Oh no, he really is going to die.
But writing an eight won't bother him much.
At this moment, Rekatis's attention was no longer on Conan's deduction, but rather on recalling whether he had committed any crime in the past, which led to this revenge.
What alarmed him even more was that he couldn't tell anyone about this plan, but someone still knew the whole thing and carried it out.
One after another, figures flashed through his mind, but he rejected them all.
He knew Ricardo Barre quite well; they often went out for drinks together. He looked fierce, but he was actually quite easy to get along with.
Meanwhile, McNold had also drunk with him before, but they weren't close because he felt McNold seemed a bit scheming.
He had never offended McNaughton under normal circumstances, otherwise McNaughton would have been running a hotel with him.
After thinking it over, he realized that he had never offended anyone so much in his previous career.
There were bound to be minor disagreements, but it certainly wouldn't warrant something as serious as falsely accusing him and sending him to jail.
"It's ironic, really. I originally wanted to prove your innocence, but the more I investigated, the more certain I became that you were the murderer." Conan squatted down and picked up the basketball.
“None of these are irrefutable pieces of evidence, little one,” Rekatis said with a smile.
Conan, holding the soccer ball, said, "Where are your shoes? Generally speaking, the smoke from an automatic pistol is emitted along with the spent cartridge case, while the smoke from a revolver radiates outwards from the gun body. Based on my reasoning, you should still be able to detect the smoke on your shoes."
"Please turn yourself in, I'm begging you."
Suddenly, Rekatis chuckled, "Sorry, I just finished polishing my shoes."
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