Chapter 237: The FBI

The FBI's Los Angeles office, several agents were compiling arrest reports and all prosecution materials for the apprehended individuals.

The criminal gang led by Andrew Saxon was, from top to bottom, every single member carrying multiple warrants—minor offenses like brawling, major ones like murder and arson; no one was clean.

Some could be turned into cooperating witnesses to nail Andrew Saxon, the big bad; others had irrefutable evidence and could be handed over to prosecutors for swift indictment and incarceration.

Particularly unusual was the group of illegal medical personnel, previously convicted or having their licenses revoked, apprehended at the scene; these individuals had assisted Andrew Saxon in performing surgeries.

If they had merely assisted in illegal medical procedures, they might have been fined or even given a verbal warning and released, because compared to Saxon's gang, they weren't worth the time.

But they had been seized with a stash of illicit funds—over three hundred thousand, nearly four hundred thousand dollars! To legally confiscate this illicit money, they had to be listed as prosecution targets.

Perhaps Saxon's criminal activities had nothing to do with these people, but until they relinquished ownership of that money, they could easily be extorted under the pretext of illegal medical practice.

Whether they admitted guilt or not, the difference was merely whether to save procedural time and let them go—or proceed with indictment and send them to prison. Either way, that money would never be returned to them.

But from every witness statement, one figure could not be avoided: the lead surgeon who performed operations for Andrew Saxon, known by the codename "The Mender."

"Have they caught The Mender? Or has anyone identified who The Mender is?" Agent James asked.

The young agent questioned shook his head: "No. We only have limited clues—that The Mender is a white male with a prominent facial scar, dressed like a nineteenth-century Frenchman. No one's been caught."

"Damn it." Agent James already knew this would be the answer, but he couldn't help asking—maybe the new guys had different intel. "Have you checked with LAPD? Could they be hoarding the cash and not saying a word?"

"We asked. Same result." The young agent's reply was disappointing—not just to James, but to himself too.

"You say the arrested doctors and nurses claim The Mender also had a bag of money—that together, the two bags totaled a million dollars? Is that true or false?" Agent James pressed, unwilling to let go.

"Probably true. Even Saxon's henchmen confirmed it— their boss really did pay out a million dollars in cash as surgical fees."

"So the fat old bastard really underwent a high-risk surgery in that hellhole?" Agent James asked again.

Recalling the inflatable mobile operating room they'd seen at the scene, it was already advanced medical equipment—but against the filthy, stinking, deplorable warehouse environment, it was like heaven and hell existing in the same place.

The young agent said: "According to Saxon's gang members and confirmed by Los Angeles hospital doctors, Andrew Saxon indeed just underwent major surgery and requires post-op care."

"If you don't want him to die from infection, he had nowhere else to go but a hospital."

"Maybe it was just an appendectomy?"

"An appendectomy doesn't require a fifty-centimeter abdominal incision. That's what the LA hospital doctors said."

After answering his colleague, the rookie agent spoke cautiously: "Actually, we aren't unaware of The Mender's clinic location. Why not just raid it or shut it down? What's the boss's hesitation?"

Seeing the rookie act like a fool charging blindly into a wall, James, the veteran, warned him to avoid getting dragged down: "Don't you know how the Bureau views people like him?"

"What kind of people?" the young agent asked, confused.

James lowered his voice: "He's a servant of the Continental Hotel."

"The… the same place our director warned us about on our first day—where we're told to tread carefully?"

"Yes. That place."

The young agent asked, baffled: "We represent the United States of America. Why treat a criminal underground organization with such caution?"

Agent James replied: "Because they represent another world's order—just like we don't clash with the CIA overseas. Even the CIA, within our borders, has to keep its head down."

"Unless we have solid evidence proving someone from the Continental Hotel committed a federal felony, we don't investigate, we don't open a case—that's Bureau policy."

"Otherwise, we'd have arrested The Mender long ago—we've known his clinic's location for years. But once you arrest him, how do you prosecute him?"

"Practicing medicine without a license isn't a federal felony. He only violated California Business and Professions Code Section 2052—maximum fine ten thousand dollars, or sixteen months in state prison. It's not our jurisdiction."

"Then… should we notify the IRS?" the rookie suggested.

James scoffed: "Do you have some misunderstanding about the IRS? You think catching Al Capone means they can handle every criminal in the world?"

"Al Capone was caught because his money-laundering ledgers had gaps. Criminals only file taxes when they're already convicted or about to be—just to avoid an extra charge of tax evasion during prosecution."

"If they haven't been caught, no ledgers, no tax returns—the IRS can't indict or fine someone just because 'I heard someone made a million dollars.' The law demands evidence. Didn't they teach you that in school?"

The rookie asked: "Not even an investigation?"

"Our bureau has rules. They follow the same ones," the veteran said, words the rookie found hard to accept. But James changed tone: "However…"

"However what?"

"If we launch a surprise raid and find that illicit cash—if we can link The Mender directly to the money—the situation changes," Agent James said.

The young agent suddenly remembered: "Oh—the seized briefcase. According to others, that large bag was originally carried by The Mender. Maybe there are fingerprints on it."

Agent James remained skeptical: "What fingerprints are you going to find on a woven fabric handle? You can have forensics check other surfaces, but I don't think you'll get anything useful."

Though he said that aloud, James was actually considering another possibility—whether he could make some extra cash.

(End of Chapter)