Chapter 386: The Missing Name
"Where's this commendation wall?" Officer Hobbes asked.
"It used to stand in the lobby," the old cop replied. "But after the department building got renovated, I think they moved it down to the basement."
The two men headed downstairs to the storage area where the old wall had been kept.
"I don't remember anyone named Lyons," the veteran officer said as they walked, "but I do remember Spakowsky."
"That guy was such a bastard that his wife eventually shot him."
He chuckled dryly.
"Guess some people can be model cops, but terrible husbands."
Hobbes didn't respond.
The moment he saw the wall, he immediately began searching through the engraved names.
Sure enough, he found them.
"Lyons."
And beneath it—
"Spakowsky."
The arrangement matched exactly what the creature had written at the murder scenes.
But between those two names… there was a blank space.
The name that should have been there had been deliberately removed.
"Who was the officer listed here?" Hobbes asked quickly.
The old cop spread his hands helplessly.
"No idea."
"There are hundreds of names on that wall. Nobody remembers all of them."
"The only reason I remembered Spakowsky was because of the gossip."
Hobbes immediately went to the records department.
If someone had once been honored on the commendation wall, then they must have made some major contribution to the department. There should have been personnel records somewhere.
But the answer he received caught him completely off guard.
"There's nothing?"
The archives had no backup records for the commendation wall.
No list.
No registry.
Nothing.
In other words, nobody in the department knew whose name had originally occupied that missing space.
And without a name, there was no way to pull the person's files.
Hobbes even asked his superiors, but none of them remembered the individual either.
It was as if that officer had been completely erased from the department's history.
That evening, Hobbes brought the information he had gathered back to Frank and the others.
"The wall has years engraved on it," Frank noted while studying the photographs Hobbes had taken. "The names are organized chronologically."
"Even if we don't know who the missing officer was, we can still narrow it down."
He pointed at the surrounding names.
"If we identify the officer listed directly above the blank space, then follow the records year by year, we should eventually figure out who received the commendation after him."
"And that," Frank said, narrowing his eyes, "should tell us whose name used to be there."
Sam immediately understood what Frank meant. As he spoke, he opened his laptop and started searching online.
"The name above the blank space is 'Lyons'..."
"I found the news article about Lyons receiving the annual commendation. The next year's recipient was... Robert Milano. The missing name should be his." Sam quickly uncovered the lead.
"That creature definitely came into contact with this man before," Dean said. "We need to find out what happened to him."
Fortunately, that part wasn't difficult anymore.
Now that they had an exact name, the rest became much easier. With the proper identification, Officer Hobbes was finally able to locate Robert Milano's records in the archives.
"He's dead," Hobbes reported over the phone after checking the files.
"The records say he died eight months after receiving the commendation medal. Supposedly, he accidentally discharged his firearm while alone in a remote mountain cabin."
Hobbes paused.
"But honestly… it sounds more like suicide."
He had also asked around the department for more information about Robert Milano.
Most people no longer remembered him, but a few older officers still did.
Their descriptions were remarkably consistent.
Milano had apparently possessed a difficult personality—blunt, rigid, and uncompromising.
But almost everyone agreed on one thing:
He had been a damn good cop.
Capable. Honest. Extremely competent.
However, while Hobbes continued digging into Milano's past, his superior suddenly called him into the office.
"I know you've been investigating Milano," his boss said gravely. "But I suggest you listen carefully."
"No matter what you uncover, don't spread it around. And don't let anyone else know."
The implication was painfully obvious.
His superior was practically ordering him to stop investigating altogether.
Seeing that reaction, Hobbes immediately realized there was definitely something suspicious buried in this case.
"Why?" Hobbes demanded.
"I can only tell you this," his superior replied quietly. "I was ordered to keep my mouth shut too."
He patted Hobbes on the shoulder.
"That should tell you enough. I'm saying this for your own good."
But despite the warning, the creature was still out there.
People were still dying.
And those grotesque murders felt less like killings and more like deliberate provocations aimed directly at Hobbes.
No matter what secrets were buried in the past, he couldn't abandon the investigation now.
While Hobbes searched for more information about Robert Milano, Frank and the others weren't sitting idle either.
Although Robert Milano was dead, he still had a daughter named Gretta Milano.
The three of them visited her home, hoping she could tell them more about her father.
Once again, the usefulness of fake FBI credentials proved itself.
The moment Gretta saw the badges, she accepted their identities without question.
"Ms. Milano," Frank said after entering the house, immediately noticing the unusual decor, "your home is... unique."
Everywhere they looked, there were paintings, statues, and decorations depicting angels.
Large angels. Small angels. Classical angels. Modern interpretations.
The entire house felt almost surrounded by them.
"I teach theology at a university," Gretta explained while pouring coffee for them. "I've always liked collecting angel-related artwork."
"Why are you investigating my father?" she asked.
"Your father's files were sealed for decades," Dean answered smoothly. "But recently we discovered several irregularities, so we wanted to ask about him directly."
"What kind of irregularities?" Gretta asked.
"Have you heard of Edgar Reese?" Dean said. "The serial killer who was executed recently."
"I know the case," she nodded. "I read the reports."
"That serial killer mentioned your father by name before his execution," Sam added.
Gretta's expression subtly tightened.
Then she unexpectedly asked a question that caught all three men off guard.
"Did he like singing?"
The trio exchanged glances.
"…Yeah," Frank finally answered after recalling the execution footage.
In the recording, the killer—or rather, the creature possessing him—had constantly been singing and humming to himself the entire way from the holding cell to the execution chamber.
"Before the execution," Gretta continued slowly, "did he touch anyone… or grab someone?"
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