The detectives stopped what they were doing and looked at him solemnly, "Capital punishment? Are you sure?"
My brother had witnessed so many murders that he should have remained calm even when faced with a catastrophe. But at the moment, he was like a drowning fish and said, "Pretty close."
Capital punishment, the thing that everyone knew what it meant.
Familiar modus operandi.
My brother raised his hand and tried to trace the white paper, but he was trembling so badly that he couldn't hold the tip of the pen at all.
The detective on the side patted him on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Fuentes, maybe it was a coincidence or a copycat crime."
For some reason, when my brother was trying to profile the murderer, the brushstrokes drew the victim first.
The outline looked very much like me. But when he reached the facial features, he stopped drawing.
I knew he might be thinking that it should not be me. So, he took out his mobile, flipped to my phone number and pressed the dial button after hesitating for a while.
But no one answered.
He waited impatiently for three rings, then hung up the phone before saying in disgust, "What the hell! How dare she not answer my call."