"I can give you a list of my professional contacts, but I want to emphasize that these are all legitimate investigators and advocates. I can't imagine any of them being involved in murder."
Miles could see that they were reaching the natural conclusion of their interview with Carmen. Her alibi appeared solid, and her professional motivation was clearly focused on legal prosecution rather than vigilante justice. Also, her assumed lack of connection to Nelson DeWalt wasn’t helping.
"Ms. Rodriguez, thank you for your cooperation," Vic said, beginning to gather her notes. "We may need to speak with you again as our investigation continues, so please don't leave the San Francisco area without notifying us."
"Of course," Carmen replied, standing up from her chair. She didn’t seem angry, just put out. She was probably already once again thinking about that massive pile of work on her desk.
After Carmen left the interview room, Miles and Vic sat in silence for several minutes, both of them processing the implications of what they'd learned. Carmen Rodriguez had provided valuable information about the victims' business practices, but she'd also effectively eliminated herself as their primary suspect.
"Well, that was frustrating," Vic said finally. "She clearly knows more than she's telling us about her cooperation with Marcus Holloway, but I don't think she's our killer."
“You think the Holloway stuff is in any way tied to this case?” Miles asked.
“Nah, probably not.”
"Her alibis seem solid, and her reaction to learning about the murders felt genuine," Miles added. "Plus, if she was involved,I don't think she would have been so forthcoming about her investigations into the victims."
"Which puts us back at square one," Vic said. She sighed…a deflated sound that carried the weight of an investigation that had lost its most promising lead. "We know our victims were connected by their involvement in financial crimes, but we still don't know who had both the motive and the technical expertise to kill them."
“You know…she mentioned that there are about a dozen investigators working on financial crimes in San Francisco, plus attorneys, journalists, and academics. Maybe our killer is someone else in that community. Maybe he’sone of themand just sort of acting out."
"Could be," Vic said, but her tone suggested she wasn't optimistic about pursuing that angle. "Or maybe our killer is someone we haven't identified yet, someone with access to the same information but operating outside the legitimate investigative community."
As they sat in silence, Miles reflected on how Vic had conducted the interrogation. She'd allowed him to take the lead on several questions, seeming to evaluate his technique and analytical approach. He appreciated her willingness to let him participate actively in the interview process, and he hoped he’d proven that his laboratory background didn't limit his effectiveness in field investigations.
But they were still no closer to identifying their killer than they had been that morning. Carmen Rodriguez had provided valuable insights into the victims' criminal activities, but she'd also eliminated herself as a suspect and left them without a clear direction for their investigation.
Four people were dead. Four people had been transformed into golden statues by someone with both the technical skills and the ideological motivation to turn murder into artisticstatement. And despite their best efforts, the killer remained as elusive as ever. And Miles was truly starting to wonder if Hayes had been right to be skeptical about sending him out here at all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The basement workshop hummed with quiet efficiency as the figure moved between workstations, each step deliberate and purposeful. The gold leaf preparation from the previous evening had yielded perfect results—thin sheets of pure metal that caught the harsh fluorescent light and threw it back in warm, amber reflections.
They arranged the completed leaves in their protective tissue paper containers, handling each piece with the reverence due to something both beautiful and deadly. The electric furnace had cooled overnight, its heating elements now dark and silent. But the small crucibles still bore the blackened residue of molten gold, evidence of the careful work that had transformed raw metal into the gossamer-thin sheets they would soon apply to another corrupt soul. The ventilation system continued its quiet operation, ensuring that no trace of their activities would escape the confines of this hidden sanctuary.
Goldberg had gone perfectly and the sheer excitement of it had the figure on a high like no other. They'd only slept for about five hours in the last two days because of the thrill of it all. They paused beside the workbench to examine a new set of financial documents that had arrived via encrypted email that morning.
The pages contained detailed analyses of investment strategies, pension fund transactions, and regulatory filings—information that would have taken months to compile through conventional research. But the Elementalist had resources that extended far beyond what any single investigator could access, networks of information that stretched across government agencies, financial institutions, and academic research facilities.
For thousands of years, humans had sacrificed everything for the pursuit of precious metals—their relationships, theirintegrity, their compassion for others. Gold represented the ultimate test of human character, and throughout history, most people had failed that test catastrophically. It revealed the beast that lurked beneath civilization's veneer, the willingness to destroy others in pursuit of material wealth. Each death they had orchestrated brought them closer to understanding what the Elementalist called the "golden path to purification." The transformation of these corrupt individuals into golden statues wasn't simply murder disguised as art—it was a form of alchemy that revealed the true nature of their souls.
By coating them in the very material they had worshipped throughout their lives, they were completing a process that had begun long before they encountered them. They had already been consumed by gold; the figure was simply making that corruption visible to the world. The work was part of something much larger than their individual mission in San Francisco.
They knew this, and prided themselves on it.
Through their encrypted communications, the Elementalist had shared glimpses of similar operations across the country, each one tailored to the specific element being studied and the particular forms of corruption it revealed. The hydrogen deaths in Detroit had targeted those who poisoned the air with their industrial negligence. The helium suffocations in Portland had claimed victims who had profited from the housing crisis by inflating property values beyond the reach of working families. They had never met the other practitioners, had never spoken with them directly, but they knew they existed. The Elementalist had mentioned them in his teachings—dedicated students who understood that conventional justice was inadequate for addressing the systematic corruption that plagued society. Law enforcement could prosecute individual crimes, but they were powerless against the structural inequalities that allowed predators like Goldberg, for instance, to operate with impunity.Only through direct action, through the application of elemental justice, could the balance be restored.
The Elementalist had claimed the lives of thirty people now through the hands and efforts of others. Thirty souls cleansed through the application of scientific precision and moral clarity. Each death had been carefully planned and flawlessly executed, creating a pattern that law enforcement agencies seemed to have not figured out yet.
Initially, the figure had focused on the technical aspects of gold application and victim selection. But the Elementalist's teachings had shown them the deeper significance of their mission—the way each death contributed to a larger pattern of cosmic correction, of how the world would look upon the work in years to come and be awed. Ah, but there was so much left to do, so much further to go! The Elementalist's vision extended far beyond San Francisco, far beyond the individual elements they were currently exploring. The periodic table contained 118 elements, each one offering unique opportunities for purification and revelation. The work they had begun would continue for years, perhaps decades, as dedicated practitioners applied scientific knowledge to the ancient problem of human corruption. They carefully sealed the gold leaf containers and stored them in the climate-controlled cabinet that protected them from air and moisture. Soon, another miserable leech would learn the true weight of gold and experience firsthand the burden he had placed on so many others throughout his predatory career. The golden path to purification would claim another corrupt soul soon enough. They already had the target selected…and this time it was a big one.
Everyone would have to take notice.
And the world would be marginally cleaner for the loss of the next victim..
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miles felt frustration settling on his shoulders as they gathered their materials from the conference room. He was starting to feel tense and high-strung, slightly beaten down. The whiteboard was covered in crime scene photos and timeline notes, but it seemed to mock their progress; it looked more like evidence of failure than investigative momentum. Despite their best efforts over the past day and a half, they were no closer to identifying the killer than when Miles had first stepped off the plane at SFO.
