Law America, the Devil's Agent

Chapter 88 A Ghost Went into My House, Did You Know? (To be continued after I'm sick)

The Philadelphia Parish Investigation Office is located on the third floor of the parish administration building, behind an inconspicuous row of oak doors at the end of the corridor.

The office conditions here aren't very good.

Don't be fooled by the fact that this investigation office has its own private cubicles and locked filing cabinets.

This is not special care for them, but merely a selective forgetting.

After all, this department deals with religious matters and is not suitable for too many people to see.

Simply put, it was forgotten in order to cover up the ugliness.

Costello put the last stack of complaint summaries in front of him into a folder, labeled it with a number, and put it in a drawer.

After closing the drawer, he put the key back on the keychain hanging on his waist.

The sky outside the window had already darkened, and the other floors of the parish administration building were long gone, with only a few energy-saving lights in the corridor still emitting a low hum.

He put the pen back in the pen holder, gathered the sticky notes into a stack, and was about to get up when the office door was pushed open from the outside.

His three colleagues came in:

Martinez was in charge of internal auditing, Carroll was in charge of records management, and Sister Margaret was in charge of the initial screening of complaints.

The three of them had changed into casual clothes and dressed up in a flamboyant manner, looking quite dashing, and they didn't look like priests at all.

They stood at the door, Carroll shaking a car key in his hand.

"Patrick, are you all ready?"

Today is Friday, and Martinez said that a nice new restaurant has opened in town, over at Chestnut Hill.

They planned to go eat, and then go find some fun.

After dinner, there was a private gathering with acquaintances; the place was very quiet.

Carol nodded to Costello, warmly inviting him to put the last pen back in the pen holder, then looked up at them and shook her head.

"Thank you for the invitation, but I won't be going. I still have some documents to file tonight, and several complaint summaries to submit to the bishop's office early tomorrow morning."

Go ahead, have fun!

For a moment, the trio fell silent, then they exchanged a glance.

The look in his eyes was so subtle, so quick, that it was almost imperceptible, but Costello had sat in that office for so many years that he was all too familiar with this silence.

Martinez twitched the corners of his mouth down, forcing out a smile that wasn't really a smile.

"Costa, you always say you won't go."

Every time, they say there are documents to archive and summaries to submit.

You organized all the files in this building by yourself. Aren't you done yet?

Taking a break now and then isn't a crime.

"I know it's not a crime. I'm just not used to that kind of situation."

Sister Margaret leaned against the doorframe and echoed in a gentle but unsettling tone, "Patrick, we're not doing anything shameful."

It's just a few colleagues having a meal together and chatting.

Then let's go find some fun together and be young people of the new era.

You don't have to make yourself look like an ascetic every time.

Costello hung the keychain back on his waist.

He didn't look up, but responded in his usual calm tone: "Thank you for your kindness, but I have my own choice."

As a pastor and a staff member of the parish investigation office, I believe I should uphold my faith and be more careful with my words and actions.

Private relaxation and entertainment, if not handled properly, can easily become a pretext for others to attack our department.

I don't want to go, it's for my own personal reasons, not because I have a problem with anyone.

Martinez's smile turned completely cold.

"Whatever you want."

He lowered his hand from the doorframe and replied in an undisguisedly indifferent tone, "Costa. Anyway, we've called you every time, but you never come."

Then he turned around, put his arm around Carole's shoulder, and walked toward the elevator.

Costello stood there alone and slowly sighed.

He knew what they were saying about him behind his back—

A rigid ascetic, an unsociable old stubborn, who has been sitting in the office for too many years and has no idea how to adapt.

He was already used to these things.

He straightened the Roman collar on his chest, which had been worn and faded, reached out to turn off the table lamp, and was about to walk towards the door.

Light footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by a warm greeting.

"Costa! It's so good to see you!"

Costello looked up.

A slightly overweight middle-aged man walked down the corridor, wearing a dark gray suit with two buttons at the collar, holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, and wearing a relaxed and friendly smile on his face.

Ferran.

His immediate supervisor was the director of the Philadelphia Parish Investigations Office.

His boss was a lazy person who often wandered around instead of doing his job. He rarely came to the office to investigate, and the subordinates had to handle all the big and small matters in the department themselves.

Among his subordinates, Costello was the most honest and dutiful, so he did the most work.

Ferran always appeared dressed like this, his smile always perfectly timed, neither too much nor too little, like someone who was always attending some kind of non-existent party.

"Director Ferran."

Costello stopped and bowed slightly, performing a standard parish clerk's greeting.

Ferran smiled and nodded, pointing with his coffee cup to the empty office at the end of the corridor.

"I just saw Martinez and a few others go out together. Why didn't you go relax with them?"

Costello maintained his respectful demeanor and calmly replied, "Sir, I think I have my own choices regarding these kinds of activities."

I believe that as a pastor and as a parish worker, one should uphold one's faith and be more careful in one's words and actions.

Ferran's gaze lingered on Costello's face for a moment, a flash of darkness passing through his eyes, before his smile deepened and he reached out to pat Costello on the shoulder.

"Well said, Costello."

This office needs someone like you. In this day and age, there aren't many people who can uphold ethical standards while conducting research in the parish.

Your colleagues —

I am the one talking about them.

Their faith may not be as solid as yours.

But you are different.

I've always thought you were the most trustworthy person in our department.

Work hard, and I won't treat you unfairly.

Costello lowered his head slightly and bowed again.

Ferran withdrew his hand, took a few steps into the depths of the corridor, and then, as if suddenly remembering something, turned to the side.

"By the way, have you encountered any particularly difficult cases while handling complaints recently?"

I was away for a few days, and some things may have been delayed.

Costello stood still and answered questions about the progress of several routine cases that were underway.

When the complaints about the Sacred Heart Church were mentioned, he remained calm and cautious in his wording, simply saying, "The complaints are still in the preliminary review stage, and there is no progress that needs to be reported at present," before naturally moving on to the next topic.

But he couldn't control that brief pause. It was so short that Ferran's keen intuition caught it.

The darkness in Ferran's eyes flashed by in that pause, like a fish swimming silently through deep water, gone in an instant, leaving no trace.

His expression remained completely unchanged; he simply smiled and nodded, listening as Costello finished reporting on the subsequent routine cases one by one. After offering a few words of gentle encouragement, he then said he wanted to end the conversation.

He stood there, watching Costello walk down the corridor toward the elevator.

Ferran's smile gradually faded as the slender figure stepped into the elevator and the stainless steel doors slowly closed in front of him.

He carried the now-cold coffee into Costello's office, closed the door, and took a key from his suit pocket—a brass key that looked no different from an ordinary office key, except that this key could open all the filing cabinets and all the doors in the building.

He inserted the key into the lock and turned it gently; the lock cylinder made a crisp click.

Costello's desk was neatly tidy. The keyboard was in the center, and a pen and a notepad were placed to the upper left of the mousepad.

The documents in the drawer are arranged by number, the filing labels are neatly written, and the first page of each complaint summary has a corresponding processing progress label.

Ferran opened each drawer and flipped through the pages one by one, his movements unhurried, as if he were performing a routine check.

He found the complaint file about the Sacred Heart Church in the bottom drawer—

Costello categorized it under "Insufficient evidence to file a case," a habit he'd maintained for years to protect things that shouldn't be dredged up.

Ferran went through the file from beginning to end but found nothing unusual.

He put the file back in its place, closed the drawer, stood in front of the desk for a moment, then picked up the internal phone on the desk and dialed the monitoring room.

"I am Phelan, the director of the investigation office."

Recently, several sensitive documents in the office were mistakenly filed. I need to retrieve recent surveillance footage from the internal corridors and office areas to help verify the entry and exit times of the relevant personnel.

Yes, right now, deliver it to my office.

He hung up the phone, sat down at Costello's computer, and took a USB drive out of his pocket.

The computer was password locked, but that wasn't a problem for him. He had already obtained backend management access to the parish's IT department through other channels, and all employee accounts and passwords were on file in the internal system.

A few minutes later, he accessed Costello's computer desktop. Several folders were neatly arranged on the desktop. He opened them one by one, browsing the file names and checking the document modification history of the past few days.

Among the recently deleted files, he found a residual index of an encrypted folder—the folder itself had been deleted, but the index file showed that the folder had existed and had been accessed multiple times.

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and breathed heavily. The surveillance footage would be delivered within half an hour; he no longer needed to search for any other evidence.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Send someone to keep an eye on Costello."

From this moment on. All his activities—

When they left the office, where they went, and who they met—all recorded.

No need to intercept or block.

Just keep an eye on it.

After hanging up the phone, he remained silent for a long time.

Then he took out an old-fashioned feature phone from the most hidden compartment inside his suit pocket and dialed a number that wasn't saved as a contact.

The man on the other end answered quickly, his voice hoarse and deep, carrying the impatience of having his pleasant pastime interrupted.

"Didn't I say not to make this call unless it's an emergency?"

This is the emergency line we only use when we have parties.

Don't tell me you can't wait. We're still looking for some new talent to match the style you're looking for.

"You guys are a bunch of useless trash."

Ferran's voice was extremely low, like the buzzing of a green fly: "You've got a ghost in your house and you don't even know it?"

We'll wipe you all out right now.

The other side fell silent.

The soft music that could be faintly heard in the background and the distant conversations all vanished in the same instant.

Then that hoarse voice rang out again.

"—Explain yourself clearly."

Ferran leaned back in his chair, staring at the constantly flickering fluorescent light tube on the ceiling, and sighed deeply.

"The usual place, let's meet."

This time, they're gone. The case has exploded, and everyone's going to die.

He hung up the phone, put it back in his inner pocket, stood up, straightened his suit collar, locked the door to Costello's office again, and slowly walked towards his own office with the now-cold cup of coffee in his hand.