring had bloomed overnight.

Ah, it was February, and the decades-old New York Fashion Week had begun once again. It was a feast for the eyes, although the low temperatures of February meant there were fewer surprises.

In fact, it wasn't only the number of beautiful women that had increased; there were also other strangely dressed... people, though Jimmy mostly filtered those out as they were slightly unsightly.

As he passed an intersection, he saw a man playing guitar in the cold wind. Despite the chill, several people were gathered around listening to his music. Oh right, Fashion Week was a major event, and there surely would be many street performers like him. Could that guitarist be one of them? Anyway, driving wasn't tiring, it just wasted a bit of gas, so no big issue.

Jimmy made a U-turn at the next intersection and started driving around different blocks from downtown Manhattan again, just to get a general idea of where these people were. Not all places in New York allowed street performances, so it was good to keep an eye out, just in case something came up.

After half an hour, Jimmy decided to give up. It was evening, and wherever there was sufficient lighting, crowds gathered, making it impossible to see everything from a car, and there were too many eccentrics. Jimmy wasn't discriminating against them, but it was a case of "to each their own." If I choose not to look, that's okay, right?!

Jimmy gave up and drove home directly. This kind of investigation was better suited for NYPD patrol officers, who patrolled the streets daily, both during the day and at night. Let Chuck and the others deal with it.

Jimmy wasn't concerned, and laziness had crept in; he wasn't as passionate as before.

Some things you just can't hide from. Two days later, Chuck came to the FBI office again, probably after contacting Hughes, who then notified Jimmy. When Jimmy arrived at Hughes's office, the first person he saw was Detective Chuck.

Jimmy crossed his arms in front of him, greeted Hughes, and then remained silent.

Hughes gestured to Chuck, who handed Jimmy a file, "Jimmy, there's another shooting. The victim is a gang member, and we caught the guitarist again on the surveillance footage."

Jimmy opened the file, the first photo showing a Latino man of indeterminate age, shot once in the chest and once in the head, with the death scene located in an alley. The blood on the ground confirmed it was the primary crime scene. Flipping through more photos, the blurry night surveillance still showed the man holding a guitar case.

Jimmy looked up at Chuck, "What about this person's background? Does he have any connection to the previous two victims?"

Chuck shook his head, "We haven't figured that out yet."

Jimmy turned to Hughes, who nodded, "Jimmy, work with Detective Chuck on this case. I'll arrange for you to have temporary D-class clearance for data access. Understood?"

Jimmy nodded, "Understood."

He said goodbye to Hughes, and walked to his office with Chuck.

As they walked, Jimmy asked Chuck, "There's really no link at all between the three victims?"

Chuck sighed, "If there were any clues, even the smallest lead, we could follow it. The gunman cleaned the first crime scene thoroughly; very professional. We found no fingerprints, footprints, or shell casings. All we could get on the victims were basic details, with no criminal records.

The environments of the second and third incidents were worse, bustling with people, no surveillance, and even if we did lift fingerprints, we couldn't be sure they belonged to the gunman. As for their identities, the third was a gang member—a complex mix; although he definitely had enemies, it's impossible to sift through them all. Now it's up to what you guys can find; your data might be more complete."

Jimmy felt a headache coming on. The more he looked into the case, the more it seemed like a trap. He had just managed to push it away a few days ago, but Hughes had kicked it right back to him. There was no avoiding it now. A case involving three shootings definitely fits in the FBI's territory, naturally prone to high risk, high exposure, and likely to incite copycat crimes—it matched the profile for a major case.

After turning on the computer, Jimmy conducted a deeper investigation of the victims. The NYPD's data was minimal; hopefully, he would uncover more here.

Jimmy checked his access permissions; it seemed Hughes's arrangements hadn't been finalized yet. He told Chuck about the situation and asked him to head back, promising to sync up once he had the information. Chuck had no choice, as he couldn't do much without access. Fortunately, with the FBI involved, he could take time to handle other cases.

Serial killers were always the toughest, especially the first victim, who appeared professional, having cleaned up all traces of himself after the murder. Only someone with a strong psychological constitution could do that.

Finally, the system permissions came through, and Jimmy could access additional information beyond the basic details.

The first victim, Diego Rodriguez, was a Mexican-American facial reconstruction specialist with his own studio. His family lived on Long Island, but he had an apartment in Brooklyn for convenience to work.

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