Wine And Gun (酒与枪) by 梦也梦也 (Chapter 37+ Translations) - Queen_Of_Hearts453 - 酒与枪 - 梦也梦也 | Wine and Gun (2024)

Chapter 1: 37. Dance, Dance, My Puppet (1) ED

Chapter Text

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In the middle of November, it started to snow in Westland.

Temperatures plummeted again and again, and the city, which already received lots of precipitation in the fall and winter, was thoroughly covered by snow that fell within the three days. As a result, traffic was backed up, shelters were filling up, and following the night sky that got darker and darker, earlier and earlier, the crime rates for armed robberies were picking up a few notches.

It was now a cold, Saturday morning, and Herstal was standing in the doorway of a small theater with a very shabby-looking facade. The snow had stopped, but the people outside could hardly escape the illusion of being frozen from the inside out; each person's breath was accompanied by a cloud of rising white air, the steps of the little theatre was frozen with layers of frost that was trampled on by passer-bys.

Herstal glanced impatiently at his watch: he was running a little late, and he blamed the terrible city traffic after the snow.

The dilapidated building in front of him, which he normally wouldn't even enter, was the root cause of why on such a lovely, overtime-free weekend, Herstal wasn't able to catch up on his sleep:

Because every Saturday morning, a meeting of Sexual Assault Trauma Anonymous meeting was held in this little theatre.

-- Then again, it should all be Olga's fault.

Herstal hadn't seen Albarino Bacchus in a while -- or rather, he hadn't gone to see the other man after that sudden epiphany. He didn't have paid vacations to take like the other man did, and even after that business with Johnny the Killer, he still had to go to work every day as usual. Olga still went to dinner with him when she could, and Albarino never showed up again.

‘Maybe serial killers are starting to hibernate too,’ Olga said briskly at one of their dinners, ‘he hasn't moved in a while since the Gardener put that skull on your desk.’

‘He last committed a crime at the end of September, logically speaking, he used to wait three or four months before he returned to a case.’ Herstal pointed out coldly that he saw absolutely nothing to celebrate in the Sunday Gardener's recent peace of mind -- besides, he understood perfectly well why things had turned out the way they had, given that Albarino was now living in the city, and downtown apartments were just too unsuitable for corpse disposal.

‘They're all constantly changing their patterns, and they've been committing crimes a lot more often lately’ Olga said with infinite tolerance.

Herstal coughed dryly and asked, ‘For what reason?’

‘For the Westland Pianist,’ Olga replied with a wink, ‘and for you-- anything is possible.’

For a profiler, a change in the serial killer's pattern and the accelerated frequency with which they committed their crimes might instead be a good thing: Herstal had seen too many cases, and the more cases a killer committed, the more mistakes they might make, and the more ambitious they became about themselves, the more reckless they became. Apparently, a number of serial killers had ended up getting caught because they made such a mistake.

Anyway, for all intents and purposes, the Westland Pianist would have to be quiet for a while, and the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit agent who'd left the city was interested in the previous sexual assault case. It was better that he didn't take any desperate risks at a time like this.

Besides, even taking away his part-time night job, it's clear that others had no intention of letting him off the hook either: his partner Holmes has recently taken on a big case to help exonerate a highly publicized movie star accused of murdering her husband, a case that's so popular with the media that if it is handled right, they would be able to stage a live version of ‘Chicago’, and of course the whole firm was so busy that everyone was on their feet; on the other hand...

On the other hand, right after this talk about the Sunday Gardener at dinner, Olga lobbied him for two hours just to get him to go to a psychological support group. Her argument was, ‘If you won't go to a psychiatrist about Johnny the Killer, at least join a support group.’

Herstal had just put down his fork at the time, and he subconsciously refused, ‘I-’

Then he suddenly realized that he didn't really have any excuse to make.

After all, what a grand statement Olga had made, and Herstal realized in despair that he simply couldn't refuse the offer if he wanted to play the part of a normal person. He'd better not let a keen profiler realize that Johnny the Killer hadn't left him with any psychological shadow at all.

And since he didn't want to be tortured by a psychiatrist for an hour at a time -- and he couldn't tell the psychiatrist anything anyway, unless he could say, ‘I was kidnapped by a serial killer because I was framed, but I stabbed the serial killer to death anyway’? -- Then a psychological support group seemed like the best option, and at least he'd get to sit in the back row without having to speak.

So Herstal hesitated for a few seconds while Olga looked at him with concern and anticipation, until Herstal sighed and gave in and said, ‘All right, all right, I'll think about it. Do you know of any mutual aid societies you can recommend?’

So now Herstal was really standing in the doorway of a mutual aid society.

Now this Sexual Assault Trauma Anonymous mutual aid society was recommended by Olga as well, and Herstal, who knew nothing about these gatherings, simply saved himself the trouble of going online and looking up various websites. Olga's original words were, ‘The founder of this support group is a friend of mine from my time in the Chicago Police Department, and the reputation of the support group is very good -- you can only attend meetings if you have a recommendation, so you never have to worry about the attendee list leaking or anything like that.’

So just like that, Herstal was about to fall into a despairing situation involving hand holding and reciting the Niebuhr prayer. He really didn't really know if he'd snort with laughter when everyone chanted something like, ‘Consider hardship as a path to peace, and accept this sinful world as the Lord Jesus did.’

So it's better to say this: Herstal has no interest in this mutual aid society, but was just going along with the motions. He was still thinking about the PowerPoint he'd have to give at next Monday's meeting when he pushed open the door to the small theatre. The dry creak of the hinges, like someone grinding their teeth in their sleep, quickly drew the attention of a ginger-haired lady.

‘Hello,’ the lady said, her voice soft and gentle as she approached and extended her hand to him, ‘I'm the person in charge of today's Mutual Aid meeting, areyouthe person that Ms. Molozer recommended...? ‘

Of course Olga didn't say his name, because this was an ‘anonymous’ mutual aid meeting, and it was up to him how he wanted to introduce himself.

So Herstal just had to answer ‘yes’ to the question and give the lady's soft fingertips a little shake, since whatever he did could be explained by psychological trauma. The lady guided him through the cramped corridors of the small theatre, introducing him to the Mutual Aid Society as she went along.

In fact, Olga had already told him most of the information: participants were not required to attend every meeting of the organization, they were basically free to come and go as they wished, and there was no problem with arriving late or leaving early, but only those who had been recommended could join the organization. The referral system guaranteed the secrecy of the mutual aid society, which, according to the ginger-haired woman, was the reason why their mutual aid society had many ‘sensitive identity’ members.

Herstal didn't know just how ‘sensitive’ these sensitive identities were, but it was clear that if a person was well known in his or her field, he or she probably wouldn't want others to know that they belonged to a Sexual Assault Support Group.

One more turn down the hallway and they were inside the small theatre. There were about twenty to thirty members of the Mutual Aid Society, all of whom were now sparsely seated in the first few rows of the small theatre's auditorium. There was a chair set up directly in front of the stage, where a girl who appeared to be fifteen or sixteen years of age was seated, recounting her experience in a red-eyed, whispered voice.

Generally speaking, Herstal didn't like to be late, but he had clearly missed the beginning of the meeting, obviously having misjudged the size of the traffic jam caused by the snow.

By the time Herstal was guided by the lady to take a seat in the corner of the fourth row of the auditorium, the girl had almost finished speaking. She wiped the corners of her eyes and wordlessly slid off the stool.

Herstal took the opportunity to observe the members of the Mutual Aid Society: he was sitting at the very back, so he could only see several rows of backs of heads right now, but even so, he could tell that there was still a preponderance of females within this Mutual Aid Society. Unsurprising, given the male-to-female ratio of victims in such cases.

So now he was faced with a myriad of heart breaking, true stories of sexual abuse -- a fact that made some parts of Herstal uncomfortable; perhaps, it was especially the part where he had to recount his ‘trauma’ in front of a group of emotionally delicate girls.

-- Some would question whether serial killers have a moral code, it didn't matter whether other people believed it or not, but Herstal himself had a moral code. In fact, he really, really despised sexual assault cases.

It may not be true that he was traumatized by the events of Johnny the Killer, but it was true that he was very disgusted by certain parts of the event. It was those parts that constantly reminded him that no one could ever truly leave their past behind, and that feeling of powerlessness was very unpleasant for him.

Because criminal psychologists are often right in their assumptions about what happened to serial killers during their childhoods: and that they were indeed trying to escape their haunted childhoods.

‘Well, thank you for sharing your story with us, Amy.’ At that very moment, the ginger-haired lady said in a soft voice while Herstal sat at the very back, reaching up and rubbing his brow, ‘So, who wants to share next?’

A man in the front row raised his hand, followed by a low scuffling of clothing and the sound of others sitting next to that man moving to make room for the speaker. A dozen seconds later, the new speaker deftly circled the stage and stood in front of the members of the Mutual Aid Society.

-- Or in other words: when Hestal saw the familiar face of Albarino Bacchus. His head was really starting to hurt.

Herstal stared at the other man for a few seconds: Albarino didn't look much different than he did half a month ago. It was impossible to see if those wounds had healed well under the fabric of his shirt, and the way the other man jumped onto the stage with a light hand didn't look like he was still suffering from pain.

The hair on the back of Albarino's head was still extraordinarily scraggly and messy, probably something to do with the portion of it that had been shaved off in order to close the wound. Herstal guessed that they had sprouted short stubble, he could almost mentally trace the feel of his fingers running through those hairs.

It was a long second, he wasn't sure if it could be categorized as a second, as Herstal stared intently at the stage. While no smirk tugged at the corners of Albarino's mouth, those sharp green eyes swept over Herstal with an intent look that was by no means impossible to mistaken.

Surely, surely, Albarino had noticed Herstal as soon as he entered.

And then Herstal realized, as an afterthought: that they were bound to end up in a situation like this, which he should have realized from the onset. Albarino would also obviously go to a mutual aid meeting, which he would use to maintain his image as a psychologically fragile normal person; the case of the Pianist was currently in the spotlight, and he mustn't show any abnormalities in front of so many police officers.

And he certainly wasn't going to see a psychiatrist; lying in front of a psychiatrist once a week was a tiring job, and a support group with no professional psychologists involved was certainly a good alternative.

Since both of them had been caught up in the not-so-real sexual assault case by mistake, it wasn't out of the question that they'd show up at a psychological support meeting. Not to mention the fact that they both knew Olga Molozer, and it would certainly make sense for them to attend a particular meeting through Olga's introduction.

-- But it was just as well that they ran into each other at the mutual aid meeting, Herstal never expected that this man would even take the initiative to speak on stage. Could it be that this psychopath wasn't just a psychopath, but also a person with a performing personality disorder?

It was a question that would probably never get a real answer without taking Albarino to a mental institution and sawing his brain apart. The man was now sitting in the chair that belonged to the speaker, hiding his exuberance in a subtle way.

Softly and slowly -- almost heartbreakingly -- he spoke, ‘Hello everyone, my name is Al.’

The rest of the Mutual, of course, replied in unison, ‘Hello, Al,’ and the sound rumbled under the dome of the small theater. This was a place where people were supposed to tell the truth, and in Albarino's own story, the line between truth and fantasy had blurred.

Another fact that Herstal knew in his heart was that it was possible for Albarino to actually be recognized by someone else. Albarino had been a suspect when the Bob Landon case occurred, and his pictures were all over the Internet at that time. Even if he'd only been vaguely brought up as a victim within the Pianist case, there were many who were convinced that Dr. Bacchus was the victim in that case, according to reports from the Westland Daily News.

Anyone who followed the news on a regular basis was likely to recognize Albarino, and this Anonymous Mutual Aid meeting wasn't really anonymous to Albarino at all; whereas Herstal didn't have this kind of trouble: the coverage of the victims in the Johnny the Killer case didn't even include photos or a real name, and no one knew that it had happened to him.

But as things stood, Albarino obviously didn't care.

‘About half a month ago,’ is how Albarino chooses to begin his account, deliberately keeping his voice low and muffled, ‘I was attacked by a criminal in the home I was in.’

This was not entirely true, for apparently he had stayed up all night waiting for that criminal to come through his door without even locking it.

Herstal's eyes scraped across his cheeks like knives, and instead of ducking his head to avoid the gaze of others like most traumatized people would do, Albarino's gaze paused on Herstal for an extraordinarily deep two seconds as he scanned the crowd.

Herstal remembered the look Albarino had given him after he'd entered that night, the other man sitting in an armchair by the fire, turned slightly, his chestnut-coloured curls gilded with a hazy golden halo by the fire. That richly suggestive smile on the corners of his mouth at that moment, and the fruity scent of white wine that filled the air.

That odd grape --

‘Are you sure you don't want a taste, Pianist?’

And at the moment the crowd held its breath; most victims in cases like this were attacked in dark alleys or during home invasions, but Albarino's story was a rarity.

He continued saying, ‘I was attacked because I'm a ...uh, you guys can interpret it like this: I'm a law enforcement officer, and a criminal I had a problem with attacked me just to get back at me.’

Herstal sneered: it wasn't just any ‘criminal with a problem’, because the ‘problem’ was mainly because Albarino had induced Johnny the Killer to kidnap the ‘criminal’, but it was a story that would be just too crazy to tell.

‘...The police officers didn't catch him, and I'm guessing he's still on the loose right now,’ Albarino said, and how in the world did he manage to mix in a lifelike choke in that sentence? ‘I don't understand why that criminal chose to treat me in -- in such -- ‘ There was a dubious pause here that could easily be construed as a grief-stricken pause. ‘...to treat me in such a way. There are times when I thought that he might as well have just have killed me, and then it would all end painlessly, but...’

Herstal still remembered the touch of his fingers closing around the other man's neck, so warm, so soft, he wanted to kill the other man, wanted to slit his neck and watch the blood gush out from beneath the scarred skin. Human desire was so shallow and blunt, and that unquenchable smile in Albarino's eyes would always rob such imagery of its original meaning.

It was a reminder that Herstal was still deep in his opponent's trap, and as such, there was no point in killing him. That could not be considered a victory in the true sense of the word, just a crude way for the loser to topple the board.

That being said, the process of violating him, of killing him, would almost lose its original beauty, and all would be nothing more than Albarino watching the butterfly struggling in the center of his spider's web.

And now, at this very moment, Albarino was vocally describing to the others the pain of his hypocrisy and his non-existent inner struggle. Albarino cared about what had happened to him, about his scars and about the fact that he was being displayed naked in front of all his co-workers, no more than he cared about a dewy-eyed lover. Those emotionless eyes, that delicate silver tongue, was weaving a lie that was enough to bring tears to the eyes of his audience.

He said, ‘He broke me -- it was as if a part of me had left me forever.’

Herstal wanted to laugh at this statement, he did not think that he could ever really take away a part of Albarino, especially not the part related to the ‘heart’; their discussion in the hospital about the Sunday Gardener's heart had ended in nothing, and they had not been able to prove that the organ in the literary sense really existed in Albarino's case.

Perhaps it was the slow, mournful sounds of Albarino's narration that somehow fuelled his madness, because next Herstal did something he shouldn't have -- he took a few seconds to go off on a tangent, lowering his head to pull out his cell phone, and sending a picture to Albarino.

Albarino's cell phone number had been changed after the last accident, because obviously the Pianist had taken a bunch of pictures of him on his own cell phone after he attacked him, and took that cell phone with him after staging the crime scene.

That old cell phone card of Albarino's hadn't been used since, and Hardy and the others certainly couldn't locate the Pianist through the signal from the card. They were all convinced that Albarino's cell phone must have been thrown into a sewer somewhere by the Pianist -- which it was, that phone was indeed now in the sewers -- but Herstal had made copies of the pictures in it before he threw it away.

It was a pretty crazy idea, and as he'd said, most serial killers lost to hubris, which was the main reason Herstal never collected mementos of the dead or returned to the scene of the crime. Logically, he shouldn't have kept those photos, because even the WLPD only had scans of the printouts he left at the scene. The only person who had the originals of those photos was the Westland Pianist, which is a logic so easily deducable that even a child could come to that conclusion.

Therefore, after he copied the photos, he still felt that it was inappropriate, and destroyed most of those files sporadically over the next few days, destroying them so thoroughly that even the police department's tech department could never recover the data.

But right now, he still had a photo on his cell phone that hadn't been printed out by the Westland Pianist and pasted onto the walls of the crime scene: the photo was of Albarino lying on the ground with his eyes closed tightly, his lips and skin without much colour, his hair loose, most of it piled up in a messy heap in front of his forehead.

That photo didn't capture any particularly private parts, unlike the insulting composition the Pianist had left on the scene; the bottom of the photo only captured Albarino's hipbone, and the focus was actually mostly on Albarino's face from above; the night time light accentuated the graceful curves of those exercise-yielded muscles, the rainy night's interlocking, splotched shadows, and the oil paint like blood that smeared across his skin.

Herstal hadn't ended up printing the picture when he was setting the scene, feeling that the composition seemed to reveal too much of his ego -- and he had a strange fear, a sense of pure, out-of-nowhere apprehension that told him that Olga would see what was going on. Though he didn't know exactly what it was, he felt that Olga would surely see through it.

Now he sent that picture to Albarino.

Less than two seconds later, everyone heard Albarino's cell phone vibrate.

The victim, who was sitting in the center of the stage, whispered an apology to the others, took out his phone and scanned it absently -- and then Herstal saw Albarino's eyes widen slightly, a somewhat unbelievable look, which wasn't exactly out of place on the other man's face, but was truly something to be cherished -- He said nothing, and showed no other unnecessary expression, but quickly put his cell phone back into the pocket of his jacket.

When he began to speak again, he was calm as if nothing had happened.

But that was clearly not the case.

Because Albarino stood up, deliberately injecting some traces of agitation into his body language. He spoke hesitantly to the group, ‘I'm having a hard time getting over this accident for another reason: because I know that the criminal doesn't want me to forget. That criminal will be a constant reminder of what happened to me, and for the rest of my life I will be with him.’

He paused and took a deep breath, the tone in which he said it bordering on sincerity, but it was nothing more than ‘bordering’.

‘He left some ... indelible marks. I've been running away from that reality, but ... that seems unfair, and I should face the final outcome.’ Albarino whispered, and he even bit his lower lip. Herstal saw teeth sinking into it, biting the soft, bloody flesh until it was white, ‘I wish I had enough courage, just to be able to -- assuming I can show --’

There was a hesitant pause from Albarino, and the others probably didn't expect him to do what he did, so there was a storm of astonished, little gasps as he did it.

Albarino was wearing a jacket over a soft pullover with a loose hem. After this disguised, lifelike, hesitant pause, he simply reached out a hand and grasped the hem of the shirt and lifted it up.

-- For the first time since the thirtieth of last month, Herstal saw the string of scars on Albarino's abdomen. The letters that those slashes hooked together had probably been unstitched for almost a week now, and were still dropsy and red. Thirteen cuts, an insulting term, neatly stitched yet still looking twisted, the new born delicate skin glistening in the light from the lack of texture.

Herstal would always remember the touch of the knife penetrating the skin, how the blood flowed along his fingers; that smile seemed to finally subside as Albarino's eyes lolled in excruciating pain, but remained stubbornly stationary.

‘That's what he left me.’ Albarino whispered.

Chapter 2: 38. Dance, Dance, My Puppet (2) ED

Chapter Text

By the time Albarino sat back down in his seat, there were a number of eyes still glued to him. Herstal was familiar with stares like that -- shock, pity, the kind of empathy that the Westland Pianist lacked the most.

The ginger-haired lady who'd returned to the stage after he stepped down, also looked a little overwhelmed. It was clear that Albarino had never been up on the stage before, no matter how many times he'd attended such a meeting.

The lady was on stage asking the next person to come and share their story when Herstal's phone gave a low vibration, he unlocked the screen to see the latest message received pop up.

‘This photo's taken pretty nicely.’

-- Albarino said it like this.

Herstal sneered coldly internally: he'd always had some ridiculous fantasies, such as the idea that if Albarino was finally arrested one day, there would be a good chance that his mental problems could be used as a defence -- assuming that he got a good enough lawyer, he could be sentenced to a lifetime of ‘convalescence’ in a mental institution.

Herstal had seen too many murderers who had escaped the electric chair on the grounds of mental problems, and some of the particularly famous ones had even published their autobiographies while in prison or in hospital. If Albarino ever fell that far, he would have been sure to have his picture enlarged and printed on the covers of all the books, because he was a hell of an egomaniac like that.

While he was thinking about all this, the next narrator was already on the stage: a scrawny, dark-haired boy with a gaunt-looking face and deep shadows under his eyes.

He shuffled to the stage, his legs shifting uneasily as he sat on top of the stool. He whispered, ‘Hello everyone, my name is Billy.’

There was of course a scattering of ‘Hello, Billy’ greetings, and then the boy, who looked decidedly underage, began to tell his story.

Something about him caught Herstal's attention -- perhaps it was the extraordinarily thin legs wobbling in his empty pants, the greenish-purple shadows of fatigue beneath his eyes, or his hands: the clothes he was wearing were clearly not well-fitting, so that a sliver of his wrist was exposed at the cuff. Herstal had good eyesight, and the lights in the small theatre were bright enough to allow him to make out the scars that ran the length of the young man's wrists. Judging by their colours, they had been there for a long time.

As well as that -- and especially that -- the young man's face, which was clearly marked by several scars on his chin, still fresh and uneven from healing. Herstal believed that the shapes were of bite marks left behind after they had scarred.

‘Try cutting .’ Herstal could recall Albarino's voice, as calm as a deep pool, the night just after he had killed Bob Landon.

Something about the young man's qualities had caught Herstal's attention, and when he realized exactly what was catching his attention, he suddenly felt annoyed. The irritation came with a vengeance, similar to the moment when he'd finally stabbed the knife into Elliot Evans' throat, similar to the moment when he had choked Albarino until the other man had suffocated, similar to the moment when he had hung those two men in that little church in Kentucky.

He clenched his fists to quell this sudden agitation.

At such moments, Herstal tended to have mixed feelings: now that he knew what irritated him, he began to despise himself extraordinarily. Despising the fact that he was still fragile, stupidly still incapable of accepting certain truths; disdain for his own inability to control his anger, which was the enemy of mankind, especially when you're a serial killer -- where you're bound to make some big mistakes because you couldn't control your anger.

And still the young man continued to speak, his voice bitter but quiet, he was saying, ‘...But I think he's back again, the last few days I always feel like someone is following me when I go out, I'm even sure I saw him near the subway station. I always try to reassure myself that it's because I'm so uptight that I'm hallucinating, but --’

The young man, who apparently came to this support group often, made a passing reference to his previous encounter, but most people still understood him, probably because he had been up on the stage many times before.

Herstal listened for a moment, and quickly grasped the gist of the story: roughly, the young man had attended a boarding school on the other side of the city, and had been stalked and pestered by one of the teachers during his time there.

The teacher had called Billy out of his dormitory one night and attacked him, a part that Billy had glossed over, but Herstal deduced from a few words that Billy had not been victimized at that time because his shouting attracted the attention of the janitor -- but whether the bite marks on his body were from the teacher, or if Billy been intent on self-harming sometime after this incident, was hard to say.

Herstal actually thought the whole thing was pretty obvious.

In any case, since the assault hadn't materially occurred, or maybe something had happened during the courtroom defence that Billy hadn't mentioned -- Herstal, as an lawyer, was able to come up with four or five different scenarios -- if the teacher wasn't in jail now, he'd obviously have lost his job and presumably under a restraining order from the court not to be around Billy.

The young man was now sadly recounting his suspicions about being followed, and he seemed more inclined to believe that he had been nervous to the point of insanity. His voice trembled, and the unconsciously lengthened ending sounds were vaguely tinged with sobbing.

If one took a closer look at the gaunt-faced child, one might be able to deduce why the delinquent had chosen him: he was a little too skinny for his own good, but his face was actually very beautiful. It was reflective of those refined and delicate boys in classical paintings. Beautiful, with a pair of lake-like blue eyes.

‘I love you more than all the other children’

Herstal frowned.

‘Hey! Herstal!’

After they finally got past several other people sharing their experiences, sharing several psychology readings with the facilitator of the meeting, and finally literally holding hands and memorizing the Bunyip Prayer[1], the support group meeting was finally called to a close.

[1] A common prayer used by many psychological support groups, begins with ‘God, grant me the peace to accept what I cannot change.’

Herstal had really hoped to slip away as fast as possible, but that was obviously impossible now, he was caught up from behind by Albarino just as he was leaving for the door.

It was at this moment that he felt that prickling desire in his fingers again, making him want to stab that knife in his pocket into Albarino's chest just so he could keep him from continuing whatever he was going to say.

But he obviously couldn't, and Albarino, walking briskly behind him said, ‘You're in a bad mood.’

‘How so?’ Herstal asked rhetorically.

‘Reading your emotions is a delicate study; after all, there are so few expressions you are willing to show.’ Albarino said lazily, ‘But I believe I have become slightly more accomplished in the discipline.’

He had the nerve to say ‘reading people's emotions’, why on earth had they been reduced to discussing emotions with a psychopath?

Herstal snorted, not really wanting to cause trouble with him, only trying to get to the parking lot as fast as possible. Albarino was close behind him as he continued in that overly relaxed voice, ‘I guess it's not my problem, is it?’

Herstal jerked to a halt, almost causing Albarino, who didn't have enough time to brake, to crash into him. He turned back with a fiery glare and questioned, ‘Where the hell did you get the idea that it's not your problem?!’

Although Herstal always wore a stern face, intimidating many interns at the firm into trembling, he rarely ever really lost his temper. When losing your temper at work could result in a contempt of court charge, you were expected to be able to control your temper.

As it turns out, this restraint was almost ineffective in the presence of Albarino.

‘Let us recall,’ Albarino replied in a brisk tone, ‘that you came to my house to see me the day I was discharged from the hospital, and then we immediately had passionate sex; then the next thing I know you made some profound remarks about love, and immediately after that you left my house right away. No staying the night, not even a good night, and by the way, never contacted me again, just like all those dick-pulling, heartless scumbags do.’

Albarino's voice remained relaxed as he said those words, but he unnecessarily raised his voice a bit. He certainly wasn't the kind of guy to get upset over something like this, for God's sake, this little psycho was just trying to get the attention of the passersbys coming and going along the road.

-- He even looked a little happier when a group of passersbys turned their extraordinarily visceral gazes on Hestal.

With a headache, Herstal grabbed Albarino's elbow and whispered a warning, ‘Dr. Bacchus.’

‘Oh yes, and on that I'll keep my mouth shut forever, and I don't even have to swear on the Bible.’ Albarino blinked cheerfully, then suddenly lowered his voice, that smile disappearing from his face as quickly as sand seeping through a sieve. ‘I understand what you're concerned about: you're worried that if things go on like this, you won't be willing to kill me one day -- no, that description isn't accurate, because you obviously have the fortitude to kill anyone, right?’

He paused briefly, then rephrased, ‘You're worried that one day you'll actually feel sad when you kill me ... and that makes you feel like things are slipping out of your control, so you chose to disappear.’

Albarino could feel Herstal's fingers tighten slightly on his elbow. He leaned forward, his lips almost grazing Hestal's earlobe, and blew out the words with a sticky airy tone.

He said intimately, ‘Control freak.’

Herstal's fingers suddenly loosened.

‘How strange that is, Herstal.’ Albarino said in a conversational tone, grabbing Herstal's wrist in a backhanded grip and tugging him toward a nearby, sparsely populated alleyway. Herstal didn't really want to stand on the side of the road under everyone's gazes and so he had to follow in his footsteps.

Albarino continued as he walked, ‘The Westland Pianist doesn't exactly solve problems that way, does he? Because the best way to solve a problem is murder, and this serial killer realized that from the very beginning: I don't know if he killed the people who caused him harm or not, but he killed at least two people related to that incident. In the years that followed, he killed many more who could drag him back into the darkness of those memories from that year. Some criminal psychologists believe that the Pianist's killing spree was the result of his childhood trauma, that his madness drove him to commit the crime, and that by killing these sinful people, he would feel safe ... but I'm afraid I can't agree with that.’

He paused, and even as the two of them walked one behind the other, Herstal could hear the smile in his voice.

They had reached the shadows between the buildings, where the snow made the ground look especially white, making the shadows between the blinding reflections of the sun particularly dark. It was colder in the shadow where the sunlight couldn't reach, and it was in that cold that Albarino let go of his wrist and turned his head to look at him.

Those mint green eyes were nearly grey in the shadows, so cold, so sharp.

‘Why don't you kill me?’ He asked, almost in a murmur.

Herstal did not answer -- because the question seemed insane, but it hit the heart of everything. Albarino looked almost wolf-like in the shadows, some sort of exotic yet ferocious beast, his mouth still tugged in a sharp smile, using it to cut into the souls of others.

‘You know this well enough: I will do you harm, as those men did to you as well.’ Albarino sighed softly and tersely, ‘The Sunday Gardener is a born psychopath who is incapable of empathy or loving people. Since genetics restrict me from loving you as a human -- I am bound to make you hurt, and the moment my interest in you finally fizzles out, that's when it will all happen.’

--The moment when the flame goes out.

Novelists will write stories like this: if a person's line is ‘Why don't you kill me? I'm bound to hurt you,’ then it's usually a tragic love story, Romeo and Juliet style, where the protagonists can't be married because of their status, where a rose isn't called a rose, and so on and so forth.

But not Albarino, who said this almost provocatively, as if he were observing an animal he had never seen before, luring it with his bait and waiting with great curiosity for the moment when it would bite the bait. This curiosity bordered on cruelty, and was the source of Herstal's indecision.

‘Why don't you kill me?’ Albarino repeated, ‘Or did you really eat the apple with that forbidden pleasure?’

The next moment -- actually, Herstal hadn't really thought about what to do, but apparently he didn't have to think about it anymore -- the next moment Albarino shoved him violently against the dirty wall of the alley, the rough bricks pressing hard against his spine through his coat.

With one hand on his elbow and one on his shoulder, Albarino just held him there, not actually pushing too hard. Herstal knew that he could easily break free whenever he wanted to.

‘The pleasure is very intense, isn't it? Just like heroin’ Albarino whispered against his ear, his hot breath brushing moistly against his skin, ‘It's like doing something you know you're not supposed to: the first time you kill someone, the first time you write a letter to the police, the first time you make a big deal out of displaying the body in public -- we're all dancing on the tip of a knife, touching the edge of taboos that should never have been touched.’

‘Including you yourself.’ Herstarl whispered, sounding as if he was speaking through gritted teeth.

‘ -- Including myself, as far as you're concerned.’ Albarino replied tolerantly, his fingers moving upward, his fingertips swept across Herstal's chin, touching the stubble that was beginning to rise; Herstal tilted his head slightly to one side, but didn't push his hand away. ‘So think hard, Pianist, about what it is you seek in me, and whether that makes you feel as if you belong.’

He narrowed his eyes and slowly lifted Herstal's chin with his fingers, then leaned over to lick his neck.

-- There was a small, inconspicuous white scar on his neck, usually hard to see with his tie on. But today, he came to an anonymous support meeting, so for once, he uncharacteristically wasn't wearing a tie. Albarino nudged the tip of his nose over the loosened collars and then licked the old scar.

He could feel Herstal's entire body stiffen; the other man was obviously fighting his instincts with immense difficulty. But, as taut as he was, he remained motionless, even though Albarino was sure that the knife was resting right where he could touch it with one lift of his fingers.

‘You're not really mad because of my behaviour today, you're really not.’ Albarino buried his head in the nape of his neck and said vaguely, ‘You're angry because of that Billy boy -- you saw something in him, and that something ... triggered some unpleasant memories, didn't it ?’

‘That was a very impressive statement you made.’ Herstal said ambiguously, and Albarino suspected that he had hit the nail on the head.

As far as the Pianist was concerned, the thrill of staying in this game gave him as much pleasure as continuing his nightly part-time job -- it wasn't unusual to come to that conclusion. Albarino remembered the look in Herstal's eyes as he held the knife that night at his house. Imagining the kind of passion that could be generated by watching another homicidal maniac, who knew everything about him, succumb underneath him, Albarino could somewhat envision it -- though, the consequences of such an act was almost deadly.

For Hestal, he had clearly come to the conclusion that, ‘if I don't kill you now, one day I'll fall in love you,’ but he chose not to take any action, instead, he simply chose to disappear without a trace, it was very unusual.

That was precisely what made the ‘taboo’ so taboo.

Albarino's teeth scraped over his adam's apple, and he could hear Herstal's heart pounding loudly like a drum. His pulse throbbed under his lips like war, like life.

‘As I said, I have become slightly more accomplished in this discipline.’ Albarino replied quietly.

Chapter 3: 39. Dance, Dance, My Puppet (3) ED

Chapter Text

By the time Herstal reached the parking lot, he could still feel a lingering moistness at the back of his neck.

Albarino was still following him leisurely, because, according to the other man, ‘I'm going to the subway near the parking lot’. Herstal decided that if it turned out that the other man was lying, he might as well run him under the wheels of his car.

He let his tyrannical fantasies go on for a while, until he saw that there really was a subway station located at the intersection near the parking lot. Herstal reached his car that was parked at the edge of the parking lot, and Albarino was supposed to be heading in the direction of the subway station by now.

This was the way things were supposed to go: the two of them pretending to say courteous goodbyes, hiding their true thoughts under heartfelt smiles, and then immediately, wait for their next encounter at some point. They seemed like metal balls on the opposite sides of a Newtonian pendulum; the moment one fell the other was ejected, never to be parallel, a brief contact followed by a long lonely flight.

So of course, they had brief encounters and kisses, but never spent the night in each other's beds.

-- As it should have been, until things suddenly sped off in the other direction.

For a man suddenly emerged from the side of the parking lot and came sprinting towards them. It was a shaggy-haired, thirty-something looking male, he appeared non-threatening, but was clearly aiming for the two of them. Albarino noticed the other man as well, and it only took him two sideway glances in that direction before the other party was already rushing up beside them.

‘Hello Dr. Bacchus,’ the man didn't even bother to look at Herstal, rudely ignoring him. ‘I'm Leohard Scheiber, special correspondent for the 'Westland Daily News', could you please -- ‘

The special correspondent had a slightly European accent, and Herstal also noticed that on his right hand, which was cupping the recorder, his pinky finger was broken off at the base. The colour of the scar was striking, likely a wound made from within the past year or two.

‘Can't.’ Albarino replied firmly before the reporter could even finish his question.

There was only a slight pause from the other party, clearly not surprised by Albarino's answer. Scheiber was obviously not disappointed, only continuing to ask, ‘But Dr. Bacchus, you should know that many people on the internet now believe that you are the victim of that sexual assault case committed by the Westland Pianist some time ago...’

‘I understand what they think, but what does that have to do with me?’ Albarino asked rhetorically, ‘Although I wasn't involved in the solving of that case -- as you know, I was still on vacation due to the incident during the Landon case at the time -- I'm sorry, but in accordance with the WLPD's usual practice, I can't reveal too much information.’

‘Even if it affects your reputation?’ Scheiber asked.

‘I wonder why you think so, Mr. Reporter, that being considered a rape victim affects my reputation? Are we in an era where virgins are to be sacrificed to evil dragons?’ Albarino gave a light chuckle, still wearing that gentle façade that made it impossible to peek into his true thoughts, ‘I think this case affects the Pianist's reputation more than anything else -- this kind of case is too tasteless, even for a serial killer. ‘

Herstal swept Albarino a glance.

‘But didn’t you just come from an Anonymous Mutual Aid Society?’ Scheiber continued, his eyes glowing, ‘The manager of the little Theater told me that every Saturday the theater hosts a Sexual Assault Trauma Anonymous support group for --’

‘Okay, Mr. Scheiber.’ Herstal interrupted coldly, ‘Are you stalking Dr. Bacchus? That's already an alleged violation of one's right to privacy.’

The reporter, finally willing to spare Herstal a look, asked, ‘Andyouare?’

‘I'm his lawyer,’ Herstal replied simply, ‘Also please delete the recording, my client did not consent to this recording being made, and I don't suppose you would want to be sued for such a trivial matter -- Dr. Bacchus?’

Albarino glanced at Herstal with a hint of a hidden smile in his eyes. Then he replied lightly, ‘Let's go.’

Herstal looked at Albarino's expectant gaze and suddenly realized what the other man was hinting at, but there was no way for him to back out now: he could, of course, just get into his car and walk away like this and leave Albarino alone with this reporter, but then the other man would definitely follow Albarino all the way to the subway station. Although Albarino certainly will not disclose any key information to Scheiber, the action of ‘the lawyer leaving his client in place to deal with reporters’ seemed inappropriate.

Now the corners of Albarino's mouth joined in the formation of a smile, his eyes shining, looking like a river of stars, the very look that constantly reminded him that: you couldn't defeat a man like that.

Because he didn't care.

Herstal had no choice but to take out his car keys and drive. After the click of the lock, Albarino nodded his head toward the reporter before opening the passenger side door and getting in with a flourish. Herstal held back a curse and a headache and slid into the driver's seat.

The door slammed shut, the good soundproofing immediately cut off everything the reporter outside the car wanted to say, and didn't want to say; the reporter gazed at the dark tinted glass with some displeasure, obviously upset that he hadn't gotten any juicy information out of Albarino, but if he knew Albarino well enough, he would know that he certainly wouldn’t say anything useful.

Herstal started the car and drove out of the parking lot.

The reporter's silhouette grew further and further away. Albarino stared sideways at the rear-view mirror for a moment before suddenly saying, ‘In that case, let's go to lunch.’

Herstal wasn't too shocked by the words that came out of the other person's mouth; as soon as you allowed the other man to get a little bit closer to you -- no matter how forced the situation was -- he was pretty much stuck to you like candy.

But he didn't expect Albarino's next comment to be, ‘I know a restaurant that sells the best cheeseburgers I've ever had in my life -- I took Elliot Evans to that restaurant.’

And once again, Herstal began to consider the idea of throwing the other man down and driving over him in his car.

In the end, they ended up going to that family restaurant. Herstal himself didn't quite understand when he started to compromise, or maybe, when one was around Albarino Bacchus, they would compromise sooner or later. During this process, the one who first says, ‘I will fall in love with you in the future’, naturally loses the upper hand in the game.

Herstal refused to order the cheese burger that Albarino had so highly recommended. His lunch consisted of: a salad, bread, and soup; but Albarino's did not. He was playing with his cell phone rather rudely as he waited for his food to arrive, and when it was served, he even tried to steal the sundried tomatoes from Herstal's bowl of salad with a fork while he dealt with his burger.

-- It was hard to imagine how this man did it, a psychopath, a serial killer, smiling, moving with an ease that was so smooth it was comparable to a breeze. As if they hadn't threatened to take a life, as if the Sunday Gardener didn't have a convoluted plan in mind about how well the blue flowers would match up with Herstal's eyes, as if they were playing a romantic love game of some kind.

‘He'll report what you said.’ Herstal said.

Albarino was slicing his mountain-like burger, which Herstal eyed as having at least four layers of buns. He didn't know how he was somehow managing to get such clean cuts with a knife without even a hint of cheese or sauce getting squeezed out. Albarino answered calmly as he dissected his burger as if it was on an autopsy table, ‘Of course he will, but I've neither provided any critical information nor said anything particularly inappropriate, so Bart probably won't be offended.’

He set the knife down on his plate, slowly licking the bit of cheese off his fingers, glancing at Herstal, before suddenly smiling.

‘Or,’ he said with a flirtatious undertone, ‘do you really care that I said the Pianist had no taste?’

Herstal snorted contemptuously.

‘Herstal,’ said Albarino, his voice dropping a little, almost as if he meant it, ‘whatever you've done, you're still very different from those people in Kentucky who hurt you, you know.’

Herstal looked at the other man -- and Albarino just kept his head down and ate, making little to no noise when he chewed. Even with this kind of food, he didn't get any sauce nor residue anywhere, it was almost like some kind of magic.

There was still something about him that still persistently articulated to others that he came from a well brought up, wealthy family, and at some point this essence that unconsciously came out of him mixed with his very different, usual style, to paint an extremely strange picture.

‘Are we going to talk about this?’ Herstal asked rhetorically, ‘Is your next sentence going to be 'I volunteered'?’

‘It’s true that I have been very voluntary, especially the part about sleeping with you -- no matter what the activity ends up presenting to the public.’ Albarino replied with a smirk.

Herstal shook his head, ‘So I'm just going to have to interpret this statement you just made as you excusing my behaviour?’

‘That's not entirely accurate. I'm simply stating the fact that 'you are different.' We both know that making excuses is meaningless -- by universal values and the law, we are guilty, but we are not bound by those principles. Some people might say, 'The Pianist is an overly violent vigilante, but what he does is actually beneficial to society,' and we both understand that that’s a ridiculous lie.’

Albarino explained, using a fork to put a piece of hamburger meat into his mouth. He chewed the beef, but Herstal always suspected that to him, this meat and the kind he had handled -- the kind he had orchestrated -- were no different. He didn't eat his prey simply because it was meaningless to him, just as the Pianist killed criminals because he followed the footsteps of his own wicked desires, those crimes essentially held no meaning to him.

‘What makes you different from them is that you never succumbed to the lowest of desires. You presented yourself to my eyes in a form of beauty, and that is where the meaning is derived from -- and incidentally, you and I both know that the Pianist's case wasn't really 'rape '.’

‘So, you're saying that everything revolves around your perception?’ Herstal sneered.

‘Why not think of it this way? Didn't Protagoras[1] say that ‘Of all things the measure is Man, of the things that are, that they are, and of the things that are not, that they are not’?’ Albarino replied cheerfully.

[1] Ancient Greek philosopher. Since his related works have long been lost, his theories can only be seen in Plato's Theaetetus and Protagoras.

‘It would be too arrogant to think so.’ Hestar replied in a low voice.

Albarino simply smiled, ‘Indeed.’

They were silent for a brief moment, but the quiet was interrupted by the low vibrating buzz of Albarino's cell phone. Albarino casually pulled his phone out and absently unlocked it -- Herstal wondered if his phone passcode was still ‘0725’ -- Albarino glanced at the new message on the screen, then smiled slowly.

‘I have some friends at the WLPD,’ Albarino said lightly. Herstal had reason to believe that ‘friends’ actually meant ‘corrupt cops who can be bribed,’ and given Albarino's level of discretion, the one he'd contacted probably didn't even know who he really was. ‘He looked into that Billy incident for me -- the teacher who hurt him is called Anthony Sharp. After the incident, he lost his job and is still unemployed at home.’

Herstal looked sharply at the other man, ‘What are you trying to say?’

Albarino's fingertips rhythmically tapped the tabletop one at a time, a blur of white in the sunlight. He continued unhurriedly, ‘As for the journalist named Leohard Scheiber, he's actually quite famous. Just a quick Google search will bring up a lot of information about him -- you know the high-profile case from last year? The one that happened in a small northern European country called Hoxton?’

Herstal thought for a moment, recalling the overwhelming global coverage from the second half of last year. ‘The country with the extremist who bombed a bunch of churches and kidnapped a cardinal?’

Albarino shrugged, apparently indicating that he was right, ‘Hoxton is a pretty nice country with beautiful scenery, I visited it once when I was on a trip around Europe. And the first church that he blew up -- an artistic masterpiece, supposedly designed by Robert de Luzarches [2] -- was destroyed in an instant.’

[2] French architect who designed the Bishop's Church of Amiens in France and the Bishop's Church of Cologne in Germany.

His voice sounded genuinely regretful, but there was always a strange smile on his face. Albarino paused for a moment and continued, ‘So you can imagine how highly publicized this case was. After it was resolved, the journalist who got the exclusive rights to the final report was the same Leohard Scheiber.’

‘That makes it sound as if he's outstanding, so why did he leave Europe?’ Herstal asked.

‘Who knows. Some say it’s because he was unscrupulous in digging up stories and messed with someone he shouldn't have.’ Albarino said slowly, smiling as he extended the pinky of his right hand and wiggled it, ‘Anyway, this reporter's got a terrible obsession with the things he wants to pursue -- things that he doesn't even know how dangerous they are himself. I think that's all you need to know.’

Herstal looked at him warily, ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

‘What I'm trying to say is, which of these two people: the ex-middle school teacher with a corrupt moral character, or the famous but seemingly morally challenged journalist ...would you choose to hunt?’ Albarino asked, looking almost curious as he propped one hand on his chin.

‘Is that what you're ultimately after?’ Herstal replied coldly and stiffly, putting his fork back on his plate and losing his appetite completely. ‘To use me as a puppet on strings, to watch me make my kills, and then get a cheap thrill out of it?’

‘That's not my intention at all,’ Albarino seriously, his eyes losing their glint of amusem*nt, it was nothing more than a facade. ‘Herstal, our relationship isn't one of puppet and ventriloquist. I don't speak for you -- have you ever heard that fairy tale?’

His conversation had apparently taken another sudden and strange turn in the direction of Albarino.

‘A student who came to the house to teach the child her homework taught the little Amelie a nursery rhyme, 'Dance, dance, my puppet! Your steps must follow the rhythm'; the adults thought it was a silly song, but not little Amelie. She understood the fun of the song, and so did the student, for it was he who wrote it.’

His voice was low and slow, but this was no time for bedtime stories. Albarino's fingers slowly crept across the table, his fingertips pressing against Herstal's knuckles lightly.

‘-- This is the relationship between us.’ He whispered.

‘That's it?’ Herstal didn't hide his disdainful laugh. ‘Singing songs no one understands, making puppets dance to a rhythm they've set for themselves --’

‘It's never completely without understanding. Isn't the key point that someone else thinks the song is great too? The student taught little Amelie the song, and she understood and loved it, and her puppet danced to its melody. Isn't that what's most important?’

Albarino countered, his fingers gently sweeping over the skin of his knuckles, the same hand that had once hurt him when clenched into a fist.

‘Herstal, will you sing that song with me?’

Chapter 4: 40. Dance, Dance, My Puppet (4) ED

Chapter Text

It was Wednesday night, and fine snowflakes were falling from the sky, leaving tiny glittering ice crystals under the canopy. Herstal and Albarino were sitting inside a rented car. God knows where the lawyer had found a garage where you could rent a car without having to register your license, but then again, this was Westland. It wasn't surprising to find people doing anything and everything here for a living.

They'd been parked in the blind spot of the camera for a while now, a thin layer of snowflakes had already accumulated on the car's windshield, distorting the view out of the window into strange shapes. It was a very old model SUV, and the heating system didn't work very well. Herstal had simply left the air conditioning on in order to stop the windows from fogging up; the car had only been stopped for a short while before Albarino began to feel his fingers freeze.

‘How boring.’ He complained lazily.

‘Since you invited me to 'sing that song together', it more or less means that you agreed to follow my steps when appropriate, unless I misunderstood you from the start.’ Herstal answered him in a harsh voice.

‘And apparently, your steps include being gradually frozen to death inside a broken-down car,’ muttered Albarino, ‘I didn't think of that at first.’

Herstal scrutinized him as if to make sure that he would actually freeze to death. Then he condescended to answer, ‘That's because Anthony Sharp is living in one of the worst-policed neighborhoods in all of Westland after losing his job. I'm guessing you don't want the neighbours with double-barrelled shotguns to storm the streets because you were making too much noise in this poorly sound-proofed slum -- so yes: you're going to have to stay here for a little longer until I've concluded when and where it is best to strike -- until then, I hope you're not actually fragile enough to freeze to death.’

‘If you had chosen to kill Leonard Schreiber, you wouldn't have ended up having to spy on your target in a neighborhood like this.’ Albarino sneered back.

‘That reporter doesn't meet my standards, and if you hadn't insisted on seeing me do it, then you could have killed Schreiber yourself.’ The mockery in Herstal's voice was over flowing.

Because obviously: the Westland Pianist killed like a cat slowly playing with its prey; he had to take his chosen one somewhere safe enough to slowly torture and dissect them, which meant he had to take his victim alive, which was inevitably a struggle without fatally injuring the other.

Therefore, the Pianist had to pick his environment carefully when committing a crime, or at least make sure that even if he made some big noises, he could still remain undetected. He was still in the stalking stage, only until he determined his target's daily movements, would he finalise the decision on how to do it.

On the other hand, the Sunday Gardener was different. The Sunday Gardener killed people like going out shopping. The main reason as to why he killed those people was because he needed their bodies, so the whole process was fast and sharp, slitting their throats with a knife. Sometimes, he would even intercept his victims directly in a deserted alleyway, attacking and killing them immediately; other times, there were other pedestrians passing only a few dozen meters away, and he would hide in the shadows along with the bloodied corpse bleeding at his feet, remaining unnoticed.

So the current situation was like this; since Albarino had insisted that Herstal do it, and what Sharp did had obviously touched some hidden pain in Herstal's heart, the other man hadn't refused the offer. But that meant they would need to make quite a few preparations for this.

‘And what would the point be in that?’ Now Albarino asked frankly and rhetorically, ‘You're a lot more interesting than that reporter.’

Herstal gave a deep sigh.

‘What? Starting to regret why you agreed to finish this with me?’ Albarino asked.

‘I'm not regretting it because it wouldn't have made much sense. I had expected that one day something like this would happen, sooner or later.’ Herstal recounted calmly.

Albarino looked at him, doing his best to make the gaze seem like it was asking a question. But Herstal looked into the other person’s face, which was illuminated by the light from the car window, and only felt that the other man appeared complacent. Herstal still wanted to sigh, but he gradually realised that the feeling he felt when he wanted to sigh seemed closer to a heartbroken owner who had come home to find his family's couch torn up by the dog, rather than the annoyance of not being able to rip the other party’s throat out.

‘You see,’ he replied, as if the answer he spoke could explain everything, ‘-- I still haven't killed you.’

So that would happen sooner or later: whether it was the mad love he had long foreseen, or the shared hunt, or even -- the tragic, destructive end that finally burned everything to the ground -- everything would happen sooner or later. Herstal wondered if he would ever actually get down to killing the other man by now or not, or if he'd missed all his chances long ago and it was already too late.

(There were times when he would have to say to himself: just wait one more day, just wait a day, and he would have made his decision. But he did not.)

-- And Herstal spied an obscure, dark smile at the corners of Albarino’s mouth, so that answer really might have said it all.

It was at this moment that they saw Anthony Sharp -- the teacher who had been fired from the school. A tall, thin, ginger-haired man --wrapped his coat around his body and walked out of the small apartment where he lived.

His strides were shaky and he looked like he'd been drinking. Through the windshield they saw the man get into a battered old Beetle parked on the side of the road, start the car, and drive away slowly. Herstal didn't start the car until the other person was about to drive to the end of the street, and followed him at a distance.

Herstal was very busy with his work, so if he wanted to stalk the other party, he could only try to pick weekends and weekday nights. With him allocating his time so intensively, Albarino really admired how the Pianist was able to maintain the frequency of working on a case for three or four months. In their nearly half a month of stakeouts, they'd noticed that Sharp rarely went out after losing his job -- except for getting drunk at the bar and collecting his relief funds -- this was the first time he'd been out at this hour of the night since Herstal had started observing the other man.

‘I actually know why you didn't pick that reporter.’ Albarino spoke up suddenly over the noise of the motor, he was surprisingly able to put on an understanding tone. ‘It's not entirely because Leonard Schreiber is yet to commit a crime and hasn't met the Pianist's criteria for choosing a victim -- you only have to look at him once to know that he’ll make a big mistake someday.

‘What really matters is that the mistakes Leonard Schreiber will make or has made doesn’t arouse the impulse to wreak havoc within the Pianist's heart; you have no desire to inflict violence on him ...whereas that's not the case with Anthony Sharp. Herstal, you empathise with that Billy kid from the Anonymous, don't you? ‘

‘In addition to being a forensic pathologist, you now also want to become a part-time psychiatrist?’ Herstal asked in a sarcastic tone.

‘You're avoiding the question.’ Albarino pointed out lazily.

‘So what?’ Hestal said coldly, he obviously didn't like the topic very much -- which was unsurprising. He reacted more violently to anything that was related to the tragedy that concerned his childhood. It was only when they discussed such topics that Albarino could easily tear off his sneering façade, which may be the reason why he kept pressing on this issue.

That was something Albarino would do. Although he appeared so likeable in front of everyone, his true nature was this: he never cared what harm his actions might do to others. His warm and understanding gestures were merely a facade he maintained in his inevitable social life, while his current unscrupulous behaviours revealed his true side.

-- The tragedy of the reality was: That there was one person in the world who understood your heart so well, yet never cared about the damage that their words did to your heart.

By this time, the car had travelled down many streets, and they were still following far behind Sharp's Beetle. The other party didn't seem to notice them, all was well, and it was this calmness that made the silence all the more unbearable.

Apparently, Albarino chose to continue.

‘Running away from a problem says a lot about you, I'm guessing it doesn't just mean you don't want to remember the tragic past. You're not the type who can never move on from the past. It may haunt you in your nightmares, but it doesn't stop you in your tracks, otherwise you wouldn't be who you are today.’ Albarino replied, ‘You empathize with Billy, but you don't like Billy, do you? You even loathe him; you loathe his weakness as much as you loathe yourself for being powerless over everything back then.’

Herstal's lips tensed into a line, and Albarino almost suspected that he would stop the car and punch him in the face -- but he didn't, because he obviously wouldn't stop the car so hastily in the middle of stalking someone.

Since he didn't answer, Albarino just stared at him calmly, watching the side of the man's face sink into the hazy glow of the streetlights.

Herstal was handsome, but not the kind of handsome that exactly fit the popular demographic; in such a dimly-lit environment, his eye-sockets appeared too deep, the arches of his eyebrows a little too high, and his eyelids were all but immersed in the pitch-black shadow; this, together with the fact that he had slightly thinner lips, naturally gave him a cold and mean-looking face.

But his true nature wasn't like that -- considering he was the Westland Pianist, it was a miracle that his essence wasn’t like that.

Finally, probably because Herstal had grown tired of his gaze, he simply replied, ‘You get some pleasure from digging up my unsavoury past, don't you?’

‘Not really, Schreiber and I are not the same.’ Albarino replied simply, his smile sounding strangely warm, ‘Rather: for the moment, I am deeply enamored by everything about you, both the parts of yourself that are still acceptable, and the parts of yourself that you deeply loathe.’

‘Is this the kind of sweet talk with which you seduce your bed partners one after another?’ Herstal, who obviously didn't believe a word of it, asked stiffly in return.

‘For a bed partner, you only have to appear gentle and considerate, and spend your money generously enough. Of course, the icing on the cake is if you're handsome and have a good job.’ Albarino narrowed his eyes, his voice lilting upwards somewhat flirtatiously, ‘You're worth every ounce of effort, Pianist.’

Herstal snorted coldly and didn't make much of a comment on the remark. At the same time, they saw Sharp's car pull up on a street, and Herstal, following close behind, backed the car into a nearby alley with an agile steer of the steering wheel. That way, sitting in the car, they could still get a vague view of Sharp's every move from around the corner of the alley.

Sharp quickly got out of the car, his steps unsteady and somehow seeming angry. But that wasn't surprising -- not only did he lose his job, he'd supposedly taken on a huge debt to get himself a good lawyer. In the end, he didn't get convicted for anything to do with sexual assault, but he did have an increasing amount of debt that he needed to pay back. However, part of the charges he was convicted of basically meant that it would be impossible for him to find a job in any educational institution.

Life was getting tougher for Anthony Sharp by the day, and the days of drinking heavily to escape reality was draining his demeanour, making him look increasingly depressed.

They watched as the man ascended step by step up to the front door of an apartment down the road, and begin to persistently ring the doorbell. With no response after several impatient rings, he simply began to bang on the door.

Sharp knocked persistently for a while until one of the neighbours impatiently opened the door to the apartment next to him and shouted angrily at Sharp. It was nearly one in the morning, and the neighbour was justifiably angry, but Sharp simply gestured for the neighbour to stop.

The enraged neighbour cursed and slammed the door shut. A dozen seconds later, a window on the first floor of the neighbour's house that had been left open originally, was angrily slammed shut as a silent protest against Sharp's rudeness.

As Sharp was about to start knocking on the door a second time, the apartment's occupant was finally overwhelmed and opened the door.

It was --

‘Billy?’ Albarino uttered, with more or less what could be considered surprise in his voice.

That was right, the pale, shaggy-haired face peeking out of the doorway was the same Billy they'd seen earlier at the Sexual Assault Trauma Anonymous. He said something to Sharp, but because they were too far away, the two men sitting in the car didn't hear anything at all. However, judging by Billy's body language, it seemed like he was tempted to either hide himself in the depths of the house, or tell Sharp to leave immediately.

-- Neither of those visions came to pass as Sharp reached out violently and pushed Billy inwards, stepping into the apartment. Both figures disappeared through the doorway.

The car was silent, Albarino still looked at Herstal with interest, as if he had no interest in the other two guys at all and that Herstal in front of him was a puzzle that surpassed the Goldbach's Conjecture. [1]

[1] TL Notes: Goldbach's conjecture is one of the oldest and best-known unsolved problems in number theory and all of mathematics. It states that every even natural number greater than 2 is the sum of two prime numbers.

Herstal wasn't looking at him, only staring at the direction of the door: the door to the apartment was still not completely closed, showing a small open crack, and the light from the interior emitted outwards, casting an ominous glow along the door gap.

The choice Herstal faced seemed obvious enough: it was a row of two storey apartments along the street, and there was no telling how soundproof they were, or whether Billy was living alone or sharing the apartment with others. Clearly, every aspect of the matter was problematic, and this was not a suitable moment for Herstal -- or the Westland Pianist -- to make an appearance.

Albarino waited for the other man to make his choice. Herstal must have considered these details in his mind, but finally he heard Herstal curse under his breath and jump out of the car.

Albarino smiled a little and followed the other party out of the car, putting on the gloves he had in his pocket as he ran in the direction of the apartment -- what was going on in the apartment, and the state of the street itself influenced where things would go next. Albarino looked around and realized that the street cameras had long since been vandalized, as was common in the gang-ridden city of Westland.

He smiled slowly, that gave things a lot of room to manoeuvre.

The two of them pushed open the ajar door and quickly entered the interior, by which time the second question Albarino had just considered was answered: the apartment was indeed on two floors, but it was clear that Billy had only rented the second floor. The first floor rooms were unoccupied, and the furniture was covered under white sheets.

Lights filtered in from above the stairs on the second floor, and the sounds of people arguing flowed down

At this point, the answer to Albarino's first question also materialised. The soundproofing of the apartment was very good. After they entered the room, they realised that although the noise of the quarrelling was very loud, even standing outside the ajar door, it was almost impossible to hear the sounds within the room.

It would seem that the neighbor who had just heard Sharp's knocking was able to hear it only because one of the windows next door was open, which would explain why Sharp had been knocking on the door for so long, and only one neighbor had come out to protest.

-- Which could mean a lot of things.

So, as Herstal looked towards the second floor, Albarino stood behind him, silently closing and locking the door to the apartment.

At the same time, they could both hear Billy's shrill voice screaming in panic, ‘You stay away from me! Don't ever follow me again! Get out of this house right now or I'll-’

‘What will you do? Stab me with that little knife in your hand?!’ Sharp roared angrily, ‘You've ruined everything, don't think I wouldn't dare-’

There was no need to listen to them any longer; it was enough to know that the situation upstairs was tense and that a young man who was in no position to defend himself, held a sharp weapon in his hand. Herstal still glanced at Albarino before making a move, and the other nodded knowingly towards him before the two men quickly rushed upstairs.

Herstal had simulated multiple possibilities in his head, and the relative ways to handle them, as well as corresponding ways of dealing with the aftermath. He never faced any situation unprepared, yet he still felt a vague concern. This concern came from the scars he had seen under the cuffs of Billy that Saturday morning at the Mutual Aid Society.

And that concern came true.

As they rushed to the second floor, they arrived just in time to see Billy cornered in the room by Anthony Sharp, his pale face desperate, and streaked with tears. The look in those eyes told others clearly that he understood what was going to happen to him, and when it was going to happen--

When such a thing was about to happen, Billy raised his hand violently, and in it he held a small fruit knife, not very long, but still sharp.

He slashed this knife against his neck, just as he had tried to slice those veins in his wrist when he had decided to give in to the world.

But before he had not succeeded for whatever reason, but at this moment -- at this moment Anthony Sharp cursed in shock; at this moment Albarino and Herstal stood at the stairway, but it was too late; at this moment blood gushed from the wound on the gaunt young man's neck, for the flesh and the veins were too fragile, too soft.

The blood spurted violently over Sharp, who was frozen in place by the sudden turn of events, spattering against the faded wallpaper and the aged floor. The long lines of blood drawn across the floor and walls resembled brightly coloured flowers, with the warmth gradually dissipating into the night.

Blood gushed from the young man's neck in a wild torrent, even more passionate and unstoppable than the impression he usually left on others, starkly contrasting with the image Billy had given during the Anonymous Mutual Aid Society. The young man opened his fingers tremblingly and the knife clattered to the floor, his lips parted but no sound came from his throat.

He slowly, slowly slid down against the wall.

At the same time, Albarino reached out and pressed his hand to his companion's shoulder. Herstal's shoulders were so tense he could practically feel the muscles quivering with rage.

Albarino warned in a low voice, ‘Pianist.’

Chapter 5: 41. Dance, Dance, My Puppet (5) ED

Chapter Text

Herstal actually hadn’t heard much of what Albarino said.

For in that instant, his ears had been flooded with an infinite roar, like the sound of boulders shattering and the sky collapsing. It was the kind of violent noise that haunted the ears of every feverish patient in the dead of night. Billy collapsed in the corner, looking almost as if an invisible hand was draining the colour out of his body, and all that blood pooling across the floor reminded him of a mouldy bathroom, seeping into the cracks along the tiles.

And Anthony Sharp turned around in shock, obviously having no conception of the unexpected events he had encountered in this room, and not at all expecting to run into anyone else in this house -- they stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Sharp suddenly leapt to his feet.

He was evidently trying to make a run for it, although the path he chose was rather unfortunate, as the two remaining men were blocking the doorway, so he simply scurried towards the window. Even if he did manage to get out of the window -- which, judging by the narrow width of the apartment's small window, he likely wouldn’t -- he would have broken at least one of his legs due to the height of the second floor.

It was enough to see that this wasn't a smart man, at least not smart enough for Albarino's taste, but of course, the Sunday Gardener wasn't picky about the dead that belonged to him. He didn't really care what most of them looked like before they died, what he needed were those flesh and bones, the raw material that could be shaped into the forms he desired.

He never wasted time fighting and preferred to choose the most convenient method to slit his target's throat. Honestly, when he left home today, he hadn’t intended to kill anyone. He didn’t even have a proper knife on him. Albarino chose to remain where he was, his expression still calm, waiting for what was about to unfold.

The moment Sharp turned around, Herstal pounced.

Looking at his suit and leather shoes, it would be difficult for ordinary people to imagine that he could move with such brutal swiftness beneath that polished exterior. He barricaded Sharp and tackled him, the booze-soaked man fell to the floor with a heavy, muffled thud, cursing out in panic. He didn't even have time to turn and struggle out of Herstal's grip before Herstal violently twisted his shoulder -- then there was a sickening crack, which was obviously Sharp's arm being dislocated.

Another wail was squeezed from his throat. Albarino watched them, unconsciously reaching to touch his own Adam’s apple. The alarming bruises on his throat had faded, but the faint white scar left by the previous knife wound remained. Herstal had always been like this, regardless of what kind of attitude he had in mind towards Albarino, he never held back when striking him. Perhaps, to someone like him, desire and pain were intrinsically linked.

At the same time, Herstal neatly drew out a knife from his ankle -- Albarino realized that the blade was very long, it was definitely not the kind of knife Herstal would carry on a daily basis, it was very possible that this was his hunting gear -- and pinned Sharp down with his weight, then cleanly cut the Achilles tendons in both of his opponent's feet with the blade.

Some blood splattered on the floor, and Sharp howled to the point where he would have been worried that the neighbours would have called the police if they hadn't known that the soundproofing was good. Herstal held the knife in his hand and flicked his wrist lightly, causing more blood drops to fall onto the ground from the blade; then he plunged the knife deep into Sharp's uninjured shoulder.

Sharp's entire body convulsed under his suppression, Herstal didn't even bother to look at him. He simply stood up off the ground and walked over to Billy.

Billy's body was still trembling, blood dripping down his neck while bloody froth choked intermittently out of his throat, it was a startling sight. Albarino, standing as a physician, knew that the young man had only a few minutes to live, and that it was futile to do anything. He could not see Herstal's face, Herstal's back was turned to him, half-kneeling in front of the young man, being careful not to step into any pools of blood. At this moment, what expression was on his face?

Regardless, he did not move, did not try to stop the bleeding wound, did not speak. Billy looked at him with incredulity, and much, much disbelief and pain still frozen in his eyes, but that was all. Albarino could see the light in his eyes dimming, his gaze casting into the distance beyond their reach and finally froze.

For a moment, none of them spoke, they could only hear Sharp lying on the ground making intermittent moans, curses, and cries for help. It was hard to imagine how sounds like that could mix so naturally, coming from the throat of a single person.

Albarino crossed over Sharp without even glancing at him and stood behind Herstal. If his suspicions about Herstal were correct, the other man couldn't possibly like someone standing behind him at a moment like this, just as his tense shoulders and back indicated -- before they knew each other, murder had remained a private, unspeakable activity, but this routine may not continue in the future.

‘He's dead,’ Albarino pointed out quietly, ‘We could certainly call an ambulance and have a doctor come in with hopes of resuscitation, but no one survives after losing that much blood -- and besides, the injuries on Sharp's body cannot be easily explained to the police. This cannot be excused by excessive self-defence. You are a legal practitioner, and you should know this best.’

Herstal didn't answer, in fact, he just slowly stood up and turned to face Albarino.

His pupils were dilated and his breathing was rapid, a consequence of the adrenaline surging through his blood. It took a moment before Herstal could speak, his voice was deep and hoarse as he asked, ‘Do you think I'll try to save him?’

‘That depends on how empathetic you are to the whole situation, but even putting aside the facts that I can't speculate on, you're a fascinating enigma.’ Albarino said, cautiously diluting the parts of his voice that he couldn't help but smile at; the last thing he wanted right now was for Herstal to choose to rush over and stab him as well.

Herstal spoke up, ‘My 'empathy' for this-’

‘Because you and I both understand that on a moral level, we shouldn't accuse the victim of being weak. Although from the perspective of what we’ve done, discussing 'morality' seems like a joke.’ Albarino shrugged unconcernedly, still looking straight at Herstal, those green eyes once again making people feel uncomfortable, ‘But look at yourself, Herstal: you're getting so angry, and that anger isn't just because of what that tasteless guy did -- you're also angry because of what Billy chose: to run away from it all, and you're as annoyed at his running away as you are at yourself; so although you can certainly empathize with him, you don't choose to save him, and when you watched the soul leave his body, it was as if you were seeing the same person you were all those years ago.’

‘And criminal psychologists say you're the one who can't empathize with humans.’ Herstal sneered.

‘That's because you're too close to me on every level, and being able to understand you doesn't mean that you have to overrule all of Olga's research.’ Albarino let himself smile. By now, the longest pool of blood beneath Billy's body was just about to reach the soles of Herstal's shoe, it looked like a bright red, slender vine that could drag the one standing underneath it into the abyss.

Then he asked, ‘While there’s no point in discussing time travel right now, assuming you had that kind of a chance to go back in time, would you really let yourself die the moment you attempted to commit suicide?’

‘There really is no point in this topic.’ Herstal replied coldly and stiffly.

‘In the eyes of psychologists, this matter is of great significance.’ Albarino clicked his tongue, but obviously compromised. ‘If you insist, let's get back to reality: what are you going to do with that guy?’

-- The ‘guy’ he was talking about was desperately trying to crawl towards the door to escape. One of his hands was dislocated, a knife was stuck in his other shoulder, and both of his legs were bleeding. Under these circ*mstances, Sharp had resorted to twisting his slightly mobile arm and his other shoulder in an attempt to crawl towards the door, the wound under his body dragged a long trail of blood across the floor.

This scene looked almost like a classic scene from a horror movie, where the one who was bound to die in the very beginning attempts to escape the monster behind him. But the creature would soon inevitably grab him by the ankles and drag him back under the bed, leaving the unlucky protagonist to discover his unmistakably miserable corpse.

The reality was probably not going to be that much different. Albarino watched Sharp's actions of trying to crawl towards the door for a moment longer before turning back to Herstal once more. Even though the man no longer posed much of a threat to him now, Herstal's body language was still taut and his breathing had plateaued, but Albarino guessed that his heart was still pounding like thunder.

They were immersed in the low moans and the desperate rustles of despair coming from the floor. Herstal gazed at the shocking red bloodstains and the man's torso writhing in agony before he simply said, ‘Leave him to me.’

‘Of course, that is only natural.’ Albarino flashed the other man a wide smile, though he knew that Herstal was not in the mood to see it. ‘Happy to oblige.’

Albarino had never seen Herstal ‘at work’ -- neither in the courtroom nor on such a mysterious night. That night at his house certainly didn't count, since that incident had been laced with too much personal emotions in the first place, and since they both knew the victim would survive in the end. Everything before that, no matter how realistic, no matter how painful, was meaningless.

And now, he watched as Herstal dragged Sharp back to the center of the room, adding another brightly coloured touch to the bloodstains on the floor. Sharp was still grunting in despair, abruptly bursting into a scream as Herstal pulled the knife out of his shoulder.

But it was all to no avail; he was turned back on his back by Herstal, lying on the ground like a lamb to the slaughter, flailing as wildly as he possibly could. But obviously, this was also a futile action. Herstal simply jammed his knee into his shoulder and cupped Sharp’s chin in his hand.

-- He wasn't wearing gloves, Albarino thought. He thought back to those earlier assertions he'd made about latex and leather not feeling intimate enough against his fingers. He was pretty sure that when Herstal removed the internal organs from his victim's disembowelled abdominal cavities, he wouldn't have been wearing gloves, doing so with his bare hands. As for the time he'd worn gloves in Albarino's house, he'd definitely only worn them because he had wanted to keep the bloodstains on the floor intact, and therefore couldn't clean the floor.

However, this was fine for this crime scene. He was well aware that by the time they’d finished up, they'd have thoroughly clean the entire room with bleach to the point where the CSI’s wouldn't be able to detect any DNA samples here. It seemed a rather comical thing to think that Herstal, who didn't even have a single suitable condiment in his refrigerator, was quite good at cleaning up after himself.

And now Herstal was squeezing the joints of Sharp's lower jaw hard enough to force him to open his mouth, then stabbing the knife directly into his mouth.

The blade of the knife was too long, and Herstal's movements weren't deliberately delicate nor precise. Albarino just watched as he cut off Sharp's tongue -- which of course, was something the Westland Pianist would surely do, just look at the scars on Billy's face -- a limp, bloody piece of Sharp's tongue was flung onto the floor, done purely to keep Sharp from choking on the chunk of meat that could slip into his windpipe.

But he looked like he was already choking on blood. While Albarino was familiar with the forensic routine of yanking the entire tongue out of a dead person's jaw, he had no concept of how much blood would actually come out of a living person's tongue if it were severed. Herstal was straddling Sharp's entire body as he did this, the latter was kicking and struggling frantically underneath him, blood bubbling out of his mouth and choking him as it poured down his throat, coughing continuously.

‘You could get a dog.’ Albarino looked at Herstal's knife-wielding left hand and suddenly offered. ‘When you kill someone, you could throw the mincemeat to your dog to eat. I think that's the kind of drama a movie director would appreciate.’

‘I'm not a mafia godfather or anything like that.’ Herstal replied without looking up, his tone cold, as if even the last traces of emotion had faded from his voice. But this sight of him wasn't very shocking, the difference between the Herstal of the night and the Herstal of the day was no more than that between a butterfly and a cocoon, and Albarino could easily discern what they had in common.

Herstal continued his work, the atmosphere was quieter overall after Sharp lost his tongue. Albarino watched as Herstal very smoothly cut Sharp's clothing into pieces and then jerked them off, not nearly as meticulously as he’d been in Albarino's home. The entire process was all done from a position of pragmatism: jerking the clothing off of the other man in the simplest way possible, and removing the clothes from the other person’s body without touching the other person’s skin.

In the end, the Pianist knelt on the floor, the man's naked body lying in front of him. Sharp's gaze towards him was saturated with horror and fear, the kind of wonder that a child would show when listening to a parent tell them about a religious demon story for the first time before going to sleep. But maybe the truth was this: that there were no lakes and pits of fire within the deepest parts of the earth, no demons that would be watching you at all times, ready to drag you down to hell -- but there would be on Earth.

‘So,’ said Albarino, ‘this is your blank canvas.’

Herstal didn't answer this comment at all, and Albarino wasn't even quite sure if he was even still listening, but that didn't really matter. He was so focused that, Albarino, who had dated many men and women, would deem that this focused look of his made him look extremely sexy -- and if the knife in his hand and the bloody mess in front of him could have been combined into a mosaic, he might have been able to be rated sexy by seventy-five percent of the adults in the world.

But Herstal wouldn't know what was going through Albarino's mind as he methodically went about his work: starting with Sharp's lips, which were constantly dripping blood, he sliced off both of them with his knife until he forced the other man to show his white teeth, and then flung those same pieces of flesh to the floor. Then came the ears, the nose, the parts that protruded but didn't cause a person to bleed to death immediately, slicing off the other man's genitals, and then Herstal began to peel the skin off the other man's chest along Sharp's collarbone.

Even the Westland Pianist rarely had a moment where he made a scene this bloody, and the air was filled with a sickeningly fishy odour. The slits of the wounds were visible just as the knife cut down, but in the next second so much blood would gush out that it would blur the wound, the next few moments of the blade's fall was practically a swimming pool of blood.

-- This crime scene was rare even for the Pianist. Albarino recalled a case from April of this year, where a suspect suspected of raping and killing four women was murdered by the Pianist. Who had disembowelled his victim, removed all of their organs, and then shoved the victims' chopped off limbs and genitals back into their stomach, before finally sewing the victims' abdomens back together.

Albarino still vividly remembered the scene of that case, of course, it was mainly because he was the one who’d opened the stitches in the victim's abdomen and took out those pieces of limbs that had been cut off. That dead man's abdomen had been stretched to physically uncomfortable proportions by the stumps shoved into him, and even Olga admitted, ‘This time the scene of the Pianist seems very excessive.’

-- See, that was the only reason he went overboard, the reason Albarino was able to find Herstal Armalight's first crime so easily when it was like a needle in a haystack of so many other cases in Kentucky. It was all so clear-cut and distinct.

Herstal was wearing nothing but a simple shirt, this one was a uniform pale, pearlescent grey. The front and cuffs of which were now soaked with blood, and new blood was already covering the old stains before they had even dried. This was one of those rare moments when Herstal's almost obsessive cleanliness would not make a comeback, Albarino guessed that he almost enjoying the sensation of blood running through his fingers.

It took a lot of time to get the job done meticulously, actually peeling off the skin did not require surgery, but it takes almost an eternity. Herstal even seemed a little over-skilled in his movements when he did it, but not many of the Pianist's victims had actually been skinned. Albarino could only guess that the man had other criminal convictions in other states before coming to Westland to open a law firm.

Eventually, Herstal peeled off the entire skin, and Sharp was already in a semi-conscious state, his torso looking like nothing more than a naked, reddish-white piece of raw meat that could barely be associated with a human being. Albarino watched as the tip of Herstal's knife roamed around the other man's abdomen, he reminded him gently, ‘He'll be dead instantly if this cut goes down.’

Herstal knelt in the pool of blood, staring at the bloody flesh for a moment before he replied, ‘I know.’

Then he stabbed the knife down anyway, not deep enough to pierce the heart, but enough to cause blood to flow from the other person’s body like a fountain. The torso convulsed under his fingers as Herstal dragged the knife’s blade all the way down, from his chest to his abdomen, before pulling the knife out and returning it to its original position and stabbing down a second time.

It was almost as if he was simply savouring the sensation that a knife brought when it pierced the flesh as he repeated the motion, a clean, unhesitating flatness between the cuts, just like...just like those hesitation wounds on Herstal's wrists, and those fresh scars under Billy's cuffs.

‘In the school bathroom, actually.’ Herstal said suddenly, answering Albarino's inner thoughts as if he were reading his mind.

‘What?’ Albarino asked.

Herstal dropped the knife in his hand onto the floor with a clatter that seemed to signal he was tired and intended to take the other person's life by the ultimate means. He drew a small loop of piano wire from his pocket and strangled the indestructible wire around Sharp's neck and began to tighten it slowly and without hesitation.

The other person, even though he had slipped into unconsciousness, struggled instinctively at this point, like a scaled and gutted fish still jumping on the chopping board. Herstal stared down at him, his hands extremely steady, the piano wires sinking deep into Sharp's neck, leaving one last terrible mark.

‘At school,’ Herstal continued, ‘one night after it happened, I didn't go home after school and slit my wrist with a box cutter in the school bathroom.’

Now his wrists were drenched in someone else's blood, and nothing was visible.

‘You're too hard on yourself, always have been.’ Albarino said thoughtfully, recalling the scars he’d seen beneath Herstal's cuffs on the night of Landon's death.

‘But at that time I was still too stupid to know where the correct location of the vein was.’ Herstal snorted.

‘And then?’ Albarino asked.

‘I got suspended, that's only natural.’ Herstal replied, his fingers hanging steady in the air as the twitching convulsions of Sharp's body finally came to an end: his breathing had stopped.

It was also at this moment that Herstal looked up at Albarino: he had such a calm demeanor, his hair was unruffled, but there was a drop of blood splattered on his cheekbone from some unknown point. He was kneeling in a pool of gradually congealing blood, behind the bloody corpse, in the very center of the lingering aura of death in the room. His eyes were cold and sharp, the turbulence of madness hidden beneath a calm azure pool.

Albarino took a deep breath.

They both remained silent, as if any sound would disintegrate the present scene apart. Then Albarino strode forward, stepping into the pool of blood, feeling it gradually begin to soak through his pants as he knelt beside Herstal.

Then he reached out and caught the other man's fingers holding the knife, feeling the slippery skin and the blood that covered his hand. Albarino grabbed his hand and leaned forward, kissing Herstal on the lips.

Chapter 6: 42. Dance, Dance, My Puppet (6) ED

Chapter Text

Herstal said, ‘Albarino-’

It was a sentence he didn't get to finish, because he was pinned right down to the floor by Albarino the next second -- they did not need to hide the fact that: if it weren’t for Herstal's permission, Albarino would never have succeed in pushing him -- but at this moment, Herstal's palms were merely symbolically braced on the floor, he slipped backward in the pool of blood, leaving a stark, five-fingered trail on the ground as his spine crashed into the floor.

One of Albarino's hands cushioned the back of his head in the process, a gesture that Herstal could not comment on as being considerate. Under the present circ*mstances, the act was anything but considerate.

The other man's eyes were always that eerie bright green colour, conjuring up images of wolves, will-o'-the-wisps, and churning pools of acid. Normally, Herstal wouldn't have been surprised at what over-the-line antics this lunatic would get up to, but at a time like this --

‘You're going to make the crime scene extra hard to clean up.’ Herstal whispered, most of his words were reduced into a muffled sound, swallowed down the other person's throat.

Albarino kissed him from his lips all the way to his cheekbone, finally nibbling his soft earlobe with his teeth, laughter still seemingly laced in his voice, ‘Do you really care? At worst, just burn it to the ground.’

The word ‘burn it to the ground’ shouldn't be followed by ‘just,’ and a serial killer who hadn't yet been utterly consumed by his own arrogance shouldn't be getting involved with someone else at the crime scene.

Right now, Billy was still languishing in the corner, his open eyes forever staring straight ahead into the distance where they couldn't reach. Herstal felt his entire shirt soaking through with blood bit by bit as he lay on the floor. The sea of blood was visible as far as his eyes could see, soaking deep into the crevices of the floor, burning under their skin along the texture of their flesh and bones. Sharp's entire being was almost transformed into a bloody sculpture, a small sample of the artist's clay, unrefined and unassembled, blurring into an inexplicable mass.

In the corner of the darkness beneath his eyelids, the unlit crystal chandelier of the church ceiling still hung, filled with piano notes. Their strings were like sharp blades, like the thread from the spindle of the Fates, guiding people to the unknown.

Albarino's lips curved into a sweet, sinister smile as he asked again, ‘Do you really care? From beginning to end, did you ever care?’

The fingers of this cold-hearted killer gripped his wrist and pressed his hand to the floor, dipping it in blood until his skin was too slippery to grip. Albarino's calloused fingers grazed his wrist, wiping away the almost dried blood on it, where there were many scars, some very shallow and tentative, whose name was Hesitation, and some were deep and ivory-white, whose name was Death.

‘I don't care.’ Herstal heard himself say.

Whether or not that answer was a lie depended largely on what question it was really answering. And Albarino mercifully didn't break it down; they didn't need to discuss the fact that it wasn't Billy that Herstal cared about, and it certainly couldn't have been Anthony Sharp; the story of a serial killer was supposed to be the story of a bunch of egocentric psychopaths, and they didn't need to emphasize that any more than they had to.

So Albarino just continued to kiss him, before finally slipping his blood-soaked hands under the hem of his shirt. Thankfully, Herstal hadn’t just gotten off work from the law firm, so there were no such things as vests, ties, cufflinks, lapel pins, or shirt clips or a host of other things that could impede Albarino's movements. His fingers were wet and slippery, but not very warm.

The blood had cooled

‘I danced to that song of yours.’ Herstal said in a breathy voice as the other person began to unbutton his shirt, ‘Are you satisfied now?’

‘I thought I wouldn’t need to emphasize again that I never put you in that position.’ Albarino replied, his voice lazy, almost as if he wanted to sigh. He grounded his teeth against Herstal's throat, creating a reddened teeth mark, presumably branding right above the old white scar near his Adam's apple. The scars on his skin would probably never fade, just as the bite mark Sharp left on Billy's face would never fade, only rotting with him and turn to dust as he did.

Albarino had already unbuttoned his shirt. The skin that hadn't been exposed to the sunlight was very pale -- of course, Herstal Armalight didn't look like the type that would ever go sunbathing. Along the line of Albarino's unbuttoning, the layers of blood that he had smeared on him haphazardly was gradually drying into a brown colour, and felt rough to the touch.

This scene was very reminiscent of the night associated with the discussion of white grapes, and those traces of blood seeping from Albarino's skin created a similar picture. Most of his wounds had now been stitched up, some stubbornly scabbing over in black, still clinging to the original spots, while the rest was newly exposed, tender, fragile skin of an abnormal red colour, outlining the letters.

‘I guess we can both agree,’ Albarino said, keeping his voice deliberately low and husky, sounding almost like whatever he was so deeply entranced by, ‘that the human body makes a good canvas.’

-- These words should have made Herstal feel a sense of crisis, considering he had carved a string of insulting words into Albarino’s body with a knife. In retrospect, it wasn’t because Herstal had been overly angry that night that he wouldn’t have still made those same choices; perhaps Albarino was right, and the word ‘Psychopath’ might not have been a bad choice except for the fact it had too many letters.

But Albarino simply pressed his lips against his collarbone, biting down densely along the line of bloodstains and the curve of his skin, leaving nothing but red marks behind. The sensation was private and itchy, making Herstal arch up slightly, pressing his fingers threateningly into the other party's shoulder as he replied, ‘Yes, but I can't say you have much taste -- that's the blood of a pedophilic bastard.’

‘Indeed,’ Albarino said, licking wetly at the bloodstains near his navel, he could feel the muscles of the other person's abdomen trembling beneath his lips. ‘When Sharp was prosecuted, the police documented all his information -- he didn't have any contagious diseases; so yes, he was a pedophile, but he's just dead meat now, and this is just blood.’

Of course that was what the Sunday Gardener would think. He didn't care if the dead person was a pedophilic bastard or a philanthropist; the Blood of Christ and the blood of Satan made essentially no difference to him -- unless one of them could actually turn their blood into wine.

‘I suspect you wouldn't have cared much even when he was still alive.’ Herstal hissed as the other man undid his trouser buttons with nimble fingers.

‘Why should I care? This person was a creature of flesh and blood, infused with a little soul. Idealists claim that meaning is bestowed upon all things by human thought, so I doubt he deserved such an honour.’ Albarino snorted softly, slipping his hand into Herstal's pants, taking hold of the already hardened organ -- his movements were so smooth and practised it seemed suspicious. It wasn’t hard to imagine how many times he’d done these actions, how he had pleasured his partners on many nights -- wet, sticky, and hot, but the touch was not quite the same as water-based lubricants; his hands were covered in blood.

Herstal took a breath; the pleasure Albarino could deliver was sharp, like needles and the fangs of animals. For to the Sunday Gardener in question, sex was never warm and soft, that word was too distant for him: he belonged to the thick clouds, the lightning, and the westerly winds. Under his fingers was an electric charge, crackling and splitting, bringing a needle-like sensation.

Albarino leaned down to kiss him again, his lips skimming over his torso, his teeth and lips grazing near his hipbones like a pagan worshipping a God. And they happened to be lying on top of the altar, consoling their ancestors with the blood and the heads of their enemies.

Herstal propped his body up on his heels so that the other person could help him tug his pants down. The whole thing wasn't a good idea by any stretch of the imagination, not even just the fact that he was lying in a pool of drying blood: the house was soundproofed well enough not to make the neighbours suspicious, and the price of rentals in the neighbourhood and the level of turnover meant no one would call the police if a rude man was banging on the door -- but that wasn't an excuse for ‘you can have sex at the murder scene’, either, that was simply stating the obvious.

With his movements, Herstal could feel the liquid being squeezed out from the soaked fabric, making a series of strange squelching sounds. Albarino kissed his way down his abdomen, his lips wetly brushing over his testicl*s, his fingers wandered restlessly before Herstal's ass.

Herstal propped himself up on his elbows and asked, ‘I surely can't expect you to have lube, can I?’

-- This was what he wanted to ask, but the reality wasn't quite what he expected. His voice must have stuttered when the other took one of his testicl*s wetly and hotly into his mouth. Albarino snorted vaguely, even a ghost would know what he meant.

Because no serial killer would ever carry lubricant to commit a crime, and there wasn't even a word that could be used to describe what was going on currently.

Since Herstal understood exactly what Albarino's answer was, he even knew what Albarino intended to do: he had to respond with something to do with the lubricant.

So he reached down and roughly pulled Albarino's hair, forcing him to look up.

Then, Herstal warned sternly, ‘If you dare-’

Albarino was right about one thing: this blood on the floor was no different from all the blood in the world, and no different from the blood that had been shed from Albarino's body the night the Pianist had left him those cuts. Since they had confirmed that Anthony Sharp really didn't have any illnesses that could be transmitted through blood, they shouldn't have been concerned ...

But now Herstal was glaring at Albarino with a gaze that could be called menacing, just in case the other man would actually dip his hand in the blood and send it between his legs. The other person looked up at him with a knowing smirk on the corners of his mouth. Despite the fact that, at the moment, the glistening, hardening penis was pressing almost obscenely against Albarino's cheek, something sharp as a knife still remained hidden inside his eyes.

‘Ah,’ commented Albarino slowly, ‘how fussy, Pianist.’

Then, he suddenly grabbed Herstal’s hips and lifted his legs over his shoulders.

Herstal didn't quite maintain his balance for a moment, and he was pretty sure that his hand grazed the dead man's chest as he tried to brace himself on the floor. The blood drying on the ground felt strange to the touch, everything would fade away, much like the soul or blood of a dead man. From this perspective, whether his fingers brushed against rotting flesh didn’t make much difference.

But this was different; he remembered the sensation of the knife piercing that flesh; the memory of which still made his heart beat rapidly and his fingertips prickling with itchiness. Meanwhile, Albarino was calmly bending him over, shamelessly lowering his head to lick at his entrance, trying to penetrate the soft, secret spot with his tongue.

The touch burned like fire from Albarino’s lips against his skin; as the other gripped his legs, blood oozed stickily from his fingers, cutting a crimson trail across Herstal's skin. Albarino pinched his legs, squeezing groans and gasps cruelly from his lungs.

They could excuse it by saying that the dead man in the room was the root of their loss of control, precisely because they were different from others -- but that might also be a lie.

Albarino made a lewd, obscene noise, surely on purpose. Herstal's fingers scratched across the floor as he stared up at the empty ceiling, he felt that his gaze might be even more vacant than the dead. Eventually, the culprit straightened up, his lips crimson and his voice almost uncontrollably triumphant.

‘It's going to hurt.’ Albarino warned as he climbed on top of Herstal, using one hand to withdraw his belt while supporting himself. For the first time, Herstal realized how annoying it was that he was nearly stripped naked, while the other was still fully dressed -- but considering that Albarino was the one who'd had the clothes on his body cut to shreds by the Pianist’s knife, perhaps he should be a little more forgiving.

Herstal sneered at Albarino's reminder, the breathy sound escaping weakly from between his lips, still loud in the room that had been visited by death. Albarino hung his leg over the crook of his arm and slowly pushed himself into his body bit by bit, listening to the low curses and gasps that burned and stung, feeling as much like living as murder.

He remembered Albarino discussing sex and death before --

But he didn't have time to think about that now; Albarino enveloped him like a massive shadow, fingers threading through his hair, streaking the golden strands with wet blood.

Then his hands wound through the hair around Herstal's temples, forcing him to turn his head to the side -- Herstal's cheeks pressed uncomfortably into the sticky pool of blood. Anthony Sharp's body lay just a short distance away, his face was drenched in blood, his abdomen open, to the point where his entrails were threatening to spill out due to the depth of the slashes; his white, ghastly teeth were exposed to the air, the corner of his mouth was stained with a pale red foam.

‘I suppose you would have minded, but I originally intended to f*ck you on his corpse.’ Albarino's voice was almost devoid of laughter, yet electricity crackled at the ends of his words, ‘No, sorry -- 'it'. You can feel the blood being squeezed out of its body, the way it pools into purple blotches, the muscles gradually stiffening, the eyes clouding over, staring into death. It is at times like these that you know you’re still alive, and it is nothing but dust.’

Herstal cursed in resistance; he had no doubt that Albarino Bacchus was really capable of such a thing. This only served to highlight how ridiculous it was that many considered the Pianist more terrifying than the Sunday Gardener.

‘Of course I would mind,’ he hissed, ‘given that it's clear to many that I kill them precisely because I didn't like them-’

His words came to an abrupt halt, replaced by a gasp, his voice swimming on the edge of intense pain and ecstasy.

‘Because they carry the shadows of your nightmares, or is it just a meaningless act of self-punishment?’ Albarino pinched his leg, bending his body almost cruelly, ‘How much do you loathe yourself for not putting up a fight in the first place?’

There was no point in talking about this. Herstal glared at the other man beneath lashes tangled in moisture, a reality that diminished the power of his gaze. Albarino looked down at him, his collar was slightly open, revealing fresh scars crisscrossing his neck and collarbone -- marks that would accompany them for the rest of their lives, a sort of silent memoir.

Albarino looked at him and sighed suddenly, then leaned down, his slightly longer strands of hair falling down and brushing Herstal's cheekbones.

‘Mr. Armalight,’ Albarino whispered into his ear, almost as if he were chewing up the words and feeding them to him, slowly, intimately, and breathtakingly. ‘Let me repeat those words one more time: you are nothing like these people.’

He chose this moment to thrust deeply into Herstal's body, feeling those muscles spasm and tighten around him. Herstal let out a small sound from between his throat, sounding like a muffled gasp, as if someone were choking him.

Albarino grabbed his hair with one hand and pinched his nipples with the other, leaving streaks of half-dried blood on his chest and abdomen. Herstal struggled half-heartedly, the thick scent of blood in the air was so overwhelming and thick that it was almost suffocating, like a black vortex that could consume a man. He panted breathlessly between the relentless thrusts until Albarino shoved his fingers into his mouth.

Herstal tasted the strong, metallic tang of blood on his fingertips, fully aware of its source. In response, all he could do was gasp and furiously bite down on the invading digits, his teeth sinking deeply into the base of Albarino's finger. He was really using force, and while it may not have been hard enough to break skin, it was enough to cause Albarino to hiss softly from the pain.

As if in retaliation, Albarino thrust into him hard and deep, forcing a moan laced with curses from his throat as he hit his prostate.

Albarino withdrew his fingers, a red bite mark visible at the base of his index finger. He pressed those fingers against the corner of Herstal’s mouth, playing with the saliva-wet skin before saying, ‘You are so far above him that he does not even deserve your disgust.’

‘... You don't understand.’ Herstal replied through gritted teeth between waves of overwhelming pleasure. The pressure from Albarino’s fingers felt like a current of electricity piercing his skin. He angrily tapped his heels against Albarino's back, but that didn’t slow down the other person’s attack.

‘I do understand.’ Albarino's voice lowered to a sleepy murmur as he leaned down once more, his lips brushing the corner of Herstal's wet lips. ‘I understand where your anger comes from, I understand where your sin was born from, I know your disgust, though I do not approve of it. And in that case-’

He kissed Herstal’s lips again. This time, the kiss was almost gentle, almost pure.

‘Thenhavemylipsthesinthattheyhavetook.’ [1] he murmured.

[1] Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare. (Act 1, Scene 5, Line 107 of Romeo and Juliet)

Chapter 7: 43. Dionysus in the Tomb (1) ED

Chapter Text

‘Believe me, the time will come when you will be old, and your sinews will shrink, and then, on some fine sunshiny day, when everything is laughing and rejoicing, you will lie there a faded plant, that will grow no more.’ [1]

[1] The fairytale that Shana reads is part of a short story by Hans Christian Andersen called 'The Psyche'. (The rest of the quotes from this passage/ chapter and this arc are all from this story)

Albarino's mother -- Shana Bacchus, read, her fingers resting on the thick cover of the fairytale book, her voice soft and gentle. Her son, no more than five or six years old at the time, was nestled in his soft bed, enveloped by the glow of the bedside lamp.

‘I don't believe what the ministers tell us about life beyond the grave; that's a beautiful imagination, a fairy tale for children, and pleasant enough if you can make yourself believe it. I do not live in imagination; I live in reality. Come along! Be a man!’

‘Living in reality?’ The kid asked.

‘Yes Al, it's the things you have to experience, the things that must be done.’ Shana replied, reaching out to touch the child's temples, the hair fine and soft, curly and a deep gold colour. Children who were blonde at this age had a good chance of their hair turning a darker shade of brown as they grew, that part of the future was something to look forward to.

The child looked at her, blinking a little sleepily, and he whispered, ‘The things that must be done?’

‘I can't tell you what must be done, because what must be done is different for everyone.’ Shana leaned over and kissed the child on the cheek, saying, ‘You'll learn for yourself when you're older, dear.’

‘They told him that art was a sorcerer, betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are false to ourselves, unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards Heaven; and that the serpent was always repeating within us, ‘Eat, and thou shalt become as God.’

Albarino said as he parked the car, ‘I guess we all have this common sense: never dismember a body in your own home. There's no way to completely get rid of the blood and residue that comes out as part of this process. No one wants CSI extracting the victim's DNA from the bends in your plumbing someday.’

They were driving another rented SUV, having switched it with another fake license plate before hitting the road -- as the old saying goes, no one knew how Herstal managed to access all these illegal and criminal things. But then again: this was the city of Westland after all.

Currently, the vehicle was parked in front of a building that resembled a hunter's cabin, deep in the middle of the forest. It was already dark enough outside that the entire cabin was only visible as a vague, dark silhouette under the moonlight. The snow-covered forest floor emanated a faint white glimmer in the moon’s glow. Herstal looked out through the car window and asked, ‘Is this your property too?’

‘Not in its name’ Albarino winked meaningfully as he pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, before tossing another pair to Herstal. ‘Put these on, I don't want any detectable fingerprints left in this house. I always have to be on guard against this place being discovered by the police every now and then.’

‘So, the reason Schwander and the others found nothing in your house is because you’ve never disposed of the bodies there at all.’ Herstal recalled slowly, clearly referring to when CSI searched Albarino's home after Sarah Adelman was murdered, only to find nothing but a pile of coyote bones.

He put on his gloves and got out of the car. The early winter nights in the forest was exceptionally cold, and there was no sound in the darkness except for the occasional chirping bird; many of the cities surrounding the Great Lakes were covered in such vast, untouched forests, making it unlikely that anyone would specifically search for a cabin within them. It was a good idea to station himself here.

‘I don't dispose of the vast majority of bodies at -- but I still do some of the work there. That’s one of the perks of living out in the countryside; besides, when you own nearly four acres of land around your house, why bother burying burnt bone fragments in the shed out back?’

Albarino said as he slammed the car door shut, his voice calm and cheerful, making it sound as if they weren't discussing dismemberment.

He continued, ‘I try not to bring home anything too large with too big of a workload, but something like gilding bones isn’t a problem to do at home.’

Herstal knew exactly what he was referring to, of course: the bouquet of pure white flowers that sat on his desk at the A&H law firm. He rolled his eyes at Albarino unamused, which the latter ignored with a smile and turned around to the back of the car to open its trunk.

-- Inside the trunk were two items wrapped tightly in plastic, but no matter how tightly they were wrapped, it couldn't conceal the putrid odour that was gradually emanating from the thing. The whole scene was extremely reminiscent of a horror movie, and Albarino could only be thankful that it was still winter; otherwise, the bodies would have entered quite a state by now, having been wrapped up tightly for the past two days.

He wasn’t the kind of tasteless person who’d display a dead body in his house, and even if he was a forensic pathologist, he still couldn't stand the sight of a decomposing, bloated corpse whose tongue was protruding out of its mouth due to the putrefying gases: there was no need to even mention the smell.

It was Friday, because Mr. Armalight, the brilliant lawyer with a busy schedule, had to wait until he got off work on Friday night before he could condescend to deal with the man he'd killed on Wednesday. Not to mention Thursday -- which was Thanksgiving Day, and who the hell had set that date? -- He even had a court hearing to attend, which certainly gave him all the more reasons to shrug off a serial killer's spare-time activities of disposing of dead bodies.

And Albarino on the other hand, had this damned ‘I won't clean it up if you don't clean it up’ look on his face, as if what they were actually talking about were the dirty dishes piled up in the sink after a meal. Although he was still on vacation, it was clear that he would rather go to the forensics office and harass his colleague who were doing his job for him, than move these two corpses off the floor of Herstal's home.

They were stuck in a childish tug-of-war over the whole thing, akin to ‘why is it my turn to do the chores today’ -- and finally, Friday came, and they were able to drive the bodies to the mysterious and sinister hideout of the psychopath Albarino.

Albarino pulled one of the tightly wrapped black bags outwards, his face unfazed, as if he hadn't noticed the sweet, rotting odour of decay that hung in the air. He smiled at Herstal and said, ‘Do me a favour and lend me a hand, you know this isn’t a one-man job.’

Only someone like Albarino could talk about what they were doing now as if it was as routine as printing a document from a printer.

Herstal glared at him none too happily while Albarino made a show of softening his tone, ‘Come on, you promised you would help.’

Two days ago.

Herstal had considered this question on a regular basis since he first met Albarino Bacchus: how the hell did his life turn out this way.

Steam was emanating from within the bathroom, Herstal sank himself into the tub, he could feel his tense muscles relaxing little by little. During the shower earlier, his skin had been scrubbed red, mostly because of all the blood that bastard Albarino had gotten all over him. When he killed people, he didn't mind the warm blood splattering all over him, however, by the time the whole thing was over and his heart rate returned to normal, and the adrenaline no longer dictated his actions, it would be hard for him to suppress his dislike of the dried up stains.

In the other corner of the bathroom, the water from the showerhead splattered against the floor as Albarino washed his hair with his back to him. The skin of his unscarred spine glistening under the light -- so at this point, once again, to repeat the question from the very beginning: how did his life turn out this way?

How had he already been reduced to sharing a bathroom with another homicidal maniac?

When Albarino had shamelessly squeezed into the master bathroom of Herstal's house, Herstal admittedly asked a fairly reasonably question, ‘Why don't you go use the guest room?’ Albarino winked and cheerfully said, ‘But we've already killed together, so why can't we shower together?’

The answer was so frank and straightforward that it could make all the officers at the WLPD cry, including Bart Hardy -- especially Bart Hardy.

The childish devil blocked the doorway to Herstal's bathroom while Herstal, who was extraordinarily uncomfortable at this point due to the gradually drying bloodstains on his body, and the clothes that were sticking to his skin, frowned and asked, ‘I'd have to put a bullet through your head to make you give up on that idea, wouldn't I?’

‘I'm pretty sure that the only gun in this house is in my holster, with my coat.’ Albarino said, definitely not purposefully emphasising the word ‘my’. His smile seemed to grow even more cheerful, ‘And even if you don't agree, I won't force you, but I'll stand here and look at you pitifully, letting you be condemned by your own conscience.’

Seriously, what the hell kind of conscience was there to speak of with a psychopathic murderer.

After being covered in dried blood and carrying that blood around for two hours while cleaning up the crime scene, smelling of bleach, and feeling utterly exhausted -- never mind the fact that before the clean up began, the two of them had f*cked in the pool of blood. Who in the world ended a round of sex by cleaning up a crime scene? -- Herstal really didn't want to argue with Albarino over such arbitrary questions.

Besides, a rational part of him told him that Albarino would really do something like blocking the bathroom door to try to trigger the conscience of another serial killer. In fact, as things stood, he could hardly imagine anything Albarino wouldn't do.

Or perhaps it was just as the old saying went: after all their discussions about love on the couch of Albarino's rented apartment, Herstal knew he would end up making many compromises in the future. Some compromises were harmless, like this argument over the bathroom, while others could cost him his life.

He felt more tired than angry when he thought about such matters, a feeling similar to that of a dog owner coming home to find that his dog had torn up the couch. He knew in his heart that this was just another one of those silent compromises that had ended up manifesting themselves within him.

-- So he turned sideways and let the smiling Albarino in .

Herstal leaned his head wearily against the edge of the tub, feeling a dull ache begin again in his temples, a headache caused by cervical spondylosis that had plauged him for many years, like a nightmare that could never be shaken off. A damp, fishy odour now lingered at the end of his nose as the dried blood was washed away, as well as the fresh smell of the shampoo he'd bought. He closed his eyes slightly, feeling a slight vertigo amid the headache .

Then, the sound of water stopped, and a shadow loomed over him. Herstal opened his eyes to see Albarino standing outside the tub, still smiling. The man still looked wet, his skin flushed red from the heat, and he hadn't even bothered to wrap a towel around himself.

Albarino asked, ‘Can I come in?’

He even managed to make this sound like a dirty joke.

Herstal, too lazy to even bother glaring at him anymore, asked in an ill-mannered tone, ‘Can't you just f*ck off to the guest room?’

‘I think we have a lot to discuss regarding what happened today.’ Albarino replied matter-of-factly, although apparently, his genius brain had come up with the idea of discussing it in the bathtub completely naked. Before Herstal could sarcastically reply to him, Albarino had all but stepped in with one foot, his toes brushing against the side of Herstal's thigh, stirring up a cascade of water.

He continued gently, ‘Move forward please, I want to be behind you.’

-- Now Herstal was pretty sure that those words together must have been a dirty joke.

Herstal huffed through his nose, but moved out of the spot like the other man wanted. Since Albarino wouldn't listen to him anyway, no matter what he said, he might as well save himself the effort of arguing: he was like an unlucky middle-aged man who had given up struggling with his failing marriage. He laughed at himself mentally.

Albarino slid into the water behind him -- Herstal was a centimeter or two shorter than he was, though not short enough for spooning to look anything but awkward . But Albarino didn't seem to care, and he reached out to pull Herstal closer towards him until the other man's spine touched his chest. Herstal could still feel the roughness of the scars when their skin touched, a sensation that, unfortunately, still managed to stir up a spark or two of desire.

‘My indulgence in you will lead to disastrous consequences.’ Herstal murmured, a heavy sigh adorning the end of his words as he leaned against the other person in general abandonment.

‘Obviously, we are both aware of this.’ Albarino replied slowly, as if the chaotic shambles of a crime scene they’d left behind today wasn’t evidence enough.

Then, Albarino's fingers crept up to his shoulders and, without warning, began massaging with force on a particularly stiff and sore muscle in Herstal's shoulder. Herstal took a slight breath, tilting his neck back almost unconsciously.

‘You should likewise know,’ Albarino said softly, not easing up on the pressure of his hands He seemed to know exactly where Herstal was feeling uncomfortable, ‘that I have always been a very considerate lover.’

-- There was no doubt about that, any man or woman who had maintained an intimate relationship with him could corroborate this; it was hard not to like him, even after the relationship ended. That was what made Albarino so charming.

‘I know,’ Herstal replied, his eyelids closing heavily, the wet ends of his hair brushing against Albarino's collarbone, ‘and that’s exactly what will make the disaster all the more horrific.’

The cabin had an eerie, almost inhuman cleanliness and was brightly lit. As Herstal dropped the heavy corpses to the floor, he surveyed the entire room. He noticed some rather specialized saws, a pulley system hanging from the ceiling, as well as large freezers and the likes.

At some point during all this, a normal person would have started to feel creeped out; it was as if they were in a low-budget thriller, and since the director didn't have enough budget to make a monster that could poke its mouth into a person's brain and suck it out, they’d resorted to constructing the fantasy cabin of a deranged homicidal maniac.

Herstal scrutinized the room with a critical eye -- it made sense for him to do so, because he would usually pick a spot he deemed appropriate for torturing his victims, then left their bodies there and walked away, never to return again. Therefore, he certainly didn’t bother setting up a room filled with equipment.

‘You have the most disturbing hobby of anyone I’ve ever met’ Herstal commented matter-of-factly.

‘Oh, of course you would think so, Mr. Pianist.’ Albarino retorted mockingly as he knelt on the ground and used his knife to cut open the black plastic sheet wrapped around the corpse, revealing the ghastly white face inside -- Billy's complexion was deathly pale from the blood loss, and because he had been placed in the trunk on his side, a layer of bruise-like necrotic stains had formed on one side of his cheek. Rigor mortis had fully developed, and he remained in a rigid, stiff, curled-up position, like a fetus in its mother's womb.

‘It's pretty bad, his abdomen has already begun to bloat. The human intestines are full of bacteria that are particularly prone to putrefaction.’ Albarino clicked his tongue, then he glanced at Herstal and explained patiently, ‘I usually choose the right moment to kill them, especially when I want to preserve the skin of the corpse. In those cases, I can’t afford to spend a week or two decorating them because...’

‘Because they’ll rot sooner or later, as long as you keep anything other than the bones.’ Herstal said calmly, looking down at Albarino and the bodies, already understanding in his heart. ‘Corpses stain, and their skin discolours after they die and decay: you don't want these things to spoil the beauty of what you’re trying to present.’

‘Exactly,’ Albarino replied with a smile. ‘To be honest, it's rather frustrating. Draining the blood would minimize the colour of the necro-pigmentation the greatest extent, but unless I can transform this entire place into a cold storage-,’ he waved a hand casually across the room, ‘they'll just rot anyways. But honestly, working in freezing temperatures takes away from the challenge. Isn’t the most challenging part completing them into their most perfect form before the bacteria and the laws of nature takes them?’

‘That's fleeting.’ Herstal whispered.

‘Isn’t that the essence of life?’ Albarino retorted cheerfully. ‘Everything is fleeting: life, time, art, even beauty itself. This inexorable, indescribable thing destroys us every moment. And that’s what makes the whole thing so fascinating-’

He cut away the plastic sheeting wrapped around the outside of the second body, and an even stronger stench of decay hit them as Anthony Sharp's mutilated face was presented to them.

‘Because every cut you make cannot be healed, and every piece removed cannot be restored. It's less like a painting, and more like a sculpture: you can only keep subtracting, and never adding them back.’ Albarino's voice dropped a little softer, as if he was whispering to a child. His gaze remained glued to Sharp's face, though it was now just a shapeless mass of flesh and blood no matter how he looked at it.

‘You only get one chance.’ Herstal said slowly, having fully grasped Albarino's meaning, or, perhaps as close as he could get to the heart of what the Sunday Gardener was obsessed with.

‘As it is with life.’ Albarino let out a small sigh, ‘As a friend with whom I was once acquainted with liked to quote -- 'Beauty is difficult’. [2]

[2] Hippias Major, Plato.

Albarino's fingers helped knead Herstal's stiff shoulder muscles and extraordinarily sore neck with appropriate strength, and he might have even been able to sleep peacefully if he hadn't known that deep down this man had as much of a chance of snapping his neck as he did of massaging it for him.

Herstal was enveloped within the steaming mist, the vapour clinging to his warm skin. Then Albarino broke the peace by saying, rather earnestly, ‘Turns out you actually don't have any rubber duckies in your bathroom.’

...He had long said that this man was not mentally sane.

‘Sorry?’ Herstal asked dryly.

‘ I think they’re fun, along with colorful bubble baths and all that. Isn’t the whole point of a bath to enjoy yourself?’ Albarino replied pleasantly, his fingers continuing to glide upwards, brushing gently over his temples.

‘Those two bodies lying on the porch are probably quite interesting to you as well, what are you going to do with them?’ Herstal asked sarcastically.

They were both well aware of the dilemma they were currently caught in -- Sharp's body clearly showed the hallmark signs of the Pianist's M.O., but the Pianist had been committing a little too many crimes lately, and had attracted a high level of attention. While there were a number of people in the WLPD who were already hindering Officer Hardy in this case, if things continued at this speed, there was a good chance that they wouldn't be able to handle the pressure any longer and end up bringing in the FBI to handle the Pianist's cases. And the last thing they needed was to involve that workaholic chief of the BAU into this mess.

Not to mention, Billy and Anthony Sharp had died together, which, given the old case involving the two of them, made it all too easy to connect the dots to the Anonymous Mutual Aid Society that Billy attended.

‘I know what you're thinking,’ Albarino said softly behind him, the corners of his lips brushing against the moist skin of Herstal's neck. ‘You're thinking, either we destroy their bodies so thoroughly to the extent that no one will ever find them, or we disguise the injuries on their bodies as accidents. In any case, we must not let the police associate these with the Pianist -- but as a forensic pathologist, I can tell you that the latter is practically impossible: there aren't many more serial killers in Westland you could frame, and the injuries on his body don't look like they could have been done by manslaughter.’

He laced his voice with just the right amount of sarcasm, especially when he mentioned the word ‘frame’. Herstal wasn't sure if he was really still hung up on the Landon case, or if he just wanted to see someone else get screwed.

Herstal asked irritably , ‘ Then what brilliant suggestion do you have, genius? ’

‘It's simple,’ Albarino gave a low chuckle, and Herstal could feel the pleasant vibration in his chest, ‘There's still another serial killer in Westland besides the Pianist.’

Herstal moved, causing the water to make a soft splashing sound. But he was unable to turn around as he was pinned by the other's arm, so he was reduced to using that warning tone he’d probably used a thousand times on Albarino already, ‘Albarino!’

‘The last time the Sunday Gardener committed a crime was on September 25th,’ Albarino pointed out as if it was reasonable, ‘and next weekend will be November 27th.’

Herstal objected rather disapprovingly, ‘Two months-’

‘I understand, of course. But that's still better than the Pianist who has already committed three crimes since mid-September, isn't it?’ Albarino said reasonably. ‘At this rate, poor Bart is going to start suspecting that someone’s paying the Pianist to be so enthusiastic .’

Even Herstal could not refute this reasoning. After a moment's silence, he added, ‘However, this matter could easily backfire. The victims' identities can easily be traced back to the Anonymous Mutual Aid Society-’

Albarino laughed softly and suddenly leaned in to suck on his earlobe.

The wet, moist sensation made Herstal's entire body shudder, he didn't hesitate to give the other man an elbow strike, hearing Albarino stifle a muffled cry behind him.

‘Okay, okay, erectile dysfunction patient.’ Albarino gritted his teeth and said after a moment, although he didn't really sound angry. ‘But think about it, what would happen if they do suspect the Anonymous Mutual Aid Society? -- Bart and Olga are the ones who think the Sunday Gardener has his eyes on you, and for that reason, he’s even left a skull filled with flowers on your desk.’

He paused meaningfully, and when he spoke he lowered his voice even more, deliberately creating an ambiguous and mysterious atmosphere.

‘Maybe this is a gift for you, Herstal.’ He said softly, licking and kissing the hard joints on the back of the other man's neck, grazing his teeth over the thin, warm layer of skin. ‘He laments the misfortune that befell you in the matter of Johnny the Killer, and offers you a twisted gift -- in order to show you that the Gardener understands the pain that is within you. And sends his deepest condolences for the loss you have suffered.’

Herstal was silent for two seconds, then sarcastically remarked , ‘-- laments my misfortune? By way of presenting me with the bodies of a rapist and his victim?’

‘By way of this,’ Albarino agreed, giving a light chuckle, ‘even if it's all just to tell you, ' Now I understand how much you hated what Johnny the Killer did, and if I had another chance, I’m willing to personally dismember Elliot Evans into pieces'. And so what? You know the Gardener is capable of anything, don't you?’

Albarino stood in front of the two corpses that had been laid out side by side on the floor, surveying with disgust the network of decaying veins that had spread across their skin, as well as their abdominal skin that had begun to rot first, and had become an oily green colour. The Horseman of Death, as depicted in the Book of Revelation, was said to ride a green horse that was said to be this very colour.

‘Okay,’ he stretched his arms lazily, like a large feline, ‘we're going to start.’

‘We?’ Herstal added an exasperated emphasis on the word.

‘Fine, you can just sit back and watch, Your Esteemed Majesty.’ Albarino complained, gesturing casually to a chair in the corner of the room. ‘Sit on your throne, I really have lots of work to do.’

Herstal glanced down at his watch, ‘It's ten thirty-seven P.M. now… Are you really going to display them on a Sunday night? In that case, you'll have to finish by tomorrow night, not to mention the amount of work involved in setting up the second scene.’

Albarino glanced at him, some of his chestnut-coloured hair piled up messily on his forehead, making him look unusually young.

‘So I'm going to be burning the midnight oil too, it's going to be a very, very exhausting twenty-four hours.’ He said cheerfully, ‘But that's the fun part isn't it? Herstal, as we were saying, 'Beauty is difficult’.’

Chapter 8: 44. Dionysus in the Tomb (2) ED

Chapter Text

He knelt on the bow of the ship, above the deck that was dampened by the sprays of water, and watched as the body sank slowly into the depths. The red fabric of the dress billowed underwater like a mist, like blood spreading outwards. He gazed into those green eyes and smiling lips, a string of tiny bubbles rose from the corner of her mouth, transparent and delicate, floating towards the surface.

-- She resembled Ophelia, like a water nymph,like Frederic Leighton's Crenaia standing on the sand. [1]

[1] Referring to English painter Frederic Leighton's ‘Crenaia, the Nymph of the Dargle’.

It was the hour of twilight, and the still surface of the lake was gilded with a golden light, scattering over the water l ike fragments of shattered gold leaf ; the sky was a lonely, heavy blue-violet, with layers of rosy clouds piled up in the horizon.

Her lips opened and closed soundlessly in what must have been a farewell before she was buried within the deep water.

And in such a dusk, amid the bitterness of the mist, something was being forged into shape.

Out of the grave in which the young nun was to be laid they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful statue of a Psyche carved in white marble.

Herstal sat in a chair in the corner and watched as Albarino knelt down beside the body, a knife held in his hand, his posture straight and upright.

A leather tool bag, the kind favoured by 19th-century doctors, sat by his leg. Inside were neatly arranged scalpels, various dissection knives, other types of blades, bone saws, hemostatic forceps, and some other impressive tools that Herstal couldn't even name -- ones that didn't look like they would ever be found in a doctor's hands either.

All of these instruments shimmered with a cold glare under the light, emitting a cold sheen like the snow outside in the forest. That silver mist lingering over them was what people called death.

‘I’m going to strip the flesh from Mr. Sharp's bones,’ announced Albarino in a cheerful tone as he examined the corpse, ‘at least from the head down to about the waist. I estimate I can retain some flesh on the legs and on the lower abdomen, but the upper body will be stripped down to the bone.’

‘That sounds like a lot of work, and I thought there wasn't much time.’ Herstal pointed out rather reasonably, he couldn't help but frown as he listened to Albarino's description.

‘We are short on time. Not to mention, if the plan is to leave only his bones, I’ll also have to use wire to keep the skeleton from falling apart. I figure I'll only be able to secure the wire to the outside of the skeleton, there isn't enough time left for me to thread it internally.’ Albarino smiled as he spoke, although he said it like this, his body language remained relaxed without a hint of urgency. ‘But it can't be helped -- it's not going to be easy erasing all traces of the Pianist from this case.’

He nudged Sharp's neck with the knife in his hand, where a deep groove formed by the piano wire used to strangle him could be seen, taking on a greyish-yellow colour and surrounded by patches of broken skin and bruises.

‘Dark leathery lesions and subcutaneous hemorrhages caused by strangulation via piano wires,’ he said slowly, ‘and the deeper muscle layers will also have bleeding. Not to mention the bruising on the base of the tongue and tonsils. Only by removing these parts can we hide the fact that he was strangled.’

Albarino pressed the blade deftly against Sharp's skin, cutting downward along the dark strangulation mark. As the blade sliced deeply into the muscle, dark red blood slowly oozed from the incision.

‘Furthermore, since this strangulation mark is relatively high, I have reason to suspect that he fractured the greater corner of his hyoid bone,’ Albarino gestured with his free hand. ‘I think that only when all the tissue is removed and only a skull remains, could an experienced forensic pathologist overlook the fact that the killer removed the victim's tongue and cartilage, right?’

Herstal caught on to the key phrase and asked, ‘An 'Experienced forensic pathologist' ...you're not working this case?’

Albarino's knife must have hit the dead man's cervical vertebrae; he pursed his lips and jammed the blade tightly somewhere on the bone, then with a deft twist of his hand, that he himself didn't know how to make, Herstal heard the crisp snap of bone breaking.

Then Albarino laughed, ‘Not sure yet, after all, I'm still on vacation. It's possible that the head of forensics might call me back after the crime is discovered, or they might have another forensic pathologist handle it -- but it's better to do things to the best of my ability. I don't want to have to stand in front of an autopsy table and lie: I still have some professional work ethics.’

Herstal snorted.

So his way of not lying was apparently to process the body so thoroughly to the point where he himself couldn't determine the exact cause of death. Herstal raised an eyebrow, suppressing a sarcastic retort that nearly escaped his lips, and then asked, ‘After this treatment, the forensic examiner won't be able to tell that the victim had been strangled?’

‘No, that's not the only sign of strangulation, but most of the others can be reasonably explained away: the deceased's internal organs and brain tissues are often bruised, but I will remove these parts in the subsequent processing.’

Albarino replied while severing off Sharp's entire head, the dark red blood already gathered in a small pool on the floor.

‘But there are some signs of mechanical asphyxiation that cannot be masked: such as the Tardieu spots, blood that’s unable to clot due to hypoxia, as well as livor mortis, which is more pronounced than with other causes of death.’

Albarino paused for a moment, then grinned as if he'd thought of something: ‘But that's alright, the Gardener sometimes kills his victims by suffocating them with a hand over their mouth and nose. As long as there's nothing to suggest that the victim was strangled to death, signs of asphyxia on the body won’t be surprising.’

Herstal had studied some of the Gardener's cases before, and he quickly recalled one of them, ‘For example, that 'Ophelia' case you started with, she died of asphyxiation, didn't she?’

That case was significant because the Sunday Gardener's first crime scene was actually somewhat sloppy. After that, he never left the dead victim in the car again. It was from the ‘Ophelia’ case that the Gardener's style began to take shape, so to speak.

The WLPD officers -- even before Olga came to Westland, and before Bart Hardy had started working on the cases -- began to notice that the Gardener liked to incorporate images related to ‘water’ in his works.

That was something that particularly interested Herstal: why water? And why on Sundays? Did it have something to do with his mother, who drowned? He wondered if he could get an answer from Albarino in the end or not.

‘Because slitting someone's throat more or less ruins the aesthetic image I have in mind,’ Albarino explained to Herstal with a shrug, his voice tinged with a hint of regret, ‘But still...at that time, I was really too young, you know? I completely underestimated how prominent the livor mortis would be, and covering up those spots and bruises took a lot of effort on my part.’

There was a thick, fishy odour in the air as Albarino dragged Sharp's head into his lap without hesitation or concern, then he drew another knife out of the leather bag. This scene made him look like a twisted version of Salome, except that it wasn't the head of his beloved lying in his hands.

-- This comparison flashed through Herstal's mind like lightning, and then he suddenly realized two things: first, he wasn't sure if the concept of ‘beloved’ even existed for Albarino, and second, he couldn't guarantee that he himself wouldn't end up in the same situation.

This realization made him want to laugh.

But he still didn't make a sound, merely watching as Albarino skillfully used the knife to peel off the dead man's scalp -- it was done with a creepy amount of efficiency, or at least it would definitely appear this way for ordinary people. One could easily imagine how many times he must have practiced this to achieve such proficiency, and what kind of familiarity such a thing was for him.

Herstal recalled that pure white skull that had once sat on his desk, adorned with daffodils and ears of wheat bleached by some chemical, so pure in hue to a degree that bordered on surreal, a colour combination that was almost sort of cheerful.

Perhaps it was here, in this very place, that Albarino had completed that piece, and where the blood of the gangster who knew one of the Westland Pianist's secrets had once flowed as well. A steady, silver light flashed between Albarino's fingers, like a cold, merciless judgement -- like death.

And to him, this was merely a part of his work, not a life, not a living person -- they had no ‘life’ of their own. Their existence was granted only by the Sunday Gardener through the knife in his hand. What arrogance this was.

Herstal would never admit it, but watching the Sunday Gardener work was indeed a fascinating experience. Serial killers never showcased their process to the outside world, because it was far too personal.

-- This seemed like an opportunity to regain some ground.

Although his rational mind told him that spending the night curled up in that rickety chair would have disastrous consequences for his shoulders and neck, in the end, at some unknown moment, Herstal fell asleep in the not-so-comfortable chair.

Because the position was simply too uncomfortable, he only managed to sleep for two or three hours at most, before waking up to the sharp protests from his shoulder. Half of his body had gone numb, and it was barely four o'clock -- the overhead lights of the cabin had gone out, but the corner of the room farthest from him was lit by a couple of floor length lamps, the metal shades of which were glowing brightly, gathering Albarino in the midst of their spotlight, tying him to the corner of the room.

Albarino's sitting position had hardly changed, there were piles of bones scattered around him, half a dismembered torso, and blood that had been wiped over with a couple of rags but couldn't be wiped clean. In another corner, there was another piece of plastic sheet in the corner, which was covered with the rest of Sharp's inexplicable bits and pieces: presumably flesh and organs. They were piled up in a heap, looking particularly like a grotesque Aztec altar.

The smell of blood in the air was so overwhelming that it made one suspect that the place was a thriving slaughterhouse. Herstal took a couple of seconds to reflect on how in the world he'd managed to fall asleep with a smell this strong and a knife-wielding serial killer in the room. He'd fallen asleep in a state of madness. Normally, he would have blamed it on all the late nights he'd pulled over the past few days in preparation for the trial, but he knew that that wasn't a good enough excuse.

Herstal stared at Albarino's back for a while, and then, without warning, the other man somehow suddenly knew that he was awake, even though Herstal clearly hadn't made any noise. Albarino suddenly spoke, ‘Mockery -- I can taste mockery in the air, what do you wish to say?’

Herstal himself couldn't taste anything in the air beyond the smell of blood. After some thought, he asked, ‘Do you always act like this? Without a plan, just doing whatever comes to mind?’

‘What do you consider as ‘without a plan’? See that table next to you? There's a notebook on it that contains sketches of my work.’ Albarino asked without looking up, he had a wire and pliers in his hands, and was threading some bones together. With Herstal's knowledge of the human body, he actually had some trouble seeing which of those bones were supposed to be connected to which.

Herstal swept a glance at the wobbly table, which he was pretty sure didn't even have four legs of the same length. The notebook lay on the table, and Herstal, taking Albarino's earlier words as permission to look through it, brought it over and placed it in his lap.

He could see a few dried bloodstains rubbed onto the leather cover, he could easily imagine Albarino sketching on the pages while wearing blood-stained latex gloves.

‘As you wish.’ Herstal added a condemning accent to the word. ‘Even if killing Sharp was just an accident, setting them up as a piece of the Sunday Gardener's work was entirely on your own whim. Furthermore, your unwillingness to either put it off until another Sunday, or to start the work at a moment when I wasn't around has resulted in you now having only twenty-four hours to finish it all. And as a result, you obviously have to abandon all your normal physiological needs to complete this -- so yes, I did mean 'without a plan'.’

Albarino tossed a bloody piece of who-knows-what on top of the pile of entrails on the plastic sheet. He had no qualms about smoothing back the strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead, and though Herstal couldn't see his face, it was clear that the action had smeared several trails of blood across his face.

Then Albarino let out a laugh.

‘I sense you have a distaste for people who don't do things according to plan,’ Albarino said lightly, ‘but supposing, hypothetically, that an artist's inspiration comes from divine possession, where in that moment of divine possession, they recall the perfection of the world of ideas and thus use it to create a copy of that perfection -- and then, in this way, you would not know where the inspiration comes and when it will come; all you can do is submit to it.’

Herstal snorted coldly, clearly thinking that Albarino was doing nothing more than using ancient philosophy from over two thousand years ago to justify himself. He lowered his head and opened the notebook in his hands: inside, it contained neatly bound sketch paper, with no writing, no dates, and no inscriptions of any kind, only the blurred human bodies that Albarino had roughly sketched out with his pen.

Herstal didn't know whether the other man had formally studied drawing or not, but regardless of the artistry of these drawings, Albarino’s grasp of the structure of the human body and anatomy was extremely precise, which might also have something to do with his medical background.

The notebook had clearly been used for many years; the cover was cracked, the page edges frayed, and some of the pages were stained with blood from accidental smearing. It was apparent that it had been kept by Albarino in the cabin to make drafts of his work.

Some of the drawings were very reminiscent of some of the cases committed by the Gardener, who had indeed drawn skeletons in wedding dresses as well as skulls filled with blood-red pomegranate seeds. Herstal kept flipping until he reached the last page with drawings -- where Albarino had recorded his most recent work.

The page indeed depicted two human figures, and Herstal could surmise that this was the end fate that the Gardener had planned for Billy and Anthony Sharp.

He stared at the drawing for a while, his mind sluggish due to the uncomfortable sleep and the aches and pains in his body. But soon enough, he recognized it.

Herstal looked up.

Albarino was still just a shadow focused in the midst of the spotlights.Herstal wondered if his gaze made the other feel as if there was a light focused on his back -- but in any case, Albarino suddenly turned around as if he had eyes on the back of his head, and sharply met Herstal’s gaze.

As soon as he shifted his position, the warm orange light was almost completely blocked out by his figure, and Herstal's field of vision instantly darkened. Albarino then placed the skull, which had been cleaned and wiped free of blood, onto his lap, sitting silently in the darkness.

His skin looked strangely radiant and warm under the illumination of the light, carrying a mysterious metaphorical undertone. His whole person looked almost serene and unknowable, very much like a figure that would have appeared in a painting by Georges de La Tour, the painter of candlelight. The figure in front of him resembled a repentant saint with a hand resting quietly on a skull, though Herstal was certain that the man in front of him believed in anything but God.

Herstal's fingertips lingered on the notebook in front of him, still feeling a little surprised by the drawing he saw on the last page.

He spat out a name, as if it explained everything: ‘... Artemisia.’ [2]

[2] A reference to the female painter Artemisia Gentileschi, who was raped at the age of seventeen. After bringing the case to court, she was only scorned and ridiculed by the public.

‘Yes, that is Artemisia.’ Albarino repeated lightly, his eyes sparkling as if he was pleased that Herstal had recognized the image on the paper as the reference to the famous painter. ‘That is my plan -- my plan that I've set for them.’

His eyes swept quickly and sharply over the ground, the dismembered limbs of Anthony Sharp lay at his feet, blood flowing across them, and the ghastly white Billy also lay there, alone and forlornly covered by a piece of cloth -- these two were clearly the centrepieces of Albarino's ‘plan’, as he called it. Albarino, of course, obviously didn't care about how Billy had died or how his body was exposed under their gazes; he probably only did so considering Herstal’s feelings.

‘But why this theme?’ Herstal asked, staring intently at the other. ‘You don't usually choose the theme you want to present based on the deeds of the deceased -- you don’t care about their lives or their past, they're just a tool to be used to display your designs. So why did you choose Artemisia?’

That smile at the corners of Albarino's mouth seemed to widen a little more, as if the skull in his lap didn't make the scene even more bizarre and eerie. At that moment, Herstal suddenly anticipated the answer he was about to give.

‘Because of you.’

Albarino Bacchus said.

‘As I said before -- this is the Sunday Gardener's gift for you.’

His words fell like raindrops into silence, and Herstal stared at him, as if he was trying to find some trace of dishonesty in his eyes. Albarino's eyes, illuminated by the lamps, gleamed green like will-o'-the-wisps dancing among the graves. He continued to smile calmly, as if confident in accepting whatever questions the other man would baptize him with.

‘So,’ Herstal asked in a low voice, ‘was this also the result of divine possession?’

Albarino gave a soft humming laugh at the question, the syllable sounded almost forgiving. He replied softly, ‘I was possessed by a grey ghost from the past.’

He lowered his head and dragged another knife across the ground. The blade scraped against the floor with a rough, loud sound -- it was like a wake-up call, awakening the silent darkness, and making Herstal realize: this was an opportunity. He had to ask something now, or he would never have the opportunity to ask it later.

Perhaps the nights made people vulnerable, or perhaps they were in the middle of an intimate moment in which Albarino was showing himself to him. This was the moment when he was most likely to get an answer.

‘So,’ Herstal said in a soft, measured, cautious voice, ‘where exactly does your inspiration come from?’

-- Of course Albarino knew what the question Herstal truly wanted to ask was: They weren't talking about the Gardener's previous works, or what Sharp’s final fate would end up looking like, or even the female Roman painter.

They were discussing the grey ghost behind Albarino, which the other person had just admitted as being the source of his inspiration -- the place where it all began, where the Sunday Gardener originated.

Albarino still faced Herstal, but his gaze did not seem to focus on him, but looked in a farther, more unknown direction. He co*cked his head to one side as if in contemplation.

Then he said, ‘I know you've investigated me, so you must have heard about my mother: she was a surgeon.’

Albarino's mother was not as medically accomplished as his father, so she appeared less in the public eye. But he knew enough of the story, in accordance with Albarino's earlier remarks, Herstal had done his own investigations: she was a beautiful, exotic woman born in Spain, who fell in love with a surgeon from the United States, married into Westland for the sake of the other man, and then died in a drowning accident when Albarino was seventeen.

‘She wasn’t just a surgeon,’ Albarino whispered, ‘she was also an 'Angel of Death'.’ [3]

[3] The term is used to refer to physician serial killers who specialize in murdering their patients.

Chapter 9: 45. Dionysus in the Tomb (3) ED

Chapter Text

‘I don't understand.’ Albarino said.

-- They were sitting on the bow of the boat, the golden sunlight shattering into dazzling fragments across the water surface, a milky-white mist still lingered over the depths of the lake. Shana Bacchus sat there, her hand resting on the oar, and a rather gentle smile on her face.

Many years later, people would see the same smile on the face of Albarino himself – he would flash such a smile at his colleagues or the victims who came to the Forensic Bureau to have their injuries identified, to make them believe that they were genuinely cared for.

Shana's fingers tenderly smoothed down the curly hair at her young son's temples -- her own hair was a very light, silky, satin blonde, with a fair complexion that showcased the prominent features of northern Spaniards.

Her colleagues at the hospital would say that the boy resembled his father more, but Shana knew they were alike to their cores.

‘You don't need to understand now; you still have plenty of time to figure these things out, Al.’ She said, sliding her fingers down the young man's cheekbones. ‘The most important thing you need to know is this: you are free. You are not shrouded in your father's or my shadow, you can choose to be like your father, or like me, or simply go and become whatever you want to be.’

Albarino whispered, ‘I feel a longing-’

‘Then follow that longing.’ Shana interrupted decisively, still smiling as she said this, her expression made her look very young. ‘But there's no need to rush, you have all the time in the world, and -- never be hasty. You don't need to imitate me, or any of the cases that have come before; you have to choose the way that suits you.’

‘I know!’ Albarino raised his voice slightly, revealing a hint of frustration. ‘But what's the way that suits me?’

‘Experience it with your heart,’ Shana winked at him cheerfully. ‘Do you remember the time when we were in Paris when you were a child and I took you to see ‘The Raft of the Medusa’? [1] What did I say to you, Al?’

[1] Oil painting by French painter, Théodore Géricault, a pioneer of the Neo-Romantic school of painting. 'The Raft of the Medusa' is displayedin the Louvre.

‘We can look at it for as long as we wanted, and decide for ourselves when it was time to leave.’ Albarino replied in a whisper.

‘Exactly, and it's the same now.’

The smile at the corner of Shana's mouth softened even further as she leaned over to give her son a quick kiss on the cheek -- though the boy was already old enough to find such affection a little awkward -- before she withdrew the hand that had been previously resting on Albarino's shoulder, and stood up in the small boat, kicking off the shoes on her feet, rocking the boat with her movements.

More droplets splashed up as Albarino remained seated, tilting his head back to watch her. She stood with her back to the rising sun, making her appear as a vague, dark silhouette. The wind caught the tulle of her dress, making it billow like a swirling mist of blood.

Albarino whispered, ‘Mom --’

‘We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?’ She said softly, ‘I think now is the time, Al.’

‘I remember we talked about 'death' before.’ Albarino pointed out.

‘We talked about it because it will come sooner or later, and as always, I want it to happen under my control -- because beauty is so fleeting, especially for those whose flesh will decay.’ Shana brushed away a few strands of hair that had been blown onto her cheek by the wind. In her hair, she had delicately pinned a cluster of meadowsweet flowers that she’d plucked from the glass vase in the doorway before they’d left the house that morning. Albarino knew she loved to see the helpless look on his father's face when he noticed such things; she did it just for fun.

‘Is this the right time?’ Albarino asked.

‘There is never a 'right' time, just like the travellers in those fables who enter the orchard, searching for the most perfect apple -- we will always think that the next moment is more appropriate than the present.’ Shana answered gently. ‘But isn't it nice to choose to end it now? -- We're still in our finest hour, and you need to step out of your parents' shadow, especially mine. While I hate to brag, you seem to be very susceptible to my influence, Al.’

Albarino seemed to want to protest or sigh. He muttered something softly and then admitted: ‘You're right.’

Shana chuckled, ‘So come here, my dear. Experience it with your heart and decide when to end it yourself -- Al, if you want to figure out what you want, the way you want it most, you must first experience 'death'.’

‘That's not something that’s beautiful; it's ugly,’ Albarino muttered, but he still obediently moved a little closer to the bow. ‘I've been to the morgue at father's hospital.’

‘Most of the time, indeed it is, but it still has its merits too: it's an essential part of a grand journey.’ Shana agreed, at the same time, the golden light of the rising sun grew brighter behind her, painting her skin with a golden-pink halo.

But Albarino still frowned, ‘But...’

‘I understand why you feel uneasy. We often don’t want to walk down a path alone, it’s true for you, as it was for your father, but it's essential.’ Shana said softly. ‘Remember that fairy tale I used to read to you? Bury your Psyche in a dry well, then return to reality, and give it a brief eulogy: 'Go away, get out of here' -- and then you'll be free.’

‘That's not a good metaphor.’ Albarino said in a low voice.

‘Yes, but of course I have to speak to them in parables, you know this.’ [2] Shana's voice was full of playful teasing, as always, along with a touch of unique arrogance that only she possessed -- though, of course, if others heard it, they might find it too arrogant.

[2] Jesus spoke to others in parables, to which Jesus gave the following explanation: ‘This is why I speak to them in parables: ‘Though seeing, they do not see; though hearing, they do not hear or understand.’ In them the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled: ‘You will be ever hearing but never understanding; you will be ever seeing but never perceiving’.

Albarino gave a nervous smile at the little joke while his mother gazed at him, her eyes a beautiful mint-green colour. She tilted her head slightly to one side, an action reminiscent of a swan.

She said softly, ‘I love you, child.’

Then she spread open her arms in the early morning light, painted like a metaphorical silhouette by the backlight and morning haze: almost like a slender cross. The gale brought about them water vapour and the bitter earthy scent of the early morning shore, accompanied by a bird song or two that could be heard coming out from within the mist.

-- Then her body fell.

After a long time, the cluster of meadowsweet flowers rose to the surface along with the foam.

From within comes much that renders men sinful and impure. He fully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in him at times! What a source of evil, of that which we would not, welled up continually! He mortified his body, but the evil came from within. There was a part of his spirit, soft as a serpent, curled up in a ball, and hidden with his conscience under the cloak of charity -- what was this? Was it the childishness or youthful frivolity of the habit, of placing oneself under the mercy of God, and thinking that one is thereby exalted above all in the world?

(TL Notes: Weirdly, the last paragraph of that sentence starting from 'There was a part of his spirit', does not appear in the English versions of 'The Psyche' but does in theChinese Version. I spent an unbelievably long time looking for the origins of these quotes in English to find out they don't even exist ahhhh)

On Saturday afternoon, towards dusk, Albarino brought many flowers back to the cabin, as well as some silk.

Many, many flowers: masses of pale pink hibiscus and tulips arranged in green floral clay made of phenolic plastic; some plants that Herstal identified to be red poppies; delicate, light blue hydrangeas, carefully wrapped in paper; bundles of blue salvia, almost as numerous as the hydrangeas; and another pale blue plant of the iris family, which Albarino said was actually saffron crocus -- which Herstal could not be blamed for not recognizing; the most he knew of the plant was that he had eaten it when they were used for spices.

The flowers were all light blue and pale red, with only the poppies being slightly darker, giving the overall colour scheme a rather light and cheerful feel. The blue silk Albarino had brought back matched the colour of the hydrangeas, and as Herstal went over the drafts in Albarino's notebook in his mind, he roughly understood what Albarino was planning.

Albarino evidently knew that he had figured it out, so he asked directly, ‘Thoughts?’

Dark circles hung under his eyes -- a natural result of staying up all night. It was unclear whether he'd gotten any rest during the day on Friday or not, but from the time Herstal had gotten off work till now, he hadn't slept a second between then, which was almost twenty-four hours ago.

But the paleness in his skin and his bloodshot eyes didn't make Herstal feel any mercy towards him.

‘Did you choose these colours for the flowers?’ Herstal asked, ‘What a frivolous combination.’

‘Ah, yes, yes, of course that’s exactly what a cold-blooded dismembering serial killer would say.’ Albarino said as he placed the last foam box filled with flowers on the ground and straightened up. ‘I’m certainly not the type of person who would arrange a large, bloody, living human being to look like Michelangelo's 'The Creation of Adam'.’

-- Of course, for one thing, if the Sunday Gardener were to create the theme of'The Creation of Adam', there was an 80% chance he would clean up the bloodstains first, and that was the difference between the two of them.

‘Artemisia was a Baroque artist; her work wouldn’t have such a sickly sweet, cloying, delicate style.’ Herstal insisted, sounding as if the flowers had somehow offended him.

‘You're just dissatisfied that the Gardener decorates the corpses with flowers, aren't you? Oh but I'm sorry, the serial killer who has his sights set on you has Boucher and Fragonard as his favourite artists.’ [3] Albarino clicked his tongue.

[3] Both famous Rococo painters. Herstal dislikes the gaudy and exaggerated Rococo style and its lack of connotation and substance.

He finally stood in the center of the cabin -- where the two corpses had been mostly arranged, with the bones and limbs held together by metal fixtures, posed in the form that Albarino desired. Of course, some parts could still be disassembled; otherwise, no SUV trunk could fit something of that size.

Albarino looked at the two corpses, his gaze completely absorbed. While there was nothing left of Anthony Sharp but elongated bones and limbs with skin removed, Billy's body was a bit of an eyesore. His corpse was marred by livor mortis and ugly green veins that had formed during the decomposition process. At the end of the day, he had to do whatever he could to cover them up with the materials at hand.

Herstal obviously realized that discussing artistic style while standing in front of two corpses was not only pointless, but also carried a sense of dark humour. He gave up and asked instead, ‘Where did you get these flowers?’

It was impossible for Albarino to buy them through normal means; he would have been caught by Hardy long ago if he had bought them in such large quantities for no apparent reason, especially on a schedule that matched the Sunday Gardener’s crime sprees.

‘Officially, there's a nominal studio -- they design ceramics, metal, glassware, vases, decorative plates and such. They frequently purchase flowers from wholesalers,’ Albarino said quietly, his gaze never leaving the bodies. ‘They use them for photoshoots to promote the vases on their website, to decorate their physical store, or to enter various design competitions. The flower wholesalers’ tax records will show that the flowers were bought by a studio, not by an individual. Of course, if you want, I can even send you the URL of that studio's official website.’

Herstal didn't say anything, but Albarino knew that the other man was still watching him.

He crouched on the ground, picking through the hibiscus. He'd maintained this posture for too long in the past twenty hours, so much so that his legs were now aching, but Albarino didn't care much. He asked casually, ‘What? Surprised that I'd make these arrangements after accusing me of doing things on a whim?’

Not entirely. One look around at the well-equipped cabin made it clear that he hadn't exactly done anything based on a whim. Several thoughts swirled in Herstal's mind before he cautiously picked one out and asked, ‘Did your mother teach you this?’

‘What? No!’ Albarino laughed in surprise, his laugh even sounded genuine and almost hearty. ‘She taught me nothing -- except death itself.’

He didn't stop moving as he said this, deftly tucking the hibiscus between Sharp's empty ribcage, carefully adjusting the position of each flower to make sure that they weren't too crowded, and that the flowers didn’t accidentally flip over or appear too stiff.

Some people still thought that the Sunday Gardeners' flowers were arranged randomly. Herstal tsked inwardly.

Herstal wasn’t sure if he should urge the other person to continue speaking. He wondered if Albarino truly cared about his mother's death -- it was almost funny. The other man had brutally torn open his bloody wounds, and yet he was struggling with politeness when talking to Albarino. But then again, that was precisely what set them apart.

‘Did she really die by suicide?’ Herstal finally asked.

‘Right in front of me, I watched her sink, and in the end, I was the one who called the police.’ Albarino said simply, pulling another hibiscus out of the floral foam and snipped off its stalk with a click of the scissors. ‘If that's what you're asking -- yes, I didn't do anything.’

Herstal frowned slightly, ‘Why?’

Albarino shrugged his shoulders, his voice relaxed, ‘Because it’s what she wanted -- to choose how she wanted to die on her own terms, after having lived a beautiful life and killed enough people yet not get caught by the police? I guess that was part of her life’s goal. I don't entirely agree with all of it, but I wouldn’t stop her from choosing what she wanted, just as she wouldn’t stop me from choosing what I want.’

‘But, even if your father committed suicide because of this --’

‘My father did not commit suicide entirely because of her passing.’ Albarino replied.

He carefully placed another hibiscus, then pulled out a red poppy from the bouquet nearby, standing up with a sharp intake of breath at the numbness in his legs. Then he looked over at Herstal, a strange shadow lingering in his eyes.

Then he said, ‘It was a culmination of many factors: her death, the suicide note she left behind -- my father didn't really mention it, but I'm sure something of the sorts existed, and knowing her as well as I do, she likely confessed in that note to having killed at least fifty-three patients -- and his guilt over his own lapse of judgment.’

Albarino paused briefly.

‘Perhaps there may be a little more,’ he said quietly, flashing a faint smile. ‘I am very much like her, and that may have made my father want to escape from what was bound to happen in the end.’

Herstal remained silent for a moment before commenting, ‘It sounds like she ultimately killed him.’

‘'Be true', isn't that the essence of marriage?’ Albarino gave a light chuckle. ‘It's true that in a legal sense, she did nothing; but it was the chronic depression and the regret that slowly killed him, so maybe you’re not wrong.’

‘And you? How do you feel about all this?’ Herstal asked.

‘Are we back to this again? The part where we discuss 'Does the Sunday Gardener really have a heart'?’ There was still a trembling laughter in Albarino's voice, which sounded almost inhuman at a moment like this. He took a step forward, nearly pressing his body against Herstal’s. He still held the bright red poppy in his hand, which looked like a splash of blood.

‘Shouldn't I be worried?’ Herstal asked rhetorically.

‘You should.’ Albarino's voice dropped to a whisper, ‘Because I feel nothing.’

-- Herstal stared at him.

‘When my mother first died, my father was in a terrible state of mind.’ Albarino continued, ‘I had to handle most of the funeral arrangements -- and the next thing you know, there were two funerals in two years -- their colleagues at the hospital praised me on my calmness and strength, but no one ever saw through things. The pastors of the Westland parish even refused to conduct either of their funerals.’

‘Because they stubbornly believe that people who commit suicide can't go to heaven.’ Herstal sneered; that brought back memories of the Catholic church in Kentucky, a memory that wasn’t pleasant.

‘The girl from the Campagna is as beautiful as your princess in the marble castle. They are both daughters of Eve, and you can't tell them apart.’ Albarino said cheerfully. [4]

[4] TL Notes: Also a quote from 'The Psyche', but this one is from a different translation because I preferred this interpretation more.

Herstal glanced at him, ‘What’s that?’

‘A fairy tale my mother liked to tell me when I was a child, by Hans Christian Andersen.’ Albarino shrugged, his breath brushing against Herstal's lips -- this breach of personal space was very rude indeed, though when had Herstal given up on keeping him in check? ‘It tells the story of a young artist who carved a sculpture of The Psyche based on a woman he loved deeply, but the woman cruelly rejected his love, and as a result, he buried the marble statue in a deep, dry well.’

‘That really doesn't sound like a child's bedtime story.’ Herstal remarked, but then again, who was he to judge bedtime stories? No one had even read him any stories when he was a child.

‘Apparently, Hans Christian Andersen was said to have been inspired by a news story of a statue of Dionysus being dug up in a graveyard. My mother found this sort of real-life occurrence incredibly romantic.’ Albarino recalled.

He wore the same expression when reminiscing about his father and the white wine -- pleasant, but no more than pleasant. The tone in which he discussed these matters could easily mislead someone into thinking he was truly nostalgic, but upon closer examination, one would realise that it was nothing more than an illusion.

Herstal felt his throat seemed a little dry, and he coughed a little, asking, ‘And the end of the story?’

‘The artist dies. He spends his whole life trying to escape The Psyche he buried in the dry well, but in the end, he ultimately learns that he had never truly escaped the thing that followed him like a shadow.’ Albarino said softly. ‘I was once uncertain of my future. My mother hoped that by witnessing death itself, it would bring clarity. Death itself is a wake-up call. She hoped that I would thus find my own path, and not follow the old path of imitating her --’

Herstal thought back quickly to the news stories he'd looked up, the police investigation reports he’d studied, and then he fully understood everything.

‘But it was she who made you what you are.’ Herstal said slowly.

Albarino placed the poppy in the buttonhole of Herstal’s suit jacket, his fingers gently smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric.

‘The Psyche in me will never die.’ Albarino responded softly.

Chapter 10: 46. Dionysus in the Tomb (4)

Chapter Text

It was no ordinary day, and Albariño knew this from the beginning.

-- It was the anniversary of his mother's death, in July, on a clear summer day. It was still cool inside at nightfall, and the shadows enveloped the mansion, slowly devouring it.

"Father."

Albariño said softly as he stood in the doorway, one elbow propped on the doorframe. And his father -- Dr Charles Bacchus -- sat by the fireplace in his study.

On the respected surgeon's desk was an open bottle of white wine, labelled as a 1990 Château d'Yquemil Riesling Selection Grape by Grape [1], which Charles had won at an auction five years earlier.

[1] The full name of the bottle is actually: Egon Muller - Scharzhof Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese, Mosel, Germany. Grape by Grape selection wines are made from late-harvested Riesling grapes infected with botrytis.

Thinking back to five years before now seemed like a lifetime ago. At that time, most people would think that they would be successful, prominent and happy. Perhaps Charles Bacchus himself thought so too.

Albariño stared at the glass bottle for a moment, then asked softly, "Is something wrong?"

Something had evidently gone wrong -- for a pungent odour of smoke filled the room, and it seemed that his father had completely given up on maintaining the illusion of sobriety in his presence. Charles, with his pale face, his chin covered with stubble, and a deep shadow under his eyes, made more hideous by the light of the fire in the fireplace, had evidently been sleepless for a long time.

All this made him look even older, hardly like a man not yet fifty.

"It's nothing," Dr Charles Bacchus replied, trying to keep his voice light, but it was a long time since all his colleagues and friends had seen anything approaching a smile on his face again. "Al, will you leave me alone for a moment."

They all thought it was due to grief -- that it was only due to grief.

Albariño gazed at his father, and for a moment the young man looked as if he were lost in thought, and then he answered, "All right, but if there's anything you need --"

He exited the door as he spoke, and in this moment he could see the things that had caused the flames in the fireplace to blaze: it was paper, the inner pages torn from the book, the white pages slowly engulfed and curled by the blaze, and drowned in a strange, charred black colour.

It was his mother's diary, apparently; that letter, along with Shana's diary, had lain on his father's desk for the last two years, flipped over by the latter no telling how many times, and both father and son tacitly refrained from talking about it as if the thing did not actually exist.

As Albariño was about to close the door, Charles suddenly spoke hoarsely, "Al?"

"Dad?" Albariño asked in a low voice as he stopped in his tracks.

"Al, you know, whatever you..." His father seemed to be about to say something, but paused strangely and shook his head with a bitter smile, as if he didn't know how to phrase it. Then he resumed his speech, "You know I love you, don't you?"

Albariño was silent for a moment, then said, "I know."

"Go on." His father said softly.

SoAlbariño gently closed the door to the study, listening to the slight click of the lock. He hadn't left, and he hadn't devoted his time to the kind of holiday life that any college graduate like him would have lived. As his father had imagined -- he had received his acceptance letter to the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. The average person at this point in their life tended to want to spend their time travelling or in the bathtub with their significant other. This was the kind of "real life" that young people were crazy about immersing themselves in -- he made sure the door was closed, then leaned against it, put his full weight on it, and began to wait silently.

He counted from one to three hundred and twenty-four and then heard a gunshot. The sound was strange and sharp, a whole different tone from the kind played out on television.

Albariño stood in the doorway for a moment longer, then pushed it open again and stepped inside. He could see the revolver slipping out of Dr Bacchus's hand and onto the floor, there was blood dripping from his fingers, dripping into the carpet by the fireplace, slowly seeping into it.

Albariño calmly moved past the smell of all that smoke and picked up white wine glass from the shelf by the wall, then picked up the bottle of Riesling from the desk and poured himself a glass of wine.

The room was nearly deathly silent, save for the slight clink of glass on glass.

He stepped over the gradually gathering pool of blood on the floor and sat down in another chair by the fireplace, shrouded in the flickering light of the fire, right in the direction of his father's armchair. So he could see the blood trickling down between the brown hair, and the room gradually filled with a heavy, fishy odour.

That shouldn't be, he thought slowly, a Riesling this sweet should be paired with blue cheese and a caramel dessert. His father should have understood that, too.

Albariño sighed softly before bringing his lips to the rim of the glass.

And there lay also his head in the burning sun, for many dead were there, and no one knew their names, and his name was forgotten also. And see, something was moving in the sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes! What might that be? A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull, gliding in and out through the sightless holes. The lizard now represented all the life left in that head, in which once great thoughts, bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had arisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and immortality had had their being.

The lizard sprang away and disappeared, and the skull itself crumbled to pieces and became dust among dust.

The two bodies stood at the end of the white marble steps.

They had indeed been staged as a scene of bloody murder -- in every sense of the word -- and the younger of them stood propped up on some kind of support, his skin pale and wrapped in a light blue Greek style robe, the silk of which covered the decaying parts of his body and the dirty green colour that spread over his skin; and underneath these blue silks a myriad of pale blue saffron and hydrangea sprang up, as if he stood on a green field, a turquoise-coloured wave, or amidst some peculiar blue wreckage.

His throat was delicately cut, and the state of the cut showed that the skin here had definitely been cut after death, and the great hollow of his throat was filled with blue hydrangeas, and those blue petals poured out of his throat like words.

The other, on the other hand, was comparatively less decent, and at a glance it was difficult even to judge his sex: the flesh of this dead man's whole upper body had nearly disappeared, and the white skull and a single rib glittered in the morning light, leaving only a small amount of muscle still remaining in the legs and back, while the skin had been entirely flayed off, and the putrefying flesh reeked sickeningly on the white steps.

Flowers were used as a transition between the flesh and the exposed bones, pale red hibiscus and tulips filling his abdomen and chest, while brilliant red poppies poured openly from the empty eye sockets of the skull, in colours so vivid as to be somewhat hideous.

The deceased was arranged to lie on his back on the ground, his hands with only bones with only bones and a few muscles struggled to reach high into the sky, the pale finger bones held up by metal wires pointing in a certain direction in the sky.

The standing young dead man stood beside this almost skeletal figure, one hand arranged in such a way as to clutch the bare skull of the other dead man, and the other hand across the other's neck: blue branches of flowers were woven into the shape of sharp swords in his hands, the blades of which were entwined with the cervical vertebrae of the skeleton, where they blossomed into bouquets of small, blue and white flowers. Between the necks of these white bones the red poppies flowed down from there in the form of blood, step by step along the stone steps.

-- The last little red flower lay just in front of the toe of Olga Molozer's shoe, who stood at the very bottom of the steps, clasping her arms, and commenting in a relaxed tone, "He recreated Artemisia -- Judith Slaying Holofernes [2]. "

[2] Oil painting from the Bible. Judea was a beautiful Jewish widow who, when the enemy general Judea killed Holofernes and led a siege on her home town, got him drunk and then pulled out his sword and cut off his head. Artemisia repeatedly created several paintings of the same subject throughout her life, which should be related to her personal experience.

"f*ck." Bart Hardy said sincerely.

"What part of that sentence are you complaining about?" Olga glanced at him and joked, "Is it because the Gardener unexpectedly killed two people today on Sunday -- after all, he's only ever killed two victims at once in one case before, which is still quite rare -- or is it because you have something against Baroque painters?"

"I don't give a damn which painters are Baroque!" Hardy exclaimed in desperation, the kind of sound one would make if one was pretty much disappointed with the whole world, "What I do care about is: how the f*ck did he manage to get two corpses in front of the courthouse?!"

-- Exactly, the two of them were standing in front of the State District Court, a full circle of blockade lines surrounding the wide plaza, and farther back, jammed with press vans. With the scene so open, the WLPD could hardly hope to cover the reporters' view with anything.

This was great, and Hardy could imagine that within twenty minutes the photos of the uncensored bodies would be all over the internet.

The two bodies had been placed right on the top step of the courthouse's stone staircase, red poppies cascading down the steps and mixing with the bloodied bodies, making it physically uncomfortable to watch.

"The CSI's said that all the security footage from the night was deleted, and that the guard stationed in the security room was attacked from behind and is still in the hospital with a concussion." Olga said, though she knew that what Hardy shouted just now was just a desperate complaint, and he didn't really want to know the answer.

Hardy sighed heavily, "But I don't understand why the Sunday Gardener chose the site here. He's obviously always particularly favoured open woodlands, or a park with a water source, or something like that before. Courts, really? Dangerous and-"

"And imposing." Olga chuckled lowly.

Hardy glared at her.

It was at this moment that a constable came in their direction with several pages of photocopied paper, but before he could hand them to Hardy, Olga cut him off. She deftly jerked the pages out of the constable's hand and gave a ha-ha laugh.

"The one victim who still retains his face is named William Brown, generally nicknamed 'Billy' by his friends." Olga read, the piece of paper photocopied with the dead man's social security information as well as a few other details, "Oh, and this one was previously embroiled in a lawsuit: he's suing the teacher at his boarding school for attempting to rape him and for biting him in the face when he tried to struggle."

Hardy couldn't help but look at the young victim's face, where the light-coloured scar was clearly visible. Such young victims always made him feel bad inside, obviously because he also had a child at home.

He asked bitterly, "Does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal, Bart!" Olga exclaimed, waving the pages in her hand.

She paused aggressively, then pointed to the two corpses, "Look at these two corpses -- why was this young man named William Brown carefully adorned with silk and bluebells, but the other dead man was stripped of his skin and half of his body's flesh is nowhere to be found? Also, the gardener posed the two of them in the pose of Judith Slaying Holofernes, where the beautiful young woman Judith kills the invader's General to protect her hometown ...and as we all know, Artemisia has used this biblical story as a blueprint many times after being sexually abused by another painter. Bart, while it wasn't the Sunday Gardener's inclination before this -- I'm guessing he wouldn't have chosen a victim with such a unique experience, a subject like this, and yet nothing in order to illustrate it."

As much as Officer Hardy really wanted to spit out the "we all know" line, was completely shocked by the content revealed in Olga's words, and he stuttered, "You mean -- ? "

"Yes." Olga replied simply, throwing the paper in her hand back into the young constable's and watching the other man catch it hurriedly.

Then she said to the constable, "Excuse me, bring in the forensic scene investigator over there." The Forensic Bureau car had just arrived outside the crime scene, and the scene surveyor was desperately trying to break through the press pack to get into the cordon, an attempt that appeared to be completely unsuccessful at the moment. "We need them to take DNA from the other victim other than Brown, who I have reason to suspect is the one mentioned in the profile that says --"

Olga paused for a moment, craning her neck again to scan down the sheets of paper the officer was holding, apparently not remembering the name she'd just seen.

She quickly saw what she wanted to see and read, "... Anthony Sharp."

"Really? Isn't that too hasty a conclusion?" Hardy couldn't help but ask, something like judging the name of a victim whose identity was unknown with their bare hands was something they'd only seen in blindly filmed deduction dramas after all.

"Never hasty." Olga shook her head as she darted up the steps and then without warning knelt down beside the body lying on the floor. She pressed herself down and brought her face close to that of the poppy-stuffed skeleton as Hardy stared in shock.

"Olga?" Hardy asked, in a tone as if he thought she'd finally gone mad. It wasn't so bad, though; in Lavazza Mercader's eyes, she must have been on the verge of madness, too.

‘Look.’ Olga whispered, From the perspective of the skeleton, looking in the direction of his convulsing fingers pointing toward the sky, would have revealed that the pale, white-boned fingers were pointing squarely at the tall statue in the courthouse square.

-- The female figure, her eyes blindfolded with cloth, stood on a gilded pedestal, holding a sword in one hand and a balance in the other. The statue was the most conspicuous structure in the square in front of the courthouse, and even if one stood at an extreme distance, one could see it at a glance.

"It points its finger towards Lady Justice." Olga whispered, letting out a light chuckle, "An interesting irony, isn't it?"

Albariño blinked sleepily.

He felt dizzy and sore from the sleep, and his arm, which was pillowed under his head, was completely numb from the pressure. To be honest, it was possible for someone who had been working at a high level of stress for more than twenty-four hours to run into this kind of situation. He groaned and shifted, hissing and gasping at the numbness in his fingers. Just as he tried to raise his head, his forehead hit something.

-- Correction: his forehead hit the Westland Pianist's shoulder.

One's life may contain a multitude of choices, but "waking up in the morning to see the Westland Pianist looking at you with a 'why don't I strangle you' look in his eyes" is generally not included in most people's life plans.

Albariño glared at the other man for a moment, then asked logically, "...... Why am I in your bed?"

Herstal sighed, there it was again, that sound of finding your dog tearing up the couch as soon as you get home from work.

"How much do you remember about last night?" He asked in a no-nonsense manner

"Are you asking before or after I set Billy and the others out?" Albariño's voice was still low and soft from the daze, with a bit of a pleasant smile, "I remember everything before clearly, but after that I'm pretty sure I pretty much blacked out on the way back."

-- This is what basically happened the night before: Albariño had finally finished the Gardener's work at roughly about midnight, and so he drove back to the city with his yet-to-be-installed artwork, and a Herstal who had been idly watching him work all day.

Albariño dropped Herstal off near his law firm, and then took the two corpses with him to who knows where. Since the other man had no intention of taking him to set up the crime scene, Herstal didn't even mention it.

Or, they both had to admit: that was still too intimate, especially when it came to the part about putting the Gardener's results on display.

Then he drove back to the flat he was staying in -- his car had been parked for the last few days in a garage near the law firm, a long term rental, no cameras, no receipts left for parking, a good choice. Since he never walked home, it was still a little odd to be caught on camera on the perimeter of his apartment walking home at midnight.

He sincerely hoped he was being too nervous, but when you were a psychopathic murderer, no amount of caution was too much to ask.

Herstal thought that that was the end of it: he'd gone back to his flat, and Albariño had most likely gone back to his rented apartment to catch up on his sleep after staging the crime scene. Once again, they would renacted the whole process of briefly meeting and then going their separate ways, just like every time before.

But things obviously did not go as he expected, because around four o'clock in the morning, his flat was visited by an unwanted guest.

Albarino Bacchus appeared staggeringly in front of his bed, as if he was haunted -- Herstal had confirmed it afterwards, that the man had managed to find his place with precision after staying up for twenty-four hours, picking the lock on the door as he entered, and that Albariño had been extremely lucky to avoid the alarms from those security systems -- he muttered something under his breath that no one could make out, and then flopped down on Herstal's bed.

He fell asleep as fast as if he'd died suddenly.

All in all, Albariño hadn't driven the SUV with the changed licence plates into the underground car park of Herstal's house, nor did he come in wearing the same clothes he'd used to dispose the bodies with, and he hadn't brought back any of his tools. This considerate behaviour saved his life to some extent, preventing him from being strangled to death by the Pianist late at night, and prevented him from being kicked out of bed by Herstal.

At this moment, Albariño listened to the other man's succinct description of what happened last night, and then thoughtfully muttered to himself, "I'm pretty sure I avoided all the cameras near your house that might have caught me yesterday -- I have to say, the apartment you rented is upscale enough, but there are quite a few dead bind spots in the cameras -- since I observed your apartment, I'm sure sleepwalking can do the trick. "

Herstal wisely didn't ask what "observed" meant, anticipating that he wouldn't like the answer.

Then he asked, "So why did you risk being photographed coming to my apartment?" And then collapsing in my bed, is that something a psychopathic murderer does?

Albariño blinked at him, then burst into laughter.

"It's possible that it's because everything really was done subconsciously on my part; it's also possible that I've never slept with you before and feel a little offended; or, it's a sign of weakness -- people believe that your bed partners is at their most open and vulnerable when they're lying in bed, and did that make you feel at ease?" Albariño said lowly, "Of those answers, pick the one you like to believe."

"You know I can't possibly feel reassured when you say it like that." Herstal replied.

"But didn't you realise that possibility long ago? That's not like you." Albariño retorted, his voice light, "Besides, even so, you still slept with me."

"Do you expect me to drag you into the living room or do I sleep in the living room myself?" Herstal sneered back, "I don't think either of those is a good idea."

Albariño half closed his eyes sleepily, the bed was just too warm and he really didn't want to move a muscle. But, still using his very slow-spinning brain cells, he asked, "And what do you think would be a good idea?"

-- Herstal stared at him for a moment, then a grin appeared on his face.

He said, "This."

Albariño followed his gaze -- and then he realised that the hand he had been resting under his head wasn't just resting under his head. That wrist of his was cuffed by a real metal handcuff, the other side of which was cuffed to the head of the bed.

"I think it's a good idea, it makes one feel very secure." Herstal said slowly.

Albariño said, "f*ck."

"Okay," Bates said, his face scrunched up as he stared at the two bodies, "so we have two dead men, one named William Brown and the other Anthony Sharp, who were in a relationship of rapist and victim."

The officers had taken enough photographs to stabilise the scene, the initial autopsy by the forensic scene investigator had been done, and now the CSI's were removing the flowers from the abdomen of the body, which Bates and his colleagues were ever hopeful that they would be able to find any clues from those flowers.

But it was a great pity that, despite a thousand names, the fragrance of the roses remained the same; no matter how many times they tried, the Sunday gardener's fingerprints could not be extracted from the petals.

"Obviously," Olga mused, "Bart would never make that kind of guarantee before the results of the DNA tests are in; but I'm pretty sure, looking at the subject, that the other dead man is bound to be Sharp."

Bart was now directing the other officers to survey the surroundings from a distance, and Bates glanced that way twice before asking, "But why? Kill the criminal along with the victim? I thought killing criminals was a job the Westland pianist would do."

Indeed, the Sunday Gardener never cared about the identities or experiences of his victims, he killed people covering all ages from old to young, and once killed a sixteen year old girl visiting her family in Westland from Los Angeles, the kid disappeared less than three hours after stepping off the plane, and there was no way to logically explain it except to say that she was just unlucky enough to run into it.

And tailoring a scene to a victim's experience? The Sunday Gardener had never done that before.

Olga shook her head, "That's not the strangest thing about this case, if you ask me, the strangest thing is --"

She reached out farther and nudged the throat of the young man nicknamed Billy, where all the hydrangeas had been removed and the wound was now hideously exposed. The metal braces had been removed from his body, the satin fabric gone, and he was now lying naked on the floor, waiting to be placed in a body bag by the Forensic Bureau.

"His throat?" Bates asked, confused.

"Yes, because the gardener often cuts the deceased's throat neatly doesn't he? He never takes the time to torture the dead." Olga gazed at the ghastly white body, "There were no other wounds on the deceased, so it's likely that he was killed by a cut to the throat -- but this time the gardener destroyed the wound left by the slit and decorated the wound with flowers. He had never covered the wound with anything else before and didn't mind it being exposed..."

"Maybe it's just that he had new inspiration this time?" Bettes said uncertainly.

"Maybe," Olga whispered, her brow furrowing sternly, "I hope that when the Forensic Medical Examiner's Office performs the autopsy this time, they'll give a more detailed opinion about the wound, and we might be able to surmise from the autopsy report why the gardener did what he did..."

Her voice suddenly caught as Hardy was walking towards them in a hurry. And the look on Officer Hardy's face was familiar to them all; it was exactly the look of someone who had discovered something.

"Olga, I've suddenly realised something!" Hardy exclaimed, "There's been a breakthrough in this case!"

"What?" Bates asked, pre-empting the question.

"William Brown was under the age of seventeen when he was almost sexually assaulted, and out of concern for his privacy, the information in the case was kept confidential at the time, so there was no way the general public could have known about his relationship with Sharp." Hardy said eagerly, barely even giving himself a gap to catch his breath, "The Gardener had to have known that William Brown was almost sexually assaulted by Sharp to set up the crime scene the way he did, didn't he? Then the scope of insiders who knew this knowledge can be reduced to a very small size already..."

"The police involved in the case, some of the teachers at that school, and the judge, prosecutor and jury?" Bates guessed along with him. "Um, is it really possible that the case involves a prosecutor and a jury?"

"And members of Sexual Assault Trauma Anonymous." Hardy said aloud, "My subordinates went to question Brown's friend, who had recently been attending therapy at the mutual aid society. But I think it's less likely that the killer is in the support group, after all, it's an anonymous support group, and Brown wouldn't give out his real name at a support group, much less mention Sharp's name. But of course, just to be on the safe side I'll have someone look into the members of the mutual aid society, even if it's just to rule out ..."

Olga's eyebrows suddenly furrowed, and she raised her voice sharply, "Mutual Aid Society?"

Hardy nodded confusedly, "Yes, it's held every Sunday in a small theatre --"

Then they watched as Olga gasped, it was rare for her to show such a loss of composure.

"I see." She said with difficulty, "I know about that mutual aid society: I recommended Al and Herstal to it before."

The other two erupted in unison, one saying "What?!" , and the other said "What do you understand?!" , drawing frequent looks their way from the CSIs at work.

"This case has something to do with Herstal." Olga gritted her teeth, "That's why -- why one of the dead would be a criminal when we all know that killing criminals isn't even the Sunday Gardener's modus operandi, he doesn't give a sh*t about criminals."

"Or was it just a coincidence that he and Al went to the Mutual Aid Society?" Bates worded with difficulty, though by the sound of his voice he didn't believe what he was saying himself, "Though that makes them both suspects as well, but after all, Bart did say that Brown wouldn't have given his real name when he went to the Mutual Aid Society, so --? "

"No, I mean this definitely has something to do with Herstal." Olga replied, wildly smoothing her hair haphazardly down the back of her head, looking like a big angry lion, "And presumably it's got something to do with Al, too -- think about it, the Sunday Gardener put a skull with flowers on Herstal's desk! And then there's Al, who's making a lot of noise about that case with the pianist."

Hardy pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand and said slowly, "... So is it possible that this case was the Sunday Gardener's response to the pianist's previous case? To express his mockery of the rapist?"

"Some kind of twisted pity for the victim. Of course." Olga looked directly at the bones of Anthony Sharp, which were being collected, her tone was sombre, "He can do this to Sharp, and is willing to do the same to... 'some' rapist, that's the position he was expressing ; and, he chose the members of this mutual aid society deliberately, just to show the scene to the one person he wished to see it: anyone who knew William Brown would have immediately understood what the Gardener meant as soon as he saw the news coverage of the case."

"So how did the Gardener know that William Brown attended the same mutual aid society as they did?" Bates couldn't help but ask, his voice shaking a little, obviously thinking of something bad, "Has he been following them? Has he been right next to them?"

The three men were silent for a few seconds, probably all mulling over this possibility, and the atmosphere was very disturbing.

Then Officer Hardy cleared his throat and said dryly, "At any rate, we've got to talk to both of them -- now."

Chapter 11: 47. Dionysus in the Tomb (5)

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1 August 1976, Cazadores, Spain.

Charles admitted that his Spanish was a little rusty, which was probably the main reason he felt so embarrassed when he accidentally bumped into the petite local girl.

At the time, he was on his way to a wine tasting at the winery -- slightly underestimating the raging crowds -- although the fact that the organisers were offering over forty different flavours of Albariño for the attendees to sample was certainly appealing. But being held hostage in a crowd on an overly sunny afternoon with temperatures well over thirty degrees was still not a good idea.

He had no choice but to be jostled into her by the crowd, the girl stumbled and was only able to hold on to his arm to steady herself. Charles, on the other hand, was not at all sure that he was pronouncing the words accurately, and tried to shield her from the crowd with his shoulder, stumbling over his words saying, ‘Lo siento muchísimo!'[1]

[1] In Spanish: I'm very sorry!

The girl, still grasping his arm with one hand and quickly smoothing her long, pale blonde hair back behind her head with the other, replied in a brisk tone, ‘No es nada...’ [2]

[2] In Spanish: This is nothing...

Then, unsure if it was Charles' poor pronunciation or something that revealed his status as a tourist, the girl paused for a moment, the smile on her face suddenly a little wider.

‘It's okay.’ She switched to English with a slight accent and repeated what she had just said again.

It was at this moment that Charles could sort of finally see the girl's face: she looked to be in her early twenties at most, her skin and hair colour looked extremely light in the sunlight, as well as that -- she had very, very attractive mint green eyes.

The girl from the Campagna is as beautiful as your princess in the marble castle. They are both daughters of Eve, and you can't tell them apart.

Albariño grasped the metal chain of the handcuff with his handcuffed hand and shook it tentatively; the texture and weight of the thing told him that it was not the kind that could be bought in a roadside sex shop.

Herstal didn't feel the need to tell him that the way he gripped those metal chains between his fingers was very pleasing to the eye -- it involved some of his darker sexual fantasies. Still, even if he really was a sexual paraphilic murderer, he wasn't frank enough to bring such topics to the table.

‘I didn't think your house still stocked such things, Mr Armalight.’ Albariño whispered, looking more awake and his voice still sounded happy, ‘Besides, it's slightly creepy from an erotic point of view.’

‘I don't think I have to go easy on liars.’ Herstal replied calmly, sitting up slightly and leaning over Albariño majestically like a mountain.

‘Is that so?’ Albariño asked, blinking innocently, as if he really didn't know.

‘You didn't come straight back from the scene of the crime, I'm pretty sure you went back to your flat to shower and change first. To make sure that you didn't leave any detectable DNA in your cabin that could potentially be found by the police, there's no shower unit there, is there?’ Herstal reached out calmly and ran his hand through Albariño's hair, those brown strands smooth, soft, and obviously freshly washed, still smelling like fresh shampoo. ‘So you don't actually have to play the whole pick one of several possibilities thing: you have to admit that you went back to your flat after you'd been to the scene of the crime and destroyed any possible evidence before you came back to my place, am I right?’

‘How boring.’ Albariño curled his lips, ‘Can't you just believe that I just came to your house by instinct in the middle of the night, all exhausted, as if I were a lost chick trying to imprint onto you, how romantic would that have been?’

Herstal snorted coldly, ‘Because I'm not stupid.’

Albariño grunted -- really grunted -- it was hard to believe how a man his size could make such a noise.

Herstal, obviously struggling to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at him, asked, ‘So that's why you're here? To wake up with someone to help you with your morning erection?’

He finished the sentence with an intentional glance towards Albariño's lower half. Albariño laughed out loud, ‘Ouch, that's too much of a buzzkill, Herstal! No wonder you've never even had a one-night stand before.’

Herstal didn't heed his remark, just leaning down ferociously to kiss the other man. Albariño wriggled underneath his torso, the man's body smelling completely devoid of blood. The skin was smooth, and all that was left was a whiff of soap.

It smelled almost like ‘home’ -- a rather unnatural word to describe Albariño, but it was certainly the kind of word that a love-struck guy would use when they woke up in the morning with their partner in their arms. It was inevitable that they would think that.

Herstal allowed his thoughts to gallop in that direction for a few seconds before he had to admit that he wasn't fit to define the word home, which had been filled with the stench of alcohol since he was very young.

As he attempted to start unbuttoning Albariño's trousers, he felt the other man wriggle and pull something out of his trouser pocket, looking like a flexible fish. Herstal lifted his head slightly and saw that Albariño was cupping a curved paper clip in his hand.

The other smugly waved the small piece of metal in front of him, then bit one end of the paper clip with his teeth and straightened it out.

‘Seriously? Now?’ Herstal asked, frowning.

‘Get busy with yourself.’ Albariño replied with a grin as he inserted the paperclip into the keyhole of the handcuffs.

Hardy's car was stuck in a long line of cars made up of sedans that were trying to get out of town in the morning. He couldn't help but sigh as he impatiently tapped his fingers against the leather wrapped around the steering wheel.

Olga sat in the passenger seat and surveyed his furrowed brow curiously before she said, ‘I'm guessing that the expression on your face right now means, “I have absolutely no f*cking idea what the hell is going on”.’

‘I do have no idea what the hell is going on,’ Hardy let out a long sigh, ‘I regret it, maybe asking the BAU for help was really a good idea.’

‘Don't even think about it, those superiors of yours won't issue those papers, they're probably dying to send you out to post a ticket.’ Olga grimaced, ‘I don't know if it's any consolation, but: if even I don't see what's going on, Lavazza Mercader certainly won't know what's going on.’

‘Seems to me like you've always had a problem with him, so what's going on? Because of that book you mentioned before about some motiveless killing?’ Hardy asked, seriously, to be honest, it was a question he'd wanted to ask a long time ago.

‘The Case of George Robo: Murder Without Motive.’ Olga repeated the title of the book again good-naturedly, ‘But no, I didn't fall out with him over that book -- I fell out with him over the Robo case itself.’

Hardy didn't say anything, and Olga knew that meant ‘I'd like to hear about it.’

Olga shrugged her shoulders and went on, ‘You may have heard of the George Robo case, which was quite famous a few years ago. A few years ago he killed six people in three states in a row, ‘motiveless killings’ as the title of that book says, which made him extraordinarily difficult to catch, you don't even know how much profiling we did for that, but all in all it was our efforts and the federal police's efforts that finally locked him up. Unfortunately, although we managed to get a search warrant and searched his house, we didn't find any evidence sufficient enough to convict him.’

Hardy had heard of that case, it had been such a big deal some years back that the WLPD had given lectures on the subject. He slowly recalled the specifics, ‘As I recall, the FBI finally found evidence to catch him after the seventh case? I think they found one of Robo's hairs at the scene of the seventh case?’

‘That's the problem,’ Olga said dryly, ‘He didn't do the last case.’

‘What??’

The traffic had moved forward a few metres, and being so absorbed, Hardy was completely unaware of it until the frantic honking of the car behind him woke him up.

Hardy scrambled to start the car while Olga continued.

‘At the time, I was at odds with my colleagues in the entire department because I didn't think some of the details of the last murder were quite the same as the previous cases -- I can't go into detail due to the non-disclosure agreement I signed before I left my job.’ Olga's nose wrinkled up, ‘That modus operandi would have convinced everyone including Special Agent Mercader, but not me ...no, actually it wouldn't have convinced Mercader either, but he didn't care, he just needed a reason to be able to arrest the murderer.'

‘...You think it was a copycat who committed the crime?’ Hardy asked dryly.

‘I believe it was indeed the work of a copycat.’ Olga put an emphasis on the word ‘indeed’, ‘At the time, details of the Lobo case was all over the newspapers, and it wasn't difficult to kill a man in the same way as Robo, but small discrepancies in the details were unavoidable. I thought at the time that the last case was actually a personal vendetta, and that the killer had framed the case on someone else by shaping the scene similarly to Robb's. That case did resemble the previous serial murders, but no, I didn't think it was done by the previous killer.’

That was downright creepy when you really thought about it, and Hardy said with difficulty, ‘But... Olga, that's the last case through which they convicted George Robo. That hair the CSI found was the decisive evidence!’

‘Yes.’ Olga said in a single word.

‘Oh God,’ Hardy couldn't help saying, he sounded a little stuttered, obviously reading Olga's hints and thinking of a horrible possibility, ‘Oh God, are you implying that --? ‘

‘I am.’ Olga gritted her teeth. ‘After the first six cases, the police got a warrant to enter Robo's house to investigate, but due to the lack of evidence, we didn't get the authorisation to collect his DNA, so no one could get it the official way. but from his house? Everyone loses a lot of hair in their homes, right? On pillows, on combs in the bathroom, within easy reach!

‘It was the Pennsylvania State Troopers, the scientists from the local crime lab, and the two BAU profilers, that's me and -- under the guise of, 'observing his residence could potentially be helpful in profiling!' so Lavazza Mercader himself went to his home with state troopers.

‘Before we went to search Robo's house, this cunning serial killer had never left any evidence of collecting significance at the scene of the crime; after we searched his home, one of his hairs inexplicably appeared at the scene of a crime that mimicked his modus operandi, and you, as an experienced police officer, tell me who is most likely ...’

Obviously, Olga's implication couldn't be more obvious: she believed it was Mercader who obtained Robo's hair from his residence and then placed it at the last crime scene as hard evidence to nail Robo. This should have been flawless, but therein lies the problem: the seventh case was simply a copycat crime, not committed by Robo himself at all.

‘This is really quite an outrageous accusation, you're accusing an FBI special agent of perjury to frame someone else!’ Hardy raised his voice and once again missed moving forward with the traffic, he had to raise his voice over the jarring sound of the horns, ‘I see what you're saying Olga, but it doesn't make sense, there has to be a motive at least ...’

‘Motive.’ Olga snorted softly, her eyes looking ahead through the windscreen with a cold smile, ‘Justice is motive, Bart. Of all the people who were there: me, the CSI scene investigator, the state trooper, and him -- out of all of those people, there was only one who was willing to pay whatever it took to bring the murderer to justice.’

There was a silence in response to her, as if the middle-aged cop driving the car was nothing more than an empty shell.

It was almost a minute before Hardy said slowly, ‘The price is breaking the law.’

‘Some people think it's well worth it. What are professional ethics and the law in the face of real life?’ Olga tsked, ‘Bart, what would you choose at such a fork in the road?’

Hardy didn't answer the question, perhaps because he too was at a loss as to what choice he would make when faced with such a thing.

Olga, on the contrary, didn't continue to pursue the question, she just swept him a glance before continuing, ‘Some people call it justice, some people see this as madness. From my point of view, it is intolerable to distort the truth for the sake of an end, but perhaps some people think it's not so bad when it turns out well: ha, it did turn out ‘well’. After Robo's imprisonment, no one has died of murder just because of a brush with a madman; and that copycat ...that copycat was motivated by revenge, so he won't be committing a second case. The serial killer has been brought to justice, end of story.’

But from her tone, she wasn't happy with the way the story ended.

Hardy was silent for a moment longer, then slowly said, ‘Everything has been finalised. Only by confirming that that case was really the work of a copycat at the time can --’

‘It can't be confirmed, and I alone can't sway the direction of the investigation, not to mention that the entire BAU doesn't support my profiling results even before the case is closed.’

Olga shrugged, her tone unusually relaxed.

‘In fact, Robo certainly refused to confess when he was arrested. But while he denied committing all the crimes, he didn't have an alibi that made sense: he claimed he'd been home all day at the time of the last case, but wasn't able to back that up -- plus, he couldn't afford to hire a good lawyer, and the DNA was kind of an ironclad proof in front of the jury. ‘

She took a deep breath.

‘Now we no longer have a chance to prove who's right,’ she finished dryly, ‘the law for trying interstate cases is based on where the case was first filed, which is Pennsylvania, and as you know Pennsylvania has the death penalty, it's just ...’

‘Robo is dead?’ Hardy asked in a low voice.

Olga did not speak, apparently acquiescing.

They were silent for a moment, then Hardy said with difficulty, ‘Olga ...’

‘I was never angry with him for such acts as violating professional ethics or the law itself. He wanted to make sure that a homicidal maniac could never harm anyone else, so he thought it was worth making that choice for that reason; after all, who knows how many more people he would have killed afterwards if he hadn't caught Robo? I think there are even a lot of people who would think he's right from that perspective, he's kind of a big hero who knows the law and breaks it to keep the people safe.’ Olga said lightly, a hint of a sneer in her voice.

Hardy was strangely attuned to Olga's bizarre brain circuits: the reason Olga was upset about what Mercader had done wasn't because the other party was unethical, forged evidence, or anything else; Olga was angry because Mercader had tried to bring Lobo to justice and ended up blaming him for a crime that he hadn't committed. Figuratively speaking, it's like filling in an answer when you know it's wrong.

...Although he understood Olga's way of thinking, in all fairness he still felt he could not understand it.

‘...There is a necessity for the law to set strict rules for depositions, and even if on this occasion a man does catch a real murderer and prevent unnecessary deaths by such means, there will always be times when his judgement is wrong, and a trial based on a man's subjective judgement would be very dangerous.’ That was all Hardy could say in the end, and he wasn't sure who he was rebutting, because Olga surely didn't care about the ‘necessity of rules’, so he was probably talking to an imaginary audience. ‘If there is no guarantee that the rules will be enforced with precision, then the rules themselves are open to question. No matter what position a man takes in doing such a thing, then the correctness of all the cases he has handled before and after will be questioned.’

Olga grunted, ‘I don't care, that's something for the jury to consider.’

Yes, of course someone like Olga would make such a questionable sounding statement. Hardy sighed and continued, ‘But you still don't like him.’

‘Work-wise, I don't like the way he treats profiling. On a personal level, given that I'm too lazy to maintain a personal relationship with anyone else, what he's like as a person is meaningless to me.’ Olga said. She paused, then continued with a warning, ‘But I reckon you don't share that style of his; I hate to speculate on people like that, but just so you know -- if the WLPD ever does invite the BAU to work on the Pianist's or the Gardener's case, watch out for him to to do something like that on your turf.’

Hardy swept her a glance, his voice sounding as if he felt some amusem*nt, ‘Westland is not my territory, Olga.’

‘In your mind it is.’ Olga snorted, then replied thus.

As Herstal ran the tip of his tongue delicately over Albariño's co*ck, he finally managed to force a moan out of his throat. Between his trembling fingers, the paper clip fell off the bed with a snap, the handcuff had yet to be pried open.

Herstal's fingers were buried in his body, his lips next to those silky soft, fragile skin. He swept deftly over the point where he could make Albariño's legs curl up and gave the latter a provocative look.

Albariño's chest and stomach rose and fell, a faint blush appearing on his cheekbones as he gazed at Herstal with pupil-dilated eyes and gasped, ‘You're very proud of yourself, aren't you? -- Woah!’

Herstal returned the answer with a heavy suck and roughly f*cked his finger into the other man's back hole, squeezing the moans out of his throat like toothpaste. Albariño's legs unconsciously rubbed against Herstal's shoulders, his skin damp and warm, his entire waist was trembling.

He whimpered a curse that certainly wasn't in English while one of Herstal's hands was slowly circling the letter ‘T’ on Albariño's abdomen, pressing against his quivering skin, and then swallowing his co*ck deep into his throat until he felt the muscles of his throat convulsing around the organ under the actions of his gag reflex.

Herstal had never liked the sensation and was reluctant to do it, but the look on Albariño's face was worth a thousand bucks.

Herstal watched as one of his hands tugged tightly on the chain of his handcuffs, causing the metal to creak on the bedside post, while the other fumbled helplessly on the mattress, but the paper clip had long since fallen out of Albariño's reach.

Then Herstal lifted his head and felt the wet organ slide out of his mouth and just stick to his chin. He waited for his gasp to be less pronounced before he said slowly, ‘Now you know what I felt when you took away the piece of porcelain in Elliot Evans' basem*nt’.

Albariño spat a series of obscenities and accusations of ‘holding a grudge’ at him, and Herstal stared at the other man with a slow smile before he slowly knelt down, pulling his hand out of Albariño's body, and began to slowly unbutton his pajamas.

The action of pulling out his fingers brought out a large stream of lubricant, which dripped down Albarino's legs and soaked a large area of sheets, making it look almost as if he was incontinent. It wasn't surprising that this would happen, given that Herstal had just about poured half a bottle of lubricant on him.

And Albariño squirmed less than comfortably at the strange sensation -- surely due to the wet sheets -- and almost slu*ttishly brushed his leg against Herstal's crotch, then watching with satisfaction as Herstal frowned in a confused expression.

Albariño's face was still as red as ever, but his breathing was at least panting a little more evenly. He grinned again as Herstal parted his legs and sank his fingers deep into those soft skins.

‘Thank you for being willing to condescend to f*ck me again,’ he hummed lightly, his voice sweet, ‘Rapist.’

‘So?’ When they finally broke free of the near-endless traffic jam, Hardy finally turned the conversation back to business. Or maybe he wanted to talk about something lighter after the mind-numbing content about Lavazza Mercader -- which really just mean that he wasn't good at choosing his topics very well - ‘About Al and the others, what do you think?’

Olga glanced at him through the rear-view mirror.

‘I guess the prevailing view now is this,’ said Olga slowly, ‘that the Pianist and the Gardener were engaged in a bizarre murder contest around Herstal; during which Al was framed and imprisoned for the Sarah Adelman affair, and then the real murderer was killed by the Pianist by a coincidence; and then, the Pianist in turn violated Al for over some little thoughts about the artistry; possibly to mock the Pianist this time, or perhaps to make a statement about his attitude towards the Johnny the Killer case, the Gardener kills a rapist as well as his victim, who just happens to be someone Al and Herstal have met at a mutual aid meeting.’

‘Bizarre, intricate relationships.’ Bart Hardy commented, a series of words that madae him feel a dull ache in his temples, as if in demonstration.

‘Too intricate, so intricate that one would question its authenticity.’ Olga shook her head, sounding very dissatisfied.

Hardy took a moment to glance at her during the drive, but unfortunately he couldn't see much expression on her face, and he couldn't guess what she was thinking.

‘Occam's Razor principle, remember?’ Olga reminded, though Hardy didn't understand why she had suddenly started referring to the fourteenth century philosophical principle again, ‘the simplest solution is almost always the best', surely there is a simpler theory that can be used to explain what is happening now, the simpler the better. ‘

‘That's a really positive thought. Like the idea that it's actually me who's insane and this is all a hallucination; and that when I've taken enough sedative drugs I'll realise I'm actually lying in a soft bed in a mental hospital.’ Hardy said bitterly.

‘Bart.’ Olga said rather disapprovingly.

Hardy sighed, then asked, ‘All right, all right. But what could it be?’

Olga shrugged her shoulders, ‘Maybe we'll find out soon enough.’

Herstal's reasoning told him that he should have kicked Albariño out of bed and then at least change the sheets himself, or take a shower; no sane person would enjoy sex with a murderer in a bed dripping with lubricant in the early hours of the morning. But since he already knew people like Albarino, it was obvious that he had already left the highway called "sanity" at a speed of more than eighty miles.

They were now stuck together: mostly Albariño, who had wasted his shower, given the incredible amount of lube on his skin and the sem*n dripping out of his red, swollen hole.

Albariño didn't seem to care one bit. Herstal had alreday removed the handcuffs, so he was rubbing the red marks on his wrists from where the cuffs had been. He leaned over to kiss a fresh bite mark on Herstal's shoulder: the bastard was very sharp-toothed,both literally and figuratively.

Herstal asked, ‘So, what the hell are you here for?’

‘Do you have to say such fraught things after the fact?’ Albariño asked rhetorically.

‘You're talking to a -- and I quote -- “rapist”, about after the fact?’ Herstal choked back.

Albariño grunted through his nose and brazenly moved in a little closer, leaving a few more reddish hickeys on the skin near the bite mark, making a mess of his neck. Herstal was getting a little worried that the marks wouldn't fade away before he went back to work: it was already Sunday.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Albariño helplessly, ‘for the sake of an alibi.’

Herstal stared at him.

‘Even if it wasn't the Pianist who committed the crime this time, Bart and the others would eventually inevitably find out that Billy attended a support group with the two of us, right?’ Albariño's lips were warm against his skin as he said vaguely, ‘And with all due respect, our names are probably already closely linked to those two serial killers -- Bart's a responsible man, he'll name us as suspects.’

And Herstal had an alibi; a camera near his flat had caught him driving home the entire time, and Albariño hadn't even set up the crime scene yet at that point. And the windows of his car were so darkly tinted that the camera couldn't even confirm how many people were in the car.

He'd taken the lift from the car park straight to the flat, and there was no footage to back this up, but the perimeter cameras could show that he hadn't left the flat once he'd entered it -- and Albariño had avoided the cameras when he'd come in, so it would be perfectly safe to say that they'd stayed together all night.

Damn it, Albariño must have planned it all out before he came that night.

‘Are you going to get yourself off the hook by becoming my f*ck buddy?’ Herstal asked in a sarcastic tone.

‘Haven't I been your f*ck-buddy for a long time? You've had a lot of fun playing with me while holding a knife.’ Albariño smugly countered, ‘Of course, it's no problem if you want me to be yours for anything else, I'll go to Vegas with you right now and get married.’

Herstal almost slapped a pillow in his face, at this moment he really wanted to just smother him with a pillow for good measure, just like last night when he had stared at Albariño's sleeping face for half a day considering it.

But then again, since he didn't do it last night, it was certainly impossible to do it in the morning.

He pondered for a moment, then said, ‘Even if you can come up with an alibi this time, you know that's enough to make Officer Hardy and the others suspicious, right? They'll be on to us from now on.’

‘Us,’ he couldn't help but spit on himself for a couple of seconds after he spat out the word, wanting to swallow it back down like a shredder and crush it to bits.

‘Aren't you?’ Albariño stared at him with burning eyes, looking strangely pleased with himself, ‘Didn't you think that something like what's happening now would happen sooner or later, when you realised that being stuck with me would lead to great disaster, but didn't kill me? Did you not foresee the worst ending of failure and death?’

Herstal looked into those mint-green eyes and swallowed -- and then, once again, he gave up lying. Because there was no point in lying when you were in Albariño's presence.

‘I've thought about it.’ He said simply.

Albariño laughed.

At the same time, they heard the doorbell ringing in the distance.

‘Go answer the door and do the honours of a landlord.’ Albariño commanded with a grin, ‘Darling.’

Officer Hardy and Olga stood at the door for almost five minutes before it opened. For a man of Herstal's character, that speed was beginning to make one wonder if he had been kidnapped again.

Herstal Armalight opened the door for them while still impatiently straightening the neckline of his robe and the nightgown he wore over it, as if the crumpled fabric had insulted him. It wasn't all that strange, considering his usual compulsive action of straightening his own cufflinks.

But the rest of it was much stranger.

While Herstal was messing with the lapel fabrics, Officer Hardy saw with a sharp eye a red mark on his collar, which he didn't realise what it was at first, probably because very few people associated the Armalight lawyer with the word ‘sex’.

‘Is there something, Officer Hardy?’ The lawyer asked in a business-like manner.

‘This morning, the Sunday Gardener laid out two bodies on the steps in front of the State District Court.’ Hardy said bluntly; Herstal was not the type to like small talk.

Herstal's eyebrows furrowed, looking a little surprised, a surprise that did not look feigned in any way. Hardy stared at him sternly and had finally come to this conclusion. Then Herstal asked, ‘...So?’

‘The deceased was known to you, and those two corpses contained some very private information, which allowed us to classify the suspects in a very small circle.’ Olga explained from behind Hardy's shoulder, ‘If you go to the police station, I'm guessing Bart will show you the details, mind you, this isn't a good place to show photos of the victims.’

Herstal was silent for a couple of seconds before asking, ‘So since you two showed up on my doorstep, am I right in guessing that I'm in that circle of suspects?’

Hardy wasn't sure if he should show a bit of apology in his voice; after all, it was kind of bad luck for Armalight these days. But then again, as a cop, he really didn't like mob lawyer very much either.

He said with deliberation, ‘I'm afraid so, so I'm going to have to ask you a few questions, last night, what were you doing...?’

Herstal stared at him for two seconds.

‘I was at home,’ he then said, a note of careful deliberation showing between the words, ‘and I had a ... visitor.’

He showed a strange hesitation in saying the word visitor, which caught Hardy's attention. Hardy repeated the word with a frown, ‘A visitor?’

‘Yes,’ somewhere behind Herstal they heard a voice answer loudly and cheerfully, ‘me.’

Hardy, of course, immediately heard who the voice belonged to, which would explain why he didn't hold back an expletive from rushing out.

He stared dumbfoundedly somewhere behind Herstal's shoulder -- which was presenting a spectacle that would make a man's brain haemorrhage kick in. He wouldn't have believed that these two could be in the same frame caught in such an act, even if he believed that the world had really been descended upon by the Virgin Mary -- and seriously, shouldn't this be the kind of plot that would appear in a blindly shot criminal investigation drama? Why did it really happen to them?

But all in all, Albariño Bacchus standing barefoot on the floor of Herstal's house, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers, which were not quite buttoned up enough, told the others that he really was just wearing ‘a pair’ of trousers. The splotches of red on his skin, the tangles of dried fluid between the scars on his abdomen, told every adult with the ability to judge what had happened to him and who he'd had a morning f*ck with today.

Albariño grinned and said, ‘Hi.’

Chapter 12: 48. Transcript of the Interrogation of Albarino Bacchus

Chapter Text

Introduction:

In mid-2019, the WLPD released to the public some of the materials from the Westland Pianist case, including a copy of a transcript of the audio recording from police questioning of the suspects following the murders of William Brown and Anthony Sharp (which occurred on 27 November 2016). A copy of the text version of the interrogation was released to the public by the WLPD.

The document contains names of people, places, and details of the case that have been withheld from the public due to privacy concerns and restrictions imposed by relevant legal regulations.

Document NON-PUBLIC NARRATIVE

Author Bacchus, Albarino

Related Date/Time Nov-27-2016 (Sun.)

Q: It's Monday, November 27th, and the video recording has begun. The person asking the questions is: Police Officer ▇▇▇▇▇. Now, please give me your name.

A: Albarino Bacchus.

Q: What is your occupation?

A: Forensic Pathologist, I work for the City of Westland's Forensic Bureau.

Q: You are not currently charged with a crime, but you have the right to wait until your attorney is present for this questioning.

A: I understand that, but I waive that right -- also, of course, because my attorney is in another interrogation room right now defending himself, and as I recall, the law says that one attorney cannot defend two suspects in the same case, right?

Q: Dr Bacchus --

A: Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Let's just get right to it.

Q: Do you recognise this young man in the photograph?

A: He looks familiar ...... Ah, I think I met him at the ▇▇▇▇ Anonymous Mutual Aid meeting last week, he took the stage and spoke after me.

Q: Can you describe the Mutual Aid meeting in more detail?

A: Well, after that case in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, I had a period of paid leave because the officer didn't recommend that I stayed back in my own home those days -- I guess he wanted me to protect my psychological factors, and you should know that he's a friend of mine -- so I rented an apartment in the city. At the beginning of this month, when ▇▇▇▇▇▇ visited my flat, it was suggested that I should not stay home all the time and that I should at least go to a Mutual Aid Meeting if I was not willing to go to a psychologist.

Q: So, this Mutual Aid Meeting was recommended to you by Ms. ▇▇▇?

A: Yes, she said that the founder of the support group was a friend of hers from her work in Chicago, and that the support group only accepted recommendations from insiders -- and ▇▇▇, obviously, has this qualification. The Mutual Aid Meeting was held every Saturday at the ▇▇▇ Theatre on ▇▇ Street, and I attended twice after she signed me up.

Q: And then you met this young man at the Mutual Aid Society, didn't you?

A: I can't say I knew him, only that I did see this person there. I'm not even sure that he was there the first time I went, but I'm pretty sure he was there the second time I attended. When he came up on the stage and introduced himself, he said his name was Billy or Bill or something like that.

Q: It was Billy, Mr Bacchus. So, do you remember any stories that he told at the support meeting?

A: Actually, I didn't pay too much attention, I met Herstal at the support meeting when he was speaking on stage, he was sitting right behind me. I basically spent the whole time trying to figure out how to look back at him without being too rude.

Q: Okay, we'll ask questions about Mr. Armalight later. But for now, please refresh your memory, did you really not hear what he was saying at all?

A: Erm, let me think for a moment ... it must have been related to ▇▇, right? I was sitting in the front row and noticed ▇▇▇▇▇ on his face. In my experience as a forensic doctor, that's ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇.

Q: ...Okay, so may I ask if you recognise this male in this photo?

A: Not at all, is this the bastard from ▇▇▇▇▇?

Q: Dr Bacchus, you're still on leave and I can't tell you that kind of detail in accordance with the relevant regulations.

A: Okay.

Q: This male in the photo used to work at ▇▇▇ middle school, you have never been to that middle school or been around nearby, right?

A: Yes.

Q: And you never saw Billy, or the man in the photograph, again in the period after the Mutual Aid Meeting, right?

A: Yes.

Q: Okay. So now let's talk about Mr. Herstal Armalight, did you know ahead of time that he was going to be at that Mutual Aid Meeting?

A: No. The last time we met was when I was hospitalised after the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ case, when he visited me in the hospital. At that time he never told me that he was going to be at the Mutual Aid Meeting as well. But after we met at the Mutual Aid Meeting, Herstal said that it was also ▇▇▇▇ that forced him to go there, which was very much in line with her style.

Q: But the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ incident was committed on the 29th of October, and you haven't seen each other since then?

A: I know what you actually want to ask, ma'am, and no, the two of us hadn't slept together at that point.

Q: So the relationship started after you met at the Mutual Aid Society?

A: Yes, as with all sloppy one-night stands -- of course, I still think it's wonderful, but sensibly, I don't know how long it will last. After the Mutual Aid Meeting that day, I was going to take the subway back to my flat, but I was blocked in the car park by a reporter with the name of ▇▇▇, who works for the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ newspaper, and whom you can ask for details of this. He wanted to ask me about the details of the case that had happened to me previously, and in order to bail me out, Herstal offered to drive me, so we went for lunch together.

Q: And then?

A: Then we rolled into bed. Although I don't usually recommend putting that kind of activity after lunch.

Q: How did Mr. Armalight feel about the Mutual Aid Meeting?

A: He didn't like it. I see that he intends to work like crazy to heal his wounds, not through talking to a therapist or other victims. He thought the support meeting was a waste of time, which is why, this Saturday, none of us went to the support meeting.

Q: So, did Mr. Armalight mention to you about Billy, who attended the support meeting?

A: Not at all, I guess he didn't listen much at the support meeting either, maybe he was just watching me.

Q: So next, I will ask you some questions about your alibi. Firstly, have you been staying together for the last few days? Since that Saturday the 19th.

A: No! We haven't gone so far as to live together, besides Herstal is a workaholic. Mostly I stay at my own house and then go to his home to have dinner and spend the night with him, because the amount of instant food in his fridge is really something like that of someone who would want to kill themselves through malnutrition would do. But because he often works overtime, he actually comes back very late.

Q: Mr Armalight's partner, Mr. ▇▇▇, said that he seems to be in a bad state of mind this week and seems to be tired.

A: Well of course, he's spending the night with me, ma'am.

Q: Can you tell me where the two of you were on Wednesday night, the 23rd? Camera footage from the street outside Lawyer Armalight's apartment shows that his car was not driven into his garage until the early morning hours of the 24th.

A: Are you asking this question because the medical examiner concluded that the victim died on Wednesday night?

Q: Dr Bacchus, we really can't provide you with the information --

A: Well, don't worry, ma'am. I can certainly answer the question, although it's a little inappropriate to say up front: that partner of his, ▇▇▇, should have mentioned to the police that Herstal had a court hearing on Thursday, and as far as I know he put in quite a few extra shifts on that case, and by the time Wednesday rolled around he was so busy he almost collapsed.

Q: And then what happened?

A: I went to wait for him at his office when he got off work, and his secretary named ▇▇ can provide testimony in this regard, and then we went out to dinner at a restaurant --credit card records and invoices would corroborate all of that. The meal lasted until about 8:30 p.m., and then, uh ...

Q: Dr Bacchus?

A: He had been drinking a little bit, so it was my turn to drive his car. I took him over to the West Side, as you probably know, ▇▇▇ Street, which is a very active place with a lot of young active girls, cute, sexy --

Q: Are you trying to say that you took him to a prostitute?

A: There are times when a third person can be appropriately included in a relationship between two people, if that's what you're asking.

Q: Dr Bacchus, please answer this question dircetly.

A: I can only admit that I had an enjoyable evening with him, and another girl -- a very, very enjoyable evening. The girl claimed her name was Cherry or something, and if the WLPD could find her, it might prove our innocence.

Q: So you don't admit that it was prostitution.

A: I can only admit that I had a threesome with someone else, and if you ask any more in-depth questions, I'll have to invoke my Fifth Amendment rights. A lot of people think it's unseemly for a profession like a doctor or a lawyer to admit to something like that, and I was only in a position to admit to it with the police because I am concerned about not becoming a suspect in a serious homicide case.

Q: But soliciting prostitution carries a fine and at least three months' imprisonment --

A: Indeed, but the police have to prove that I had indeed engaged in the prostitution. Since there were no plainclothes policemen on hand to catch us, it would be up to the girl, probably named Cherry, to admit that she did take money after she slept with us, or to wait until one of us tests for AIDS. But I would venture to guess that there are plenty of girls that would be willing to sleep with me even if I didn't charge money.

Q: Okay, later on we will arrange for you to meet with a portraitist, we may need a portrait of that lady. So next, Mr Armalight's car has not been seen near his flat since Friday night, were you two still together during this time?

A: Yes, at my house, I guess he was a little annoyed by the fact that we ruined his sheets.

Q: Although there are no cameras near the apartment you rented, your neighbors did not witness a Rolls-Royce parked near your home during the visit.

A: Because it wasn't parked near my home, it's a Rolls Royce! In the lot where I rent, a car of that price range disappears as soon as you turn your head. It had been parked in the ▇▇ car park, near Herstal's law firm, and it was my car that we took recently.

Q: There are no cameras in that car park.

A: Yes, because it was a long term rented garage and they were obviously very confident in their security. Herstal told me that there are no cameras in that place since two neighbourhood lawyers set up their garage. But if there's any doubt whether Herstal parked there or not, you can check the parking recorder. I'm guessing the footage may have been partially covered, but it's enough to see where he parked.

Q: But by Saturday night, last night, you returned back to Mr. Armalight's apartment late at night, it was almost twelve o'clock at night by that time, why was that?

A: Because he finally found the mouldy drawer in my fridge -- apparently in the war between cleanliness and me, cleanliness won -- but really, don't you think someone like him, who doesn't even open the fridge door much, would find mould in the fridge purely to pick on me?

Q: I don't want to comment on a personal matter between the two of you. So, you drove Mr Armalight's car back?

A: Why not? The flat I rented was recommended to me by ▇▇▇. After renting it, I realised that it was only a quarter of an hour's walk from Herstal's law firm. His house, however, is far from the law firm where he works, so he has to drive to work. Naturally, he won't take my Chevrolet to work tomorrow, so he has to go to the garage to pick up his own car.

Q: You two went back together.

A: Why not?

Q: You went back home with him -- or from your own home -- don't you think this is a bit too troublesome? If Mr Armalight didn't want to stay at your house, you could have let him go back on his own; after all, you'd only miss one night. Not to mention the fact that you just said it was a ‘sloppy one-night stand’.

A: I've done the same with every single one of my past f*ck buddies -- stayed at their house and make their morning -- you can ask them. It's precisely because of this ‘illogicality’, which in their eyes is full of tenderness, that they like me so much. Besides, at this stage of my life, I don't want to miss a night like this.

Q: So the two of you stayed together last night until Officer ▇▇ and Ms. ▇▇▇ went to look for you this morning.

A: Yes. Although I think the video speaks for itself, if the ▇▇ is really a concern, you can do a test with the bite marks on Herstal, you have on my dental records.

Q: Okay, thank you, Dr. Bacchus, I have no further questions.

Chapter 13: 49. Talia's Evening Talk: An Interview with John Garcia

Chapter Text

Introduction:

'Talia's Evening Talk' is a popular live evening programme on Westland's local television, hosted by the station's popular presenter, Talia Stoker. Of course, there is an argument to be made that part of the reason for her popularity is that she is, after all, also a weather presenter with proud breasts, and that her size and her profession dictated that she was often in the sweet dreams of local adults and underage males in Westland.

The evening show tends to focus on the high crime rate and proliferation of murders locally in Westland, with the crew often inviting a number of guests to give their poignant, yet humorous -- and at times over-the-top humorous -- insights into real-time unfolding situations. As it is a live show, viewers can also interact with the show's guests in real time by leaving comments in the corresponding module on Westland's Local TV station.

On 13 June 2019, WLPD, under pressure and increasingly outrageous speculation, released to the public some insider information about the Westland Pianist case. On June 20th, 'Talia's Evening Talk' invited former FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit member John Garcia to take to the stage for an interview related to the Westland Pianist.

And this live broadcast was interrupted in a very strange way.

(The studio lights turned on and Talia Stoker was sitting on a single sofa in a violet dress that's a little too short at the top and bottom, her blonde hair falling delicately over her shoulders; in another single sofa sits a tall, thin, ginger-haired man, none other than John Garcia, who turned to writing for a living after leaving the Behavioural Analysis Unit)

Talia: Hello viewers, and welcome to tonight's episode of 'Talia's Evening Talk', where I, Talia, sincerely love every single one of you. Today we have invited a famous guest -- Mr. John Garcia, former FBI agent and now a best-selling author! John, say hello to everyone!

John: Hello everyone!

Talia: We've invited Mr Garcia here today to talk about the most high-profile event of recent times, the discussion of Herstal Armalight. After the WLPD released some of the information about the Pianist's case, the discussion about whether he was the Pianist or not is once again becoming rampant. What are your thoughts on this matter?

John: I've never thought that Armalight was the Westland Pianist, a view I've expressed on various occasions. But in this case alone, I think the public is uncharacteristically enthusiastic about the Westland Pianist, and I hear he has a group of fans who scream every time they hear his name -- but I have to say that this enthusiasm is unreasonable. People think that most of the people he killed were guilty, so they imagined him as some kind of Western Ranger who robbed the rich and gave to the poor. The reason why people want to know if Armalight was the Pianist or not is to simply satisfy their desire for curiosity, and to put a face on their idols. I don't really agree with either of these intentions; the Pianist is so dangerous that the only place he should be is in front of a firing squad, not in the heads of people who know nothing about evil.

Talia: So it seems that you are upset by the way some people appreciate the Pianist, is that right?

John: Of course! Those people are nothing more than advocates of behavioural justice -- even if it's not about this old topic, it's about the ‘degrees’ of behavioural justice: a true dark vigilante wouldn't rape a forensic pathologist or murder the head of the Behavioural Analysis Unit. The Westland Pianist has never been, and can never be, a hell of a Batman.

Talia: You are referring to the former head of the BAU, Mr. Lavazza Mercader are you not? He died in the Pianist's church case at the end of 2017.

John: Of course! That's why I left the BAU -- you have to understand, working at the BAU was exciting of course, but I had a wife and kids to support, and I didn't want to end up like that too.

(Talia pauses and doesn't answer this sentence right away)

Talia: Ah, the director just said that some viewers are interacting online, do you mind if we hit the big screen with the viewer's messages?

John: Totally fine with that, but I hope it's not some of the Pianist's fans who are vehemently refuting my points?

(A screenshot of a message from the official website of Westland's Local TV station is shown on the huge display screen behind the pair)

But Mercader is clearly no innocent lamb either -- as you and I both know, he is responsible for the unfortunate events that took place at WLPD on Christmas Day 2016. I don't need to help you recall how many casualties his mishandling of the George Robo case resulted in, do I?

John: That's-?

Talia: Er... according to our website's real-name registration records, this message was left by Ms Olga Molozer -- the criminal psychologist consultant at WLPD.

John: (Muttering under his breath) Ah, of course, she'd obviously have a problem with Lavazza.

Talia: Mr, Garcia? Is the case Ms. Molozer referring to ...?

John: Let's not talk about it, okay? You should have heard rumours that something ...very unpleasant happening to Ms Molozer when she was in the BAU, and she has never been very friendly to us, so let's talk back to the Westland Pianist.

Talia: ... Okay. Here's what's happening now, Mr Garcia: documents recently disclosed by the WLPD shows that in the wake of the Brown and Sharp case perpetrated by the Sunday Gardener, the WLPD had subpoenaed Armalight and the late Dr. Albariño Bacchus after it was confirmed that they attended the same Mutual Aid Society as one of the victims.

John: So it's reasonable to assume that Dr Bacchus was indeed the victim of that sexual assault by the Pianist?

Talia: Basically, although we don't know exactly what happened to Brown due to protection laws, but after all, some of William Brown's classmates at boarding school have said that Brown was indeed involved in a sexual assault at one point in time, so it's highly probable that Brown was attending an anonymous support group for victims of sexual assault.

John: That's one of the pieces of evidence that I think Herstal wouldn't have been the Pianist -- how about we think about why Herstal would show up at an anonymous support group about sexual assault? Can you guys imagine the Westland pianist being sexually assaulted?

Talia: Some people actually think that he went to that support meeting for Dr Bacchus. Now, it seems that Dr Bacchus was the victim in the Pianist's case, doesn't it? People who hold this view call this -- ‘returning to the scene of the crime.’

JOHN: (Laughing) That's not how the term ‘returning to the scene of the crime’ is used, madam! Besides, the Pianist never returned to the scene of the crime, or the WLPD would have caught him long ago. But even if Armalight was the Pianist, why would he follow Dr Bacchus to the Mutual Aid Society? Not to mention the fact that that Mutual Aid Society was apparently referral-based -- and while I do have a mediocre relationship with Olga Molozer, she's still right about her profiling of that sexual assault: the Westland Pianist sexually assaulted Dr. Bacchus because he was annoyed that the other man was destroying his own work, and therefore chose a nasty way to degrade him. His mission, having been accomplished, meant there was then no need for him to see Dr. Bacchus distraught by stalking him; the Pianist wouldn't have been interested in that. Lawyer Armalight's behaviour is in complete conflict with our profiling of the Pianist.

Talia: In a time when most people think that Armalight is the Pianist, your viewpoint is truly unique.

John: Most people take a different view than I do because the other view is more dramatic, that the victim and the suspect attend the same Mutual Aid Society, and what an ironic picture that is, even Hollywood screenwriters would love it.

Talia: In fact, I've heard that Columbia is already planning to put together a film on the subject.

John: See, I told you that audiences have always had a frivolous attitude towards these serial killers --

Talia: Wait a minute, Mr Garcia? The ... director tells me that Ms Molozer has posted another message.

John: What did she say?

Talia: She said, ‘That sexual assault case was profiled by Mercader, and I merely read it at the press conference. Incidentally, I disagree with most of that profiling, and given that you just gushed about that profiling, I kinda feel a little embarrassed about it.’

John: ...Do we have to pay attention to an off-site viewer's live message?

Talia: But real-time interaction is the hallmark of our column. However, we can move on to the next question first: just yesterday, the Westland Daily News newspaper released a statement saying that the reporter mentioned in Dr. Bacchus' transcript was none other than their former special correspondent, Leonard Schreiber.

John: That also means that as long as the WLPD doesn't talk, we'll never know the truth about the two of them attending the Mutual Aid Society together; after all, I heard that Schreiber died in Europe.

Talia: Yes, it was a very dramatic death, and it was covered quite a bit in the newspapers.

John: Which is why he shouldn't have returned to his country, the crime rate in the Kingdom of Hoxton isn't much lower than in this city, and the gangs aren't necessarily any more moral. Apparently, Mr Schreiber had crossed some lines he shouldn't have -- just as he should not have been standing guard at the door of the Mutual Aid Society where victims of sexual assault gathered -- and this reckless behaviour brought him retribution.

Talia: I saw that news and it was so scary. I think if he had stayed in Westland, he might not have suffered this misfortune.

John: Of course, Westland is a much safer place. We have newspaper columns and TV programmes devoted to psychopathic killers.

(Audience laughs)

Talia: But what happened to Mr. Schreiber also means that no one will ever know what state Armalight and Dr. Bacchus walked out of that meeting in, which is a shame. But I don't think it would have occurred to Mr Armalight that the thing that's more important to the public right now is his private life: the documents that the WLPD disclosed showed Armalight and Dr Bacchus admitting that the two of them were in a physical relationship at that point in time.

(The large screen in the background displays the part of the documents released by the WLPD, which highlighted the" wonderful night" comment made by Dr. Bacchus when he was questioned)

JOHN: (Sneering) Yes, I've seen those documents too, and the description of the threesome in those transcripts is quite impressive, it seems that Dr Bacchus's reputation in high society is well-deserved.

Talia: Is that one of the iron clad reasons that you think makes it impossible for Mr Armalight to be the Pianist?

John: Yes, because the Westland Pianist is a sexual pervert, a sexually inverted fellow incapable of satisfying his pleasure in any way other than by committing a crime. If he really was a guy who could be easily appeased by a threesome, then I don't think he would have had to kill so many people at all; the girls who provided the erotic services would have been enough to satisfy him.

(A burst of laughter arises from the audience)

Talia: Ah, wait a minute ... Ms. Molozer has made another comment.

John: Ms. Stoker --

(A new message is typed on the big screen)

The Pianist doesn't only get an erection when he kills someone, there's a big difference between getting an erection when you kill someone and only getting an erection when you kill someone. As I've said many times, you're being a little too stereotypical about sexually inverted people.

John: That's a complete injustice to me, I never said that erotomaniacs only get erections when -- (pause) anyway, that's just my opinion of the Westland Pianist as a criminal, and she's just being critical of my statements. She always does.

Talia: Well, well, please calm down. I think that perhaps you could speak to Ms. Molozer in private.

John: She doesn't like to talk to any of us because we had a pathetic disagreement on a case before she left ... Lavazza approached her a few times, perhaps to keep her from going astray, but I don't think the conversation turned out too well.

Talia: Step astray?

John: (Smiles) Our euphemism for ‘delving too deeply into the criminal's mind to the point of falling into an unhealthy state of mind’.

Talia: That's perhaps too harsh an accusation, but as far as I know, she was hired by the WLPD as a consultant because she was good at teaching, and she was well established in her achievements in the academic circle.

John: But in any case, she sure is rude, isn't she?

Talia: People are bound to have some flaws in how they treat others... anyway, let's get back to what we were talking about. Combining the points you just made, in your opinion, Mr Armalight is just a ... well, a typical middle-aged man who is obsessed with sexual urges? Like all miserable middle-aged males, who are so caught up in a tragic love affair with a young and elusive lover that they end up killing them?

John: It seemed to me that it was pretty obvious that he wasn't the Pianist. Because then the police later found Cherry, didn't they? They found the lady according to the portrait provided by Dr. Bacchus, and she readily admitted in her statement that she had ‘a pleasant evening’ with these two men, she just didn't admit that she'd been paid, but that's the way it is with all prostitutes who don't get caught. If you ask me, they were sleeping with prostitutes that night.

Talia: Yes -- and we also looked into this Cherry after the WLPD released these documents, and fortunately, we found clues based on the documents that were made public: she was indeed a prostitute working for an Italian mob leader, and as you know, Herstal Armalight was the defence attorney for some of the heads of the Italian mob ringleaders.

JOHN: Yes, and because of that connection, some people think that the prostitute was specifically recruited by Armalight to give a false testimony. Because it's true that, in Armalight's position, it was not particularly troublesome to get his clients to do him small favours, and his clients do much worse things than perjuring themselves. And it's also true that Attorney Armalight isn't exactly a nice guy in the popular sense.

Talia: But?

John: But, if it were true that Armalight had arranged for a witness to commit perjury, I don't think he would have used a threesome as a justification for it, it doesn't fit the usual impression he gave people when he was working at the firm. There are also a lot of people who think he could never be the Pianist because he just looks like he has a cold personality.

Talia: Unfortunately, Cherry will never be able to tell us if it was true or not, and even if she did make up a false alibi, she cannot be prosecuted for perjury. We learned that she had passed away in early 2017, in a horrific car accident.

John: (Laughs) So the conspiracy theorists will think that Armalight chose to kill the girl in order to keep his secret -- it's very easy to get caught up in the preconceived notion that Armalight was the Pianist, it is easy to fall into the error of confirmation bias.

Talia: Let's go along with this, if Herstal Armalight was really the Westland Pianist, this story --

John: In that case, this story will become quite implausible: first of all, the Pianist was obviously sexually assaulted for some reason as well, otherwise he would not have been able to get into that Mutual Aid Society; and even if he did have a reason for getting into the society, his interest in the chief forensic pathologist went beyond what he deserved, and look at that accidental imprisonment case that happened to Dr. Bacchus, the one about Landon. If combined with the fact that Armalight was the Pianist, one would simply have to say that the Pianist is paying too much attention to Dr Bacchus, so much so that I almost suspect they had a personal relationship.

Talia: It's true that some people have some romantic fantasies about them.

John: But that doesn't fit the profile. There's no way a sexually inverted homicidal maniac like the pianist could possibly fall in love with a medical examiner, and we already know that whatever the relationship between Armalight and Dr Bacchus was, that relationship ended tragically -- with the death of one of the parties.

(John Garcia's mobile phone rings)

John: Ah, I'm so sorry -- it's Molozer.

Talia: Ms. Molozer?

John: Yes, that's her. I guess she's got some kind of rebuttal she wants to say to my face this time, and like I said, she always does. Do you mind if I pick up the phone?

Talia: No problem at all, and I'm guessing that my fellow viewers are also interested in the debates between criminal psychologists.

(Garcia takes out his mobile phone, connects it, and puts it on speakerphone. The audience can hear Olga Molozer's words quite clearly thanks to the microphone he has pinned to his lapel)

John: Hello?

Olga: You've fallen prey to confirmation bias as well.

John: You should have heard what I just said, it's a bit rude of you to start off like that, isn't it?

Olga: I chose to start like that precisely because I heard what you said. Anyway, you've already decided that I'm impolite, so I can't restore your opinion by being polite. Let's get back to the serious stuff: you've also fallen prey to confirmation bias.

John: (Laughs) Because I think Armalight is not the Pianist, so I am desperately trying to find evidence for myself that he's not the Pianist?

Olga: Apparently so.

John: Where's the evidence?

Olga: Because of Kaba Strider's criminal history, because of his death and the way he died, because of that bishop who died in the Christmas Eve massacre, and because of Lavazza Mercader -- who had nothing against the Pianist, and it was Herstal who had a problem with him.

John: Agent McArdle intervened in the investigation of the Westland pianist.

Olga: So you're going to force this into ‘it's all a coincidence’ again, as you always do, Johnny. You trust your profiling so much that when your profiling is wrong, you think the truth is wrong. Refusing to accept reality and giving yourself too many reasons --

John: And you think you have the truth?

Olga: I have always mastered the truth -- because the process of digging up the truth is my profession.

John: That's an arrogant thing to say.

Olga: Mercader thought so too, but given that he's one step ahead, time has yet to prove that he is completely right about me.

John: But you didn't see through the truth even before Armalight was arrested, and these arguments of yours were merely summarised after he fled the country. If he really was the Pianist, why didn't you see through him long ago?

Olga: You can say that if it makes you feel comfortable to say so. But in any case, you're the one who's now insisting on false assertions.

John: Wrong, none of us have the only correct assertion, unless Armalight is arrested in a foreign country as the Pianist.

Olga: That's not necessarily true, perhaps you've heard that you're not the only one who's a writer these days. I'm not a bestselling author, but I have a new book coming out this year ...

John: (Laughs) Yes, you're going to write about the Westland Pianist for money too.When you were in office, you clearly disdained the use of murder as a gimmick to attract readers——

Olga: I don't think it's necessary to write laugh-out-loud popular books about these serious things, and as you say, it's also to satisfy the reader's curiosity. And, as I said, my job is to dig up the truth -- so since you don't see the truth, bringing it to you is what I have to do.

(The phone hangs up abruptly, and Garcia looks furious, probably feeling resentful at the accusation of ‘writing popular books that make people laugh.’)

Talia: Mr Garcia--

John: That's enough! She's always like this, when she was in the BAU, and she's still like this since she left! Overbearing, rude, and thinks she is holding the only truth in the world ...

(John Garcia stands up angrily and walks briskly out of the studio, walking out of the camera's reach)

Talia: Hold on, Mr Garcia ...

Postscript:

At the beginning of October 2019, Olga Molozer's much-anticipated book was finally published. It was an obscure monograph on criminal psychology, but still achieved extremely high sales on the book market.

Some joked that the reason the book did so well was because Morozer's editor finally convinced her not to give the book a title that would make people not want to read it, such as "sad*stic Killers and Orgies." "On the Characteristics of Style Killing" and the like.

The real reason is probably that that book didn't have the title printed in a lone line of large print, as most people would expect. On the cover of the book, pictures of Herstal Armalight and Albariño Bacchus are prominently featured, occupying almost the same space.

And what one would never really expect is that the title of that book, listed squarely at the top of the photo of those two men, making it hard to misinterpret what she was implying.

"Wine and Gun: The Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist".

Chapter 14: 50. Let it Snow (1)

Chapter Text

Oh the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful

And since we've no place to go

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! [1]

[1] From the Christmas song 'Let it Snow'

December 24th, Christmas Eve.

A rather large Christmas tree stood in the lobby of the WLPD's ground floor, the golden star at the top of the pine branches almost touching the ceiling, a height that seemed incongruous in the room. The Christmas tree was covered with colourful ribbons, small decorations and brightly lit lights, and underneath were piles of presents -- the sort of things that fellow police officers would use to exchange gifts with each other, most of them wrapped so sloppily that all that could be unwrapped was a scarf and a sock.

In reality, there weren't many people who attended the police department's Christmas Eve party at all -- most of them chose to go home for the holidays, and only those who didn't have family in Westland or couldn't get a vacation day off to go home showed up. Back here, everyone at the party looked at each other with an air of tacit pity.

And Olga Molozer, naturally, didn't want to attend a party among her peers at Westland State University, and didn't seem to have any family gatherings to attend -- Albariño didn't ask in detail, it seemed a bit impolite to inquire about this matter -- so it was just a matter of being in the crowd with an eggnog it was, of course it was eggnog, but there seemed to be a greater proportion of ‘alcohol’ in the drink.

None of the single men who were willing to drink with her had ever worked with her, which might explain why they were still able to keep drinking, as those who spent time with Olga would always uncover her less than likeable qualities.

Albariño looked in Olga's direction with interest: he knew that the other was a good drinker and not a light-weight, as could be seen from the nights they spent in the ‘I Quit’ bar, but he hadn't really thought that the other's drinking capacity was obviously much better than he had thought.

He watched with interest for a moment, then turned his head to look at the man standing alongside him -- Herstal Armalight leaned against the wall, a glass of untouched eggnog in his hand, as if the drink or the world at large had offended him. But if Albariño really did ask, he would answer, ‘At least one of us knows better than to drink and drive.’

‘It's a wonderful sight to see you, a lawyer who specialises in defending criminals, standing in the middle of a crowd of policemen celebrating Christmas Eve,’ Albariño whispered to Herstal, ‘What a wonderful scene.’

Herstal gave a cold grunt of no expectation at this, obviously in his opinion, Albariño, as a psychopathic murderer, was in absolutely no position to say such a thing.

There was quite a long story about why Herstal and Albariño had appeared together at the WLPD's Christmas Eve party, and the story began, at the very beginning, on the 27th of November, when Billy and Sharp had been laid out on the steps in front of the State District Court.

Because Bart Hardy wasn't a fool by any stretch of the imagination, or he wouldn't have been able to make it to his current position with many of his superiors in the police department not liking him very much. When the coincidence happened so many times in a row, he immediately rushed to Herstal and Albariño and ordered them to go to the police station to give their statements.

They had gone to great lengths to avoid leaving evidence and hammering out alibis before then, and most of that was done before they went to Albariño's cabin on Friday. Herstal went to one of his clients for help -- he didn't like the ‘my alibi is a threesome’ offer, but an illegal sex worker was really the easiest thing they could buy, and ‘I had tea with a wandering tramp’ probably wasn't a credible alibi -- anyway, things got resolved fairly quickly.

In any case, they weren't deluded enough to think that an alibi would dispel Hardy's suspicions, and Albariño, apparently decided that ‘in that case, we must at least show that we've really been together lately’ -- and he followed through on this proposal. He began obsessively showing up at Herstal's house every single day, although when he finally went back to work at the Bureau of Forensic Medicine again in December, he quickly checked out of the apartment with the mouldy fridge drawers so that he could go back to his own place.

And so it went on until late December, when Albariño planned to skip the Coroner's Bureau's internal Christmas celebrations to run down to the police department's party for a bit of fun, and completely ignored the protests of others by dragging Herstal, who finally had a day off, to the scene as well.

‘We're maintaining a “relationship” now, Honey.’ So said Albariño.

Herstal didn't think that maintaining a relationship meant going to a Christmas party with the other person -- not to mention the fact that most of the relationships Albariño maintained with other people were f*ck-buddy relationships; but when Albariño gave that damned ‘Oops, what if you don't say yes to me and our identities are exposed!’ expression, it was really hard to do anything other than to say yes to him or to reach out and strangle him to death. Lately, Herstal had been choosing the former in this sort of dilemma, which really didn't bode well with him.

So now all they could do was to stand around and drink eggnog. Herstal really wanted to add lots and lots of alcohol into his drink, but still, someone responsible had to be in charge of driving home without a DUI. And usually, that responsible person was him.

Albariño's mouth was now stuffed and bulging with a gingerbread man made in an extraordinarily realistic shape, like a chipmunk, or an ogre, or a combination of the two, the kind that had been irradiated by nuclear waste. Herstal spent half of his time looking around the room warily, while the other half was all focused on disliking Albariño.

It was at this time that they heard Olga shout happily, ‘Hey! Bart!’

-- Officer Hardy appeared at the end of the hall, wearily clutching his briefcase and carrying a large bag in his hand, apparently having just finished his last hour of pre-holiday overtime, and was about to head in the direction of the door.

He walked up to Olga and said, ‘I can't celebrate with you, my daughters are still waiting for me to come home.’

Without saying a word, Olga shoved a candy cane into his mouth.

Okay, she might actually be a little drunk.

Officer Hardy muttered something vaguely about his wife and turkey or something, slurping his candy cane. Then he seemed to give up, sighing, and compromised, ‘Okay, Olga, I'll just stay with you guys for fifteen minutes, and then I have to go home right away.’

-- If there was so much as a remote possibility that Officer Hardy possessed an ability to predict the future, even if he really was a tragic Cassandra, he would never, ever have chosen to stay fifteen minutes longer.

But he didn't know that yet, and Albariño certainly couldn't have known either. So Albariño just reached out and stretched Herstal's cuffs, showing his shiny teeth as he smiled.

‘Come on sweetheart,’ he said, ‘let's go say hello to them.’

Herstal frowned and said, ‘Don't ...’

Because if you're a psychopathic murderer in your right mind, you'd know better than to go and chat with the cops when the police already feel that you are too involved with the case. But alas, most psychopathic murderers aren't very sane in the head, and Albariño Bacchus had got to be on the top of the list.

So Herstal had no choice but to be dragged over there to exchange pleasantries with the police officer in charge of the homicide case and the criminal psychologist who worked in the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit, a pleasantry which, as he had expected, began with talk about work -- about Albariño's recent work at the Bureau of Forensic Medicine, because if they were actually going to talk about Herstal's work, it was bound to be awkward for everyone. It was because of this that Hardy must have questioned Albariño's taste in boyfriends.

Then, once everyone had exchanged fake pleasantries for a while, Hardy could no longer hide the worry in his heart and started to ask Albariño insinuatingly how he was feeling lately.

Herstal wasn't surprised that he would ask that; considering that sexual assault victims were made of glass in everyone's eyes, let alone the fact that Albarino had theoretically been sexually assaulted by the Westland Pianist. Albariño laughed and reached out to wrap his hand Herstal's wrist.

‘I'd be lying if I said “I'm fine”,’ he said smiling calmly, acting it out, ‘but I'll get over it.’

‘A lot of victims can't face sex calmly after something like that, and some of them even break down when someone tries to unbutton them.’ Olga chose this moment to speak, hiding a smile.

Hardy gave a jolt, crushing the Christmas cane candy in his mouth with a crunch.

‘Indeed,’ Albariño replied, leaning closer towards Herstal as if unconsciously, ‘but I think the main reason I'm okay now is because ...I can be understood, you know? ‘

Herstal silently rolled his eyes inwardly: well, their relationship had been thoroughly described by Albariño as two victims of sexual assault consoling each other.

Olga turned to Herstal, still with that smile on her face, ‘You have to be gentle with him, you know that, right? Hate to say it, but out of the two of you, he's the one who suffered something a little more horrible.’

‘...Do you guys have to talk about people's sex lives under the Christmas tree?’ Hardy couldn't help but hiss at the question.

‘Are “Christmas tree” and “unicorn” a pair of innocent synonyms in your eyes?’ Albariño asked with a smile.

Hardy chose to roll the eyes that Herstal hadn't rolled out, and Olga actually burst out laughing.

While they were chattering like high school girls, a policeman who'd obviously had too much eggnog and looked like he was about to throw up covered his mouth and walked past them, he looked to be over thirty. Herstal had never seen this man before, so he probably wasn't one of Hardy's men.

‘That's Coris, the person in charge of narcotics. He divorced his wife earlier in the second half of the year, poor guy.’ Olga introduced, with a ‘you're Al's boyfriend, you should know everything about the police department’ look, though Herstal didn't think she was naive enough to think Albariño could sustain the relationship for much longer, and he himself wasn't naive enough to imagine that himself either.

‘If I don't leave, I will become a pitiful guy like him...’ Hardy said rather disapprovingly, ‘Well, everyone, I really must go home--’

‘Have I brought my Christmas present for your little Clara?’ Olga asked.

‘And our share for both of us.’ Albariño went on, and Hardy raised the bag in his hand towards them, signalling that he had everything ready. Then Albariño continued, ‘Give our regards to Wallis.’

Herstal couldn't help but glance at Albariño, he hadn't heard any of these names before.

‘Bart's daughter's Christmas present, idiot,’ Albariño whispered as he sneakily elbowed Herstal, ‘I got your share for you.’

Officer Hardy scowled, but failed to hide the small smirk that leaked from the corner of his mouth, ‘You know I can hear you, right?’

'It's the thought that counts!' Albariño's eyes widened innocently, 'Come on, it seems like it's snowing heavily out there, and the traffic is going to get worse if it continues like this.'

-- Just at that moment, they heard Olga's voice say flatly, 'f*ck.'

They looked in the direction Olga was gazing, and then unexpectedly saw BAU DirectorLavazza Mercader standing in the doorway of the hall with a frown on his face, patting a sizable thickness of snow off his shoulders as he peered into the hall.

As a few of them had looked stupidly in the direction of the doorway, it was obvious that Mercader had noticed them as well, so the other man took it in stride, looking particularly targeted, and no one would believe him if he said he wasn't here to see them.

'That's my hallucination, isn't it,' Olga whispered, 'please tell me it's my hallucination and that I may have not only had too much eggnog, but also too much alcohol in my eggnog.'

'I don't think so.' Herstal told her stoically.

'What about collective hallucinations?' Olga asked, grasping at straws.

Obviously it wasn't a collective hallucination either, because Lavazza Mercader quickly walked up to them, bringing with him a gust of coldness. He calmly said to them, 'Merry Christmas.'

Looking at the expression on Olga's face, she couldn't have felt any worse than she did now, even if there had been a blood-soaked Santa Claus standing in front of her with a double-barrelled shotgun, while breathing fire, and wishing her a Merry Christmas.

'Why are you here!' She exclaimed.

'Have I never told you?' Mercader frowned, his voice soundingas if he was feeling quite confused, 'My second brother lives in Westland, we'll be spending Christmas at his house this year?'

'No, I don't know a word about either where you'll be spending Christmas or how many brothers you have or anything like that.' Olga said woodenly.

'I have two older brothers,' Mercader added details needlessly, 'and two younger brothers.'

Basically everyone intentionally ignored Olga's little mutter of 'middle child', and Albariño said with a smile, 'I guess she didn't mean why you were in Westland, but why you are at the WLPD's Christmas Eve party. '

'I got an invitation.' Mercader's brow furrowed even more, 'Got it two weeks ago, it came in the mail to my office at the BAU. In past years I definitely wouldn't have been able to come, but this year I happened to be coming to Westland for Christmas, so...'

Judging by the expressions on the faces of the few people in the room, no one had any idea how that invitation had ended up in the mail, but after all, he'd helped the WLPD with the Johnny the Killer's case a few months ago, and had contributed to the profiling of one of Albariño's case. It probably wouldn't be surprising to receive an invitation as a courtesy.

'You guys can have a nice chat,' Hardy finally hammered out, 'I really have to go, the snow is getting pretty heavy. If this continues on...'

'No, wait a minute, Officer Hardy.' Mercader interrupted, 'I'm here to talk to you and your superiors this time as well, I've been following those cases of the Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener, they've been committing too many crimes lately. Personally, I'd really recommend that the WLPD seek help from the FBI, and the BAU could-'

He didn't get to finish; in fact, he wouldn't get another chance to finish what was really going on with the BAU for the rest of the night, because things were always a matter of opportunity -- they heard a scream piercing the air, shrill and panicked.

The sound came from across the hall.

Somehow, Bart Hardy and Mercader reacted almost simultaneously, and the two of them rushed in the direction from which the sound came from. At the same time, Albariño tugged at Herstal's cuff and whispered, 'Keep up.'

The few of them followed some other police officers who also realised something was wrong and rushed across the room, the place where the screams came from was the restroom on the ground floor of the police station. A female police officer working as a clerk was frozen in the doorway of the restroom, unable to stop trembling.

Hardy squeezed past the girl neatly, while Albariño stood further back and did not step forward. By this time he could clearly see the drunken officer named Coris collapsed on the tiled floor of the restroom, leaning weakly against the wall, his hollow, wide-open eyes staring dully into the restroom mirror.

There were two parallel, bloody slashes on his neck, spaced maybe four or five centimetres apart, deep enough that the bone was visible, blood was trickling out along the edges of the wounds, staining the entire lapel of the shirt he was wearing.

And on the glass of the mirror that his eyes were fixed on, a bloody five-pointed star pentagram had been painted on with his blood. There was an excessive amount of blood dripping down the corners, drawing a long bloody line on the polished glass.

The room was filled with shocked and uneasy murmurs, while Mercader stared blankly at the blood-soaked scene, and after a few moments, he whispered, 'Olga-'

It was really strange: it was clear that Olga Molozer had been away from the BAU for a long time, and Mercader had always been at odds with her, but it was still hard for him to break the habit of asking for the other's opinion at moments like this, when they were all gripped by the horrible emotion called shock.

And he wasn't supposed to do that as head of the Behavioural Analysis Unit.

By this time, Olga was just squeezing through the gathering crowd, still holding the glass of eggnog in her hand, and flattening the wrinkled hem of her dress with the other hand in boredom. Her eyes were shiny, probably glowing from the alcohol, and a slight blush coated her cheekbones.

Olga scanned the scene calmly, then took a sip from her glass.

'You shouldn't ask the opinion of a very drunk person, Mercader.' Then she said flatly, and she laughed softly. 'But yes, that's exactly George Robo's modus operandi.'

-- Although, the man had died by lethal injection a few years ago.

Chapter 15: 51. Let it Snow (2)

Chapter Text

George Robo -- Albariño pulled the name out of his head with great difficulty: he had heard Olga mention the man once, when Lavazza Mercader first came to Westland, and Olga had said that she was going to write a book about the serial killer, but that it had been stopped by Mercader before it went to press. Olga also accused that if that book was published, it would reveal something about Mercader.

This attitude is very interesting. Albariño thought to himself as he gently bit his lip. It was a shame then, if he had known there was tension between them, he would have really poked around to find out exactly why Olga and Agent Mercader were not on good terms.

By this time, Olga had already turned around and smoothly shoved the glass in her hand, which had been reduced to a light layer of eggnog, into the hands of the nearest police officer and commanded, ‘Everyone out.’

‘She's right, this is a crime scene.’ Hardy added when the officer gave Olga a look of disbelief. He quickly directed his subordinates who were still at the party, ‘All members of the homicide team stay, everyone else exit. Gather everyone in the hall, we have to surround this place, no one can leave until everyone's suspicion is ruled out -- Ella, you go and question the witnesses, then go and see what the hall's security footage captured; Ben, you call CSI and the Bureau of Forensic Medicine, see if they can send someone; Alexander, you go to the office and get the evidence signs and camera, take pictures and fix the evidence first.’

The officers dispersed as if they were a swarm of bees, and then Hardy turned to Herstal and said, ‘Mr Armalight, excuse me?’

Because of course, even those other police officers weren’t allowed to enter the scene right now, and it was certainly even more out of order for Herstal to stay here; it was a matter of urgency for Lavazza Mercader to stay behind, but there was no reason for Herstal to stay and watch anyway. He nodded briefly and was just about to exit the door when Albariño gave his wrist a gentle tug.

‘No farewell kiss?’ Albariño said with a smirk, ‘I'm going to start working late.’

Obviously no one understood what kind of farewell kiss Albariño really wanted as Herstal was about to retreat down the hall. And by the look on Herstal's face, if it weren't for the fact that they were now at the scene of the crime, Herstal would have been tempted to fly up and stick a foot in him.

In the end, he just gave Albariño a cold sweeping glance and said simply, ‘I'll wait outside.’

He left quickly, and as soon as Herstal was gone, Olga slammed the outermost door of the bathroom shut. She leaned behind the door, staring at Hardy, and said, ‘They're going to be furious.’

‘What?’ Hardy asked, although judging by the tone of his voice, he didn't necessarily have any idea what Olga was talking about.

‘Those colleagues of yours,’ Olga laughed a little, ‘you'll leave them all behind and have your poor subordinates cross-examine them one by one, considering everyone as suspects. They will definitely feel that you are ruthless, thinking that they are all murder suspects.’

‘I have no choice.’ Hardy couldn't help but raise a hand to rub his brow, ‘No one else has been out since Agent Mercader walked in the door, all the other side doors outside the main entrance are closed at this time of night, and with all the snow falling outside, I don't think anyone could jump out of a window and escape at this time -- the murderer has to be amongst us.’

"We stuck in a classical mystery novel now, right?" Olga laughed softly.

By this time, the police officer named Alexander had returned with a camera and evidence signs. Albariño also walked over with him to look at the body, and although there were few tools at hand at the moment, it was still possible to make a simple judgement based on the state of the body. What's more, there was no need to even judge the time of death, the unlucky Officer Coris had just been alive.

Albariño pulled out the pair of latex gloves that he always kept in his pocket and knelt down next to the body, then he heard Lavazza Mercader's voice say in a slightly agitated tone, ‘Let's get down to business, Molozer.’

‘It was George Robo's modus operandi.’ Olga repeated calmly, tapping the floor with her heels in an impatient clatter.

‘But it couldn't have been Robo, Robo died years ago.’ Hardy replied.

‘Oh, then it's Robo who has risen from the dead, and I reckon he's the only one who can do that apart from the gentleman who’s birthday is today.’ Olga said coolly, ‘Have you guys ever seen one of those classic horror films? ‘Dead Silence’ or something? The way things tend to go, there's usually one person who dies a spiteful and horrible death, and...’

‘Molozer!’ Agent Mercader yelled, his voice so loud it rumbled and echoed between the polished tiled walls, startling Officer Alexander, who was taking a picture of the body, so much so that he nearly threw the camera out of his hand.

‘Don't yell at me, Mercader.’ Olga said sullenly, ‘You're not my boss anymore.’

Hardy took a long, deep breath, as if he were trying to draw strength from the air, and said dryly, ‘Come on, you two, can we get back to the case?’

‘Like I said, it's George Robo's modus operandi, whether it's a motiveless killing or not can't be confirmed right now, but the way the scene was staged is exactly the same.’ Olga said, her voice urgent and fast, ‘Two slash marks on the neck, generally the first one is fatal and the second one is cut when the injured person is near death, the specifics of the dead man in front of us will depend on what Al can tell in a few moments. These marks are symbolic, George Robo, a serial killer with a God complex and a bit of religious fanaticism, uses these two knife marks to represent the ‘yoke of the Lord’, and the star is the Star of Bethlehem -- the birth of Jesus and the conversion of faith. Seriously, it's quite fitting that this kind of murder occurs at Christmas.’

‘I've read the documents on Robo's case, and the main features of the scene do look exactly the same, and we're in no condition to extract any other physical evidence for testing if CSI isn't coming in.’ Hardy shrugged his shoulders, his voice very serious, ‘But the most important thing right now is: why does Officer Coris' body exhibit the characteristics of someone who was killed by Robo? Is he really dead, and was now just a copycat who committed the crime?’

Olga snorted, ‘Ah yes, copycat crimes can be common enough indeed --’

‘I see what you're trying to say,’ Mercader said gravely to Olga, ‘You want to say that the seventh case of the Robo case was committed by a copy-cat, not George Robo himself, but now that things have happened -- ’

‘Alexander.’ Hardy said suddenly, ‘You go out for a moment.’

The young police officer looked up from his camera in confusion, ‘Huh?’

‘You go out and help the others, when Ella comes back from watching the footage, we'll have to ask for an alibi, there are twenty or thirty officers present, it's a big job.’ Hardy said calmly, ‘You go and help them, I'll do the fixing of the evidence and get an overall picture of the physical evidence.’

For everyone except Alexander, this excuse was too obvious. But the young police officer, who obviously hadn't been on the job for two years, was quickly fooled, handing Hardy the camera and the rest of the evidence signs before walking quickly out the door.

He had just closed the door behind him when Olga said firmly, ‘The seventh case was the work of a copycat, Robo never left the body indoors, his God complex demanded that he display the body in front of other people to give them a shock, not leave it in a shed to silently wait for it to rot. Leaving a body in a room where no one would go is something only a murderer who is afraid the body will be found would do, that's a pathetic man who kills due to disputes and blames serial killers for what he's done--’

‘Doesn’t this conversation sound particularly familiar to you? Didn't we have this conversation many times three years ago?’ Mercader interrupted, his brow furrowing in two great rifts -- like valleys, ‘That case has been closed, Molozer, because Robo's hair appeared at the scene of the seventh case, and the jury apparently found it to be conclusive evidence.’

For a moment it was as if Olga was really angry with herself for handing that glass over to someone else, otherwise she could have cracked Mercader with the glass right then and there.

‘That's what I hate about you: you make bad judgements not even because you're just not good enough!’ Olga exclaimed loudly, ‘And the result? You know that the group except for you and me won't dwell on this detail, because human psychology is so varied that it's very easy to convince others that the killer committed one crime that was simply a little different from his usual scenes. So you left evidence at the scene even though you knew the case wasn't Robo's doing -- is this all just the kind of moral issue that involves tying people onto the tracks in your eyes? [2] The killer of the seventh case obviously had a personal vendetta against the deceased, and the killer wouldn't have killed anyone else after murdering that man, whereas Robo would surely have killed again if he hadn't been caught, so you chose to frame Robo for a case that didn't belong to him? Is it so easy for your professional ethics to succumb to your sense of morality?’

[2] (TL Notes) Just for people who don’t understand this reference, it’s commonly known as the ‘Trolley Problem’. It’s a series of morality questions e.g. A train is heading towards a group of 5 people, but there is a lever that can derail the train onto a different track, but there is 1 man standing on that track, is it morally permissible to use the lever? And other questions similar.

Mercader simply laughed in anger, ‘What? Now you’re the one to talk to me about morals and ethics? Why do I remember you not being particularly ... interested in either?’

‘Because I don't give a damn if they're brought to justice or not! If the seventh case was indeed Robo's doing and you faked the evidence, I wouldn't say a word about it! But you went so far as to make a false profile over it, and attribute the discrepancies between the cases to the murderer's --’ Olga's voice had a little angry hiss in it, making Hardy start to worry about whether or not she was going to come out with a gun. Throughout every stage of the argument, she looked like she wanted to shoot Mercader dead.

‘Olga, did I or did I not tell you when you joined that ‘profiling is just a too’?’ Mercader raised his voice slightly as well, ‘Profiling is a tool, a guide, not the truth; it exists only to point out to the police who the murderer is...’

‘So it has to give way to the greater good where necessary? Do you not regard it as an independent science at all?!’

It was at this point that Albariño coughed a few times beside the body.

‘Ladies and gentlemen? Pause for a moment?’ Albariño said cheerfully, ‘I've really discovered something here.’

‘On the body?’ Hardy asked.

‘There was nothing on the body, only that the victim's throat had been slit with a sharp instrument. The time between the two knife cuts cannot be determined as when the cuts occurred, the person was still alive, and so the vital reactions are about the same, you’re unable to tell which cut came before and which came after.’ Albariño shrugged his shoulders, ‘If CSI were here, they might have been able to tell more, they're better at bloodstain analysis. And all I can say is that looking at the wound pattern, the killer was right handed when using the knife and was shorter than the deceased -- but that's not worth much, after all, the deceased looked at least 1.9 meters tall to me. If it were the usual scenario, I'd say that whoever killed the deceased was an exceptionally strong male, but looking at the way the deceased was drunk before he died, that category would be greatly relaxed.’

Several of them walked over to beside Albariño, who was still half-kneeling on the ground, with a piece of paper raised in his hand, and said with a smile, ‘But anyway, I found this in the pocket of the dead man's jacket.’

Hardy also put on his gloves and carefully took the piece of paper from Albariño's hand.

There was also a lot of blood on the chest pocket of the deceased, and the outside of the paper was covered with scratch-like blood stains, even someone with a half-assed knowledge of bloodstain analysis could tell that the paper had been stuffed into the dead man's pocket after he had been victimised. Hardy's brow furrowed as he unfolded the piece of paper.

Hardy read, ‘An unclean thing. I shall not rest until I've driven the corruption from the land. By exile or death, blood must spill, for blood shed long ago.’ [3]

[3] (TL Notes) The quote above is taken from ‘Sophocles ‘Oedipus Rex’’, where Creon reports Apollo’s prophecy. HOWEVER, the direct Chinese translation is: ‘Thou shalt order the exile, or death, of a man to atone for the blood previously shed; it is that bloodshed that brought this risk upon the city-state’, yet nothing like this line exists in the play through all my research, that line was the closest direct quote I could find.

Apparently that was all that was written on that piece of paper. Hardy finished reading it, looking up with a confused face.

‘Apollo's prophecy.’ Olga shrugged, as if pointing out the source of every sentence she saw wasn't something commendable to her and her herself only. ‘From Sophocles ‘Oedipus Rex.’

‘What the hell does he mean?’ Hardy couldn't help but ask.

By this time, Albariño was slowly getting to his feet, his legs numb as he stumbled slightly from the discomfort.

‘It is that famous tragedy in which Oedipus kills his father and married his mother,’ explained Albariño good-naturedly; ‘when Oedipus became king, a terrible plague prevailed in the city of Thebes over which he ruled, and prophecies emanating from the temple of Apollo said that the city of Thebes could be saved only by catching the murderer of the late king, King Laius -- it was his own son, Oedipus, who killed the late King, but Oedipus was completely unaware of this -- and when he finally figured out the tragedy that had occurred that year, he blinded himself and left the city of Thebes to wander. ‘

‘So it's unlikely that the murderer in this case is the copycat of the seventh case.’ Olga said.

‘...How did you come to this conclusion?’ Hardy asked sceptically.

‘The copycat of the seventh case --’ Olga said, then she noticed the look Mercader threw her way and smiled sarcastically, changing her wording, ‘Well, I mean, IF the seventh case was a copycat's work, then as I said, he was a killer who was afraid of his actions being discovered, so he framed the case on a serial killer. So there's absolutely no need for him to come all the way from Pennsylvania to Westland and kill someone inside a police station after so many years when the dust has settled.’

‘Erm, suppose this murderer killed someone and then got a taste for killing...?’ Hardy asked hesitantly.

‘In the same way that a lion that has eaten human flesh becomes a man-eating lion? I don't think so. The moment he chose to frame someone meant that he's at least cautious enough not to take that risk, and a man who turns into a potential serial killer after his first dip in blood? There are too few such cases.’ Olga answered amiably, ‘We don't usually consider such possibilities in the first place, because not everyone can become a homicidal maniac -- it's remarkable that there are two of them in Westland.’

Hardy's expression clearly said that he didn't see anything ‘remarkable’ about it.

‘And the meaning of the content on this piece of paper is crystal clear,’ Mercader followed, looking over Hardy's shoulder to read the line of text, ‘It's a metaphor: the City of Thebes is in danger -- the WLPD is facing the threat of a hidden murderer, we need to atone for the blood previously shed; it is that bloodshed that has led to the current situation.’

Albalino said, ‘Given that the murderer obviously imitated George Robo's methods... is he seeking revenge for Robo? Will the case only stop when Robo's blood is avenged? Who amongst us does the murderer wish to gouge out their eyes and wander in the wilderness?’

Hardy sternly replied, "No one needs to atone for the blood Robo shed—!"

‘Considering that the murderer couldn't possibly have known what happened within the team handling the case at the time, he must be referring to me and Mercader,’ Olga shrugged, ‘At that time, he and I were the most prominent people in charge of the Robo case, as reported in the news. So what’s the deal now? Who's going to hand us a knife to stab our eyes?"

‘Not funny.’ Albariño said lazily.

‘Well,’ Olga replied sweetly, ‘your sense of humour has really dropped off.’

Vaguely remembering something, Hardy swept a look at the body on the floor again, then turned to Olga and asked, ‘Isn't there another possibility? If the murderer, like you, thinks Robo was framed in the seventh case, then might he be looking for the person who framed Robo? That's not strange, right? If the murderer was close to Robo, he might know Robo didn't commit the crime at the time?’

Mercader was silent for a moment, then said, ‘At that time, the only people on the BAU side who had entered the crime scene of the seventh case were Molozer and I.’

Sure enough.

Hardy's frown deepend as he slowly said, ‘...In that case, why exactly were you invited to this Christmas party?’

Everyone was contemplating this dreadful possibility, while McCard stared at them, as if he was angry at someone. After a moment, he said, ‘But that's impossible. The case file said that Rob had no relatives.’

‘Maybe it was the little guardian angel sitting on his shoulder.’ Olga sneered, ‘By the way, Bart, there's something I’ve been meaning to ask -- that holster on Officer Coris’ waist, is it supposed to be empty?’

Everyone lowered their heads in that direction: the buckle of the holster on the corpse's waist was slightly open, and it was empty inside, as if mocking them.

Officer Hardy said succinctly, ‘f*ck.’

Herstal leaned against the wall, looking bored, as the officers around him suddenly scattered with apparent purpose. He watched them intently, wondering what they were up to, while considering whether he should just go and have some gingerbread men himself.

Just as he picked out a few gingerbread men that didn't quite look like they were beaten to death, Albariño slipped through the crowd and skulked back to Herstal's side. However, the plate of gingerbread men on the long table seemed to hold more appeal to him, and Herstal watched as his hand reached out for the plate.

‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted Herstal, ‘didn’t you just perform an autopsy? Did you wash your hands?’

‘I wore gloves when I handled the body!’ Albariño protested.

Herstal was unmoved, ‘You're not allowed to eat anything until you've washed your hands.’

Saying this, he bit off the head of the first gingerbread man in his hand rather harshly. stared at him for two seconds, then suddenly opened his mouth wide, as if waiting to be fed.

Without hesitation, Herstal aggressively stuffed the other half of the gingerbread man in his hand into Albariño’s mouth.

Then, he watched with satisfaction as Albariño's expressions changed dramatically as he struggled to swallow, before slowly asking, ‘What's the deal with that dead guy?’

Albariño grabbed an unused glass from the table and took a few wild gulps of the fruit wine to catch his breath. He wiped the water stains off his lips with the back of his hand and briefly explained the situation, including the old situation regarding Olga and Agent Mercader.

‘The officer who was watching the surveillance footage came back and found that the restroom entrance is a blind spot, you can't see anyone coming or going. The police who were drinking didn't seem to have any recollection of it.’ Albariño explained, his tone confident as if he hadn't been drinking himself, ‘And both CSI and the Coroner's Office both said on the phone that although they have staff on duty, the roads outside are blocked by heavy snow. The snow plows probably won't be running at this point, and it'll probably be dawn by the time they can get here.’

‘And until we find the killer, none of us can leave -- actually, none of us can leave.’ Herstal emphasized decisively.

‘And with a murderer still lurking in the shadows, Olga and the others won't rest until they've got their pound of flesh’ Albariño's voice still sounded as if he was having a good time, maybe he was just loving this part of the processions, ‘We're in a Agatha Christie novel, aren't we? The Stormy Mountain [4] kind?’

[4] (TL Notes) ‘Stormy Mountain’ (暴风雪山庄) or a similar phrase in English, a ‘closed circle of suspects’, is basically a Chinese term used to describe the kinds of novels where everyone’s a suspect and no one can leave e.g. A murder happens within a Manor on a mountain, everyone is a suspect and no one can leave because there is a storm outside, therefore they can only try to deduce the murderer.

‘People don't normally do Stormy Mountain in a police station.’ Herstal pointed out, failing to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

‘But it’s just as fun, and equally as romantic,’ Albariño winked at Herstal with a subtle smile, ‘and similarly unescapable.’

While the two of them stood chatting over the plate of gingerbread men, the other police officers were kept busy by Hardy: all those who were now present registered their names in a notebook, and then the officers dispersed to search the entirety of the police station's building. It still couldn't be fully confirmed whether the killer was from within their ranks, and at times like this, it was better to check and see if anyone was secretly hiding in the building.

The police station was really surprisingly large. Albariño leaned over the edge of the table and ate half the plate of gingerbread men -- or rather forced Herstal to feed it to him all over again -- like an evil Gulliver massacring Lilliputians. And so they passed the time until a little past nine o'clock, when Olga suddenly appeared from nowhere.

‘Hey guys, bad news.’ She said, but her expression didn't look too grim.

‘How bad of news?’ Albariño asked as he crunched down the last crumbs of the gingerbread men, ‘The kind where World War III is imminent, or the ‘my boyfriend won't sleep with me no matter what’ kind?’

Herstal shot Albariño a glare.

‘It's neither,’ Olga said solemnly, ‘another person is dead.’

Chapter 16: 52. Let it Snow (3)

Chapter Text

‘A second victim.’ Albariño said slowly, gazing at the pool of blood in front of him with a rather leisurely attitude, ‘The efficiency of the killer is quite high, to the point of seeming a bit desperate.’

-- This was due to the new victim: a young female police officer lay on the dusty floor at the corner of the fire escape stairs, with two deep slashes across her neck. A bloody star was painted on the wall behind her, the blood had not yet dried, taking on an almost black colour in the dim yellow light.

Hardy looked exhausted, while Mercader seemed a little more angry, as if the fact that things had gone beyond expectation was an insult to him. Olga, on the other hand, just stood quietly in the dim darkness where the overhead lights could not illuminate, looking like a gloomy mushroom.

‘She had obviously fallen behind while searching for anyone hiding in unseen corners,’ Hardy said with a tight frown and a hint of remorse in his voice, ‘I've radioed the others and asked them to make sure they stay in groups of two during the search -- Al, what's your opinion?’

However, Al had little to offer at this stage of the case. There wasn't much room for speculation with the autopsy, considering the death occurred recently enough for logical deduction, and the clean-cut wounds didn't reveal any distinctive characteristics of the murder weapon. Albariño was carrying the torch Hardy had given him, adding to the dazzling light in the room.

He scrutinized the blood spatters on the ground, though bloodstain analysis wasn't his forte like it was for CSI scientists, he had some experience. Then he said, ‘The killer attacked her from behind. This can be deduced more or less from the bloodstains... Herstal, could you come here for a moment? I need to demonstrate something to them using you.’

Herstal was standing on the other side of the staircase, wisely staying away from the area Hardy had delineated as the scene of the crime, like a beast that knows not to step lightly into the territory of another predator. He gave Albariño a disgruntled glance, probably not pleased with the phrasing of "using you," but since Hardy didn't object, he complied.

‘This is where the murdered officer probably entered the fire escape. You just said she was in charge of searching the wings on these two floors, it's so far from the lifts that she must have decided to take the fire escape up to the upper floors.’

Albariño reached out and gestured for Herstal to follow the direction he was pointing, and Albariño walked up behind Herstal and squeezed his shoulder with one hand as he continued:

‘Then from here -- the starting point of the bloodstains -- the killer attacked her. The first cut severed her carotid artery, blood sprayed out in a fan shape with no signs of obstruction between the bloodstains, indicating the attack came from behind.’

Then Albariño extended his right hand, two fingers resting on Herstal's throat -- a gesture that seemed all too familiar, reminiscent of their first day in the morgue. Herstal simply wanted to turn around and kick him between the legs.

‘The killer slit her throat, leaving a slash in a more upward position.’ Albariño said calmly, ‘Judging by the depth of the cut, she would have gone into haemorrhagic shock within a minute or two. The dragging direction of the knife mark suggests that the killer is habitually right-handed, and the high position of the wound is an 80% indication that the killer is taller than this victim.’

Then Albariño lowered his hand, tactfully stepping aside, and Herstal immediately stepped back and stood further away.

He raised his eyes and swept them over the others present before him; Hardy remained expressionless, as if Albariño hadn't just pinned a mob lawyer in his arms, apparently much more mentally capable after the surprise raid on Herstal's home; Olga looked as if she wanted to laugh just a little, but didn't say anything; only Mercader scrutinized the two of them critically, obviously contemplating something.

Mercader's gaze made Herstal feel a little uncomfortable, and he suppressed the urge to spit out some sarcastic remark, letting himself hesitantly reach up and touch his throat as a subtle, metaphorical display of weakness. He wasn't keen on pretending to be shy in front of others, but this man was the head of the BAU after all, and it seemed prudent to err on the side of caution.

-- He thought, as if the warmth of the other man's fingers had lingered there.

‘And?’ Hardy interjected, seemingly ignoring the tension, and Albariño continued.

Albariño pointed to the floor, where there was a long scuff mark amidst the spray of blood, ‘She collapsed, then was dragged over to the corner by her killer. There's a smeared blood trail from the higher wound, but not by the second one, indicating the second cut was made after she was thrown into the corner by the murderer.’

Hardy thought for a moment, then said, ‘That suggests--’

‘It suggests that the killer was between one metre six and a half and one metre eight and a half.’ Mercader said succinctly, apparently estimating roughly the heights of the two successive victims. Then he thought for a moment and added, ‘But that's not much help; most of the people in the police department fall within that height range.’

‘And the killer wasn't confident in his own strength: the two targets he picked, one a drunken man and the other a female police officer, clearly they didn't have the confidence to take down a stronger target single-handedly. Of course, one could argue that he was simply overtly cautious.’ Olga spoke from amongst the shadows, twirling her fingers around her hair in boredom. ‘And the killer's choice of location clearly indicates that the person is familiar with the internal structures of the police station: neither crime locations could be caught on camera, along with attacking the victim in the fire escape where no one would normally come was also quite cleverly done.’

Mercader said slowly, ‘Then we should be looking for suspects among the long-timers at the police station --’

‘No,’ Olga interrupted sharply, ‘We have to look for people who have been here since the Robo case ended three years ago.’

‘I know what you're thinking, and if the killer is indeed seeking revenge for Robo, your line of thinking is reliable. But how do you explain someone who has been here for less than three years knowing the internal layout and the positions of surveillance cameras? Did you know every corridor in the Chicago PD after three years of service? I don't think so...,’ Mercader began disapprovingly.

Olga snorted, ‘But you don't like this scenario, because if the killer is indeed seeking revenge for Robo, combined with the manifesto left on the first victim, you'll have a hard time defending yourself against accusations of procedural misconduct in the seventh case -- I imagine you particularly dislike that topic, don't you?’

Mercader sighed heavily.

‘Alright, alright,’ Hardy intervened, ‘Perhaps the killer targeted you two simply because of your significant contributions to the arrest of Robo, and is just coming to get revenge on you guys for this and this alone? Let's not dwell on that, shall we?’

‘Since when did “just coming to get revenge on you guys for this” become a comforting phrase?’ Albariño whispered softly as he nudged Herstal with his elbow again -- Herstal felt like he looked like an elementary school student whispering in class.

‘Don't stir up trouble!’ Hardy exclaimed helplessly.

Mercader took a deep breath before exhaling slowly, as if he had finally almost calmed down. Then he said with a headache, ‘Well, let's at least begin narrowing down our suspects.’

‘You do that,’ Olga said dryly, ‘I don't work when I'm drunk, I have professional ethics.’

--More or less, apart from the fact that Olga and Lavazza Mercader were substantially at odds, Herstal seemed to understand why she had left the BAU: because if Olga wanted to, she could be very, very annoying.

Mercader really couldn't resist glaring at her before continuing:

‘I believe the killer is a white male, roughly the same age as George Robo, so he certainly can't be over forty now. He either lacks confidence in his strength or is extremely cautious, likely not very muscular, with a height between 1.65m and 185m.’

‘This person is very familiar with the police station's interior, likely moving between different floors frequently. So, we’re probably looking for someone who often runs errands around the station—either due to their job requirements or because they have good relationships with everyone and often visit other departments. He has worked in the station for about…’

He looked at Olga, who stared back unwaveringly, almost as if in defiance.

‘Three years,’ Mercader spat the word out quickly, reluctantly, as if the term itself would bite his tongue,, ‘he came to work here three years ago or so.’

‘Understood, I'll have my team start the screening process.’ Hardy nodded and turned to Olga, ‘Anything else to add?’

Olga shrugged her shoulders, ‘The killer is from Pennsylvania. While they might not admit it when questioned, we might catch a clue from their accent or employment history if we’re lucky.’

‘Got it, I'll get on it.’ Hardy sighed, then turned to Albariño and Herstal, pondering for a moment, ‘You two can head back to the main hall downstairs for now. Everyone without immediate tasks should be there—and please stick together. I don’t want anyone else getting killed because they were alone. ‘

Albarino nodded, placing his hand on Herstal's arm, his fingers gently tightening.

‘Don't worry, Bart.’ He said, a hint of a smile creeping into his voice despite the feigned seriousness, ‘We're guaranteed to be as good as Siamese twins.’

Herstal didn't even bother to glare at him.

Herstal Armalight didn't particularly like Christmas. Whenever Christmas came to mind, he couldn't help but think of those days when he attended mass at the church as a child -- his father was an alcoholic, but that didn’t mean he didn’t try to take care of his child. In other words, before he drank himself into oblivion every day, he tried to take care of his child as best as he could.

That's why he made his child join the church choir; his child wasn't particularly gifted at singing, but he learned to play the piano at that church. The seasoned electrician had replaced all the dying circuits and wiring in the church in exchange for the opportunity to have his son taught piano by one of the church's choir members.

When Herstal's father wasn't drunk -- which, to be honest, was very rarely -- he would watch the choir rehearsals, and he would see his son playing the piano to accompany them. The church’s nave was brightly lit, and the choir children wore pristine white robes, looking like angels following the King of Kings.

For a family that couldn't afford to buy a piano or enroll in piano lessons, this was the best he could do for his child.

-- But therein lies the problem: this father was indeed good at 'giving,' but he never learned how to express care. This was one of the devastating impacts of the absence of a mother figure in the family: the father never learned how to talk to his child, so he didn't know many things… he didn't know what was happening.

‘...What are you thinking about?’ Albariño asked in Herstal's ear, his warm breath softly grazing Herstal's earlobe, almost startling him.

Herstal turned his head to look at the other man: Albalino was fiddling with a small ornament on the Christmas tree, in an attempt to pull something off, causing the tree to wobble and dry needles to fall off.

Around them, people were anxiously waiting. The police officers who had been sent out had searched the entire building thoroughly, they were almost certain that no one was hiding anywhere else, unless someone had the audacity to break into their armoury, which would be practically magic.

Now that the doors that led to places other than the hall were closed and locked, everyone was gathered together; most of them were idle with nothing to do, frowning, while Hardy's men were sifting through a pile of personnel records, clearly trying to find individuals matching the profile.

Poor Hardy, on the other hand, was standing in a corner of the room calling his daughter, seemingly trying to explain why Daddy didn't come home on time. But Hardy's daughter was only eight years old, and she obviously couldn't understand such a complicated situation. Her pitiful wailing could be heard even over the phone from such a distance.

But even if the case could be solved right now, Hardy obviously couldn't leave: the snow outside had gradually intensified to a blizzard, reducing visibility to a frighteningly low level, turning everything into a bleak gray-white landscape torn by strong winds. Clearly, as long as the snow didn’t stop, they would have to stay put.

Due to the Great Lakes effect [1], experienced particularly heavy snowfall in winter, but being trapped in a police station by a blizzard on Christmas Eve was an overly peculiar experience.

[1] Refers to a phenomenon where cold air meets a large unfrozen water surface, gaining moisture and heat, then creating precipitation, snowfall, and fog downwind on the shore. Westland, located along the Great Lakes region near New York State, frequently experiences severe winter snowstorms due to this effect.

Albariño didn’t seem anxious at all. He kept fiddling with the Christmas tree while keeping half his attention on Herstal, looking as if he wouldn’t rest until he got an answer.

Herstal didn't want to pay him any attention, but Albariño lowered his voice a little more, ‘Let me guess, thinking about family?’

Herstal glanced at him.

‘It’s normal, you know. After all, Christmas is theoretically a time for family reunions and eating turkey. People tend to get sentimental and think about… certain things during this time.’ He wondered if Albariño was saying all this because he was hungry. The man blinked, his gaze growing sharper, ‘What did you do for Christmas when you were a kid?’

‘Do you really think you can get an answer out of me?’ Herstal asked sceptically.

‘Why not? You have to have hope.’ Albariño shrugged his shoulders lightly, ‘After all, the last time I asked you a question about your family, I think I asked which of your relatives sexually assaulted you -- and I have to say, that doesn’t seem like an appropriate way to start a conversation. I suppose if I ask the question properly, I can still get an answer, right?’

Herstal sneered: this guy actually knew that his previous question was inappropriate --maybe it really was a Christmas miracle.

But the other man kept looking at him, his green irises subtly gray under the shadow of his eyelashes. Herstal was silent for a moment, then said, 'We almost never celebrated Christmas. Financial issues were one thing, but another was that my father was too drunk to have time to set up a Christmas tree. I went to church on Christmas; I played the piano in the choir back then.'

‘And your mother?’ Albariño asked softly, though Herstal suspected that if the other man had indeed investigated him, he probably already knew the answer, and simply wanted to hear it from his own lips.

‘I don't know, she divorced my father when I was very young, no one would want to stay married to an alcoholic.’ Herstal shook his head slightly.

Albariño thought for a moment before asking his next question, ‘So you really can play the piano? I didn’t see a piano at your place.’

‘I haven't played the piano in years, and I don't think it's a good idea to keep playing when the WLPD is looking for a psychopathic murderer among those who can play the piano.’ Herstal replied, then he looked sharply at Albariño, speaking before he could ask the next question, ‘Don't, I know what you're going to ask -- I'm not going to play it again, no matter what the circ*mstances.’

‘That’s why you won’t play the piano -- and that’s why you’re standing here right now, without having touched a drop of alcohol, it’s not entirely to avoid breaking traffic laws, is it?' Albarino’s voice was softer and lower. 'Most criminals are products of their environment, not entirely from their family, but most indeed come from their family. And even from a normal person’s perspective… I’ve never seen you drink, even when we had multi-course French dinners. Why? Because you don’t want to become like your fathe?’

Herstal condescended to sneer at him, ‘That's exactly why I don't want to talk to you about family.’

‘I haven't had many proper Christmases either.’ Albariño shrugged casually, as if he hadn't heard the accusation, ‘You know, when both your parents are doctors, you basically never see them at home. Most of the time, it was the nanny who helped me set up the Christmas tree.’

‘Are we playing some kind of girlish game of exchanging secrets?’ Herstal asked.

‘I'm getting to know you better, Herstal.’ Albariño replied leisurely, ‘because we both agree that how well we know each other’s bodies is of little significance. Those fleeting pleasures are short-lived, but the soul is --’

He paused and lowered his voice suggestively.

‘-- so wonderful.’ He said softly.

‘Sounds pretty creepy.’ Herstal commented.

‘You obviously think so too, or else I'd be dead by now.’ Albariño laughed lightly before he finally managed to yank something off the tree. The tormented branch trembled with a rustling sound, making the small lights on it shake.

Several officers in the room looked over in their direction, undoubtedly thinking that anyone who still had the mood to fiddle with a Christmas tree at this point was probably not quite right in the head.

-- Albariño had already stretched out his hand in front of Herstal's face, and in his hand lay a small silver bell that he had pulled from the Christmas tree.

He brushed off the pine needles from the bell, and then said to Herstal, ‘Some people think the bells on a Christmas tree represent the church bells, while others believe they symbolize the bells on Santa’s reindeer. I think, since the Christmas tree is just a secular symbol of Christmas, it doesn’t need to be imbued with so much meaning -- anyway, this one's for you.’

‘...I really want to ask,’ Herstal said, after a moment's silence, and then with difficulty, ‘for what reason did you decided to pull an ornament off a police station’s Christmas tree to give to someone? ‘

Albariño looked at him frankly, with an expression that could only be described as innocent, ‘The gift I had for you was left at your house, and with all the snow falling, it looks like we won’t be able to get back even if the case is solved before midnight. So, take this as a temporary Christmas gift.’

Herstal stared at him accusingly.

‘Do I look to you like the kind of person who has to have presents for Christmas?’ He asked snidely.

‘Nothing is mandatory, but something is better than nothing.’ Albariño laughed and unceremoniously shoved the bell into his hand without a second thought, ‘Besides, I know you didn’t prepare a gift for your cohabitant, so from a guilty conscience perspective, you owe me this at least.’

Herstal squeezed the bell and almost laughed out loud: how could someone like Albariño say something about ‘a guilty conscience’?

‘The WLPD doesn’t use cheap plastic for their Christmas tree. The ornaments are all high-quality. I'm pretty sure this bell is genuine silver-plated, and I grab a few every year.’ Albariño informed him enthusiastically.

Herstal looked down at the bell lying in his palm, wearing an expression of someone trying to understand why things had taken such a nonsensical turn. He was silent for a moment, then slowly closed his hand around it. 'You know, Albariño, I've never been able to figure you out.’

‘And that makes you feel threatened?’ Albariño asked with a smile.

‘I don't see any point in denying it.’ Herstal replied in a low voice.

It was at this moment, as if to punctuate their conversation or to oddly echo some of its themes, the lights above them flickered and then abruptly went out.

The entire police station was plunged into darkness, and a surge of unrest spread around them. Outside, the blizzard continued to rage, with nothing visible beyond the storm’s ferocity.

‘Power outage?’ a policeman shouted in the darkness.

‘All the lights in the whole building are out.’ Another person answered.

There was the sound of people making phone calls in the darkness, others switched on their mobile phones and torches for illumination, casting a ghostly pallor over everyone’s faces.

After a minute or two, someone said, ‘I called the power supply company. They’re not sure if the snow knocked down power lines or if a pole fell, but in any case, the entire neighbourhood is out.’

Great, although a bunch of people trapped in a police station by snow and a murder case wasn't exactly the classic set-up for a Stormy Mountain, the current situation was certainly suspenseful enough, Herstal silently cursed inwardly.

By this time, Hardy was pushing through the crowd in their direction, he was clearly one of the most anxious person in the situation, there were just too many things that could happen in the darkness, not to mention the fact that there was definitely a murderer hiding amongst them.

Herstal knew that in reality, there was actually more than one murderer hiding here, and and wondered if Hardy would go crazy after knowing this fact.

‘If this continues, I'm worried that the murderer will take advantage of the darkness to commit more crime.’ As soon as he came up to them, Hardy got straight to the point, ‘Agents Olga and Mercader are sifting through the suspects on their end, but at this rate I don't think there's enough time.’

‘Speaking of which, the police station has back-up power supplies, right? I remember that being one of the architectural requirements for large buildings like this?’ Albariño thought for a moment and asked, ‘Backup generators?’

‘Yes, there is, the backup generator is opposite the car park behind the police station, and the power distribution room is right there.’ Hardy gestured in some distant direction, but his voice seemed more agitated, ‘But that's no use at all, the staff responsible for maintaining that machine have gone on holiday for Christmas, and I doubt there's anyone here who can operate a diesel generator without a manual -- ‘

‘I can.’ Albariño said abruptly.

Hardy and Herstal both stared at him.

Albariño shrugged, ‘What? I basically built that house of mine myself from scratch, I even installed the wiring in the house. Living so far from the city, of course I have a backup generator in my basem*nt.’

Hardy was silent for a couple of seconds, then said slowly, ‘So you’re saying… you can walk through this damn blizzard and start the backup generator that’s almost a kilometer away?’

‘Why not give it a try?’ Albariño replied cheerfully.

Chapter 17: 53. Let it Snow (4)

Chapter Text

The young officer named Alexander struggled to pull open the back door of the WLPD -- the thickness of the metal door and the blizzard raging outside made the manoeuvre particularly difficult to carry out.

Hardy stood a metre away, and behind him stood the security guard with a keychain: after the incident, they had locked most of the doors, and now the security guard had the only set of keys. Hardy scrutanised the young constable, Albariño and Herstal with a rather severe look and asked, ‘Are you three sure you can handle this? I can go with you.’

‘What you need most is to stay and catch the killer, while we're just going to operate the generator. Unless there’s a Yeti or something else hiding out there, I think we should basically be fine.’ Albariño said in a brisk voice, ‘After all, we can't keep working by flashlight can we? Besides it's not like the two of us can do much to help by staying there.’

Indeed, the darkness had intensified the uneasy atmosphere in the hall, and at this rate the officers were going to start a riot. Hardy already didn’t get along with many of them, he didn’t need to face more accusations of ‘are you treating us all as suspects’ in the dark -- because the answer was obviously ‘yes!’.

Herstal surveyed Hardy and the security guard, then asked thoughtfully, ‘Besides the keys you have, are there any other sets for the locked doors in this building?’

‘There's another spare set in the security officer’s drawer, and the drawer key is carried by the on-duty guard, ’the man quicly replied. ‘Some special rooms, like the archives or the rooms storing extra tear gas and Tasers, have keys kept by specific officers and aren’t our responsibility.’

Herstal frowned, clearly deep in thought until Albarino nudged his elbow and smiled, ‘Come on, Detective, we'd better get going.’

And so, they stepped out into the storm. The wind was far fiercer than they had thought, almost to the point where one could hardly stand, and the snowflakes pelted painfully against their bodies. The heavy door behind them closed slowly, where Hardy had left two men to wait for their return, but that path was swiftly swallowed up in darkness as well.

They made their way towards their destination -- a distance of no more than a few hundred metres, but it seemed alarmingly long in such harsh weather conditions. All around them was total darkness, all the lights in the windows of buildings and street lamps were all extinguished, revealing only the occasional silhouette of large structures through gaps in the snow curtain.

The snow was already piled up to their ankles, fluffy and slippery as it accumulated. Albariño reached out and grasped Herstal's arm, while the flashlight in the hand of the young police officer leading the way fluttered in the darkness like a dying firefly.

It was hard to calculate just how long they had been walking, at any rate, it wasn’t until Albariño's fingers were aching from numbness that Alexander said, ‘We're here.’

Albariño had often parked in the car park behind the police station, but he had to admit that in the past he had never paid any attention to the power room or the generator shed next to it. These two small buildingd were hidden in the wind and snow, looking like two small coffins.

In fact, ‘building’ was a very generous term, because the generator room was actually a glorified soundproof box with a door: completely devoid of any technical content, with a layer of featureless iron-sheet lined with a layer of sound-absorbing material, complete with a set of ventilation and smoke exhaust systems installed on top of the metal box; the interior of which was fully equipped, but not very friendly to those who were about to be squeezed into it.

The door to the generator room was also locked, and it took Alexander, who had brought the key from the security guard and whose fingers were stiff and clumsy, three tries to unlock the door. The rarely used door made a long creaking noise due to the lack of maintenance, a sound which was quickly swallowed up by the wind and snow.

Albariño peered inside, taking in the full extent of the tiny generator room before him using the light of the flashlight in his hand, ‘Clearly, they had limited floor space when they first planned it, and squeezed in the two generators -- it's really small in there. ‘

It couldn't be helped, a place like the generator room wasn't meant to be used for sheltering people from snowstorms, and with two generators crammed in there, it was hard to even get a foot in the door.

‘I can wait at the door,’ Alexander suggested, shivering from the cold but clearly trying to appear unaffected by it, ‘It’s too cramped. Three people wouldn’t even be able to turn around in there.’

Albariño hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, and the young officer stood in the doorway, bouncing around in place to keep his feet warm. For his part, Albariño began instructing Herstal without any hesitation, which was the main reason he had to bring a few people with him.

‘Check if the water in the radiator tank is frozen for me, and I’ll see how much diesel is left inside the tank.’ Albariño pointed to him the location of the radiator tank, ‘If the water’s frozen or there’s no fuel -- we’re screwed. I know how to use this thing, but I have no idea where the maintenance guy stores the diesel.’

‘The average person would put antifreeze in the tank, right?’ Herstal couldn't resist asking.

‘In theory, yes, but some people get lazy and use plain water. Doing it like that, even if you don't experience low temperatures, the limescale can mess with the functionality of the radiator.’ Albariño huffed, clearly disapproving of such practices.

Herstal opened the tank lid and peered inside, then said, ‘It's full.’

‘Okay, then I guess the maintenance crew did use antifreeze, thank goodness -- but a generator this large has two radiator tanks, the other one’s over there.’ Albariño reminded, pointing it out to him in passing.

Herstal nodded, and as he made his way over to the other tank he said, ‘I didn't realise you were interested in these things as well --’

‘...Have you done research? Feeling quite surprised?’ Albariño said with cheerful smile, seemingly in quite a good mood, probably because the generator's tanks were full of diesel, ‘I've been living on my own for many years, Herstal, and it's not surprising that I would know a few things in such circ*mstances.’

‘Such as?’ Herstal asked as he opened the second tank’s cap.

Albariño replied in all seriousness, ‘Knitting.’

This magical statement forced Herstal to stop what he was doing and give him a complicated look, ‘You're kidding.’

‘Why would I joke about something like that,’ Albariño shrugged, nimbly squeezing between Herstal and the wall to check the fuel tank of the second generator, ‘And you, I’ve already answered one of your questions, so how about you answer one of mine now? ‘

‘Do you think we’re putting down our fingers in a game of ‘Never Have I Ever’ now?’ Herstal retorted sarcastically.

‘No, but I find that game rather fascinating.’ Albariño finished checking all the oil and put the lid back on with a firm hand, then looked up at him, ‘My question is: what do you think of Lavazza Mercader.’

‘What can I think of a man I hardly know?’ Herstal said calmly -- he made it sound so ambiguous, mainly because they could still see Alexander hanging around in the doorway through the slightly ajar door.

Albariño nimbly finished checking the generator components and lubricants, then switched the control switch to manual. The entire machine ground to a halt, before shaking and vibrating with a loud noise. Before he could get to the second generator, Herstal stepped forward and pressed a hand to his shoulder.

‘Does him wanting the FBI to get involved in Hardy's case upset you?’ Herstal asked, the corner of his mouth almost touching Albariño's earlobe, making it barely audible over the noise, ‘I thought the Gardener wasn't the type to flip the chessboard if he things didn’t go his way.’

Albariño twisted his head slightly to look at Herstal. He could see a hint of a shadowy smile in the other man's eyes, as if what Albariño was contemplating right now made him feel satisfied -- as if it wasn't the two of them who were in danger if the BAU intervened in the case.

Albariño suspected that Herstal seemed so calm now was mainly because he had more or less accepted his own fate: that is, the fate that belonged to most serial killers. It wasn’t surprisingly, Mr Armalight was obviously the kind of guy who would be able to run through a list of the worst possible outcomes of something in his head before he even started doing it. Or in other words, he had long since began waiting for his death.

Just looking at those scars on his wrists -- and looking at the things he'd let himself go on: He was falling in love with someone who may one day kill him or go on to do something even more brutal. They both understand this, but Herstal still made the less than stellar choice.

Albariño, on the other hand, was not, and while his mother had not set a good example in such matters, but according to his own judgment, perhaps for now, his desire to live is much stronger than the other person -- for, as Shana Bacchus had said, he had to decide on his own when the end would come, whereas Albariño felt that the most opportune time had not yet arrived.

‘The Gardener isn't one who just flips the chessboard if things don’t go his way, but he always has to choose opponents that are to his liking, doesn't he?’ Albariño replied in the same whisper, his voice swallowed by the noise, ‘Olga and Bart are worthy opponents, but unfortunately, Agent Mercader may not be my favourite type.’

‘It's arrogant to want the other man dead because he's not your favourite type.’ Herstal replied in a low tone.

‘Why not?’ Albariño replied with a smile, ‘Isn't that what our killer is doing, taking the lives of innocent people in order to declare war on someone else -- arrogance is one of our original sins, it's a deadly passion.’

‘It seems like you have your own thoughts about the killer?’ Herstal couldn't resist asking.

‘I don't think the murderer was really one of those police officers; the victim was killed from behind, so the murderer wouldn’t have blood splatter on their clothes, but some would still get on their hands and sleeves. Severing an artery creates a gruesome scene that most people can’t imagine. But remember? Bart had everyone sign a sheet before searching the building. We were there the whole time -- no one had unwashed blood on their right hand or sleeves, and no one was hiding bloodstained rubber gloves in their pockets because Bart checked everyone’s bags for the murder weapon. The killer couldn’t have used the restroom faucet either -- there wasn’t enough time, and no blood was left in the sink... It’s impossible to clean the scene so thoroughly in such a short time.” Albarino said thoughfully as he flipped the switch on the second generator.

‘But that's the only bathroom on the ground floor, if he went up to the second floor he’d have had to go through the entire hall, and no one can pass through with blood splattered on their hands without being discovered.’ Herstal followed his train of thought, having to raise his voice so that it wasn't all drowned out by the noise of the machine, ‘The killer couldn't have gone up the stairs, but he obviously didn't stay in the hall either -- unless he left through another door. But all the doors except the main one are locked, and only the security guard has the key, so it's reasonably unlikely that anyone could have entered or left.’

The glass windows in the police station were pushed outwards, and the gap that can be opened is definitely not enough for a person to jump out of the window. In that case, the murderer should definitely have been trapped in the police station after killing the man.

‘Or maybe the security guards claim that they are the only ones with the keys.’ Albarino sighed and said.

‘So you had a general idea in your head, but didn't say a word to Officer Hardy.’ Herstal said disapprovingly.

‘Yeah, but what's the point of doing things any other way?’ Albariño shrugged his shoulders, ‘I want to see what happens next.’

‘-- ‘Death’.’ Herstal replied, ‘You've seen a lot of that stuff, haven't you?’

‘The same story will have different meanings when told by different creators.’ Albarino replied calmly.

Herstal shook his head, ‘Your curiosity will kill you one day.’

‘Is it just like the curiosity I showed towards you? Maybe so, this is indeed a question.’ Albariño admitted frankly, but still smiled strangely, ‘But there is another problem now, even a little more important than the one just now.’

Herstal stared at him while Albariño continued slowly, ‘I noticed that that Alexander doesn't seem to be at the door anymore.’

Needless to say, it was the vibration and noise of the generator that weakened Herstal's attention to the outside, so when he turned his head around, he saw that the door was still slightly ajar, but Alexander was nowhere to be seen.

Herstal's entire being snapped to attention, and the two of them glanced at each other as they jerked open the door and rushed out -- only to be met with a raging expanse of gray and white, the wind whipping snowflakes painfully against their faces. They both staggered forward through the snow, and Albariño called out Alexander's name twice, but the wind swallowed his voice.

They fumbled forward a few more steps before finally hearing a clear sound cutting through the gale: it was the sound of a crisp gunshot.

It must be said that the vibrations and noise from the generator had dulled Hestal's attention to the outside, so when he turned around, he saw that the door was still slightly ajar, but Alexander was nowhere to be seen.

Hestal was suddenly jolted into alertness. He and Albalino exchanged a glance, then flung the door open and rushed out—only to be met with a raging expanse of gray and white, the wind whipping snowflakes painfully against their faces. They staggered through the snow, with Albalino calling Alexander’s name twice, but the wind swallowed his voice.

They fumbled forward a few more steps before finally hearing a clear sound cutting through the gale: a sharp gunshot.

Following his instincts, Hestal stumbled toward the direction of the gunshot, one hand already feeling for the knife which lay just in the pocket of his coat. The problem was that the current conditions were far from ideal for a fight, with visibility reduced to less than a meter in the blizzard—

His mind was racing with these chaotic thoughts when his foot suddenly struck something.

Herstal looked down to find Alexander on the ground. In just a couple of minutes, a thin layer of snow had accumulated on his thick coat, making him almost invisible in the dim flashlight beam. The young man struggled in the snow, letting out a low groan.

Herstal knelt beside Alexander, his right hand still gripping the knife in his pocket. He saw that Alexander was clutching his shoulder, and that there was a small hole in the material of his coat. The blood hadn't yet soaked through the thick fabric, but it was surely starting to flow beneath.

‘Albariño!’ Herstal shouted back, his voice barely audible over the howling wind, ‘He's been shot, we've got to-’

He stopped abruptly, staring straight into the vast curtain of snow, no one emerged out of the black chasm torn open by the wind and snow.

‘...Albariño?’ He called out again tentatively, though didn't think he'd get an answer.

‘I saw a figure moving not far away, but Officer Hardy said there would only be people waiting at the door for us, so it couldn't be someone else who came out.’ The pale faced Alexander said, he was letting another police officer help him wrap the wound in his abdomen, the bullet hadn’t hit directly but had grazed heavily across his waist and abdomen, causing profuse bleeding but sparing his life, ‘I was worried it might be the suspect roaming outside, but the noise from the generator was too loud for anyone else to hear my calls. I was also afraid that if I went back to look for help, that person would run away, so...’

The only consolation was that with the joint effort of the two generators, the power was finally restored. The first-floor lobby of WLPD was brightly lit, but the atmosphere was particularly somber.

--Herstal ultimately hadn't been able to find Albariño in the end. In such heavy snow and poor visibility, finding someone was almost impossible. It wasn't as if Herstal had heard any more gunshots either, but it was possible that it had been completely drowned out by the sound of the howling wind and snow whipping about.

Now Hardy's face was even worse than it had been during the blackout. He questioned, ‘So you chose to chase a suspect in such bad weather, knowing that this suspect had just taken a gun from his previous victim –-‘

‘Go easy on him, Officer Hardy.’ Mercader said calmly, ‘He just narrowly missed being shot to death.’

‘Al might already be dead by now.’ Olga added with relish. She was sitting on a table, looking overly eager, surrounded by the personnel files that the officers had been sorting through earlier.

Everyone listening to the conversation couldn't help but glare at her, except for the expressionless Herstal Armalight: His face remained appropriately blank, making one think that losing a boyfriend every other day was a norm for a mob lawyer.

‘Well, anyway,’ Hardy paused, softening his tone, ‘you should have at least seen what the killer looked like, right?’

But his tone didn’t comfort the other party much. Alexander, extremely ashamed, quietly replied, ‘…No, sir, the visibility was really too poor…’

“That means we’re back to square one. No one in the room was missing, which can only mean that the killer wasn’t in this room,” Mercader said sternly. “The previous profile range was wrong, so --”

‘Not necessarily,’ Olga interjected nonchalantly. ‘It's also possible that Dr Bacchus took advantage of the chaos in the snowstorm to rush ahead of Mr. Armalight before shooting Alexander and taking the opportunity to get away.’

Hardy opened his mouth, pausing for several seconds like a stuck record, with an expression so comical that one wanted to take a photograph of the scene and then blackmail him. He asked incredulously, ‘... Are you serious?’

‘I'm not, but Agent Mercader probably thinks so.’ Olga replied sweetly. Her tone was so whimsical as she said those words that everyone could tell she was a bit drunk, ‘After all, according to that theory of his, if one person committed the first case, then surely that person must have committed the seventh; and anyway, no matter who actually committed the crime, George Robo's hair will show up...’

‘Molozer!’ Lavazza Mercader shouted, exasperated. ‘If you’d kindly spend some time finding the killer instead of using this precious time to mock me –-‘

‘Are you going to say the line “Every minute you waste, someone is dying” now, Agent Mercader?’ Olga looked sharply straight at Mercader.

‘Precisely.’ Mercader glared back without hesitation, his eyes looking as if they were burning with fire, ‘And you, Molozer, you have no professional ethics.’

‘Oh, really? Since you put it that way…’ Olga snorted coldly, before jumping down from the table and turning straight towards the pile of files on the desk, unceremoniously sweeping one of the stacks onto the floor without hesitation. With a clatter, the pages cascaded to the floor like a waterfall, those that slid the furthest even landing at Herstal's feet.

Hardy spoke in the tone of someone placating a temperamental child, ‘Olga--’

‘None of the men in that pile are murderers; they were all present, so we’ve ruled out the possibility of a murderer amongst them. And the people who have been with the police department for less than three years but aren't here -- they're all in this pile.’ Olga said as she grabbed the other stack of files and quickly flicked through them, none of the officers had properly examined the contents of those files earlier as they were focused on ruling out those who were present because they thought at the time that the murderer was in their midst. ‘These -- and these -- are not suspects, too tall and too fat; this one? Three-time martial arts champion, no way.’

Muttering to herself, she tossed the top sheet from the stack to the floor, then similarly discarded the second and third sheets, murmuring dismissive words. Hardy looked at the mess with an expression that said he didn’t know whether to lose his temper or not.

Olga worked quickly, her fingers flipping through the pages, more sheets of paper being carelessly thrown to the floor. Half the people in the hall stared at her, and then with a clatter she drew a photograph out of the pile and held it up to show it to those present.

‘Who knows this officer?’ She asked loudly.

A policeman in the crowd hesitantly raised his hand, ‘Uh ... he's a friend of mine.’

‘Is he left-handed?’ Olga asked, glancing back down to the file in her hand, her tone almost perfunctory.

‘Yes.’ The officer said, frowning in confusion.

‘Okay, then he's not a murderer.’ Olga tossed the photo aside, shrugged her shoulders and hurriedly flipped through a few more sheets of paper, ‘And your chief’s secretary, previously a state trooper in Pennsylvania, does anyone have anything to say about him?’

‘He takes bribes.’ Herstal said abruptly.

‘... he what?’ Hardy's voice rose sharply. Apparently, even Hardy wasn't privy to some of the dirty little secrets of the WLPD higher-ups.

‘Let's put it this way—I'm very sure he can be bribed, not that I've actually tried.’ Herstal said, flashing Hardy a meaningful smile, and no one was foolish enough to believe the "not tried" part.

‘Good, then he's not the murderer either.’ Olga muttered, throwing away more paper as she went along.

Mercader interjected, not quite agreeing, ‘Wait a minute, I don't think --’

‘Taking a bribe at the risk of being prosecuted when you're carefully planning for the right opportunity to take revenge on someone else in a police station? People don't normally do that, it's a matter of probability.’ Olga shook her head and casually flipped through another folder, then her eyes lit up, ‘Ha!’

Everyone watched as she grabbed the file, stepped over the mess of papers on the floor, and walked straight to the security guard from earlier, shoving the file under his nose.

‘Do you know this person on the file?’ She asked bluntly.

‘… Uh? Yes.’ the guard answered, bewildered and almost recoiling, the natural reaction of someone seeing a file thrust toward their face. ‘That is --‘

Olga interrupted him, clearly uninterested in any rambling, ‘Which one of your colleagues is she f*cking? Or is she f*cking you?’

‘What?!’ The security guard's eyes widened and he blurted out in disbelief, ‘Oh my God, of course I'm not sleeping with her! You --?’

‘I'm just asking a question, you just need to answer.’ Olga said slowly, blinking as if she knew she had uncovered some secret, ‘But judging by your reaction, she must be maintaining an intimate relationship with someone? I'll ask again, the answer to the question is crucial to this case: who is she sleeping with?’

"Uh -- well, she's close to one of my colleagues," he stammered, clearly indicating a very unusual "close" relationship. "She’s with Brown get together now and then…"

Olga didn't even hear the end of that sentence, she obviously didn't give a damn about who was doing what with which Brown, or who Brown really was. She nodded briefly, leaving the obviously confused security guard on the spot, turned back to Hardy neatly, and slapped the thing in her hand on the table in front of him.

She declared succinctly: ‘This person is the murderer.’

Hardy opened the file to a one-year work contract, flipping through a couple of pages, his frown deepening. ‘Olga, this contract is for... Blanca Areola, a female janitor at WLPD.’

‘The average profiler would assume that serial killers are white males, purely and simply because there are vastly more males than females among serial killers, and basically all of them are white, which makes sense statistically, but in reality --’ Olga drawled lazily.

‘We apply the theory to reality, and most of the time the results aren't bad.’ Mercader replied through gritted teeth, ‘That's why we're scientists, not psychics.’

Herstal silently scanned the mess on the floor: there were times when Olga did act quite like a psychic.

Olga shook her head, words flying out of her mouth:

‘Look, she fits the profile: 1.73 meters tall, started working at WLPD about two years ago. Cleaning ensures she's stronger than the average woman but not strong enough to overpower a male officer; it also means she has to move between floors repeatedly, giving her enough familiarity with the building’s layout over the past two years.’

‘Not to mention the fact that she seems to maintain a physical relationship with a certain male in security; do you think it would be a difficult task for her to get the keys to most of the doors of the police station?’

Hardy pondered for a moment, then said, ‘So in your opinion, when these two cases occurred...’

‘She killed the first victim and came out of the bathroom. For everyone else, there would be nowhere to go because getting to other floors means passing through the lobby, but for Areola, it wasn't a problem.’ Herstal said thoughfully, ‘If she had keys, she could have gone out the same back door we went to the car park.’

‘That way she could certainly avoid detection,’ Olga gave Herstal an approving look and continued, ‘She could follow the wall to the west where there’s another side door, re-enter the station, and take the freight elevator upstairs. There's no way to access the freight elevator directly from the lobby because the door to it is locked, but coming in through that side door will do the trick.’

Hardy was obviously visualising the layout of the police station, ‘...You're right, if she went up the freight elevator, she could directly reach the floor where the second victim was killed.’

Mercader looked around at them and finally asked, ‘But how are we going to prove this conjecture?’

‘The contract lists basic information about Areola, including the house she rented, and it's possible to call her landlord; there's no way she could have been outside in such snowy conditions, and it's most likely that she is at home. Of course, I expect her landlord will tell you she's not at home, maybe the rented flat is missing a knife or two in the kitchen.’ Olga nodded, waving her hand to start giving orders, ‘And now that the power’s back, I need to use the WLPD’s computers and the police network to check any connections between this lady and George Robbo. Maybe once we find some useful information, we’ll have a lead on Al’s whereabouts.’

Herstal looked at her and asked, ‘Do you think he's still alive?’

Olga studied him for a moment, then gave a toothy smile.

‘If the killer’s target is me and Mercader, Al must still be alive.’ She made a brisk gesture of spreading her hands, ‘But if not, you might actually have to prepare to collect his body.’

Chapter 18: 54. Let it Snow (5)

Chapter Text

Not too long ago--

Herstal Armalight sprinted in the direction from which the gunfire had come, with Albariño a step behind him. At times like this, it highlighted the downside of having slightly longer hair; the gale kept blowing his hair into his eyes, and he reached up to haphazardly wipe a handful of the snowflakes that adorned his forehead and brow as he made his way towards where Herstal's silhouette had been swallowed by the wind and snow.

Then, a gun was silently pressed against his back.

Albarino’s hand instinctively, yet discreetly, moved to his waist where his Colt was concealed beneath his coat. If Herstal's deduction was correct, and the killer was indeed not one of the people in the hall, they might not even be a police officer at all. That would explain why they targeted drunk people and female officers -- human instinct was to avoid risk and seek advantage after all.

And there were many ways to deal with someone who wasn't professionally trained but was armed with a dangerous weapon. The person behind him had the gun raised at an elevated angle, nearly pressed against his shoulders. If he chose to resist with enough agility, he would be able to avoid most of the damage caused by the other person's shot, or at least preventing a fatal wound to the torso…

Several countermeasures flashed through Albarino’s mind, but --

‘Don’t move,’ a low voice commanded from behind him.

-- It was a female voice.

Interesting.

Albarino stopped his furtive reach for the gun and instead silently slid his fingers into his coat pocket.

‘She's smart,’ Olga murmured, sitting in the corner of the hall with a laptop on her lap that was displaying pages of internal police department information. She stared intently at the page, and deliberately ignored the fact that most of the people in the hall were sneaking glances at her from time to time, ‘She's very smart - and that's exactly the problem.’

‘What?’ Mercader asked, his tone irritated.

‘This Blanca Areola is Mexican, and assuming she's never been involved in any illegal immigration activities, she came to the United States almost three years ago -- specifically, she married a man from Pennsylvania two months after the Robo trial ended, and received a conditional green card as a result.’ Olga stared at the screen and replied without looking up.

‘Marriage immigration, at least that's what it’s looking like.’ Herstal snorted, ‘So what brings her to Westland?’

‘That's the problem: her husband had a stable job in Pennsylvania at the time, and she was working for a local domestic service company.’ Olga evenly, ‘And then guess what? Her husband beat her and they divorced after a shockingly brief three months. Mr Armalight, tell me what would happen to Areola after that?’

Both Mercader and Hardy looked to Herstal, who nodded slightly and said, ‘Granted, matrimonial law is not my speciality, but -- if she entered into the marriage in good faith, but was subjected to domestic violence by her spouse, who is a U.S. citizen, she is exempt from the ‘Both spouses must file a joint Form I-175’ restriction. In other words, she can apply for a full green card on her own two years after the conditional green card takes effect.’

‘The divorce guarantees her freedom of movement, and the domestic violence guarantees that she will be able to apply for her green card alone no matter what, because she can't be the party at fault in the marriage -- is that what you're saying?’ Mercader asked.

Hardy asked disapprovingly, ‘But how could she have predicted that before she got married --?’

‘I think she could have predicted it; her ex-husband was a known scumbag in the town where they lived, with heaps of convictions in the records of Pennsylvania police.’ Olga snorted and rested her chin on the palm of her hand as she answered, ‘And this is the man's fourth wife, he's been the one at fault in the first three marriages: for abuse.’

‘So she married a scumbag for a green card,’ Hardy frowned, clearly finding it a little unbelievable, or maybe he was just simply unable to watch someone beat their wife. ‘But she’s making such a sacrifice for what?’

‘For me.’ Olga said crisply, shrugging her shoulders.

-- Everyone turned their heads to stare at her, including several officers across the room who were staring intently at the Christmas tree pretending they weren't eavesdropping.

‘It's true!’ Olga emphasised, ‘She got a temporary green card two months after the Robo trial ended through a very bad marriage, I reckon that she certainly didn't love her ex-husband, and it's unlikely that she didn't know about the other guy's bad habits. The whole thing from her marriage to her divorce must have been planned by her, and she got married in September 2013. Does any of you remember what happened at that time?’

Herstal, who was obviously calculating the time, thought for a moment and said slowly, ‘... That's when you first came to teach at Westland State University??’

‘That's when you had just become a consultant for WLPD!’ Hardy slapped his thigh suddenly, ‘We had a case in early September, didn't we? Then you attended the press conference as a consultant for the first time.’

‘She found out I was working for the WLPD.’ Olga repeated the sentence in a different way, so that the point of the words seemed more obvious.

‘Because you can't have a legal job without a green card.’ Mercader whispered, ‘If she wanted to work at the WLPD, she has to have a green card ...’

‘Let's assume she approached you for Robo's revenge -- if she's the killer, that's the only possibility.’ Herstal said disapprovingly, ‘But why would she pick the police station? Isn't it more dangerous to be in front of a group of police officers? She used to work in a housekeeping company, so she could have applied to the university where you work.’

Mercader shook his head, ‘The university is still too big, and she could easily be assigned somewhere far away from where she wants to be.’

‘And she might have even been waiting for you.’ Olga said softly.

Mercader gave her a sharp look.

‘She probably doesn't know the “truth” about the Robo case,’ Olga made air quotes with her hands, showing a sarcastic smile, ‘so she decided to get back at the people responsible for profiling the Robo case: that is, you and me. You work at Quantico, she'd have to go through a much stricter background screening if she wanted to work in there, and someone still holding a temporary green card is highly unlikely to get the job, so she chose Westland. As for you -- she must have believed you’d return. Westland has the Pianist and the Sunday Gardener; most people would think the BAU chief would soon collaborate with the police on these cases.’

There was a moment of silence before Hardy coughed awkwardly: after all, Olga had been here for three years, and they hadn't once turned to the Behavioural Analysis Unit for help.

‘Molozer,’ said Mercader rather disapprovingly, ‘we have the facts of the case.’

‘Okay, okay, I get it, Robo is a serial killer, that's the truth.’ Olga repeated lazily, ‘So let's just guess what happened to Blanca Areola: she smuggled herself into the United States from Mexico an unknown number of years ago, probably to make a living. Anyway, she met George Robo in the process -- I don't know how close their relationship was, but whatever -- then one day Robo was arrested and sentenced to death. Our Blanca was determined to avenge Robo's death, and I happened to be out of the BAU at this time, so she married a domestic-abuse bastard, got herself a green card and a legal status, got a job at WLPD, and hunkered down here waiting for you, Mercader, to come in on the case one day.’

She paused, as if savouring the whole process.

‘Pretty boring motivation.’ Olga commented with disgust, ‘But it does make sense.’

‘But I never came.’ Mercader said quietly, ‘Until the Johnny the Killer case.’

‘Johnny the Killer came from another state. That was too sudden; she probably wasn’t prepared.’ Olga laughed a little, ‘After all, who would have thought -- the Sunday Gardener had been in Westland for ten years without any help from the FBI, but was recruited for the Johnny the Killer case.’

‘So she sent Agent Mercader a greeting card?’ Herstal asked with a frown, ‘the possibility of being so desperate that she placed all her hopes on a greeting card is still too small?’

‘Maybe there's a plan B.’ Olga said without much concern, ‘Three years is a very long time for some people, maybe she's running out of patience.’

‘For some people?’ Herstal raised an eyebrow, catching the key phrase.

Olga swept him a glance, then shrugged, ‘I'm a very patient person.’

There was nothing worse than kidnapping someone on a stormy night and then holding them at gunpoint while forcing them to walk to your evil lair.

During the endless trek through the blizzard, Albarino felt completely disoriented until they other person finally stopped. They stood before a glass door, and the woman behind him said in a low voice, ‘Open the door.’

The lock that encircled the handle of the glass door had been cut off already, Albariño pushed the door open as he was instructed before realising where they were -- they were in a shop right next door to the WLPD, which had once been a clothing shop so vast that two whole floors had once been its storefront.

But the shop had closed down more than half a year ago, it had never been successfully rented out since then Inside, the remnants of the previous owner’s belongings lay scattered: discarded metal hangers, cracked dressing mirrors, and numerous cheap plastic mannequins, some standing, most lying amidst dust and debris, looking like they had been excavated from ancient Greek ruins, and all of them were missing limbs, adding to the eerie atmosphere under the flashlight’s beam.

In all the crime scenes Albarino had seen, he'd rarely seen one that looked as much like a crime scene as the one he was standing in now.

And the female behind him ordered him to keep moving, leading him up the stairs to the second floor of the shop. It was filled with more broken mirrors, metal hangers, and mangled plastic mannequins. The wallpaper was peeling off one wall and a row of radiators stood in the corner. These buildings were all individually heated, and the rows of unattended metal was alarmingly cold as the person shoved him into the corner of the room, signalled for him to turn around, and then used metal handcuffs to chain him against the radiator in the corner.

Albariño recalled that morning at Herstal's place -- it seemed like everyone quite enjoyed handcuffing him to things.

But now he was finally able to turn and look at the woman who had been pointing a gun at him earlier -- a tall, dark-skinned female who looked to be in her thirties at the most, and somehow strangely familiar. Albariño recalled for a moment, then asked with uncertainty, ‘...Your name is Blanca, isn't it? I've seen you at the police station a few times before.’

The woman -- Blanca -- gave a very surprised look, confirming that Albariño was correct. That was one of the things that annoyed many of his previous lovers: the ease with which he managed to appear thoughtful and sweet over such small details, and yes, he was the kind of man who could actually remember the names of those he'd only seen a few times. Who else would remember a cleaner's name and appearance? Most people are as blind to the cleaners as they are to the air.

This trait undoubtedly proved very useful to the person in question, but when your lover is like that to everyone, it naturally doesn't sit well with you.

Blanca, on the other hand, merely looked wary as she said, ‘Dr Bacchus, you have a better memory than I thought…and you are much calmer than I expected you to be.’

‘Of course, I don’t see you wanting to kill me.’ Albariño shrugged as best he could with his hands cuffed behind his back, his tone relaxed, ‘Your first two victims are dead, and if you had wanted me dead, I would have been dead in front of the power room. What I care more about is: why didn't you kill me?’

Blanca looked at him for a moment, then said slowly: ‘You are close to Olga Molozer, aren't you?’

‘Not the kind of closeness you think.’ Albariño replied in a soft tone, almost as if he were talking to a small, easily frightened animal. And considering who had the gun in their hand, that would have been completely unnecessary.

‘That’s not important, that's enough.’ Blanca replied simply and calmly.

‘So you did do this for revenge,’ Albariño co*cked his head, thoughtfully, ‘kill the first two, create a panic, create a sense of a ghostly murderer, and by the way, tell them that you're indeed playing for real...then kidnap someone close to them and force them to confront you. From the start, at least, you pretty much win in terms of momentum. But what was this for? For George Robo?’

‘I love him.’ The woman replied.

''Love,' what a tacky tale -- A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet [1].’ Albariño tsked.

[1] Romeo and Juliet – William Shakespeare (Act 1 Scene 1)

‘Wouldn't you?’ Blanca asked rhetorically.

‘I find it hard to imagine that I would do something like that.’ Albariño replied courteously, ‘And this is why you're doing it for him: you're honouring him in the same way he did? By cutting someone's neck and then painting pentagrams on the wall?’

Albariño had always disliked copycat criminals; for a true criminal, every detail presented by their staging of the scene had a significance and a meaning, even if it was simply just painting a crude pentagram on the wall like George Robo had. But copycats were just meaningless reproductions that neither touched the soul nor created beauty.

To put it bluntly, it's boring and barren.

‘It's not a remembrance,’ Blanca denied in a low voice that trembled slightly, ‘I'm doing it because I have to let the others know -- only if I do it will they finally notice the closed case -- that he didn't commit the seventh case.’

‘There is no proof.’ Albariño pointed out calmly.

‘There is,’ Blanca shook her head, ‘I was with him the day of the murder, we were at the house the whole time.’

Albariño perked up instantly, things seemed to be getting a little more interestingly. He resisted the urge to smile, simply asking, ‘But you didn't testify on his behalf. Even though there was hair of his at the scene of the seventh case, it might have made the jury a little more hesitant if you had testified.’

‘I tried, but he refused.’ Blanca gritted her teeth, ‘I was an illegal immigrant at the time, and testifying against him would have resulted in a certain deportation back to Mexico, and George didn't want me to go back to ...’

‘So you complied with him, you caved.’ Albariño hit the nail on the head when he said, ‘You pretended that you were never with him, he pretended that he was alone on the night of the murder -- it will be interesting to psychologists that an unmotivated murderer can show such delicate feelings in private...In any case, in the end he died.’

‘I regret every moment.’ Blanca said simply.

‘So you decided to kill the profiler who was in charge of the case at the time to vent your anger.’ Albariño said.

‘It was revenge!’ Blanca emphasised, ‘The two of them must have faked the evidence -- if George hadn't killed the victim in seventh case, George's hair certainly wouldn't have been at the scene at all! When the search warrant was finally approved and they went to search George's house, I had already moved out of the house like George had asked, but then I found a way to get a gangster in Pennsylvania to help me bribe a local policeman. He said that the only people who accompanied them in the search were the BAU profilers, and that it must have been them who got hold of George's hair and framed him for the crime.’

She took a deep breath, and for a moment the façade of calm finally broke and she looked like she was about to cry:

‘It turns out that there was George's hair at the scene, and the BAU profiler went to court as a technical witness and said that according to their analysis, George was the murderer in the seventh case -- all of this was reported in the newspapers as well, but I knew there was no way he could have been the murderer!’

‘Not to mention the fact that the victim of the seventh case had a brother who clashed with him over splitting the inheritance and even sent him death threats, but apparently those profilers didn't even consider the possibility of a copycat and just assumed it was the same person as in the previous case ...‘

Needless to say, Blanca's guess was very close to the truth, except for the fact that she couldn't delineate further because of the ambiguity of the source of the information, which resulted in her classifying both Olga and Lavazza Mercader as the targets of her vengeance.

Albariño sighed softly, ‘But in any case, George Robo is indeed a serial killer, and while he may not have commited the seventh case, he did kill all six of the previous ones, as you know in your heart. Now, are you using his death as a reason for you to kill? Are you justifying your killings with his death? Killing isn’t justified by necessity -- you’re doing it because you want to, not because you have to.’

‘Because that's not enough justice?’ Blanca asked with a hiss.

Albariño shook his head, ‘It wasn’t beautiful enough.’

‘Death is never beautiful, and George's death was not beautiful.’ Blanca gave a shrill laugh, her voice snapping up as she paced in agitation in front of Albariño, ‘Neither did those two today, and neither will you soon after --’

‘I'm afraid I see things a little differently than you do.’ Albariño replied.

Blanca stopped her impatient pacing and swept him a suspicious glance, ‘Then what do you think?’

‘I think,’ Albariño said politely, ‘that you're suited to poinsettias and marigolds.’

‘What?’ Evidently this reply, which appeared to have not the slightest connection with the above at all, made Blanca feel very much perplexed.

‘You're from Mexico, aren't you? Aren't marigolds the most important flower of the Day of the Dead? The golden path that the dead tread on when they return home.’ Albariño gave an extremely small smile, with a bright light hidden under his eyes, ‘And the poinsettia was first grown in Mexico as well, and is now often associated with quarterly births ...it’s used to symbolise the Star of Bethlehem, which is what your loved one liked to paint in blood to guide the way for his victims.’

Blanca stared at him intently, seemingly surprised by his relaxation.

‘So that's why I think you’re suitable for poinsettias and marigolds, especially at this moment, in this scene. It is very appropriate and very beautiful.’ Albariño whispered, his voice curling up in the air like a soft snake. "It's just a pity that neither you nor I will have this opportunity.’

Chapter 19: 55. Let it Snow (6)

Chapter Text

Finally, it was Olga's phone that rang first.

-- By then, Officer Hardy had decided to desperately organise a manhunt for Albarino, even though it was an almost impossible task with the weather as bad as it was. Olga, on the contrary, looked like she was in no hurry or panic, having made up her mind that Blanca Areola would call: she didn't think that Albarino was under the same circ*mstances as the first two victims, and if Areola had wanted to kill him, she could have done it right then and there in the snow.

‘The first two bodies were placed where we could definitely find them. Her fundamental purpose was to demonstrate and make a statement.’ Olga analyzed at the time, ‘So if Al is dead, we should be able to find his body in a conspicuous place, and if we can't find his body, then he's not dead – it’s simple reasoning.’

Hardy thought at the time that the theory didn't sound as simple as she made it sound.

Olga said vividly, ‘It's like how all the protagonists whose bodies are not shown in the movie will be resurrected in the sequel. It’s the same idea.’

...Of course, that comparison didn't make things much better.

Nevertheless, Olga spoke with such certainty that when she got the phone call, Hardy's first thought was that now Olga would be unbearably smug to the point of irritation.

‘Hello?’ Olga answered, her tone even.

A deep, raspy female voice came from the other end, saying, ‘Ms Molozer.’

‘Blanca Areola?’ Olga asked tentatively, noting that several of the men standing close by had immediately focused their eyes on her after hearing her say the name. Hardy's eyes were heavy, full of anticipation, in contrast to Herstal who was much more subdued -- looking at the lawyer's calm countenance, it seemed as if he really didn't care whether Albarino lived or died.

It was hard to imagine that he was really fell in love with someone, but reality proved otherwise.

‘That's me,’ answered the female voice on the telephone, with some strange smile on the edge of her tone, the kind of ominous laughter Olga had heard in the voices of some desperate criminals, ‘then you should know what I'm calling about, too.’

‘Albarino is alive, isn't he?’ Olga asked, her voice as level as possible. This was in line with some of the techniques they had learnt when they were still at the FBI Academy: be calm, don't let the other person feel you're too desperate, and don't provoke them.

Areola replied, ‘He's alive now, of course, but it's entirely up to you and Agent Mercader to keep him alive -- I want you both to come and see me, no one else, and no weapons, you know the consequences of that; don’t try any tricks. I want you to be here within twenty minutes.’

Before Olga could say anything else, Areola quickly gave her address and hung up the phone.

Olga put the phone down and sighed softly. The situation was not beyond her expectations, but it was certainly difficult.

‘What did she say?’ Herstal was the first to ask, still frowning, as if he was solving a difficult mathematical equation than his boyfriend being kidnapped. If he put on that face with everyone he dated, others could easily see why he hadn't had a girlfriend or a boyfriend before.

‘They're at the now-closed clothing shop next door to the police station,’ Olga stretched out her hand to vaguely indicate the direction for them, her sense of direction really wasn't that good, and after she did so, she realised that she seemed to have pointed backwards, ‘She’s on the second floor. She wants me and Mercader to meet, if she sees anyone else, she’ll kill Al.’

‘That's the only demand she made?’ Hardy asked incredulously, that didn't sound like the usual kidnappers he'd seen, didn't the average kidnapper ask for money, getaway cars or helicopters, or something as absurd as making the Prime Minister have sex with a pig on live television?

‘She's not doing this for the usual reasons, money doesn't mean anything to her.’ Mercader shook his head, his voice tight, ‘That's why I'm worried about what she'll do if we don't go through with her instructions.’

‘Probably shoot us full of holes like a sieve with that gun she got earlier to vent her anger, then turn it on herself.’ Olga scoffed, ‘Then we'd better hurry, Areola wants us there in twenty minutes or she'll hurt Al. That place is close, but the roads aren't good in this weather ...’

She stared at Mercader's face, her voice unconsciously getting smaller the more she spoke; finally she fell silent for almost half a minute before suddenly exclaiming, ‘f*ck, you’re kidding me!’

‘What?’ Hardy was completely bewildered. He had no idea where the conversation had veered off to.

‘I'm sorry, Bart, but I need to talk to Special Agent Mercader right now.’ Olga said suddenly through gritted teeth, unusually emphasising Mercader's last name and title heavily.

She grabbed Mercader roughly by the elbow and started dragging him towards an unoccupied area despite his objections; while dragging, Olga glanced at Herstal and casually reassured him, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll save your princess within twenty minutes. No need to panic.’

Herstal still didn't show any particularly out-of-control expressions, but if he really wasn't nervous at all, he would probably have made a sarcastic remark about Olga’s not-so-clever joke -– but he didn’t, instead he just nodded with a tense face, indicating his underlying anxiety.

And Olga dragged Mercader all the way to where no one else could hear them at all before releasing the other man. Mercader furrowed his brows and took a step back, smoothing out the wrinkles of his cuffs that had been creased due to the rough handling. Just as he seemed to be about to open his mouth to say something, Olga beat him to it by saying, ‘I know what's going on in your head.’

‘I thought we were just talking today about how profilers aren't psychics.’ Mercader said rather disapprovingly.

Olga glared at him, ‘And you're obviously still fixated on that conversation we had earlier -- you came to me at the end of October and said you thought Albarino was a serial killer.’

‘My opinion remains unchanged,’ Mercader stated calmly, ‘Just in case you've forgotten...’

‘Oh, right, you thought he was the Westland Pianist at the time, until he was later kidnapped by the actual Westland Pianist and then hung up on the wall of the morgue. Do you think that the CSI's got the modus operandi wrong, or do you still believe that Al was somehow able to hang himself on the wall?’ Olga said sarcastically.

‘Perhaps I was mistaken about the Pianist, which is exactly why I’m here.’ Mercader shrugged and continued, ‘Sometimes we have to rely on intuition -- as I said, I don’t think a normal forensic pathologist would have shown that look in his eyes like he did, and it's something we've discussed before. Do you think it's possible that Dr. Bacchus is the Sunday Gardener?’

‘You won't let me rely on my instincts when I'm working on a case, buy you’re free to use yours whenever you want to.’ Olga shot back, ‘And, Mercader, I'm not talking to you now about whether or not Albarino is the Sunday Gardener -- I'm talking about this: it's fine for you to think that Al is a serial killer; but you're making that judgement just as he's now been killed by another serial killer, who’s threatening to kill him if we don’t show up. Naturally, your brilliant little mind must be thinking…’

‘Molozer--’ Mercader's voice suddenly rose.

But he was unable to finish the sentence, becasue the next instant Olga seized him by the collar and pulled him hard in front to her. For a woman of Olga's size, it was hard to imagine her bursting out with such force all at once. Mercader staggered a little as he was caught unaware, and reached out to grab Olga's wrist.

‘And naturally, you think,’ Olga hissed, a terrible anger flickering in her eyes, ‘why bother following the kidnapper's demands when Bart can just lead a raid? That way Areola might kill the hostage, but if Al's a serial killer, you're killing two birds with one stone. Al's death wouldn't be a loss -- that's what’s on your mind, except you're struggling with how to justify your ideas in a way that won't breach professional ethics. With all due respect, it's hard to put a hostage in a situation where you suggest letting him die without violating professional ethics.’

‘Since when do you care so much about professional ethics?’ Mercader retorted sarcastically.

‘I don't care.’ Olga replied firmly, ‘I care that you’re willing to risk Areola killing Al, knowing she’s likely to commit suicide afterward. She had a gun in her hand, and Bart wouldn't have a chance to capture her alive: she will absolutely choose to put a bullet through Al's head first and then her own when the police starts storming in -- what I care about is death as the final outcome, it comes as a way of settling the dust, and if she dies before being brought here, who will be able to prove my profiling about her was right?’

‘...That's the only thing you care about, you being ‘right’. You don't care about the lives of the hostages.’ Mercader gritted his teeth, anger simmering in his voice, ‘That's why I don't think you're cut out for the Behavioural Analysis Unit.’

Olga scoffed, ‘I want to know why everyone kills, that's the only thing that matters to me. And you're not even in this job for the ‘truth’, are you? If you thought the hostage was innocent, you'd be fighting tooth and nail to save him right now, even risking your life for them, but now that you suspect the hostage is a homicidal maniac, then you think, ‘Isn't that just right to let them both die together?’.’

‘All I'm doing is keeping innocent people safe, and making sure that all murderers stay well where they belong.’ Mercader replied slowly.

‘Maybe I'm not in the position to judge you -- but I still think you're judging them with your own morality and then deciding whether they live or die; you're fabricating their flaws so that they can ‘become’ criminals as a way of putting them to the scales of judgement.’

Olga loosened her grip on his collar and watched him straighten up with a frown.

‘No one has the right to judge all others, Mercader. Perhaps the vast majority of the time you're right, and that's no loss to others; but the moment you make a mistake, the consequences are dire. So I don't think you're any better than me; at least the truth doesn't lie to people, but you do.’

Mercader shook his head, ‘The truth can't save people from harm, Molozer.’

Olga’s cold smile widened, ‘And the truth is this: you tried to save innocent lives, but instead it drove a woman into the abyss of sin. And so you and I are now faced with what we have today. You thought you could stop death in its tracks, but death is now approaching, and the dead lie at your feet ... And now, you just want Dr Bacchus dead because you think he's a psychopathic murderer, not caring why he became one.’

Mercader sucked in a sharp breath, and Olga was acutely aware that his voice trembled a little when he spoke again, ‘Are you implying that the two people who died today are to be counted in --’

‘I’m not implying anything, because you already know that I don't care about the dead; isn't that why you think I'm so cold?’ Olga looked him straight in the eye, her gaze bright, a terrible smile tugging at the corners of her lips, ‘I didn’t say a word -- it's your conscience that's talking to you, and it's that very heart that's been bringing you constant pain and misery -- now, Agent Mercader, I'm running out of patience. If you stand here any longer and don't move, I'm going to go and tell Bart what you've been mulling over in your mind, and a man like Bart won't like the thoughts that have been swirling around in your head.’

Mercader looked at Olga, then he sighed in frustration.

‘You're just going to stand here and wait for them to come.’ Albarino noted calmly after Blanca Areola hung up. At any rate, he must have been the calmest person ever handcuffed to a wall.

‘Yes.’ Blanca replied.

‘And put a bullet through their heads?’ Albarino guessed.

Whereas the average person would surely have been surprised by his attitude of both being calm and strangely cheerful, Blanca -- arguably as calm as any person who recognised that their death was imminent -- said: ‘I only want to know which of the two of them did it, or whether they were both accomplices. I think it's more likely that only one person was involved, the person I hired told me only one BAU profiler entered George’s house, but he didn’t know who.’

‘Who framed George Robo? That's the only thing you want to know?’ Albarino thought for a moment, ‘But does it matter? He's a serial killer, even if he wasn't framed for the seventh case, he would have eventually slipped up. That's the fate of all serial killers.’

Blanca's lips parted and looked as if she was recalling a distant memory. She didn't bother to look at Albarino, just gazed at the dusty floor. After a moment, she spoke softly, ‘I knew a long time ago that George was a killer, and he … told me that he understood that there were only two ways he could end up: either he never got caught and got away with it, or he got caught, and then is sentenced to death or life in prison. ‘

‘But he didn't wash his hands of it, he couldn't stop.’ Albarino pointed out calmly.

‘Yes.’ Blanca took a deep breath, then tried to relax, shrugging her shoulders, ‘In George's eyes it was a race, a race between him and the police. I can't say that that kind of thinking is correct, but he did see it that way. So he was open to all kinds of bad endings, as long as the other party won fair and square -- I don't particularly agree with him in that regard, but I understand him, and I love him, I respected his choices. So I was mentally prepared for the day when he would be arrested.’

Albarino had already understood, and said thoughtfully, ‘Yet he wasn't arrested by normal means, but by ...someone framing him on a case he hadn't commited.’

Blanca nodded, a hint of resentment in her voice, ‘Exactly. And that was the only result George couldn't accept! He thought he could only lose to himself by revealing his flaws, not by some planted evidence. This result was demoralising and painful for him. I didn't even see him during his arrest, but ... God, I can't even imagine how painful it must have been for him to be executed... sometimes, I feel I can accept his death, years ago I was preparing myself mentally for this, I knew this day would always come ...but I can't tolerate his death with so much pain inside. ‘

‘So you wanted revenge on the one who framed him, not on the one who arrested him; because you only want revenge for his pain, not for his death.’ Albarino murmured.

‘...I can’t help it; falling in love with a murderer is quite a painful thing.’ Blanca smiled palely and miserably, ‘But I haven't regretted it yet.’

Albarino was silent for a little while, as if pondering carefully over what she had said. For a moment, all they could hear was the trembling sound of the gale blowing through the broken glass.

Then he gave a strange, thoughtful, little smile. Almost gently, he said, ‘Look, Blanca, I do sympathise with you’re experience, but it's also true that I can't tell you exactly which one of the two framed your boyfriend... However, I can at least give you a thought.’

Blanca, clearly doubting her ears, asked, ‘What?’

‘I said,’ Albarino repeated calmly, ‘I sympathise with your situation, so I can offer you a thought.’

‘Okay, so no men, no weapons.’ Hardy said with a look of frustration, watching as Olga and a visibly irritated McCard removed their holsters and placed them on the table. It was surprising that Olga, a university professor, to be carrying a gun with her -- prehaps it was a lingering habit from her days as a cop in Chicago.

‘Officer Hardy, please still have your men on stand by around the building to assist us.’ Mercader suggested, nodding. ‘Although with visibility this bad, you just relay on snipers to be effective… Anyway, we can only take one step at a time for now, I'll try my best to persuade her to let the hostage go first.’

Olga's lips wrinkled, clearly skeptical of their chances.

Hardy shared her doubts, he really wanted to send a team under the cover of darkness to feel their way into that building. But as bad as the weather was right now, had it really gotten so bad that the police could just sneak in and infiltrate without being noticed? And just how unhinged had Areola become? Would she shoot Albarino at the slightest sound of suspicion?

When one had someone else's life in their hands, it was inevitable that they would be wary, not to mention the fact that their opponent was also a lunatic with unpredictable behaviour, so they had to be cautious for now. Hardy thought about it for a long time, and finally decided to only arrange for police officers to guard the perimeter of the building, and no one was allowed to enter without special circ*mstances.

Herstal stood at the side and watched him arrange the personnel, and as soon as he finished speaking, Herstal pointed out calmly as he left, ‘I don’t think you’ve thought of a way to rescue the hostage yet, and looking at the arrangements you're making right now, it's completely at the mercy of God.’

Being called out so bluntly stung, and Hardy couldn’t help glaring at the other party. But what Herstal said was also true, they could only stabilise the murderer for now, and then try to find a way to exchange Albarino first The weather severely restricted their options.

‘I'll do my best to ensure his safety.’ Hardy promised, feeling like he didn't believe it when he said it.

‘I hope so.’ Herstal replied restrainedly.

The abandoned room littered with mangled plastic mannequins, dark and damp and cold, with peeling wallpaper, the perfect hideout for a psychopathic killer to hibernate in.

Olga and Mercader climbed into the second foor, immediately they spotted Albarino who was handcuffed to the wall amidst the shadows. He looked completely unharmed, but obviously wasn't able to break out of the handcuffs either. He gave the two a pale, weak smile, as if to hide the uneasiness in his heart, and he said, ‘Hi.’

Olga, of course, didn't even have time to ask him how he was doing, because the next second Blanca Areola stepped out of the darkness, a gun in her hand --

At the sight of the gun, Mercader's heart sank: for whereas the first officer killed, Officer Coris, had a revolver which was taken, Blanca now held a semi-automatic pistol. It was obvious that Blanca had more than one gun on her.

-- Was she more prepared than they thought? This made the whole matter even more unpredictable.

Mercader collected himself, trying not to think about the gun Blanca held. Now the two of them had no choice but to open their arms to show Blanca that they were indeed unarmed.

Then Mercader spoke up and asked, ‘Blanca, what do you want?’

Blanca sized him up as if she had something very interesting in front of her, time passed mind-numbingly slow, and it took a few seconds, or maybe actually months, before Blanca answered, ‘...Revenge, if you want to interpret it that way. ‘

Revenge is a rather romantic word, a word that had been recurring in various theatre productions since many centuries ago. Mercader suppressed his desire to frown, still doing his best to soften his voice, ‘But you don't need to take revenge for George Robo…no matter what he told you, he did deserve it, and he was arrested because he was a motiveless murderer. ‘

What was truly unexpected, however, was the reply of the deranged serial killer before them.

‘I'm not trying to avenge his death, I've long accepted the possibility that he could die because of what he did.’ Blanca replied, her grip on the gun pointing steadily at her hostage, the black muzzle pressed above Albarino's temple, she could easily take the man's life, ‘I'm going to avenge his death for an unjust game -- you all should know well in your hearts that he wasn't the one who killed the seventh victim.’

Suddenly, Mercader felt a stinging dryness rise in his throat, and strangely enough, Olga Molozer's sneering smile still appeared in the corner of his mind. She said: ‘It's your conscience that's talking to you, and it's that very heart that's been bringing you constant pain and misery.’

It seemed insane, incomprehensible, but --

‘What?’ Mercader asked, and he could feel something sensationally unpleasant lumping in his throat.

In answer, the other person smiled unsettlingly, opening her mouth with a voice that still seemed shrill and frenzied, laden with long-suppressed fury.

‘My lover died in an unfair competition. This was not the ending he expected. One of the endings he expected was for him to be arrested because of certain flaws he exposed, rather than being framed for a crime he did not commit. He wanted to win against you all squarely, or lose plainly -- but someone between the two of you took away his only possibility. I won't allow him to suffer this indignity ... I have to put him to rest.’

‘The relationship between a homicidal maniac and the police is not a competition, nor does it matter that he 'honorably wins' against the police.’ Mercader said slowly.

‘I agree with this.’ Olga said lazily, her attitude still seeming too relaxed.

Sure enough, Areola screamed angrily, ‘That's not the point!’

As always, Olga nailed the most important point in the midst of the tedious rhetoric, ‘The point is that you don't know exactly which one of us fabricated the evidence, do you?’

They stared at each other in the darkness, the only source of light coming from the two flashlights standing in the corner. Those rays glowed with a ghastly white halo that casted onto the stumps of the mannequins, drawing jagged shadows on the floor and walls, creating a grotesque carnival of fools.

Then Blanca smiled and said, ‘...Yes, I don't know who did it, what should I do?’

This was obviously a rhetorical question, because she paused briefly before giving a quick answer.

‘It doesn't matter,’ she murmured, taking a deep breath, ‘I've devised a not-so-fair game for you two, and I guess after all this, we will be even.’

Still pointing the gun steadily at Albarino's torso, she then drew the other pistol from her belt -- the revolver she had taken from Officer Coris, no less -- and then she set it down on the dusty ground and lightly slid it across the floor.

There was a scraping sound, a distinct track was drawn on the dusty floor, and the pistol stopped between Mercader and Olga.

Mercader looked down at the gun, and for the first time all day, felt his heart sink to its deepest depths.

‘I'm going to give you two choices,’ Blanca said briskly, ‘the first is that there is only one bullet in the cylinder of the pistol at your feet, and the two of you have the option of playing a game of Russian Roulette: take turns firing at each other until the one bullet inside is fired. When one of you is dead, I will let the other and this Dr. Bacchus go.’

Olga blinked and spoke in a voice so steady to the point where it sounded as if it wasn't her that was being discussed in the matter, ‘And what about the second option?’

Blanca let out a soft, creepy chuckle, ‘The second option is: I want the one of you who fabricated the evidence to contact the police in Pennsylvania right now and confess to them the perjury you committed – make them record it and assure them that even though you're now under a serial killer's coercion, you are not lying; just do this and all three of you can go.’

This option isn't even easier than death: making a false statement in a formal trial proceeding alone is a third-degree felony, not to mention being an FBI agent who falsified evidence to set up a suspect for imprisonment who was eventually sentenced to death by lethal injection for the case. If the person who forged the evidence turned himself in, he would face more than twenty-five years in prison, in addition to certain ruin.

And every one of them knew that an ex-FBI agent wouldn't have too easy a time in prison.

She paused, enjoying the eerie silence.

‘If neither of you want to choose, I will use this gun in my hand to kill you one by one.’ Blanca added, ‘Trust me, there are enough bullets.’

Chapter 20: 56. Let it Snow (7)

Chapter Text

Although Blanca had asked Olga and Mercader not to bring weapons or other police officers with them to the scene, she hadn't actually told them ‘no listening devices or hidden cameras’, and this loophole was why Olga was wearing a small recording device, with a concealed miniature camera clipped to her collar.

Blanca's voice was clearly transmitted to one of the police surveillance vans, but the dim lighting inside the building made the images captured by the camera and broadcasted on the van’s screen somewhat difficult to decipher.

The van was inching its way through the snow, but very coincidentally, it had been parked near the WLPD's front door earlier, and the stronghold Blanca

The van was unable to move in the heavy snow, but by coincidence, it had been parked near the gates of the WLPD earlier, and the stronghold Blanca had chosen was still within range of what it could monitor.

Now, Hardy, Herstal, and the injured officer named Alexander were nestled in the van. The voices from Olga's side echoed through the headphones. After Blanca made her request, Herstal clearly heard Hardy spit out a series of expletives.

‘Sir?’ Alexander asked in a small voice.

‘We really need the SWAT team right now,’ Hardy muttered, looking exhausted as he propped his hand on his forehead, ‘We don't have the kind of extensive experience and specialised equipment they have in dealing with hostage rescue situations -- Alexander, where are they now?’

‘I immediately requested backup from their supervisor, and they did contact the closest squad to here.’ Alexander pulled his headset away a little and replied worriedly, ‘But apparently they can't get to the scene fast enough, the road conditions are too bad right now. The SWAT supervisor told me he wasn't sure when the team would get here, maybe as fast as half an hour ...’

Hardy sighed heavily, by the time the SWAT people arrived, it would surely be too late for anything.

At this moment, Herstal suddenly asked: ‘What kind of gun is Areola holding?’

Hardy looked up at the screen: Right now Olga happened to be facing right at Blanca Areola, so she could barely make out the suspect was holding a gun with one hand, and the muzzle of the gun was dangling dangerously between the hostage and the profiler.

Hardy squinted his eyes and stared at the screen for a moment, then said with uncertainty, ‘...I'm not so sure, it's too dark, but it looks like a Glock 17.’

‘You sure it's not a Colt M2000, right?’ Herstal frowned.

Clearly confused, Hardy said, ‘While I'm not too sure about the exact model of that gun, it's definitely not an M2000, the appearance of the M2000 is far different from this.’

He paused, then continued in confusion, ‘What's the problem?’

Herstal didn't answer, but there was indeed a big problem -- he knew that Albarino had a concealed carry permit, and he knew that Albarino would be carrying a gun with him, and he even knew the model of that gun. At first he had thought that since Areola had thrown the revolver she had taken from Officer Coris to Olga and the others, she would be holding the same Colt M2000 that she had taken from Albarino.

But obviously it wasn't, and Herstal didn't think Officer Hardy would be wrong in his judgement over such a trivial matter. So was it because Areola hadn't searched Albarino at all? It was possible. The camera on Olga's body had just captured an image where Albarino could be seen handcuffed to a radiator by the wall. He always used an armpit holster, but seeing as how his tunic was still neatly in place, it didn't look as if his clothes had been ripped open during a body search.

That left only one possibility: that there was a third gun at the scene in addition to the two already in view, and that gun should be on Albarino.

-- That would really say a lot.

Herstal took a deep breath and felt his temples begin to throb in pain again: he really shouldn't get his hopes up about Albarino Bacchus, should he? After all, there was no way this bastard would dip his toes into this mess unprepared.

In fact, he might have willingly and enthusiastically dived into it.

Some thoughts flashed through his mind as he stood up at the same time.

‘Mr. Armalight?’ Officer Hardy called out after him.

‘I'm going to the scene.’ Herstal narrated in a very calm tone. It didn't sound like he was asking for the other party's opinion, but begrudgingly sort of informing him about it.

But looking at the way Hardy looked at him, he was pretty sure that the other party had definitely misunderstood what he meant -- because the other party looked at him as if he was planning to die for his love -- Hardy said urgently, ‘But you can't help even if you go --’

‘No one can help now, not even you.’ Herstal hit the nail on the head, ‘That's why I'd rather be there than wait here. Don't worry, I'm not going to rush into the scene blindly.’

Hardy looked at him for a long moment, then sighed deeply. Herstal knew the other man had compromised. Though such a compromise was in no way actually in line with standard operations, and might even cost the other man his job if someone looked into it.

But that was just the way Bart Hardy was.

‘Okay.’ Officer Hardy backed down, but still included several warnings, "But don't enter the scene, stay with the officers who are already on the scene -- don't do anything rash.’

Olga thought about how it wasn't really a loss to see that look appear on Lavazza Mercader's face.

The other party's complexion visibly turned pale, looking almost like a dead corpse.

Because in any case, the choices they faced really didn’t have many loopholes to exploit: the most important point was that the real murderer of the seventh case was still at large, and Olga actually suspected that the murderer of the seventh case was the brother of the dead man, who had a conflict of inheritance with the deceased, and in fact had a very good motive for committing the crime.

Assuming that Mercader turned himself into the Pennsylvania State Police, not to mention whether his testimony could be invalidated on the grounds of coercion, and even if it could be, the case would inevitably be re-investigated after this matter attracted the attention of the FBI. After all, the charge of falsifying evidence is very serious. And if the dead man's brother really was the killer, and the prosecutor is willing to sign an exoneration agreement with him in order to investigate the truth of the scandal -- it's not hard to imagine that under pressure and the temptation of profit, the real murderer woud definitely confess to his crimes.

Blanca may not have been thinking this far ahead when she proposed her conditions, but Olga was very sure that this plan was absolutely feasible. She allowed herself time to survey Mercader's pale face: one of the most interesting parts of this matter so far was, what was going on in Mercader's mind at this very moment.

Would he be thinking something along the lines of, ‘If only I’d silenced the killer of the seventh case back then, then I wouldn't be blackmailed right now’?

Olga glanced at Albarino again, whose arms must have gone numb from the way he was restrained in the corner. The forensic pathologist didn't show much pain on his face, nor fear, but instead was concentrated on looking straight at them intently.

-- The question to which she had spent her entire life searching for an answer to was, ‘At what point does a human being begin to become a monster?’

Did they still have an ounce of compassion? Did they treat everyone as insignificant, or were there still some people who could be special to them? Could they really have family, friendship, and love? How far were they from normal people?

Mercader bit his lips until they turned white, and after a moment he looked back at Blanca Areola again as if he had made up his mind. He drew a deep breath, and then moved forward without hesitation, just as he was about to speak --

Olga beat him to it, ‘I choose Russian Roulette, thank you.’

At her words, the entire room went eerily silent for a moment. Mercader stared at her with his mouth open, as if all the words he had finally made up his mind to say were all suddenly lumped together in his throat, and even Albarino seemed to be looking at her with a hint of surprise.

Apparently, they'd both thought she'd choose the other game -- and that was only human nature.

Mercader said dryly, ‘Olga, I don't think this is....’

Olga ignored him as she slowly, slowly bent down and picked up the pistol under Blanca’s gaze. She pointed the muzzle of the gun at Mercader and then unnecessarily co*cked the pistol's hammer, the metal collided with a crisp click. She saw Mercader flinch visibly, the instinctive reaction of those confronted with a dangerous firearm.

Lavazza Mercader's expression at that moment was extremely complex; if shellfish had expressions, they would have looked like that when their shells were roughly pried open. Then he said, almost in a murmur, ‘You...’

‘The first person to make a choice at least earns the benefit of firing the first shot, right?’ Olga asked, turning to Blanca.

Blanca looked a little confused as well, but still nodded, ‘Be my guest.’

Olga let out a light hum, indicating ‘I understand’. Then she reset her gaze on Lavazza Mercader. She was quite a bit shorter than Mercader, and held her gun at a slightly higher angle, as if she were aiming for her opponent's head.

She still wore that strangely relaxed expression on her face, and Mercader stared at her intently, his chest rising and falling uncontrollably and violently. Then Olga slowly, slowly pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty gun.

Herstal Armalight probably wouldn't have said anything about attending this Christmas party if he'd known it was going to turn out like this, no matter what sweet talk Albarino said to him. Now he had climbed up to the roof one slippery step at a time: the shops along the street were composed of rows of connected building. It was possible to climb through the roof through the skylight by going up onto the second floor of the shop next door to the one that Areola had chosen as her stronghold.

Previously, Hardy had arranged for two police officers to be lined up to ambush on the roof, and following the route they took to get on to the roof wasn't a particularly.

... Of course, this was easier said than done because the process of climbing the roof was extremely difficult: the snow on the roof was already so thick that it was slowly building up to lay just below his calves, and the layer underneath the snow was wet and slippery. The angle of the roof was still slightly tilted, so a single careless step could cause a person to fall down onto the street below and break their neck; not to mention that the cold wind was still whistling around people's ears, cold and piercing, like knives cutting into his face.

The police officers on the roof had obviously heard from Hardy's command that Herstal was coming to the crime scene, but they never thought that this ‘coming over’ would be to the extent of climbing the roof. The two people were obviously stunned when they saw him, Herstal had no time to explain anything to them. As soon as he walked over, he stretched out his hand to one of the police officers:

‘I need to speak to Officer Hardy.’ He said.

The other party hesitantly handed him his radio. As soon as Herstal took it, he said to Hardy on the other side of the communication line: ‘I'm on the roof.’

Officer Hardy gave him a long silence back in return, obviously not wanting to know why he was on the roof at all.

‘Did you arrange two officers here to conduct a downhill raid?’ Herstal asked him.

‘I had thought of that before, because by securing ropes on the roof, it would be relatively easy to rappel through the glass windows on the second floor from the outside.’ Hardy replied, the snow was slightly lighter at the moment, but the wind was still strong enough to make his voice less clear amid the gale of wind. ‘But from the footage coming back from Olga's side, it seems likely that Areola is standing in the blindspot from the direction of the window; even if we were to go in through the window, she couldn't be subdued immediately, which would be a problem.’

Herstal nodded, Hardy did have a point, he thought for a moment, then asked, ‘How are they doing now?’

Hardy laughed bitterly, the kind of laugh one would give if they had completely lost hope in life.

‘They're playing Russian Roulette.’ He said dryly.

With mixed emotions, Mercader took the gun from Olga.

Olga watched him, and it was difficult to guess from her face what thoughts were hidden in her mind; she always seemed to look at others with the same pure curiosity and aloofness. To be honest, right now Mercader wanted to rush over to her and grab her by the collar and ask her what was going through her mind, but that didn't seem like the right thing to do when Areola had the gun in her hand pressed against the hostage's temple.

‘I guess you want to ask a lot of questions now.’ Olga whispered, but not so quietly that Areola wouldn't be able to hear them.

‘Shouldn't I? You didn't even want to ask my opinion before you decided our fate.’ Mercader pointed out.

‘I don't need to ask your opinion, it's just a waste of time.’ Olga shrugged, ‘I knew what you'd choose, anyone who's known you for more than two weeks would know what you would choose, because you're just an egomaniac with a hero complex in your heart, aren't you? I'm just saving you the process of doing a righteous psychological dissection before you finally make a decision.’

Mercader gritted his teeth, ‘Since you know that so well, you should know that the choice you made was not at all --’

‘Are you going to shoot or not?’ Olga interrupted dryly, ‘Or do you now intend to go against Areola's intentions and get us both killed?’

Mercader looked straight at the other person, took a deep breath, and then pulled the trigger.

Click. Empty gun.

-- and so the pistol was back in Olga's hand.

‘The third shot was also empty.’ Officer Hardy reported the latest progress over the comms. Somewhere below the roof, out of Herstal's sight, Olga had just finished firing her third shot, ‘There are six chambers in a revolver, we're running out of time. At this rate I'm going to have to order a simultaneous breach: one team will break through the second-floor window, another through the stairs.’

It was an old-fashioned house, it was unknown if it had been an ordinary residential home before it was used as a shop. Anyway, there was a vertical pipe erected on the roof, which was probably a smoke exhaust pipe, many homes built in the late century would retain these structures on their roofs.

The officers on the roof had anchored their rappelling gear to the chimney, ready to break through the window. But the officer in charge of rappelling still worriedly pointed out, ‘But, sir... there are too many people inside. Even if the two groups enter simultaneously, they may be limited to a blindspot and unable to directly kill the target. If the gun in the suspect's hand is fully loaded, then everyone is in danger.’

Hardy obviously thought about it for a while, and after a moment he said: ‘Agent Mercader has fired his fourth shot, and the fourth shot was also empty. Let's move according to this plan, we only have time for two more shots.’

At this time, Herstal, who had been silent, suddenly spoke up.

‘How's Olga's shooting?’ He asked.

Hardy paused, and sounded a little confused when he spoke again, ‘I haven't seen it with my own eyes, but as far as I know it's very good: I did hear about it from a friend who worked for the Chicago Police Department back in the day; and she graduated from the FBI Academy with very good grades -- why do you ask?’

‘I have an idea now.’ Herstal said.

Mercader handed the gun in his hand to Olga again, his palm slick with sweat, warming the metal of the revolver.

Olga's movements were still gentle and deft as she took the gun, and this time Blanca Areola spoke first instead, ‘Don't any of you want to say something?’

‘I have nothing to say anyway,’ Olga replied without hesitation, ‘I don't confess to anyone, neither to the clergy nor to the psychiatrists -- and I have no intention of opening up to a serial killer.’

But Mercader said nothing; his fingers were trembling slightly, and his mind seemed to be spinning with some kind of thought: Olga felt that she could guess what he was thinking now. Still, anyone who has known Lavazza Mercader for more than two weeks could be able to easily guess what he was thinking, because in a sense, he was indeed very simple.

So Olga no longer at Mercader and turned her head to Albarino: the latter had not spoken since the beginning of this mad game, and his eyes were focused -- as if he was mainly looking at Olga -- and his mind seemed inscrutable.

‘If no one wishes to say anything,’ Olga said calmly, ‘then I shall continue.’

Herstal said slowly, ‘I'm wondering if there's a way to momentarily distract Areola from Albarino, could Olga take down the perpetrator? -- She might only have a few seconds; could she react quickly enough?’

‘Do you have a way to distract Areola's attention?’ There seemed to be some expectation in Hardy's voice; it seemed that Olga's own abilities were well worth his trust.

‘There are two rounds left in the pistol.’ Herstal warned, stepping over to the exhaust pipe and reaching down to sweep the snow off the top of the metal, ‘There's a good chance that the next shot will also be blank, so she'll have to fire again.’

‘I can arrange for the teams to be ready at the same time, so if she misses her target, the others can move in quickly.’ Hardy replied over the radio, ‘The most important thing right now is to get Areola to move her gun away from Al, that's all that matters.’

Herstal stared fixedly at the exhaust pipe, recalling in his mind the positions of all the people he'd seen standing from the screen of that surveillance van; the pipe's opening on the second floor, Blanca Areola's and Albarino's postitions should be in a straight line, with Areola right in between ...

Trying to clear his mind, Hestall said, ‘Then arrange it as quickly as possible.’

Olga aimed her pistol at Mercader's brow, and just by judging her expression, it seemed as if she still wanted to smile, but that impulse seemed too crazy in a scene like the one she was in now. Mercader was a little confused, he knew that Olga should have no affection for him after experiencing so many things, but obviously she shouldn't hate him to the extent that she wanted to kill him. In any case, Olga Molozer had always been a person who distinguished between public and private affairs.

He didn't know what was going on in the other person's mind, but at the same time, a terrible thought arose in his own mind -- a fact that irritated him more and more.

‘Agent Mercader,’ Olga asked, looking at her former supervisor, ‘I've always wondered at what point in time does a person decide that he or she is going to become a murderer?’

Mercader looked at the other person with an ugly expression, his suspicions seemed to have been confirmed.

‘And at what moment does a person decide to step in and save someone else's life, even if they are guilty of a heinous crime? -- I will definitely know the answer to at least one of these two questions today.’ Olga ended her sentence lightly.

Her finger steadily began pressing down on the trigger.

Herstal stood in front of the exhaust pipe.

The pipe was too narrow, otherwise Hardy and the others would definitely have thought to throw flashbombs or tear gas into it, but something of that size would surely get stuck halfway down.

Herstal wiped the snow particles that fell on his eyes with the back of his hand, and then threw the object in his hand into the exhaust pipe.

All the while, there was a voice in his heart reminding himself: This is pointless.

Blanca Areola stared intently at the two.

The pressure was building, and she knew it too. The college professor was still calm now, but Agent Mercader was clearly very nervous, and she was waiting for the moment when that string would snap... That moment would come soon enough.

Olga's finger was halfway down the trigger --

Then Blanca heard a soft crash.

At first she thought it was just her hallucination, but alas it was not: for in the next instant, she heard a series of sounds coming from the supposedly empty darkness beside her: loud, crisp, and abrupt in such eerie darkness, to the point where it was slightly disturbing.

Areola was not a trained professional, which could explain why she turned around so sharply, the gun in her hand pointed straight into the darkness where the strange rattling had come from. And in that instant --

In that instant, the window at the other end of the room shattered violently, and an officer with a rope hanging from his body smashed the glass with his elbow and leapt inside.

At that instant there was a rattle from the other side of the stairs, the sound of several heavily armed police officers rushing up.

In that instant Olga Molozer smoothly turned the gun and fired the first shot at Areola. The first shot was a blank, the pistol only made a slight click. But that was one advantage that made the revolver better than a semi-automatic pistol, it would automatically rotate the cylinder to the next chamber even if a bullet jammed, without ever having to remove the sleeve and barrel to clear the jammed bullet like a semi-automatic.

Olga then fired a second shot, and the sound of the bullet firing echoed deafeningly in the small room before it struck Blanca straight in the chest.

From where Olga stood, hitting Blanca carried a significant risk of collateral damage to Albarino, as Blanca's body mostly shielded him. If the bullet pierced through her, it could also injure Albarino.

Originally, Albarino, handcuffed to the wall, had no way to dodge the bullet; however, the moment the gun went off, he inexplicably and deftly ducked and rolled, evading the shot. As Blanca collapsed and the officers poured into the room, Olga saw the handcuffs still dangling from Albarino's wrist, with a twisted paperclip lodged in the lock.

Meanwhile, the object that had created the rattling noise finally rolled out of the exhaust pipe with a clank and rolled across the dusty floor.

Blanca struggled on the floor for a moment. She could feel the blood gushing out of the wound in her chest, forming a small pool on the floor. She lifted her head laboriously to look at the object that had rolled across the floor. The object shimmered silver in the white column of light from the shifting torches in the hands of the policemen who had rushed in.

-- It was a small, round metal bell, the kind that were often hung on Christmas trees.

Herstal Armalight listened to Hardy's barely suppressed excitement over the radio as he loudly reported the status of the current situation. The corners of his lips tugged upwards, but didn't really show a smile.

He handed the communication device in his hand back to the officer still standing on the roof and began to slowly climb down from where he had just come up.

The snow had nearly stopped, but it was still too cold here.

Amidst the cacophony of people, Lavazza Mercader walked towards Areola.

The woman had struggled briefly in the small pool of her own blood, the pistol in her hand had been kicked away. She was no longer a threat, just like all criminals who were about to spend the last periods of their lives. Mercader estimated her bleeding and knew she wouldn't last long enough for an ambulance to come -- and besides, looking at the weather conditions, an ambulance probably wouldn't be able to come at all.

He didn't know what state of mind he was in as he knelt in that pool of blood; in fact, there was a voice screaming frantically somewhere behind his ear, a voice that had been chanting since the moment Olga picked up that gun, a maddening tune that had played throughout the entire process, it never stopped at any point.

The truth lingered on the tip of his tongue, stuck to his palate, but he couldn't utter a single word.

And Areola looked to him -- Mercader didn't know what kind of expression he had, but the other person must have seen something in his face, perhaps even discerned the truth from it. Because in the next moment, Areola suddenly burst into laughter.

That laughter mingled with the strange sounds caused by the froth of blood gushing from her throat; Olga's shot must have punctured her lungs. She reached out and grasped the collar of Mercader's coat as hard as she could with trembling fingers, and then she coughed so violently that spots of blood splattered onto his face.

‘It's you! It's you!’ Areola shrieked, gasping between laughter and coughing fits; she pulled Mercader as close as she could, a broken gasp interspersed with her voice as blood poured intermittently from her throat.

‘Everyone who died today did so because of you, Agent Mercader.’ She hissed in a low, curse-like voice, so quiet it was barely audible to anyone else, ‘I don't know how many more people George would have killed if he hadn't been caught... but today, the two people who died, I killed them for you’.

Her voice dwindled to almost nothing, replaced by another terrifying spasm, until Macard watched her fingers stiffen and slide off his collar. When he finally shifted his gaze from the now lifeless body, he saw Olga Molozer standing behind him.

Olga looked as expressionless as ever, like a figure in a portrait. She silently walked over, half-kneeling on the floor, and picked up the gun that had been kicked away by the officers who had stormed in -- it looked like a Glock 17, but...

Olga hooked her finger around the gun's trigger guard, spun it around in her hand, and then pulled the trigger.

With a pop, a small flame flickered out from the muzzle, burning steadily.

Mercader stared, speechless, at the gun -- a lighter shaped like a pistol -- and at Olga.

‘That explains why she took the victim's service weapon earlier.’ Olga said calmly, ‘When people make up their minds, they can do terrible things—others can easily be manipulated by them, can't they?’

Mercader stared at the flickering flame for a long moment before finding his voice again, speaking dryly, ‘Olga, everything that happened tonight... were you testing me?’

Olga said in an almost sweet tone, ‘Why would you think so?’

‘You know the bullet was in the sixth chamber.’ Mercader stated, it was almost the third empty shot before he realised it too, and he suspected Olga had guessed it when Areola gave them the choice. That was her talent.

Olga shrugged, ‘In the same way that directors like to arrange for a bomb about to explode to stop at the last second, it's a dramatic technique: she's putting pressure on us, letting it build up over the previous five shots, so that at the last moment we all know who has the gun and who that bullet will put to death- -She's hoping that that pressure will force the one of us who did the wrong thing to talk, or the two of us to frame each other, as is humanly possible.’

Olga shrugged, ‘It's like when directors time the bombs to stop at the last second; it's a dramatic technique. She was applying pressure on us, letting it build up with each of the first five shots, so at the final moment, we would all know who had the gun and who would die from the bullet -- she hoped that the pressure would make the guilty one among us confess or make us turn on each other, which is only human nature.’

Mercader took a deep breath, his voice trembling, ‘... And then you chose to be the first to pick up that gun.’

Olga had picked up the gun first, then by the time it was time to fire the sixth shot that actually had bullets in it, that gun would have been in Mercader's hands -- and Mercader knew the other person well enough to understand this wasn't an act of kindness, at least not from an ordinary person’s perspective.

Olga shrugged her shoulders, ‘Like I said, I wanted to know when a person would decide to kill and when they would decide to save. Of course, thanks to the bell that fell earlier, I was not able to prove either of those points.’

‘So you're just observing me as a guinea pig? Wondering when I'll actually cross that line?’ Mercader retorted, his voice sounding as if he'd actually been shot, ‘You're cruel.’

‘But as it turns out, my friends weren't going to just sit there and do nothing either.’ Olga shook her head slowly, ‘You see, there were three choices in front of you: tell the truth, shoot me -- and the third one, I could almost see it taking shape in your head the whole time. Since I won't end up knowing exactly what choice you would have chosen in the end, would you mind telling me what that last option was?’

Mercader sighed softly, and for a moment he lowered his eyelids, his gaze observing the ground.

‘The gun with the last bullet would be in my hand,’ he said slowly, ‘... I could still kill myself.’

‘You see, this is where the line is drawn.’ Olga said.

‘But you won't be able to prove which end of the line I'm on in the end.’ Mercader let out a bitter laugh.

‘In my eyes, the line isn't very distinct, and you've likely crossed something already, so you need to be very careful in the future…’ Olga smiled mysteriously and stood up. At the same time she tossed the lightweight, fake plastic gun to Mercader, who reflexively caught it.

‘Merry Christmas, Agent Mercader.’ She said.

Olga stood in place and watched Mercader leave. The look on the other man's face was a complex one, and Officer Hardy was oblivious to it, simply directing the police officers energetically to photograph the scene and put the body into a body bag.

How nice, she thought. Bart Hardy was actually rather professional, keeping his emotions out of his work unless the victims reminded him too much of his wife and daughter. This attitude protected him from harm, unlike many at the BAU who suffered from ulcers due to their overly sensitive emotions.

Albarino finished his statement on the other side and wandered over to Olga, also watching Mercader's retreating back until the other man's figure was completely swallowed by the darkness at the end of the stairwell.

Then he asked, ‘What will happen to Mercader?’

‘Nothing will happen.’ Olga said in the sort of tone one would use when discussing something completely unrelated to oneself, ‘Areola indeed accused one of us of perjury, but if you noticed, while I was wearing a wire and Bart was recording, she never actually spelled out exactly what happened. In the end, Mercader didn't call anyway, so most of these statements from Areola will end up being classified as the ramblings of a madman, unless she spilled the beans to you about some other evidence.’

Albarino paused, then said, ‘Uh ...actually, she admitted to me that she was with George Robo at the time of the seventh murder.’

‘Funny, it's at moments like this that we have to wonder how much impact coincidences can have on life.’ Olga lamented slowly, ‘And you're not going to turn Mercader in for this largely uncorroborated testimony, are you?’

‘Why would you think that? You do realise that Mercader's type isn't really my cup of tea even when it comes to things like picking a bed partner.’ Albarino asked with interest.

Olga glanced at him as if the answer was obvious: ‘Because, as I said, Areola is dead and her testimony would be difficult to corroborate, plus her position as a serial killer with likely mental problems isn't exactly credible. Besides, surely you wouldn't do that: what would be the point?’

‘So we will all remain silent,’ Albarino drawled thoughtfully, ‘until-’

‘Until the situation is broken again, until someone crosses that blurred line, whether from this side to that or from that to this.’ Olga snorted softly, ‘Al, I'm more interested in knowing what you would have done next if Blanca Areola hadn't been distracted enough to be hit by me.’

Albarino looked to Olga.

Olga was still staring at the dimly lit ground in front of her, where a plastic dummy with mutilated limbs stood like a horrible version of Venus. Then she said, ‘Because apparently you managed to pry the handcuffs off -- seriously, I'm not surprised you'd carry a paper clip around -- and from what I understand about you, you still have a gun on you, right? I don't think she searched you.’

Albarino looked at her for a moment, then admitted, ‘You're very observant.’

‘It's only because I know you well; it's nothing to be proud of,’ Olga dismissed lightly, ‘But then what? I'm guessing you didn't expect that things would escalate to Russian Roulette, and likely even Areola thought that one of us would confess instead -- but suppose that gun ended up in Mercader's hands, with the last bullet in it about to be fired at me: what would you have done?’

Olga paused meaningfully.

‘Would you risk your life to stop what was about to happen,’ her voice took on some strange lilt, and what seemed to be pure curiosity, ‘or would you have stood by and watched?’

Albarino looked at her, his lips parted as if he were about to speak -- Olga didn't think he truly knew the answer, or if he could be sure the words he was about to say were the truth -- but it was at that moment that the Herstal Armalight appeared at the top of the stairs, his brow furrowed, his shoulders and hair covered in snow.

‘Albarino,’ he interrupted the conversation smoothly, ‘come here for a moment.’

Albarino glanced at Olga again.

‘Your boyfriend’s calling you.’ The profiler said sweetly.

While everyone else stayed upstairs to process the crime scene, Mercader had apparently wandered off to who knows where. Albarino went down the stairs with Herstal, where it was completely deserted, the scattered mannequins and brooding shadows adding to the desolate atmosphere of the long-closed clothing store.

‘How much of this thing was planned by you?’ Herstal asked in a low voice as soon as the two of them, ‘At least the plan involving Blanca Arreola was your idea, wasn't it?’

‘Are my personal touches that obvious?’ Albarino replied with a playful smirk, but something in the other man's eyes quickly made him suppress his smile. Spreading his hands he said in an almost innocent tone, ‘It's true, I didn't think at first that the culprit of this case was a woman, and what's more, that her target was Lavazza Mercader -- I was intrigued.’

Herstal let out a cold snort, ‘Ah, “intrigued”. So, despite being more skilled than Areola, you let her bring you to a hellhole like this at gunpoint, just to watch two profilers play Russian Roulette in front of you --’

‘And I thought you wouldn't come to my rescue.’ Albarino shook his head, apparently not taking his accusations particularly seriously, ‘I figured, given your recent conflicted state, you'd think letting me die here might be a good idea, saving you from all your troubles.’

He stared directly at Herstal, and then the next second -- somehow -- Herstal was pushed violently against the wall. Albarino's lips, still warm, subtly brushed against the skin at the corner of Herstal's mouth.

He whispered, ‘But I saw the bell -- are you worried about me, Pianist?’

Herstal tilted his head to one side, trying to avoid Albarino's kiss. His voice was swimming on the edge of an extraordinarily violent rage, ‘Have you ever thought about how things are going to end -- after all these cases, and you still expose yourself to two top profilers like this regardless. Or did you just want the thrill of it, and didn't even think about...’

‘I’ve thought about it.’ Albarino said suddenly.

Herstal paused for a moment.

‘They will find out sooner or later, but you can come with me.’ Albarino's voice still sounded as damned light-hearted as ever, not to mention the fact that he was still eagerly trying to kiss Herstal's face again as he spouted such nonsense, ‘We could go back to Spain, or Russia, or Morocco, or Croatia...’

Of course Albarino would say something like this, he could say it as easily as ‘Let's have Chinese takeaway tonight’ when he was throwing out such life-changing proposals to another person. And Herstal had always suspected that for this man, such an offer was no more or no less different than a takeaway box.

He probably approached Elliot Evans the same way, casually suggesting the involvement of a lawyer from A&H law firm, and likely made a similar proposal to Areola.

Within his games there was never any distinctions between the highs and the lows, between precious or not, of course there wouldn’t be.

Herstal suddenly jerked free from Albarino's hold, deftly twisting the other man's arm and slamming him against the wall in a motion so rough that Albarino's spine hit the wall with a muffled thud.

Then Herstal wrapped his arms around his throat, gradually tightening and tilting his neck upwards until the sound of his breathing and all the words he wanted to say were choked out.

His other hand pressed against Albarino's ribs, feeling the outline of an underarm holster through his jacket.

Sure enough. Obviously Albarino Bacchus wouldn't step into harm's way out of negligence -- he'd stepped into danger on his own initiative at every turn, with great enthusiasm and no concern for the consequences, not to mention the fact that he wasn't even acting alone at the moment: he practically had an accomplice.

-- but even so.

‘Don't involve me in all your spur-of-the-moment plans, Gardener.’ He leaned in close to Albarino's ear and hissed threateningly, ‘You and I know deep down that your passion won't last that long -- and I don't want to become one of your playthings, I'm not going to lack the self-awareness to think that I'm going to end up any better than Elliot Evans or Areola. ‘

Albarino finally stopped talking, he just looked at Herstal with his eyes wide open, seemingly genuinely feeling surprised. His light-coloured irises making him look so damned vulnerable and innocent.

When Herstal spoke again, he could hear the anger in his own voice, the words being ground between his teeth. His voice was hoarse, but he pressed on. ‘I don't think you actually care about anything -- I should have known better, but my feelings have never been more evident than they are now.’

Then he let go of Albarino, letting the other man slide down the wall, staggering to stand up straight, listening to the low, coughing sounds the other man made -- and then suddenly he couldn't find a reason to still be standing here, so he chose to leave without looking back, letting the darkness and the wind and the snow swallow him up.

Chapter 21: 57. Burial of the Dead

Chapter Text

January temperatures were still cold, and beneath the leaden sky, the ice and snow had yet to melt. Albarino Bacchus stood in the cemetery, his feet in the thick snow and frozen ground, clutching a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

The cemetery, established in the first half of the twentieth century, was vast and tidy, with white headstones and crosses standing in vertical rows across the lawn, spaced in appropriate intervals and aligned in such a way as to make it easier for the lawnmower to pass through. The lawn had long been covered by deep snow, and the ashes of the deceased were frozen in the hard soil below.

The newly erected headstone in front of him summarized a person’s life in simple words, so plain and silent that those who passed by would not even give it a second glance.

Blanca Areola

(1980-2016)

Before the case was closed, Areola's body was kept in the morgue of the Bureau of Forensic Medicine, and since her loved ones could not be contacted -- in fact, most people suspected that she had no family in Mexico at all -- after the case was closed, she was buried in the middle of a cemetery at the government's expense. It was a completely normal procedure, though most taxpayers probably wouldn’t be happy about their money being used to bury a serial killer.

Her body had been cremated, allowing her to occupy a narrow corner of the crowded cemetery. At this moment, the coroner in charge of Blanca Areola's unnatural death case – Dr. Bacchus himself -- was standing in front of her grave, as if he were offering a cheap tribute to the cold headstone.

Albarino leaned over slightly and reached down to brush the snow off the headstone, then placed a bouquet of flowers in front of the low, artificial marble, the soft petals crunching against the snow on the ground with a faint creaking sound. Then he stood up straight and gazed at the only bit of colour in the stark white snow: the delicate petals of the flowers against the bone-white marble.

Albarino heard the crunch of thick boots through the snow behind him.

‘I'd like to say “I'm not surprised to see you here,”’ the person behind him said, in a serious tone, ‘but that statement itself seems strange enough.’

Albarino turned around, unsurprised to see Olga Molozer standing behind him, bundled up in a thick hat, scarf and gloves, looking like a chubby, knitted, woolly monster.

‘Hi.’ Olga added after a moment, as if suddenly realizing she should add something.

Herstal shifted on the sheets, unable to suppress a groan of discomfort.

This was his first weekend off since the Christmas holidays, all the time before that had been filled with endless overtime. Apparently everyone had been in high spirits before the Christmas break, and the desire for a holiday had slowed down everyone in the office considerably. Now, the consequences of that indulgence were finally catching up with them.

On Friday they won a case that had been dragging on for three months, a murder case involving a rock star that had garnered significant media attention. In the end, the suspect was released due to insufficient evidence. How much extortion and bribery had occurred along the way didn’t need to be said, anyway, Herstel was quite sure that half the people on the witness stand were not there willingly.

his meant he had been dragged into a meaningless celebration the night before, and now he lay in bed with a splitting headache -- it wasn't a consequence of the alcohol, which he hadn't consumed as per usual, but from the endless pleasantries that were enough to cause a headache. And now Herstal could feel the shocking chill of the air against his exposed arms; he had come home too late the previous night and must have forgotten to switch on the heater when he entered, leaving the room freezing.

Herstal gave himself up to burying himself in the pillows a little longer, pondering whether he should get up and make some breakfast or not -- even though the bedside clock told him it was long past breakfast time and he wasn't really hungry; the fridge was once again empty, symbolically filled with a couple cans of energy drink. The times when Albarino would often run over to stay at his was gone, and his fridge had quickly returned to its original state.

The last trace of Albarino's presence in the house remained on his bedside table: the never-opened Christmas present, wrapped in ridiculously shiny light blue paper, full of Christmas cheer but with terrible taste -- or perhaps the two were synonymous.

After the events of Christmas Eve, Albarino hadn’t come back with him, and this thing had been sitting there ever since, completely out of place in a house devoid of any Christmas spirit. As January approached, the silly, shiny wrapping paper looked more and more like a joke left behind from old times, the sort of object that was embedded deep in the house yet produced a rejection reaction, like an abnormal organ.

Herstal lay at an angle that allowed him to see the box. After a moment he reached out to retrieve it: it was not heavy, and the moment he touched it, the wrapping paper rustled like a breeze passing through the branches at the crack of dawn, giving no hint as to what was inside.

For the first time in days, Herstal was able to hold it in front of him for a good look, and then he realised that the blue wrapping paper was dotted with small patterns that were faintly visible. He squinted to make out the pattern:

The patterns on it were blue delphiniums.

For a moment, he was tempted sneer, the same way he would at his not-so-bright interns and his overly foolish clients. A desire to tear something was growing within his throat, an unquenchable desire that had always grown with him, the flapping butterfly wings itching lightly between his spine and ribs.

But in the end, he did nothing. He simply pulled open the drawer of his bedside table –- inside two books were thrown in, but otherwise it was empty, just like a showroom of a designer’s display room, looking good but clearly uninhabited. Herstal had very few personal belongings, as someone who was ready to flee at all times would. He then tossed the box, wrapped in its silly light-coloured ribbon, into the drawer and slammed it shut.

And so the last bit of colour that was still vibrant in the whole room was snuffed out by the darkness, like a beam of light that failed to escape a black hole. Herstal sighed and pressed his thumb against his aching temple.

‘I feel like I shouldn't turn a blind eye to the fate of someone who almost killed me.’ Albarino said to Olga in a rather sincere tone.

‘But I don't seem to see you mourning Bob Landon, or is framing you for imprisonment not nearly as bad as killing in your eyes?’ Olga snorted through her nose, exhaling a cloud rapidly condensing white mist as she stared at the cheaply made marble headstone. Then she suddenly asked, ‘I’ve noticed Herstal isn't with you though, what happened between you two?’

‘There were…some problems.’ Albarino admitted vaguely.

‘Ah, “problems”,’ Olga nodded solemnly, her gaze still fixed on the tombstone, ‘similar to the problems you had with your almost two hundred exes?’

Albarino laughed, ‘Olga, saying that makes me sound...’

‘Frivolous.’ Olga winked, cheerfully completing the sentence for him.

‘And I wouldn’t use that word to describe myself,’ Albarino finally relented and shrugged, ‘I couldn't give them what they wanted, so we parted ways -- it's always been that way. ‘

Olga turned to look at him, the tip of her nose frozen red from the cold, but her gaze was still frighteningly sharp. Most people would have squirmed under such a stare, ‘What did he want?’

Albarino gave a soft smile and uttered a few words: ‘...something trivial.’

‘For you?’ Olga continued, pressing on in a strangely aggressive manner.

‘For most people.’ Albarino replied.

‘When people are in love, they tend to have all sorts of strange expectations, for example: I wonder if Blanca Areola ever expected to get a green card by marrying Robo when she fell in love with him -- regardless, the results of our investigations showed that they were together for at least five years without ever getting married.’ Olga said lightly, reaching out and gesturing as if that were enough to aid her example, ‘It shows that what is easy for most people can be very distant under certain circ*mstances…pursuing it recklessly can lead to terrible outcomes’.

Albarino glanced at her and paused briefly before speaking: ‘You seem to have given a very extreme example.’

‘That's because I find the line between the extreme and the ordinary to be very blurry. These things are truly unexpected.’ Olga replied flatly, but the tone in which she spoke made it really hard to believe that anything could be unexpected to her.

‘Did something happen?’ Albarino asked keenly, ‘Perhaps something involving a blurred line??’

Olga glanced at him and smiled faintly.

‘George Robb committed a series of homicides back in the day, when a middle-aged man was killed in Pennsylvania, it was generally assumed that Robo did it: this is what we now refer to as the ‘seventh case’. At the time the case was under investigation, if it was determined that it really wasn't committed by George Robo, the police would have considered it as a copycat, and moved to look at the people who had conflicted interests with the victim of the seventh case, as was common sense.’ Olga spoke slowly, ‘Back then I thought there was a suspect worth noting: he was the brother of the victim in the seventh case and had some inheritance disputes with the victim ...a motive was established. But because CSI quickly found Robo's hair at the scene of the seventh case, ironclad evidence, no one ever investigated further in that direction.’

‘And then?’ Albarino asked. Many involved in criminal cases had heard of the George Robo case, through lectures on the subject, reading materials and texts, but Albarino had never heard one of the people involved talk about what was considered to be an extremely sensational case at the time.

Olga smiled, ‘I have a friend in Pennsylvania who I had asked to keep an eye on this for me after the Robo case was closed ... Then yesterday he told me that the brother of the victim in the seventh case had died.’

She took a deep breath and turned to Albarino.

‘The local police suspect that he died in a robbery, because the killer took all the money he had on him, as well as a watch and other valuable items.’ Olga said, her tone light and cold, ‘He was shot in an alley after his night shift, the bullet went straight through his temple -- boom. It all ended cleanly and neatly.’

‘It does sound a lot like a robbery.’ Albarino replied in a low voice, catching the implications in her words. Nonetheless, he still felt surprised that the other person would mention this to him.

‘Indeed.’ Olga said, and flashed him a smile, ‘That does look very, very much like a robbery.’

Someone knocked on the door of Lavazza Mercader's office.

Agent Mercader was sitting behind his desk at the time, looking at an extraordinarily official-looking document. It was a quiet day at the BAU: no fieldwork, no sudden homicides, and everything was proceeding remarkably smoothly. One of the main reasons for this, of course, was that after the Areola case, Mercader had left Westland in a hurry without a single last word to Bart Hardy; otherwise, if he had succeeded in his persuasions, him and his team might have been busy in Westland by now.

But Blanca Areola's case had brought too many variables into play that required their full attention -- one always had to contend with such sudden changes, and it was always a very precious experience when things went according to plan.

Mercader knew this well enough to be at peace with himself.

Another unexpected event was that on the day of his return to Quantico, Olga Molozer had gone to the airport to see him off -- an inaccurate statement, of course, but rather Molozer had appeared in the airport lobby without warning, without anyone having told her which flight Mercader would be taking.

Of course, that was typical for Molozer. Mercader had to constantly explain to various media people who didn't really understand the science of behavioural analytics and that profilers weren't psychics, but sometimes Olga acted more like a wizard.

‘What happens next?’ As usual, without pleasantries, Olga just stood in front of Mercader and bluntly asked.Her question was so straightforward that passersby couldn't help but stare at her, as if she was stranger than the couple crying and kissing at the other end of the waiting hall.

‘Why are you asking me that question? It's not like I'm in control of where things go.’ Mercader replied with a frown.

‘Aren't you? That's a pretty arbitrary way to position yourself.’ Olga shrugged and threw him a meaningful look, ‘At least, I remember you saying you were going to talk to Bart -- and it turns out you didn't.’

Mercader sighed and told her, ‘I wanted to, but there's no time. The Quantico side wants me back immediately ...Apparently the Areola case has attracted some attention, and they want to hear what's going on from my perspective -- after all, it involves Robo's old case, and they'll always take it more seriously.’

Olga nodded understandingly, the words coming out as cutting as ever, ‘You on the other hand will have to find a way to remove yourself from this incident.’

‘-- I have a clear conscience.’ Mercader emphasized with a straight face.

‘For now.’ Olga smiled, and only she could show the complex meaning of ‘I don't believe a word of it’ in that light smile.

‘Look, Molozer,’ Mercader sighed deeply and looked over at her, ‘I have to return to the BAU, but if there's time after the holidays, I'd still like to talk to Officer Hardy. Consider my offer, too: it should be obvious to you that the WLPD can't do anything about the frequency of vicious crime cases anymore, and that if they want to solve the Pianist's and Gardener's cases, they'll need the BAU -- also, consider my theory, okay? Albarino Bacchus is a murderer.’

‘And it's also true that Dr Bacchus had an alibi at the time of the Anthony Sharp and William Brown case.’ Olga pointed out, apparently anticipating that he would make this assertion.

‘The man who gave him his alibi was also his boyfriend, and it's certainly possible that the other man was covering for him.’ Mercader shook his head, ‘We both know that that doesn't count for much, people do all sorts of stupid things for love, and isn't Areola a prime example?’

‘I consistently disagree with you.’ Olga objected with a grin.

‘The part about harbouring criminals?’ Mercader asked exasperated.

And the other replied briskly, ‘The part about love.’

-- But anyway, Mercader had also been busy after the Christmas holidays, and hadn't ended up taking the time to talk to Officer Hardy or the chief of the WLPD. Their department was trying to recruit new people, which meant that he was still responsible for the endless evaluation process; but the good thing was that now that the dust had settled and they finally had a new member in their midst, they were able to fill that gap left by the fact that they hadn't been able to recruit a single employee capable of a full year's work since Olga had left.

And now poking his head in with a knock on the door was a tall, thin, young male with curly ginger hair: the agent had just officially graduated from the FBI Academy not long ago and his name was John Garcia. For what it was worth, Mercader was pleased with him in every way, and really hoped he'd make it through the full year.

‘Sir,’ the young Agent Garcia said, his voice revealing some suppressed excitement, ‘we've been contacted by the New York State Police, who have discovered a strange homicide on their side, and they suspect that it's -- ‘

Mercader nodded, folding the documents on his desk before standing up.

He had long since grown accustomed to this kind of life, and knew the truth: quiet times never lasted more than a few hours, murderers didn't take holidays, and they should always be on their guard.

The bar at night was filled with a heavy smell of smoke and the unpleasant scent of evaporating alcohol. This place suited Herstal’s taste, unlike the ones Olga picked, which had good co*cktails but too much harsh music; but though it was comparatively quiet, the crowd of pleasure-seekers was the same everywhere.

But nevertheless, he had not sat here with such a purpose in mind -- it was not in line with his will, nor was it in keeping with his taste. Gazing at the half-full glass of liquor in front of him, Herstal once again began to question his decision.

And a soft hand landed on his shoulder.

When Herstal turned around, he saw a beautiful woman with soft brown hair leaning casually against the bar: at least, that’s how it seemed. The dim, ambiguous lighting blurred many of the details, transforming all of the flaws into a mysterious allure. The hands were dyed with nails that were as red as blood, so vivid that they looked as if they had just been drawn from a corpses's chest.

And the woman smiled at him: the kind of smile that meant ‘I'm interested in you’. He did occasionally give off that impression to others when he wasn't wearing one of those overbearing custom-made three-piece suits; he never cared for it, but it didn't seem so bad this time, at least it was something to pass this boring night with.

‘I've been watching you for a while now,’ the woman said with a smile that had a lot of carefully calculated sweetness in it, perfected for those who would come to a place like this to pass a long night, ‘Sitting here alone drinking so many glasses of whiskey, you must be quite lonely’.

He thought for a moment, then calmly admitted, ‘Indeed.’

At ten o'clock in the evening, Albarino sat in front of the fireplace.

His house in the far outskirts of the city was entirely covered in snow, with only a shovelled path leading to the road. The weather forecast predicted more snow in the next day or two, and the temperatures were likely to drop further. Spring was still far from this city.

Albarino had a sketchbook in his lap, casually doodling in it -- not the one he kept in the forest cabin, whose pages were stained with dried blood, but another one. Most of its pages had been torn out, and on the current one, he was drawing delphiniums growing from the hollow eye sockets of a skull.

The branches and leaves struggling ferociously to emerge out of the white bone. The tip of his pen stopped at the tender buds of the flowers and pressed against the empty eyes of the dead.

Truth be told, even before the three drinks, Herstal would not have chosen such a place to spend the night -- but after three drinks, anything was possible.

That was the essence of such a place: to cover your sanity with alcohol and wash away sins with a woman's red lips. The nature of the thing even made the other less-than-ideal aspects tolerable: the cheap motel sheets, the mattress that wasn't soft to the touch by any stretch of the imagination, the strange smell of bleach in the air. The woman's long hair brushed his skin when she giggled, hot and restless.

Unfortunately, it still wasn't enough, for her body was soft, yet still not as feeble as the dead; her fingers would scratch helplessly across the sheets, yet more gently than those of a dying person. Herstal looked down at the woman -- and then realized in hindsight that he hadn't asked her name at all, she could be a Mary or Anne, it didn’t matter -- listening to her disordered breaths mixed with occasional laughter, all so cliché.

At one point, he wanted so badly to tighten his fingers around the woman's neck, his fingers pressing against her slippery, sweaty skins, feeling the swift, fawn-like beating of her heart. So alive, so fragile, so easily breakable with just the slightest pressure -- yet this woman kissed him, so innocent, so passionate, so frivolous and clueless; she rubbed her lipstick on the corners of his mouth with reckless abandon, like an elongated trail of blood.

Herstal felt his soul hovering above; it was true he was slowly being swallowed by the hot sea, but his inner goddesses named Murder and Death resided under his eyelids. On her lipstick and the warm blush of her cheekbones, he saw the blood of his fantasies. The urge to destroy lingered in his fingers, numb like pins and needles, like a raging burning fire.

He forced his hand away from her neck, pressing down on her shoulders and arms, letting his fingertips dig in slightly.

Her brown hair flowed across the not-so-comfortable mattress, like a thick, slow river. Herstal noticed that her eyes were a kind of pale blue, but under the lamplight they seemed almost gray-green.

Herstal reached out and covered her eyes.

Albarino observed the dull pencil coloured flowers; unfortunately, he’d imagined the colour to be a blue that he couldn’t quite capture. The draft was never satisfactory, and gradually, from the time he began to pencil the image to the end, it had become so ugly in his eyes that it was unacceptable.

It shouldn’t be like this, he harshly critiqued himself. This wasn’t a good design.

So he chose to tear out the entire page -- the sound of thick paper ripping was clear and harsh in the room, because at this moment, everything was so quiet. The snow-covered earth was silent outside, not even the coyotes that often roamed the wilderness made any sound.

Albarino crumpled the paper in his hand into a ball, as his father had done one summer day many years ago, on the twenty-fifth of July, sitting by the fireplace of their old family home. He felt a little amused by the association; he could still feel the hard, angular edges of the crumpled paper against his palm.

It should have been the same with those letters and diaries all those years ago.

Then he threw the paper ball -- a failed draft, for achieving perfection was so difficult -- into the fireplace and watched as the white surface of the paper was kissed by the flames and charred into blackness.

In the public cemetery of Westland, the groundskeeper made his final round of the day, trudging through the increasingly hardening snow with his flashlight. This profession was becoming obsolete, just like the increasingly crowded graveyard.

The sky had been completely engulfed in darkness, the rows of headstones and crosses standing stiffly in the snow, rigid and desolate.

Suddenly, the beam of his flashlight shone on a colour other than white. The vibrancy of the colours, like a dancing flame, suddenly crashed into his vision, almost startling him: then he realized it was just a bouquet of flowers, placed before a newly erected tombstone. The cold air had kept it fresh, but it was still wilting inevitably:

It was a simple bouquet with marigolds clustered at the center like fresh blood. Underneath the countless golden petals were poinsettias and dahlias; their petals, delicate and soft, were gradually rotting and curling up amidst the cold air, just like a pool of blood flowing across the ground.

Chapter 22: 58. John Garcia's personal website: January 30th, 2017

Chapter Text

Cited from: https://johngaztia.squarespace.com

Published: 2017-01-30

As those who follow my updates know, lately my colleagues and I from the Behavioural Analysis Unit have been working in a small town near Buffalo, New York -- due to confidentiality agreements, I’m unable to disclose the exact location -- on a gruesome murder case. It was the latest in a series of serial killings that have occurred in the Great Lakes region since March of the previous year.

Even though I can’t reveal the details, the case has been widely reported in newspapers and online. To make events more sensationalised and eye-catching, the media often gives serial killers flashy nicknames, such as the ‘Westland Pianist’ and the ‘Sunday Gardener’. And since this serial killer began his crimes in early 2015, he has been given many notorious names.

Some in the media like to call him the ‘Family Killer’ or the ‘Family Executioner’ because he chooses to murder entire families. Over the past two years, he has committed eight cases, killing nine couples (because in one family the husband and wife lived with the man's parents) and a total of thirteen children. It is because of this brutal act that some media outlets have called him the ‘Family Butcher’ -- although his actions are indeed brutal, I think such sensational, fear-mongering names are unnecessary.

As a member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, it’s crucial to avoid using such provocative terms to describe the killer. There are serial killers who derive their vanity from the overwhelming publicity they receive, which can escalate their behaviour. I believe the ‘Westland Pianist’ is one such example. His taunting of the police is typical among murderers, from Jack the Ripper in the 19th century to the Zodiac Killer in the 1960s. Sending cryptic letters to the police, just to flaunt their confidence, has become a staple among serial killers.

The latest serial killer in this series also likes to flaunt their power by leaving souvenirs for the police to find: As reported, he breaks into the homes of his victims, takes control of the poor unfortunate family members, tortures them, and videotapes the process, leaving the footage on computers at the scene, waiting for the police to find them.

One of these videos, from a horrifying murder last May, was notoriously leaked during the investigation. Despite the best efforts of Detroit police to delete most of the footage that circulated, some of the gruesome clips can still be found online today.

Those who have followed the case will remember these details: the killer used rope to hang a father and son from the ceiling, resting their feet on only a few stacked metal cans to prevent immediate strangulation. He then handed a shotgun to the mother, forcing her to choose between shooting the can under her husband or son feet – in short, only one could survive, or the killer would murder them all. With a pistol aimed at her head, she had to make a choice.

The video was filled with the woman and child's cries, as well as the killer’s maniacal laughter. In the end, the mother chose to save her son, hanging her husband from the ceiling. The killer forced the two remaining family members to watch this victim's slow death before shooting the mother and dismembering her in front of her child, before finally hanging the child as well.

This was just one of the six cases he committed. As a BAU member, I have reviewed all of the latest case files, and I can responsibly tell you that this is just the tip of the iceberg of his madness, he is more brutal, more psychopathically inventive, and more dangerous than we can even imagine.

The more complex the details a serial killer displays, the more truths he reveals to us -- While we no longer employ psychics like in Robert Ressler’s era, we still have ways of uncovering clues. For instance, DeBurger and Holmes proposed a classification of serial killers by dividing them into four categories: the visionary, the missionary, the hedonistic, and the power and control types. Of these, the hedonistic type is specifically further divided into killing for lust and killing for thrill.

Undoubtedly, the murderer in this case belongs to the thrill killer category. The most typical characteristics of this type of serial killers are: inflicting abusive behaviours on their victims which are not sexually motivated, killing because the process of killing brings a feeling of excitement, and deriving pleasure from their actions.

This type of homicidal maniac is undoubtedly very dangerous, deriving twisted pleasure from slaughtering entire families, or even forcing them to kill each other, recording every moment of it. I would not be surprised if he kept a copy of the videos for his own enjoyment in addition to the one he leaves with the police. We can easily deduce that this twisted mindset is often related to a person's early experiences, and the investigation is currently progressing in that direction.

However, this wasn't even the only trick he showed. This time the killer himself made a big mistake.

Anyone who's been following the news coverage should know the latest development: two weeks ago, this killer committed his eighth crime in Buffalo, murdering a couple and their two young children. I must keep the specific details confidential, but, as he brutally shot the father and one of the older children, the sound of the gunshots drew the attention of their neighbours.

We are confident the killer scouted the area beforehand. He chose a time when the only neighbour who could hear the crime was supposed to be working the night shift, but that neighbour had switched shifts due to illness. Anyway, this unexpected turn of events, which the killer couldn’t have predicted, led to the neighbour calling the police. A police car patrolling the area arrived so quickly that the murderer fled before he could kill one of the children and his mother; but unfortunately the mother had already lost too much blood by the time the police arrived and died shortly after being taken to the hospital.

The surviving child was only six years old and is still being treated by a psychiatrist. New York State Police hope that once he’s a bit more stabilized, he can help create a composite sketch of the killer, giving us another lead to pursue.

But now is not the time to relax. In the past, this killer typically waits a few months between his crimes, possibly reliving the process through his recordings until they no longer satisfy his need for stimulation. But this time, he was unable to complete his crime; he was forced to flee before he could kill his wife and one of the family's children.

Some serial killers with control-freak tendencies can become enraged over unplanned mistakes in their cases, while others suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder because they didn't complete a murder in its entirety. Moreover, it’s highly likely that the killer didn't have time to record a full video before escaping, leading to another dangerous aspect.

It’s easy to imagine that this type of serial killer won’t rest after such a significant failure. He will likely commit another murder soon to “make up” for this mistake. All police and families in the Great Lakes region should be on high alert. We don’t know when or where he will strike next, but one thing is for sure: he’s lurking in the shadows, and when the time is right, he won't hesitate to strike.

My colleagues and I have been working overtime for this case, searching for enough clues to be able to catch him before he commits another crime.

The fate of potential victims lies in our hands, and a serial killer who has been committing crimes since 2015 until now is intolerable. No one wants a serial killer to be constantly active in their city for more than a decade; it often signifies failure on the part of the police and profilers when this happens.

I hope that by the time I write my next article, it will already be announced that this horrible serial killer has been apprehended by us and put on trial. At that point, depending on the need for confidentiality and the relevant regulations, I may be able to reveal to my readers more details of the case: about how this twisted, terrifying murderer tortured his prey, and where the origins of this sick and twisted mind-set came from ...Once he’s apprehended and brought to justice, we'll have all the answers to our questions.

Lastly, I am pleased to tell you that I have been invited to appear on a nightly talk show on WNYC’s [1] late night talk show next Saturday, where I be discussing my views on this case. The show will be broadcasting on the 4th of February at ten o'clock in the evening, and I hope you will tune in.

[1] WNYC is the station code for New York Public Radio, which starts with a ‘W’ on the East Coast.

Chapter 23: 59. The Altar of Isaac (1)

Chapter Text

‘The cause of death was a craniocerebral injury.’

Albarino said as he and Bart Hardy stood in front of the mobile autopsy van, using the hemostat in his hand to point out the mottled wounds on the head of the deceased. The victim's hair had been shaved off, revealing a horrifying mass of bruises on the occipital region.

‘There are six contusion wounds on the deceased's head, which were inflicted after being subjected to a number of blows from a blunt instrument. The murderer struck hard enough to cause a comminuted skull fracture as well as severe intracranial haemorrhaging and brain contusions in his head. Such wounds are enough to cause the victim's death.’ As Albarino finished speaking, he waved his hand towards Tommy, signalling him to push the body back into the morgue drawer; he paused and continued, ‘The blood test report came back as well, ruling out the possibility of poisoning.’

Hardy nodded, ‘That's good. This finding will help us convict the suspect, the autopsy report--?’

‘My secretary already has it compiled, you can go to his office later and ask him for it.’ Albarino replied.

So far, everything seemed routine, nothing was different from what would happen every day: Albarino was in charge of handling autopsies of contentious murder cases, and Hardy, as a homicide police officer, came to listen to his opinions. Normally though, Hardy would have left in a hurry after that, factoring in the eight hundred other jobs he hadn't yet done, but he didn't today.

In fact, Hardy looked over at Albarino and more or less looked like he wanted to say something.

‘Er, Al,’ he stammered, ‘have you...’

‘What’s wrong?’ Albarino asked back, confused.

Hardy took a deep breath, then blurted out the words he'd been holding in his stomach in one breath, ‘It's like this, Olga asked me to be a little more concerned about you because she says you're going through ‘the hardest breakup you've had in years’ --’

Even Hardy himself felt that he looked odd saying such a thing, so it was rushed out by him hastily without a single break in between. Even Albarino was confused for a moment after receiving such a large amount of information at once. He thought for a moment, then asked, ‘...Am I?’

‘Olga said you are. Excuse me for quoting her, she said, ‘Mr Armalight is evidently unique’. Hardy said dryly, likely unsure how he was roped into discussing someone else's love life by his friend.

By this time Tommy, who was in charge of bringing the body back to the morgue, had returned. He looked over at Albarino with interest, asking a little too eagerly, ‘What? Did you break up with one of your new girlfriends again?’

Feeling that it was time for him to reflect on what kind of impression he usually left on others, Albarino smiled and said ambiguously, ‘If you really want to know, I don't think I have reached the stage of 'breaking up' yet.’

-- Though he guessed Hardy likely wouldn't believe a word of it; in all the years Hardy had known him, he had never seen him get back together with any boyfriend or girlfriend who he had quarrelled with. Of course, Dr Bacchus didn't care anyway; Dr Bacchus was charming, rich, good-looking, and connections in Westland's high society, thanks to his father. There were plenty of boys and girls willing to sleep with him.

Hardy opened his mouth for a moment, obviously wanting to say something, but the sudden ringing of his mobile phone didn't give him the chance. With a hasty apology, he left to answer the phone, leaving only Tommy still standing in place with great interest.

‘So you really quarrelled with someone again? How many times has this happened since I've been interning at the Bureau of Forensic Science?’ Tommy's eyes were practically sparkling. Albarino miraculously detected a hint of earnestness in his tone, ‘When are you going to settle down?’

‘You're not going to be attending my wedding in this lifetime anyway,’ Albarino said perfunctorily, ‘You should pin your hopes on Olga.’

Tommy pouted inconspicuously, implying that Olga wasn't a reliable prospect either; he had met Olga many times since he’d been working, and it was clear that the other person's way of dealing with people were evidently beyond his comprehension.

At that moment, Hardy returned from his call, frowning and looking concerned. As soon as he came, over he said to Albarino, ‘Clara's school called, I might have to go over there, you should ask your secretary to email me the autopsy report ...’

As he said this, he hurried out the door, and Albarino, eager to escape Tommy's musings on his love life, subconsciously followed two steps in Hardy's direction and asked, ‘The school's calling at this hour? Is everything okay?’

It was just after ten on a Wednesday morning, hardly the time for an elementary school to finish.

‘It’s nothing, just kids ...’ Hardy mumbled a few more words that Albarino didn't quite catch, but the other party had already waved his hand and walked quickly to the door, ‘Anyway, I'll be gone now. If you have any issues with those two cases of unnatural deaths, hand them over to Officer Bull.’

His figure quickly disappeared through the doorway, Albarino paused and spoke before Tommy could rush forward in excitement to unearth more gossip.

‘Come on, Tommy.’ He said, ‘Did you hear what Officer Hardy said? We've got two more bodies waiting for us today.’

Herstal Armalight was sitting in an opulent room -- the word ‘opulent’ sounded cliché, but there really wasn't a better word to describe the place he was in: the walls were decorated with rich gold and red tapestries and there was a glittering crystal chandelier hanging above their heads. If it weren't for Herstal's work ethic, he would have been tempted to turn around and leave.

Across from him sat his client -- a newspaper tycoon, a successful man who was on the ropes because of his rebellious daughter who had just pulled one of the biggest screw-ups of her adult life.

‘I'm recommending a plea bargain,’ Herstal said, ‘based on the evidence available, if the prosecutor charges her with intentional homicide, there's a high probability that the jury will find her guilty. And with a plea bargain, we can find a way to exchange sentences. We might be able to get her down to a five-year sentence in prison, or if we’re lucky, even probation.’

The other party swallowed dryly and asked anxiously, ‘Aren't there any other possibilities?’

‘It's highly unlikely.’ Herstal replied calmly, ‘Your daughter, upon learning of her boyfriend's infidelity, confronted him. But before meeting him, she went home to retrieve a golf club, which she then placed in her trunk. Generally speaking, under such circ*mstances, the jury won't believe that her subsequent acts of smashing his head in with the club wasn't premeditated. If the prosecutor determined that her act was murder with intent to kill, the lightest charge would be second-degree murder -- and that's the last thing we want to see right now.’

The client's lips twitched, ‘But is there no way to argue for manslaughter...?’

Herstal frowned imperceptibly.

Then, as calmly as he could, he explained, ‘There are at least four conditions which must be fulfilled in order to convict the murder of a crime of passion: firstly, the defendant must be in a situation that would provoke or enrage a normal person -- this is true; secondly the defendant must indeed be provoked -- this is also undeniable; the issue is with the remaining condition. The law states, 'The time between being provoked and the killing must be short enough that a person could not have fully calmed down, and the defendant must not have calmed down', and that's the problem -- whether or not your daughter was still in a state of provocation at the time of the killing is unverifiable, and the court will need to hear a lot of testimony in order to discern this. However, your daughter did not show any abnormality in the nearly six hours between her learning the truth and acting on it, during which she had lunch with you without showing any abnormal behaviour. Furthermore, their confrontation was fully recorded by surveillance cameras, and there were at least five eyewitnesses who can attest that the victim had no chance to say anything before being attacked, which also negates the possibility of him provoking her again.’

‘A jury... wouldn't believe that she was still in an irrational state at the time.’ The client admitted bitterly.

‘Precisely,’ Herstal nodded calmly, ‘Had she killed immediately upon learning the truth or if she had had another altercation with the victim beforehand, we could plead manslaughter. But given the current circ*mstances, I can't assure that defence.

He paused, and when the other party did not say anything, he added, ‘I suggest that you make a decision as soon as possible. The investigation process of such a simple case is very short. We also have to meet the prosecutor of this case before the pre-trial hearing.’

The client was silent for a few moments, then nodded with difficulty and said, ‘… Okay, plea bargain.’

Herstal stood up calmly and stretched out his hand to straighten his cuffs; this answer was within his expectations, and there was no room for improvement in this case.

‘Then, I will go see the prosecutor of this case. Her name is...’ Herstal paused and reached out to flip through his memo. His secretary wrote down the name for him when he handed down the commission, ‘Wallis Hardy.’

—— At the WLPD party on Christmas Eve, Albarino had said to Officer Hardy: ‘Give our regards to Wallis.’

Herstal frowned.

Olga stood in front of the podium and pointed at the big screen with a laser pointer. She was a visiting professor at Westland State University and only taught one course a year. Apart from teaching her weekly class and serving as a consultant for the WLPD, she spent her free time battling wits with editors -- a lifestyle far more comfortable than her tenure at the BAU. It's no wonder many profilers turned to publishing memoirs after retirement.

Now the lecture theater was densely packed with people, each’s persons face was bathed eerily by the pale blue light of the projector. Olga knew that many of the people who enrolled in this course did not want to learn any real knowledge of criminal psychology, but only to satisfy their curiosity about real crime scenes. In this course, they could indeed see real crime scene photos -- it is these people who will watch the process of Eskimos eating seals alive in ‘Nanook of the North’ with great curiosity. Curiosity is a fundamental human instinct.

Olga tapped the keyboard, switching to the next photo, eliciting gasps from among the students.

‘This is Trepp Carloan,’ Olga introduced in a calm voice, ‘the twenty-fourth victim of the Westland pianist. He was found dead in his bed late last April. The killer sliced open his abdomen, removed most of his organs, and then stuffed his severed hands, feet, and genitals into the abdominal cavity before sewing the abdominal wound back together -- We've been studying the Pianist this month, so who can tell me why he did this?’

Only a few hands were raised in the huge lecture hall. Of course, this is what these college students will do to you when you ask a question. Olga randomly pointed at the crowd, and then a man stood up from the back row of the lecture theatre.

Anyone who was not blind could come to the conclusion that the man standing up was obviously not a student of this university.

He was a middle-aged man who looked to be over fifty. His black hair had basically turned silvery gray, and his chin was covered with uneven, white stubble.

After he stood up, he actually answered the question calmly: ‘Because Trepp Carloan was suspected of raping and killing four women, and the last victim was three months pregnant when she was killed.’

Olga nodded and gestured for the other party to sit down. The man looked familiar, but she couldn't think of where she had seen him beore, not that it mattered; journalists had snuck into her class before.

‘That’s right. The Westland Pianist likes to perform similar creations on his victims -- his creativity in killing is closely related to what his victims have done before.’ Olga continued, ‘Some profilers like to call it an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. They think the pianist was motivated by a sense of mission, but I don't think so; rather than saving the world from the quagmire of evil, I am more inclined to believe that such acts of murder excites him. Let’s talk about the evidence that supports this conclusion...’

In the end, the class concluded uneventfully. All in all, Olga was sure that her students left the class with plenty to discuss, although any reasonable person should know that when trying to pick up girls, talking about a psychotic murderer is probably not the best strategy. And although they are satisfied, when they turn in the paper they were supposed to write next week, the quality of that paper was another matter entirely.

Just as Olga expected, the man who answered the question did not leave immediately after the class ended. Instead, he limped toward the podium. Only then did Olga realize that he was holding a cane in his hand, his entire weight was balancing precariously on it -- he stood in front of Olga and said: ‘Hello, Professor Molozer.’

‘Hello,’ Olga replied as she struggled to stuff a stack of lesson plans into her bag, without even condescending to extend her hand to shake. ‘Who are you?’

The other party seemed to have expected this reaction from her. On the contrary, this person had an interested smile on his face: ‘I am Orion Hunter.’

Olga raised her head and looked at him with a strange concentration for a moment before asking: ‘Are you the famous bounty hunter?’

‘I'm surprised that I'm already considered ‘famous.’’ the bounty hunter replied calmly.

‘At least you are well-known in the WLPD. Obviously not every bounty hunter will abandon ordinary criminals who have jumped bail and absconded, and instead turn to arrest criminal suspects who have not been brought to justice. Some of your work overlaps with that of a private detective,’ Olga replied.

The other party shrugged easily, apparently acknowledging Olga's statement. Not only that, he added: ‘And... there's often some legal problems.’

‘When you have neither an arrest warrant nor a copy of the bail bond, of course there will be legal problems with breaking into a private house. You have not been prosecuted so far because you are lucky.’ Olga smiled, ‘So, what do you want from me? I don't think bounty hunters will have any criminal psychology problems.’

Orion Hunter laughed loudly, took out a piece of paper from his coat pocket and placed it in front of Olga: it was a newspaper clipping from the ‘Buffalo News’.

‘I'm just here to avoid legal problems,’ he said.

Olga glanced at the newspaper clipping: ‘This is a report on the murder case that happened in Buffalo last month... they now call the serial killer the 'family executioner' or the 'family butcher' or something like that. I have to say, those reporters’ naming skills are really getting worse.’

‘I'm here for this,’ the bounty hunter said.

Olga raised her head and glanced at him: ‘Really? There have been no new murders recently.’

Hunter's voice lowered, the corners of his mouth pulled up slightly and showed an enthusiastic smile: ‘I have reason to believe that this murderer has come to Westland.’

As Lavazza Mercader stepped out of the office, John Garcia trotted to keep up with him.

He had just been scolded by their immediate superior -- it was not his fault that he was angry. Afterall, the murder case in Buffalo was not going well. The lone surviving child provided the portrait artist with some characteristics of the suspect, however these features were not complete enough for a portrait. The police had used these characteristics to ask everyone who may have witnessed the murderer fleeing the scene of the crime, yet no one remembered such a suspicious-looking guy.

Although their superiors seemed disappointed, this was not beyond Mercader's expectation: the child was only six years old and was frightened. During the interview, his descriptions were different every time. Mercader almost suspected that he would have said that the murderer was a vampire if he had continued to ask. This problem often occurs when the survivors were a child, and there was nothing they could do about it.

But now, Garcia, who rushed in front of him, was obviously very excited. He said loudly: ‘Sir, we have made a new discovery!’

‘What is it?’ Mercader asked hopelessly. The last ‘new discovery’ had been the child finally speaking.

‘There's a high probability that a serial killer will return to the scene of the crime, right?’ Garcia said excitedly. ‘With this in mind, we reviewed the video footage from the vicinity of the crime scene in the days after each murder, and we found someone who is consistently appearing near the crime scene.’

As he spoke, he thrust the folder in his hand in front of Mercader. Mercader opened the folder and saw many screenshots from the camera. The surveillance quality was blurry, but the person's features were somewhat discernible.

‘Have you identified this person?’ Mercader inquired.

Garcia nodded eagerly: ‘This man's name is Orion Hunter, from Westland.’

Chapter 24: 60. The Altar of Isaac (2)

Chapter Text

Olga sized up the man in front of her: there was a perfectly good reason why she had heard great things about Orion Hunt. Even among bounty hunters, who essentially lived with a target on their backs, Hunter was a legend. Most bounty hunters thought he was completely insane.

Hunter got into the bounty hunting business for the thrill of it – much like how some people would ride a roller coaster ten times in one sitting at an amusem*nt park, Orion Hunter's way of seeking an adrenaline rush was by capturing criminals.

The story goes that the man tried to join SWAT at first, but it didn't work out; he then worked in the police department for a while, but then he quickly realised that even as a cop he couldn't kick down doors and shoot people on a daily basis. When he discovered the world of bounty hunting, he immediately entered this new world with glee and quickly became one of the best bounty hunters in the country.

If the story ended there, it might even be said to sound quite inspirational, but Hunter was never satisfied -- and soon for him, even fugitive criminals lost their allure to him as well. He began accepting only the most dangerous commissions, while spending his spare time independently researching and pursuing dangerous murderers, much like how storm chasers tracked tornadoes.

As a result, some say that if he weren't so focused on criminal hunting for the thrill and refused private hires, he could have left the bounty hunting business and gone straight to opening a detective agency.

From past experience, Olga knew that despite his seemingly crazy demeanor, Orion Hunter was actually quite insightful in his study of the murderers of dangerous criminal cases, and that his opinions were definitely worth listening to. So she chose to put her bag and the pile of lesson plans she hadn't ended up stuffing back into her bag back onto the table, and then propped her chin up with one hand.

‘What did you find out?’ She asked.

Hunter flashed her a smug grin before dropping a heavy folder on top of Olga's podium with a thud. Olga reached out and removed the folder before flipping it open, finding that it was indeed full of maps with marked lines drawn all over them, densely packed surveillance photos, newspaper clippings, and notes.

‘The “Family Butcher” committed eight crimes in total. I’ve taken notes on all of them and went on the ground to investigate each site -- Though of course, I have to say that the “Family Butcher” is an awful name, but slightly better than that of the “Family Killer”, which sounds almost like a family nutritional cereal name.’ He said.

Hunter's voice sounded coarse and heavy, like the kind of voice one would imagine an old hunter who lived in seclusion in the mountains and regularly wrestled with bears would have. He reached out and flicked to the first page of the folder, pointing out the photo and text notes on it to Olga, ‘Even the newspapers have said that the FBI investigation into suspicious individuals who have appeared around the scene of the crime has not yielded much luck. I’ve decided to start with the killer's car, and the killer must have had a car, right?’

‘Obviously,’ Olga agreed, ‘He committed crimes across multiple states. In two cases, he abducted children from their schools, but the police checked the cameras in the subway and surrounding stations and intersections but found no footage of any adults leaving with the victimised children. He definitely has a car.’

Hunter nodded happily, ‘But I followed that up by checking the footage near the various crime scenes, and there was no reoccurring car out and about. Besides, licence plates from other states would easily attract attention. I questioned a number of people -- including a vendor who makes fake licence plates -- and no one had any recollection of an out-of-state car appearing near the scene at the time of the crime, which can only mean that ...’

Olga wisely didn't bother to ask Hunter how he'd managed to view the CCTV footage that only the police were supposed to be able to see, or how he'd managed to find a guy who made fake licence plates close to the scene of the crime. She simply interjected with good grace, ‘The killer must have a car to be mobile, which makes sense. But the fact that no cars with reoccurring characteristics were found at the various scenes suggests that he wasn't driving the same car each time; and the fact that no out-of-state cars showed up suggests that he drove cars with local licence plates, whether the plates were real or not -- which opens up several possibilities.’

Hunter slowly held up four fingers, ‘Buying a used car locally and abandoning or selling it, renting a car locally, buying a stolen car locally through illegal means, or simply stealing a car... though the last one is a bit technical and very noticeable. ‘

Olga co*cked her head, ‘So, which one was it?’

‘Stolen car.’ Hunter spat out that correct answer forcefully, ‘He'll buy a stolen car locally -- one that's been repainted and had its licence plate changed -- and then resell it before he leaves the city. I questioned a couple of sketchy car garages in a few cities, and they all had some impression of a buyer with those characteristics. And the cars they sold have all turned up near the scene of the crime.’

Olga understood why the FBI hadn't discovered this lead: Let alone how much work Hunter had to do to find this information, the FBI had no way of knowing what locations were selling stolen cars; some of the older policemen may have some knowledge about it, but it was hard for the feds to think of this aspect. But then again, if the killer knew about all the underground black-market cars in the area...

‘You suspect the killer had other previous convictions?’ Olga asked, looking up suddenly.

‘I'm certain he has a criminal record. I'm in this business.’ Hunter said with confidence, ‘I have collected detailed descriptions of that customer's appearance from the shop owners. I believe it will be easy to find his identity, as long as --’

Olga clearly understood what he meant, ‘...As long as you have access to the police database.’

Hunter shrugged his shoulders, ‘Unfortunately, I can't. For reasons you know all too well.’

‘Yes, I've heard you've even been arrested for obstruction, the police in various states don't exactly have a good impression of you.’ Olga laughed a little, she had heard a lot of stories about Orion Hunter in the WLPD. After all, the bounty hunter's main base was in Westland.

‘Exactly.’ Hunter replied, ‘That's why I want you to help me -- I've heard you're a consultant for the WLPD, right?’

‘You came to me because you suspect he's come to Westland.’ Olga pointed out, ‘Why do you think he came to Westland?’

Hunter snorted disdainfully, ‘The usual bounty hunter routine: stalking, questioning and a little bribery. With all that previous experience, I've been following him since he committed the Buffalo case. He obviously went west along the interstate until he disappeared at the border of Westland -- and while it could be argued that Westland is my territory and I'm sure that I could find him if I took my time with the investigations, but I'm worried that this is a life-threatening matter, so I thought I had better come to you.’

Olga looked at him and said slowly, ‘You also think that this murderer will soon commit another offence.’

‘That's obvious, after all, he suffered an unmitigated major setback earlier.’ Hunter curled his lips, he made a lot of small moves when he spoke, ‘Okay, so are you going to help me or not?’

‘Actually, you knew before coming here that I would help you, didn't you?’ Olga said, leaning back against the podium, leisurely folding her arms in a somewhat lazy stance.

Hunter looked smug, and when he spoke again, there was a sly light flashing in his eyes, ‘After all, I've heard some interesting claims ... some people say that the WLPD’s consultant has an insatiable curiosity.’

Hardy rushed to the school for one reason: his daughter Clara hadn't gone to school.

Hardy himself was a police officer and his wife, Wallis Hardy, was a prosecutor. The two of them had met while working on a homicide case: that alone told you just how busy they both were with their jobs on a daily basis. Hardy himself had to admit that there were times when the couple were neglectful of their child due to their work, but he would never have imagined that something like this would happen.

Clara was ten years old and usually took the school bus to school. According to Clara's friend, she did take the bus to school with other students that morning, but once she arrived, she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to bring the card paper for her craft class, so she went to the stationery shop near the school to buy card paper.

Originally, students entering the school were not allowed to leave the school gates, but little Clara had assured the security guard at the gate that she would be back as soon as she bought what she needed, and so she was able to leave the school temporarily before the craft class – however, she never returned. The craft teacher was alerted when she didn't show up for class. They had checked the stationery shop, but the owner of the shop said that Clara hadn't gone shopping at all.

The craft teacher was on the verge of tears as he recounted to Hardy what had happened, and Hardy's heart sank: because Clara had always been a good girl, and would never have faked being sick to skip school. But now he comforted the other side, ‘Maybe she just didn't want to go to class and snuck home. My wife's home, I'll call her and ask if Clara returned.’

The female teacher nodded tearfully at him, but Hardy had been a policeman for so many years that he himself couldn't say he had any hope for his guess.

He dialled Wallis's number and listened anxiously to the busy tone on his phone.

Hardy listened to the relentless beeping for ten, thirty, sixty seconds -- no one answered the phone.

Albarino Bacchus nearly collided with Olga in the corridor of the WLPD.

In the end, he'd taken the day off work out of annoyance -- there was nothing special about either of the two remaining unnatural deaths today, and he'd dumped the bodies on Tommy and one of his other assistants after reading the reports; if Tommy couldn't handle a case like this, then the head medical examiner would no longer mentor him. Counting the dates, it was also almost time for Tommy to take his forensic licence test, his dream of inspecting bodies at crime scenes would soon come true.

Albarino came to the WLPD to meet a prosecutor, he was responsible for the autopsy of a murder case that went to trial recently. He and the police officer who found the body were going to court as technical witnesses. Before that, the prosecutor wanted to talk to them about the defence strategy on the side of the defendant. If they wanted to convict the murderer, their words and deeds in the courtroom were very important. Since the prosecutor was coming to the WLPD, he stopped by just in time to hand Officer Bull the autopsy report that he had put together earlier.

Albarino had done something like this eighty times if not a hundred, and as a result he finished his part relatively quickly. He was about to leave when he saw Olga hurrying by with a visitor badge on her chest, followed by a limping middle-aged man.

The unusual pairing caught his eye. The man behind Olga had an unfamiliar face and definitely wasn’t from the police department. Before Albarino had the time to say hello, Olga grabbed him by the arm.

The other party didn’t even condescend to ask ‘What are you doing in the police station today?’ or any other pleasantries, instead, speaking directly: ‘Al, you came at just the right time, I have something good to show you.’

--Albarino didn't find this comforting, because the last time Olga said that, she had managed to steal an original letter from the Westland Pianist from the WLPD's archives, one of the many letters he'd sent to the police department after committing his crimes. Albarino had never been able to figure out just how she did it, but they both got a two-hour scolding from Hardy.

Albarino was dragged by Olga for two steps in confusion, while at the same time the man behind her asked, ‘...This is?’

‘This is Dr Bacchus,’ Olga cheerfully introduced, ‘the unlucky man who was falsely accused in the Bob Landon case.’

To be honest, Albarino really didn't want to leave the world with the impression that he was ‘the guy suspected of killing his ex-girlfriend,’ but it seemed that this was unavoidable. The man scrutinised Albarino from head to toe with a harsh gaze before saying, ‘I've been keeping an eye on you for a while now. You've had quite the eventful time lately, Dr Bacchus.’

--That didn't sound like a very friendly way to start off a greeting either. Albarino frowned slightly.

Then Olga continued, ‘And this is Orion Hunter.’

‘ -- The bounty hunter.’ Albarino said.

‘Everyone seems to know me. I'm flattered.’ Hunter said gruffly.

Albarino walked down the corridor with the two of them, noticing a number of police officers curiously glancing in their direction: it was exactly that, there were very few people who dealt with homicide cases who hadn't heard of Orion Hunter's infamous name. Albarino was simply confused as to why Olga would be bringing a bounty hunter through the doors of the WLPD.

And Olga obviously realised this as well, explaining to Albarino with an almost excited manner as she walked: ‘Mr. Hunter believes he has a lead on the recent serial killer, the 'Family Butcher', and I wanted to see if we could find him amongst those with previous criminal records, as delineated by his previous testimony and my profiling.’

Albarino was momentarily stunned: ‘...In other words, the man is in Westland?’

‘In Westland -- why not?’ Hunter let out a wide grin, his eyes sparkling, ‘It's a serial killer's paradise.’

Herstal's secretary, Emma, wore her usual impeccable makeup, and her hair neatly tied back. She always presented herself like a perfect character that people would envision in workplace dramas: perfect, expensive, and unattainable. She knocked on Herstal's office door and entered after hearing him say, ‘Come in.’

‘I called the prosecutor's office,’ she reported to her boss, ‘Ms. Wallis Hardy can't schedule an appointment with you today because she's home sick with a cold -- but tomorrow is the pre-trial hearing for the case. If you want to sign the immunity agreement before the hearing, time will be tight, so --’

She paused and raised the note in her hand.

‘I asked for her home address for you.’

Hestal looked up at her above a pile of case summaries and other documents. His gaze typically made most people in the law firm nervous, except perhaps only for the heartless Mr Holmes; and it took Emma two years under Hestal's employment to stop instinctively worrying about her lipstick smearing under his scrutiny.

In short, the other party simply nodded and asked succinctly, ‘No other appointments this morning?’

‘No, but there are two phone consultations scheduled for this afternoon.’ Emma replied, stepping forward as she did so and handed Herstal the sticky note with the address on it.

Herstal looked down at the sticky note in his hand, presumably estimating the proximity and traffic conditions of the address. He thought for a moment before saying, ‘There's plenty of time.’

‘Yes.’ Emma replied, watching as Herstal, almost compulsively, tidied the stack of documents and shuffled them until they all aligned with the edge of the desk before getting his coat. Then Emma added thoughtfully, ‘If Mr. Holmes comes looking for you this morning, I'll tell him you're out.’

Herstal nodded absentmindedly. At that moment, neither he nor his secretary would know that he would inevitably miss those two phone consultations due to unforeseen circ*mstances.

‘Black hair, tall, probably between 1.8 and 1.9 meters.’ Olga said, standing just behind the technician's chair as she watched the other woman enter the criteria into the database and sift through the information they needed.

The computer's database contained information on people with criminal records all over the United States. Even if they had limited their screening to a few states around where the cases had taken place, it was still like looking for a needle in a haystack. Of course, the more comprehensive and detailed the information they provided, the better.

‘There's a tattoo on his left arm.’ Hunter added, which was evidently one of the pieces of information he'd gotten from the owners of those garages selling stolen cars. ‘His criminal record should involve theft or gang activity, or else he was incarcerated for illegal street racing. People involved in such activities know the best places around the country to offload stolen cars.’

Albarino studied the man in a trance: he should have been a few years short of fifty, but seemed much older than he actually was. Someone who pursued a case like this and paid attention to such tedious and intricate details required exceptional perseverance, and his hard work was all but etched into actual lines piling up on his forehead. Despite this, his eyes looked frighteningly sharp.

‘He should be very young, having only started committing serious crimes in the past two years.’ Olga said, ‘As a general rule, just like his crimes, he himself has just matured—I suggest checking people between twenty and twenty-five.’

And Hunter cautioned, ‘He's travelling regularly, he was in New York State two weeks ago and entered Wasteland at least three days ago -- we should hope he used a credit card at least once, as credit card records could help us track him.’

‘But he obviously used cash when he bought the stolen car.’ Albarino objected.

Hunter gave him a disapproving look, ‘Even someone who is not intending to kill would pay in cash for a stolen car out of caution. But if he's arrogant enough, he might not be so careful when checking into a hotel or buying from a convenience store. As long as he’s used his credit card once, we can find him.’

‘Judging by his boldness in leaving videos for the police, he’s definitely arrogant.’ Olga snorted.

The technician's fingers flew over the keyboard, adding more criteria. Columns of text appeared on the screen. Then with a frown, he said, ‘Guys, there are over a hundred and twenty individuals like the one you're talking about in Westland alone.’

‘That's not all,’ Olga wagged her finger, ‘Check their family backgrounds -- divorced parents, long-term absentee parents for various reasons, adopted, drug-addicted, or those who lost custody due to domestic violence… This murderer's MO, in addition to killing the entire family, is particularly fond of letting the family members torture each other, which we generally attribute to psychological trauma. He must have had a terrible childhood: although this conclusion is cliché, it's quite effective.’

The technician input a few more commands: ‘There's thirty or so individuals left, and while it's not discriminatory, I really have to say that a lot of people with criminal pasts have all sorts of problems in their families as well.’

‘That's true.’ Albarino let out a laugh.

‘How many of these people are the only child?’ Olga asked suddenly.

‘What?’ Hunter's voice sounded bewildered.

‘Only child,’ Olga repeated patiently, ‘He's not picky, but he does have a preference for one-child families, and the one-child families in this series of cases have been particularly brutal.’

‘Nine.’ The technician reported.

Hunter nodded, ‘Okay, that's a small enough range --’

‘Exclude left handed individuals.’ Albarino instructed the technician, ‘One of the cases reported in the papers stated that the father of the family tried to fight back, and had his throat slit by the killer. The newspaper provided photos of the scene, and by looking at the direction of the blood splatter, the killer certainly couldn't have been left-handed.’

‘That only leaves six,’ Olga said quickly as she crossed her chair to look at the computer screen. The screen looked dizzying with the densely packed lists of information about those six people, but Olga quickly reached out and tapped on the screen, pointing to the second photo on the screen, ‘I think this person is the murderer.’

Albarino looked at her speechlessly. Despite knowing Olga for a long time, every time he saw a scene like this it still felt very surreal indeed.

Hunter's reaction was more intense, and he asked gruffly, ‘What?!’

‘The killer had hung an adult male from the roof in the first case, he can't be too weak. That rules out numbers four and six here, those two look like addicts. Number three looks fine, but his medical records show he has lupus, diagnosed after imprisonment. This photo was taken when he was incarcerated and he still looks strong, but he must have gained weight by now due to hormone treatments, this doesn't fit with the eye-witness testimonies of those witnesses. Numbers one and five are married, and a phone call to their wives would tell us if they have an alibi -- but I'm leaning towards the killer being unmarried, so I'll go with number two.’

Olga finished quickly and then looked leisurely at Hunter.

Hunter stared back, dumbfounded.

‘Well,’ Albarino nearly laughed as he interrupted the wordless stare-down, ‘I guess we'd better call the two married men.’

Herstal pulled into a parking space on the side of the road and walked to the front of the beautiful white house.

He didn't care about Bart Hardy's family, so he didn't even know that the man lived there, but Albarino must have known: some strange thoughts went through his mind as he walked up the steps: such as, he guessed that Albarino must have been invited to Hardy's house before, and that he might have walked up these very steps and knocked on the door --.

Herstal frowned suddenly before he reached out his hand to ring the doorbell.

Then without warning, he reached out and pushed the door.

With a long creak, the unlatched door swung open.

Hunter put down the phone and looked to the other two, ‘If they're not lying, their husbands have been home lately.’

‘Then, assuming that neither of them are lying, I'd say go with number two.’ Olga said with a smirk.

‘Of course it's possible that the man paid in cash throughout the whole process, so we didn't screen him out from the suspects at all.’ Hunter said hoarsely as he poured cold water on her, but Olga smiled at him unconcernedly.

At that moment, Albarino, who was staring at the personal data spread out on the computer screen, suddenly spoke up.

‘Maybe I'm being paranoid,’ he said with a frown, ‘but this man's credit card records ...the hotel he recently stayed in is across the street from Bart's daughter's school.’

Olga said ‘What's wrong with that’, and Hunter asked, ‘Who’s Bart?’

Albarino says slowly, ‘I was hoping it wouldn't be that coincidental, but he was supposed to go to the coroner's office today, but suddenly took a phone call and left in the middle, saying that his daughter had some issue at school. Anyway -- now that I think about it, I think that his expression was a bit abnormal.’

Olga slowly frowned as she listened too, and that was when Albarino's mobile phone suddenly rang, interrupted her thoughts. Albarino apologised to them and picked up the phone.

‘Herstal,’ after the caller said something unknown, the other two heard Albarino suddenly say with a smile, ‘So after something like this happened, your first reaction was to call me?’

Chapter 25: 61. The Altar of Isaac (3)

Chapter Text

‘...Even without Bart, it’s obvious,’ Olga whispered as she glanced around, ‘that there was a fight here.’

They stood in the centre of the Hardy's living room, surrounded by chaos: shattered glass vases, a carpet torn from its place, and overturned chairs; the sunlight slanting in through the open doorway added a touch of eerie atmosphere to the whole scene. And Herstal Armalight, who had contacted them, stood at the table, frowning and slightly irritated, but resolutely refused to look at Albarino.

And as if he hadn't noticed the other man's slight unnaturalness, Albarino glanced at Herstal and said, as if nothing had happened, ‘I thought you would call the police.’

‘You can take a look at the computer, the house was dark when I came in here and it was the only thing that was on,’ Herstal gestured to the computer on the table, its screen set to emanate a constant ghostly white light, ‘I don't think it's a good idea to go to the police after reading what's on it. ‘

When he said this, his eyes subtly passed over Albarino's shoulder and looked at Olga. When Olga and Hunter came over, he stepped aside to make room.

Olga peered over and saw that on the computer was an open document with some writing on it:

Dear Officer Hardy:

I assume thatyouhave visited your daughter's school before returning to your home, soyoushould already know what happened to sweet little Clara -- and in the same way, similarly,youshould be able to easily guess what happened toyourwife.

After all of this,youare surely asking the question, ‘Who are you?’

And I'm sureyou'veheard of me; some people call me the ‘Family Executioner’, and others the ‘Family Butcher’, neither of which I like very much, but they can succinctly describe the nature of the gameyou'reabout to face.

Naturally,yourwife and daughter are in my hands. I've placedyourwife high up in the air, much like how the sailors of old made ill-fated women walk the plank. I will make her fall from a great height and kiss the earth; andyourdaughter is in a dark little room, with a gas canister slowly leaking...I've estimated the time:youneed to find them before twelve noon, or they will both die.

This is a simple game with no complicated rules – search, and use the resources atyourdisposal. But be careful, don't letyourfellow police officers know about this or the game will be over much faster thanyouthink.

Yoursfaithfully,

3rd February 2017

In addition: I have attached a video link as a gift toyou, I suspectyouwill like it.

‘I feel,’ Hunter muttered gruffly, ‘that the person who wrote this letter is an unmitigated egomaniac.’

‘I contacted you guys because the person who wrote the letter threatened not to call the police, and I couldn't get through to Officer Hardy on his phone.’ Herstal added coldly in the background.

‘To be precise,’ Albarino glanced at him, and Herstal was sure that there was a mischievous smile in the bastard's eyes, ‘you contacted me.’

Herstal rolled his eyes at him.

‘So it’s obvious that the bastard did kidnap Clara and Wallis, and put them in deadly situations of falling from a height and being poisoned. I just don't know what's going on on Bart's end right now.’ Albarino coughed and said in all seriousness. He touched Olga's shoulder who was holding the computer mouse, ‘Olga, check out that link he gave.’

‘It's coming up.’ Olga replied in a whisper, clicking on the link.

Another new pop-up window quickly popped up, and by the time the image of the new window loaded, everyone in the room gasped: it looked like a surveillance video window with a slightly distorted image. The image was of a small, dimly lit room, with a little girl of no more than ten years old huddled in the corner.

After the image loaded, the little girl suddenly looked in the direction of the camera -- Herstal didn't think she could see the corresponding image from her side, and it was most likely the blinking red light of the camera that caught her attention. She jumped up and ran in the direction of the camera, her voice full of sobs when she opened her mouth.

‘Daddy!’ The child screamed, ‘Daddy, are you back!’

‘Oh my God,’ Herstal heard Albarino whisper, ‘Clara.’

Several minutes earlier --

Bart Hardy was so nervous as he rushed home that it made him feel nauseous.

He didn't naively tell himself that this was all a coincidence: his daughter had disappeared from school, and Wallis wasn't answering her phone. In fact, he'd heard a lot of stories about officers whose family members had been retaliated against by the criminals, but he had never imagined that such a thing could happen to him -- because as bad as law and order was in the city of Westland, he didn't handle gang-related cases that would make him enemies, and it wasn't as if the city's two serial killers had ever been the type to retaliate against police officers ... He had mentally prepared for a lot of things to happen to him once he became a police officer, but not for this one.

And he was nearly right: the door was ajar.

Hardy pushed the door open as the dead silence pressed down on him suffocatingly, as if it held a physical weight. His heart pounding wildly beneath his flesh and bone. His experience as a police officer told him that a fight had occurred in the messy room, and that if he switched on the light, he might even be able to see droplets of blood dripping onto the floor.

He called out Wallis' name without hope, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. The echoes mocked him like a malevolent spirit -- and there was a beam of light in the room, flickering like a dying spirit.

Hardy looked to the lit computer screen.

‘Clara,’ Olga confirmed that the microphone was on, and then spoke softly into the other end of the camera. For the first time, Herstal found it shocking that the usually difficult-to-deal with profiler could actually put on a warm, gentle voice. ‘It's me.’

Clara was obviously familiar with Olga's voice, and she really started crying when she spoke: ‘Olga!’.

‘Hush, don't cry.’ Olga soothed her, ‘Your father spoke to you already didn't he?’

‘Yes, but he left ... He told me to be good and stay here, and he'd find me and mom.’ Clara sobbed in answer.

‘That policeman can be pretty ruthless,’ Hunter whispered behind Olga, ‘If he continued talking to his daughter the whole time, he will become more distracted. For the sake of efficiency, he had to leave her alone, but -- ‘

‘But there's not enough time.’ Olga reached over and covered the computer's audio port, turning around with a frown, ‘The killer said he calculated the time and that both Clara and Wallis would be dead by twelve noon, and it’s now...’

‘Ten minutes short of eleven.’ Albarino looked down at his watch and told her.

Hunter's brow furrowed, ‘Though the Butcher didn't say so outright, he's practically forcing that officer of yours to make a choice -- do any of you feel confident enough to believe that a police officer could, without relying on anyone else’s help, find out within an hour or so the two different locations his wife and daughter are being held in, and get them out one by one? He can't, can he? He can only pick one path, and if he's unlucky, he'll lose both.’

‘It's okay, we can help him.’ Albarino said lightly.

Hunter turned his head to stare at him, like a falcon staring at its prey.

‘Didn't the serial killer tell Bart not to tell other police officers? With all due respect, none of us are police officers.’ Albarino shrugged, ‘Clara and Wallis are going to be fine -- but only if we can get in contact with Bart first, although I don't think he's likely to pick up the phone under these circ*mstances.’

‘Al's right,’ Olga said, ‘Why don't you three stay here and comfort Clara, and see if you can find any evidence in the house while I go to look for Bart. I'm guessing he may have returned to the police station. Although he can't tell anyone else about this, he can always use the resources at hand to check the surveillance or something if he's at the station.’

If Hardy really did go back to the police station, he may have passed them on the way back when they had just received the call from Herstal and headed straight to Hardy's home. Sometimes things were so coincidental that it was deeply frustrating.

Albarino nodded and Olga nodded briefly at them. She consoled Clara with a few words and then turned around and strode out of the house.

But Clara was obviously not really comforted, and the video still dutifully played out her distorted sobs; meanwhile, Albarino walked towards Herstal and gently touched the other man's wrist.

Herstal glared at him.

‘Go,’ Albarino urged, ‘go talk to the little girl.’

‘I don't even know her.’ Herstal hissed in a low voice.

‘Does this bounty hunter look to you like someone who could comfort a ten-year-old girl?’ Albarino tsked, and completely ignored Hunter's glare at him, ‘You're the only one who can do this -- for some reason, Clara's always been a little scared of me ever since she was a little child. Bart thinks it's because I'm a forensic pathologist and work with corpses every day. ‘

Herstal sighed and prepared to approach the computer, pausing just before he brushed past Albarino, and said in a voice so low that only the two of them could hear, ‘That could just be because she possesses a keen instinct when facing danger.’

Albarino flashed him an unpleasant, secretive smile.

The flight from Virginia to Westland took less than eighty minutes.

On their way to the airport, they contacted the Westland police, notifying the WLPD that a possible suspect known as the ‘Family Butcher’ was in Westland. If the FBI wanted to get involved in this case, it would be best to complete the necessary procedures before the plane landed at Westland Airport.

Officer Hardy, who worked with Lavazza Mercader, happened to be away from the police station for some reason, so the case was handed over to a police officer named Bull.

As the plane soared through the boundless blue sky, leaving long contrails behind its wings, Mercader sat in the cabin going through the previous case files as well as the information regarding Orion Hunter: this person appeared to be and unemployed vagrant, seemingly a rude and bad-tempered middle-aged man, with a couple of bad records for getting into bar fights and disrupting police enforcement. Other than that, there was nothing particularly wrong with him.

However, Mercader felt that something was off. Hunter did not fit the profile of a serial killer at all.

-- In hindsight, Mercader would learn that John Garcia's lapse in judgement on Hunter was almost an understandable mistake:

For in some states, bounty hunters needed to be licensed to practice, and in others, becoming a bounty hunter required little more than registering with the proper authorities. In Westland, one can become a legal bounty hunter by registering with the local police department, but naturally the WLPD's bounty hunter list was not shared online…

In short, before meeting with the local police, no one knew that Hunter was a bounty hunter. Since their department did not deal with bail jumpers, of course no one had ever heard of Orion Hunter's great name.

That's why Mercader was now frowning at Hunter's profile, because he didn't seem to fit their profile of the ‘Family Butcher’ particularly well. The man was even twenty or thirty years older than Mercader's profile suggested. Of course, profiling only provided a direction for the investigation, not a conclusion. The profile will always be slightly wrong, and a murderer beyond their expectations will always appear ... but such a large discrepancy was still very surprising.

But, if Orion Hunter wasn't the killer, why did he happen to be in a specific place at a specific time?

Of course, it would be even stranger if he really was a criminal. Mercader had found some of the man’s medical records in his file: Hunter had been admitted to the hospital five years ago for a comminuted leg fracture. The treatment was not very successful and had ended up leaving two steel nails in his leg bone that would probably never be taken out in his lifetime. Mercader suspected that the man would need crutches, and could a man on crutches really so easily control entire families like those in previous cases? Even with a gun in his hand, Mercader doubted it was possible.

He sat by the window, deep in thought until finally Garcia interrupted him. Garcia had been on his laptop earlier, probably communicating with someone from the WLPD online. Now he approached Mercader with a grim expression.

‘The WLPD ran the credit card of that Orion Hunter and found that his last purchase was around ten o’clock this morning when he bought a packet of cigarettes at the convenience store across the street from Westland State University.’ Garcia reported, ‘Then they contacted university security to check the surveillance footage and found Hunter in a nearby car park -- he got into a car in the car park, but it’s unclear where it went.

‘And then what?’ Mercader asked confused, finding such recent traces seemed like significant progress. He didn’t understand why Garcia looked so worried.

Garcia pursed his lips, evidently recalling some unpleasant rumors he’d heard during his time at BAU.

‘That car belongs to Olga Molozer,’ he said.

Hunter had gone to check the rest of the house, the two remaining men heard his limping steps echo further and further away. Herstal stayed by the computer, and for the first time that day, he felt uncharacteristically at a loss. Because if he had to say he wasn't good at something, it would probably be dealing with anything that had to do with children -- whether it was having them, delivering them, or calming crying babies.

But after Olga left, Clara had tried to quiet herself by biting her lip. Although she still looked miserable, she had at least managed to ask Herstal his name after their conversation began, and then started calling him ‘Mr. Armalight’ between her sniffles.

Then, to the best of her ability, she began describing what happened.

‘I shouldn't have left school in the middle of the day, our teacher said before that we weren't allowed to do that.’ she said quietly, sniffling. ‘... But I just wanted to buy some paper and paintbrushes. My mom wasn't feeling well this morning so daddy made me breakfast, and ended up burning my toast ... there was a delay and I forgot to bring the paper... I was going to go back as soon as I could, but someone came out of the side alley and grabbed me, dragging me into the alley and stuffing me into the trunk of their car --’

Albarino recalled the second suspect that Olga had pointed out at the time: a man named Jerome McAdam, whose face now floated obscurely in his memory.

‘Black hair, very tall,’ Albarino said, ‘Dark skin and black eyes?’

‘I can't remember clearly, maybe.’ Clara whispered. Maybe Albarino was right, because once she heard his voice, she somehow spoke even quieter.

‘If you’re really making her nervous, just stop talking.’ Herstal said, frowning at him.

‘You seem quite invested in this case.’ Albarino said suddenly, and Herstal saw a hidden smile flashing in those brightly coloured eyes, ‘I really thought before that when you encountered such a thing -- how should I put it -- that you would walk out of the room pretending as if you hadn't seen anything. I thought you wouldn't care, because it has nothing to do with you after all.’

Herstal once again pressed his hand against the computer's microphone, so that the little girl wouldn’t hear anything she shouldn't hear. He listened carefully and could hear Hunter limping along on the second floor, far away from them.

So he answered simply, ‘It’s not entirely unrelated to me. The suspect kidnapped the prosecutor in charge of my case.’

‘That way the prosecutor might even miss the trial,’ Albarino said with a smile, ‘Which I thought would work in your favour.’

‘That wouldn’t be a fair competition.’ Herstal shook his head disapprovingly, His gaze roamed over Albarino’s face, as if trying to see through the impenetrable mask for any truth. Then he spoke suddenly, ‘And I thought you wouldn't care either.’

‘Why wouldn’t I care? Officer Hardy is a respectable opponent and a good man.’ Albarino replied, his eyelashes lowering elegantly in a look that could be best described as compassionate. Though he was clearly in no position to talk about his admiration for ‘good people’, even this sounded ironic.

He was quiet for two seconds, as if enjoying the silence.

‘Herstal,’ Albarino continued after a moment, ‘It is foreseeable that Bart will inevitably become my enemy one day, but that doesn't mean that I won't help him in such a situation. I admit that I may not feel the same way about certain things as normal people do -- but different feelings don't necessarily have to produce completely different results. Do you understand what I mean?’

Hardy's fingers trembled as he typed on the keyboard.

He pulled up the surveillance footage for the street across his house, only to find out that he was unable to concentrate at all -- the somewhat blurry picture recording the busy traffic all melted into a ball in his eyes.

His heart was pounding, his breathing disorderly, and in the meantime, Officer Bull had come by and mentioned something about Quantico, the other man's voice confused, but Hardy hadn’t listened to a word of it. Finally, the other party came and went along the corridor, and Hardy only felt the burning pain in his eyes.

He understood the killer's implicit insinuations: how cruel it was, that even if he tried his best, he might only be able to save either his wife or his daughters, only one or the other, or possibly even neither. There would never be enough time, every second that ticked away, his little daughter was gradually suffocating to death in a small room, and her cries still lingered in his ears --.

Cars sped by in the surveillance footage, the timeline fast-forwarding rapidly. Hardy felt that he saw nothing suspicious, constantly worrying that he may have already missed the culprit.

And then --

Then a hand tightly grasped his wrist, the strength was beyond his expectations and he felt a burst of pain.

Hardy almost jumped as if he'd been stabbed, and he jerked his head around with such force that he almost twisted his neck. Olga Molozer was standing beside him, she stared at him intently, her eyes burning with cold fire.

‘I know now.’ Olga said succinctly.

Hardy went limp almost as if his strength had been drained.

He wanted to ask something, but the words were all caught in his throat, like hard lumps that he couldn't spit out. Olga nodded lightly at him, her lips twisting into a sneer.

‘Let me quote him. He said, ‘Use the resources at your disposal.’ This person -- a former FBI agent, professor of criminal psychology at Westland State University, and the best profiler the Behavioural Analysis Unit had seen in the past decade -- narrated in a calm voice, ‘Bart, in case you've forgotten, I am your resource.’

Chapter 26: 62. The Altar of Isaac (4)

Chapter Text

Eleven o'clock. (11:00)

Mercader rushed off of the tarmac with such urgency that John Garcia had to jog behind to keep up with him.

Most of their team was handling a difficult kidnapping case and ransom case in North Carolina, leaving just the two of them to deal with the situation in Westland -- which wasn't surprising, seeing as a judge probably wouldn't even sign a warrant based on the mere coincidence of 'one person appearing near all the crime scenes', so there was no need for everyone to make such a trip for an arraignment.

With a mixture of excitement and confusion in his voice, Garcia asked, 'Sir, do you think ...?'

'I think it's highly unlikely that Molozer and the suspect being together is a coincidence.' Mercader's brow furrowed, 'I didn't initially think Hunter was the killer because he didn't match the profile... but profiles can be wrong. If Molozer showed interest in him and even left Westland State University with him --'

As much as he was always reluctant to admit, Olga Molozer was indeed rarely wrong.

'But why would she leave with the suspect? If he really is the killer, shouldn't she at least have called the police?' Garcia asked sharply, clearly reflecting the stories he'd heard about Olga from his colleagues during his time at the department.

Mercader didn't answer, but the question he had considered many times before did cross his mind -- namely, would Olga really do something like that? Would her curiosity one day slip so far down into the dark abyss that she would really become an accomplice to a criminal?

Since she had come into contact with the suspect, her own stance was worth scrutinizing -- if Hunter was indeed the murderer, Olga would have been able to pick up on the clues after meeting him. But since there was no movement on her end as of right now, she must have been hiding something.

Would she ultimately side with a murderer? Succumbing to the sinister pleasure and that terrible curiosity...

'In any case,' murmured Mercader, his voice sounding very grave, 'I must talk to her.'

Seven minutes past eleven. (11:07)

'I suspect that the name of the 'Family Butcher' is Jerome McAdam.' Olga said reasonably.

'Wh- what?' Hardy couldn't help but stutter. Not to mention the fact that he'd just encountered a traumatising situation where his wife and daughter had all been kidnapped by a serial killer, but Olga's abrupt rush in and saying 'I know what's happening and I've found the killer for you' was a bit too much for his heart to handle.

'It's a long story, it involves a bounty hunter, blah blah blah, it's not important.' Olga waved her hand, deciding to gloss over Hunter's business for now, otherwise the story would be a bit too long. 'Anyway, I'm investigating the serial killer and have defined a range based on the profile. The most likely suspect is Jerome McAdam -- twenty-four years old, lives alone; he's a victim of domestic violence. According to the local social workers, his mother favoured his brother over him and beat him a lot, in any case, she ended up being stripped of custody, and McAdam grew up in an orphanage. He's got a juvenile history of brawling, burglary and arson. And his appearance matches some of the eyewitness testimonies.'

Hardy digested the information quickly, he thought about it for a moment, then admitted, 'A typical serial killer profile.'

'-- Standard to the point of being boring, not that all serial killers wet the beds and commit arson.' Olga snorted lazily, 'And it's basically confirmed now that bought a stolen car with a changed license plate and repainted it to get to the crime scene, but I presume there's not enough time to start investigating Westland's black market cars now. How far have you gotten with the investigation?'

'Comparing cars that pass in front of my daughter's school and my house.' Hardy admitted, 'It's difficult, my house is near a main road, there's too many cars -- not to mention in front of the school, it's even worse.'

'When did Clara go missing?' Olga asked, she looked past Hardy's gaze at the CCTV windows lined up on the screen.

'Before the craft class started, between ten past nine and nine thirty.' Hardy answered immediately, he'd asked for this sort of information after he'd gone to the school.

Olga nodded, obviously deep in thought, 'You go to work at 8:30, your house is very close to the police station, even taking into account the traffic jams, the journey shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. However, the murderer would not risk acting out before you left for work for safety reasons. The last time I visited your home, Wallis said that Clara's school bus stopped in front of your house at eight forty. The process of committing the crime...by the way, how was Clara abducted?'

'She left school to buy supplies for her craft class.' Hardy said bitterly.

He knew about his daughter's craft class, but he had forgotten to remind her to bring the materials before he left for work that morning. If he had remembered to remind her, Clara definitely would not have left the school.

'So it was an unexpected opportunity, definitely beyond the serial killer's expectations.' Olga laughed suddenly, her voice bursting with a bit of excitement, 'I surmise that his M.O. went something like this: he'd been stalking the area around your house, then realised that Wallis had taken the day off from work and so decided to strike today. He didn't have an opportunity to strike when Clara took the school bus in the morning, so he had planned to wait for her to get out of school, but he hadn't expected that Clara would leave the school in the middle of the day...he first abducted Clara from the school, then went back to your house to attack Wallis, before taking the two with him to who knows where after that.'

Hardy's eyes widened a little, 'That means ...'

'I'm sorry, but I reckon this murderer's target after coming to Westland was your family from the beginning.' Olga shrugged.

Hardy was speechless for a moment.

Olga looked at Hardy's ugly expression and sighed before continuing, 'There's no point in saying more now, the most important thing is to find the person first, and then we can ask the motive. Only then will we know why he chose you. But even if Clara had disappeared at ten past nine, the murderer could only arrive at your doorstep after half past nine. I suggest you start your investigation from this point.'

Hardy nodded: he'd just been looking at the footage from Clara's school, but hadn't yet looked at the ones from his own doorstep.

He pulled up a new window and explained to Olga, 'There is no camera facing my door, but this camera is located at the intersection in front of my house. If you want to drive from Clara's school to the driveway in front of my house, you must turn around at this intersection.'

'I'm sure he drove.' Olga muttered.

Hardy dragged the timeline to nine-thirty, then adjusted the speed to play four times as fast, and the picture began to play rapidly forwards. The traffic flowed smoothly across the screen: the road was not particularly congested during the morning rush hour, and there were not many cars turning around at the intersection. However, the possibilities were still so numerous that it felt despairingly desperate.

Olga seemed to understood what he was feeling inside, so she even willingly patted him on the shoulder in a comforting nature.

'It's okay,' she said in a light voice, 'Looking at the scene at your house, the fight happened very quickly. We only need to check the footage between nine-thirty and nine-forty-five. We should note all SUVs, the car he purchased for other cases were all SUVs -- eliminate red and other brightly coloured ones, and pay more attention to gray and black cars. After all, it's human nature to want to keep a low profile when stalking'

Olga's voice trailed off as the security camera fast-forwarded to nine thirty-nine.

She started hitting Hardy's arm. 'Stop, stop, look at that car.'

-- Olga poked the screen with her finger: there was a black SUV making a U-turn at the intersection on the monitor. Hardy paused the video and felt a flicker of anticipation in his heart.

'I remember these streets have all uniformly been replaced with HD cameras in the past two years, let's see if we can zoom in.' Olga said.

Hardy followed her instructions and enlarged the images. The high-definition cameras were indeed high-definition enough. It seemed that the Ministry of Transportation's propaganda of 'clearly seeing from the cameras whether the driver is playing on their phone or not' was indeed not an exaggeration. However, although the camera could capture the windscreen of the car, it was very unfortunate that the driver's face could not be seen clearly: the driver's face was obscured by sunglasses and the brim of their baseball cap pulled down low. While it was indeed strange to dress like this while sitting in a car, it was not concrete evidence that he was really the suspect.

'Rewind for a few seconds, rewind back to the shot of the side of the car. Just there, it looked to me like there was something on the side of the body.' Olga said.

Hardy clicked the mouse, and the screen went back a few seconds; Olga took the mouse from Hardy's hand and adjusted the zoom ratio to the maximum so that it was possible to see that there was a long scratch on the side of the car, likely from an accident.

Olga tapped the screen again, 'Did you notice that the paint on this car is black, but the layer underneath the part where the paint was scratched off is red. Have you ever seen a car that was red before it was painted?'

'...This car was repainted?' Hardy's voice rose.

'Nine times out of ten, isn't it human nature to paint a stolen high-profile red car black?' Olga said as she turned suddenly and grabbed the laptop on Hardy's desk, 'You keep tracking where this car is going, and I'll take a look at the rest of the footage just to be on the safe side: if the driver of this car has been stalking you for a long time, this car must appear often around your home.'

Eleven-fourteen. (11:14)

'Okay, Clara.' Herstal asked patiently, 'What do you see?'

'There is a very narrow window near the roof of the room, and I can't open the door, it won't budge.' Clara reported. Apparently the camera the killer had left her with had a rather narrow field of view, she only needed to take a few steps to disappear from Herstal's sight. 'There's nothing in the room, except for a metal shelf high up with a ... metal can on it.'

'A metal can?' A sense of foreboding rose in Herstal's heart.

'It's hissing slowly and there's an awful smell.' Clara said, her voice breaking into a sob as she spoke the last word, 'Is that poisonous? Will I die?'

'It's okay, we'll find you soon and nothing will happen.' Herstal reassured her stiffly, glancing in Albarino's direction as he did so: the person who had pushed him into this helpless situation was roaming around the room like nothing was happening, refusing to even take half a step closer to the computer.

Herstal was not surprised. Albarino probably enjoy watching him struggle with situations he wasn't familiar with: whether it was him being kidnapped by a perverted murderer or him having to comfort a kidnapped little girl.

'You're so nice.' The little girl said tearfully.

-- Hearing her say that, Herstal couldn't help but glare at Albarino again. The other party exaggeratedly covered his chest in a corner where Clara couldn't see him with a fake, melodramatic, 'I'm so heartbroken' expression.

'Are you able to reach that metal can?' Herstal continued, trying to push aside his urge to curse. Right now, finding a way to solve the problem of Clara dying of carbon monoxide poisoning was the most important thing.

Once again, Clara left the range of the screen, obviously trying to reach the metal can. After a short while she returned, her voice sounding frustrated, 'I can't reach it, it's placed too high up... I feel a little sick and my head is starting to hurt.'

You didn't even need to be a doctor to understand what this meant: it was clearly an early symptom of carbon monoxide poisoning. It appeared that the concentration of carbon monoxide in the room had gradually increased.

Albarino had obviously heard her, because he almost immediately threw away his 'stay away and don't get close' rule out the window. He quickly returned to the screen and leaned over Herstal's shoulder. He didn't seem to mind that his lips were almost brushing against the other man's earlobe.

He said, 'Clara, sit down and don't walk or run ...stay away from the can, that's right.'

The child sat down as she was told and curled up into a tiny ball in the camera feed.

Carbon monoxide intake can be reduced with slow and steady breathing, but that method may not be enough to support her for long either. According to the serial killer, the concentration of carbon monoxide in the room would be enough to kill by about twelve o'clock, and long before that, deep carbon monoxide poisoning could result in irreversible damage to the person.

-- Leaving them with not enough time.

t was around this time that Hunter limped back in, undoubtedly bringing yet another piece of bad news. As soon as he entered the room, he shouted, 'All I found was that the woman was dragged out of bed, nothing else. No clue where that son of a bitch went.'

No one had the time to address the issue of adults using foul language in front of a child. Herstal pinched his brow with a headache and realised that this wasn't going to work, 'Clara, do you have any idea how long it took to get from your house to where you're currently being held?'

'The man put me in the trunk,' Clara said, 'but I know it took eighteen minutes.'

She held up her wrist to show Herstal her cute light blue watch: one of those glow-in-the-dark cartoon watches popular among kids. And true to form, Clara, being the daughter of one of the WLPD's best homicide police officers, had remembered to look at her watch to calculate the time while being kidnapped, something most little girls wouldn't have thought to do.

Albarino obviously understood what Herstal was trying to do. He turned to Hunter and asked, 'Do you have a map of the city? And a pen?'

'A bounty hunter has everything on him, young man.' Hunter winked at him slyly. He nimbly dropped the backpack he'd been carrying on his back earlier and pulled out a large map and two different coloured markers.

'The speed limit in the city averages sixty kilometres per hour, but consider the morning rush hour and you'll be thankful to go over forty.' Albarino said as he used the marker as a makeshift ruler to measure the scale of the map, 'Even if the car drove straight for eighteen minutes, it would only go as far as ...'

He quickly did some mental calculations and drew a circle on the map centered on Hardy's house, within which were all possible locations where the murderer had imprisoned Clara.

Meanwhile, Herstal continued asking Clara for more details, his voice as gentle as he could manage -- though Albarino could still detect a stiff undertone in his voice -- it was definitely enough to surprise the interns he'd scared into tears and the opposing lawyers he had mocked.

After a moment, Clara suddenly cried out, 'I remember! The car kept stopping and starting for a few minutes before it stopped completely. I could hear lots of honking! Until the car turned to the side of the road and stopped!'

'There must have been a traffic jam. You guys should thank God that I know Westland very well.' Hunter said loudly as he staggered closer, his cane thumping the ground. Then he jerked the marker away from Albarino and began to scribble on the map, 'The killer was stuck in traffic before he reached his destination, and these are the only two roads near the edge of this circle that experience morning rush hour traffic ...'

He marked two perfectly parallel streets on the map, both located at the eastern edge of the circle. Both streets led to the city's financial district, lined with office buildings, so it was no wonder there was a traffic jam.

Herstal leaned over to look at the map, still tense and obviously not at all relaxed by this discovery, 'So she must be near one of these two roads right now, the question is: which one is it.'

Searching every potential hideout that could be holding a little girl along even one of the streets was already challenging enough, let alone both. Judging by the limited time left, they couldn't afford any chance of a wrong judgement.

Eleven-twenty. (11:20)

'Judging from the surveillance, that car has indeed been frequenting your neighbourhood lately. I think it's the suspect's car.' Olga threw away the mouse and said, 'What have you got on your end.'

'I could tell he was heading east of the city, but I quickly lost him on the security footage.' Hardy said in frustration, 'Once you lose him on the two intersections, it's practically impossible to find his car again.'

Olga agreed deeply: the east side of the city was quite busy, with high traffic volumes. It would only be a waste of time to check the cameras one by one.

'He probably reached your house around nine-forty, and it must have taken until about nine-fifty to kidnaps Wallis and sets off again.' Olga considered, 'He likely didn't take her far, but if he went to the east side of the city... where did you lose track of him?'

Hardy reported a place that was towards the east of the city, an urban area that was known for its wide lanes and intricate roads and overpasses, any cars going in that direction was basically like a drop of water blending into the ocean. It would basically be impossible to find an answer if you didn't call in an entire team of police officers to check out the CCTV footage day and night.

It was at this time that a new message alert suddenly popped up on Olga's mobile phone. It was from Albarino. She looked down for a few moments, then blinked and suddenly smiled.

'There's an update from Al and the others, they've determined that the killer's car must have passed one of two roads, so that narrows it down by quite a lot.' Olga said, naming the streets while her fingers rapidly typed on the keyboard to input the vehicle's characteristics.

'Wait a minute ... Al?' Hardy was oblivious to the recent developments. He had no idea that shortly after he had left the house, Herstal had gone to find Wallis.

'Uh huh, they're helping to save your daughter.' Olga hummed vaguely, but there was obviously no time to explain in more detail.

Now of course, they could theoretically line up the security footage from both roads and observe them one by one, but given the amount of traffic and their limited time, this approach seemed very impractical. But Hardy had already started desperately pulling up the CCTV footage from both streets, while Olga went back to her laptop and started typing away.

'I'm guessing the killer went in that direction to tie Wallis to a building and complete his setup.' Olga murmured, 'This can help us define a range: not too far away from the financial district, since he can't be sure how fast you'll react; also, the serial killer would have picked a building that was suitable for the crime, unoccupied, and high enough. This kind of killer who loves to leave the police with video footage of him mutilating his victims usually have a tendency to flaunt their peaco*ck feathers. If he had to choose, he would definitely choose to have a prosecutor fall from a great height and experience a bloody fall smashing into the pavement. Any buildings under ten floors don't even need to be considered; lastly, he'd definitely pick a building that's unoccupied, there's no ordinary homes in that area, and if he wanted to commit a crime during the daytime, he would definitely have chosen a building that's not in use.'

Hardy walked over briskly and couldn't help but ask, 'That area is very busy, won't he worry about being discovered?'

'To be honest, serial killers never lack the confidence that they won't get caught.' Olga snorted and laughed. She pulled up a map marked in red, 'Oh, here: there's a series of buildings that were developed near the direction the Butcher was heading. Three high-end office buildings, all over twenty stories tall; they were built but have remained unoccupied because of failed fire safety inspections.'

Hardy looked at Olga in horror.

'Yes, I mean exactly what you think.' Olga confirmed in a calm tone.

Eleven twenty-three. (11:23)

Albarino suddenly exclaimed, 'Ah!' and stared fixedly ahead, prompting the other two to look at him. Suddenly he asked Clara, 'How's the soundproofing in the room you're in?'

'Not good,' Clara replied through her tears, 'I can hear cars passing on the street outside.'

Albarino smiled with satisfaction and took out his phone before dialling 911. When the call was answered, Albarino said to the operator in a convincingly urgent and anxious tone, 'Hello, I'm at the intersection of 15th Avenue and Klem Road. There's an elderly man here who's collapsed and is convulsing. We need an ambulance. '

-- 15th Avenue was one of the two congested roads.

Herstal raised his eyebrows as Albarino calmly hung up and explained, 'There's a hospital at the end of 15th Avenue. They'll dispatch an ambulance that will travel the entire length of 15th Avenue before it reaches the intersection with Klem Road -- Clara, if you hear ambulance sirens, let us know immediately.'

'So,' Herstal said, 'if she hears the ambulance, she's on 15th Avenue. If not, she's on the other street.'

'Let's hope so,' Albarino replied, winking. 'Or there might just happen to be another ambulance passing near her street, or maybe the traffic jam she encountered was just a sudden congestion caused by a car accident, and we've misjudged the street -- then it's just a case of us not being blessed by the Fates.'

He was right; without other evidence, this was their best course of action. So all they could do was wait – each passing second that ticked by was excruciating, and at the same time, it was clear that the concentration of carbon monoxide in the small room Clara was in was getting higher and higher. They could hear the girl starting to dry-heave.

Then, after about five minutes or so, finally --

'I hear an ambulance!' They heard the girl call out.

Eleven thirty. (11:30)

'Good news, Al says they've basically pinpointed where Clara is and they're heading that way right now.' Olga explained as she and Hardy hurried through the front lobby of the WLPD, past the same place where they had once set up the Christmas tree. They'd had to delay for a few more minutes just now, searching for any other eligible high-rise buildings in the vicinity of the murderer's recent activity sites -- the little time they would have to search after they arrive would be precious, and if they were to search in the wrong place from the get go, it would be all over.

But there was good news: there really weren't that many buildings that matched the criteria, only those three.

Three buildings weren't many, but searching them one by one would still waste time. However, with both of them working together, they had a good chance. The morning rush hour had passed, and if the speed limit weren't taken into consideration, it would only take about fifteen minutes by car to get to the location of those office buildings.

But just as the two of them were about to walk out of the police station --

'Molozer!'

Hearing the familiar voice call her name, Olga stopped abruptly and looked up to see Lavazza Mercader standing at the entrance of the police station with a grim face and furrowed brow. Moreover... this person subtly placed one hand on his shirt hem, right where his waist holster was located.

'I need to talk to you, Molozer -- now.' Mercader's voice was cold, and his expression was unusually complex -- Olga actually knew what such a look meant, but she tended not to think about it in detail, 'I came when Officer Bull called to tell me that you were at the station now.'

Olga stared at him, then suddenly grinned.

'What would you do if I don't want to talk to you?' She asked nonchalantly, 'Are you determined to shoot me this time?'

Chapter 27: 63. The Altar of Isaac (5)

Chapter Text

Eleven thirty-one. (11:31)

Olga was blocked in the doorway by Mercader, and the other officers in the hall turned to look in their direction. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hardy quietly slipping out of the station, evidently taking it upon himself to find Wallis.

At this point, explaining everything to Mercader wouldn't have necessarily been difficult (and she knew that he would believe her if she told him), however, Olga was wary of explaining the situation easily to him.

-- The consequence of telling Mercader the truth would likely result in a fully armed SWAT team storming the crime scene, even though the killer had explicitly warned against involving the police...this couldn’t even be blamed on Mercader. Deploying one or more SWAT teams to the kidnapping site to rescue the hostage was standard procedure, and a mere ‘the killer said not to involve the police’ wouldn't stop them.

How strong were the Butcher's counter-surveillance capabilities? Would he choose to throw Wallis off the building at the first sight of anything suspicious? Olga really didn't want to take that risk.

She desperately wanted to sigh and head to the ‘I Quit’ bar for a drink -- the name of the bar had never felt more appropriate -- and Mercader, with a taut face, finally stated the purpose of his sudden appearance in Westland.

‘You should know of the serial killer, the ‘Family Butcher,’ who was previously in Buffalo,’ he said, ‘and whom we suspect to be a man by the name of Orion Hunter – someone who was seen with you before. Do you know where he is, Molozer?’

Olga really couldn't help but roll her eyes at Mercader and the unknown sidekick behind him.

‘I've imagined you making a lot of mistakes, Mercader.’ She said sincerely, ‘But the mistake you’ve made today was definitely the stupidest one I could have ever imagined.’

Eleven thirty-eight. (11:38)

‘Albarino, we have to go faster.’ Herstal urged, ‘She's not answering me anymore.’

-- The situation was now this: Albarino, Herstal, and old Hunter were all crammed into Herstal's Rolls-Royce Phantom, with Albarino behind the wheel. He was usually a steady driver, but now he was driving as fast as he could, cutting the time it took to travel by half.

Under normal circ*mstances, Herstal would have died before letting Albarino touch the steering wheel of his car, but now he could only sit in the passenger seat with Hardy's laptop on his lap, connected to Hunter's mobile hotspot.

They didn't dare break contact with Clara so easily, but at this point in time, it could only be used to show them how the silent footsteps of Death was slowly approaching: Clara had thrown up once while they were leaving Hardy's house, and now she was just nestled weakly in a corner that was just within the range of the camera, letting out indistinct moans whenever Herstal called her name.

‘Clara said it took eighteen minutes from Bart's house, and about five minutes from that hospital.’ Albarino's fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel, ‘The lanes aren't as congested in this direction now as they were in the morning, and I'm pretty sure I just ran two red lights ...we're probably almost there -- Herstal, is she still able to answer you?’

‘I'm afraid not.’ Herstal replied with frown.

Trying to find the location where Clara was being held instantly became more troublesome. From her description, she’ve should be in a basem*nt, but ... Herstal glanced around through the car window: both sides of the street were lined with single-family homes, each one likely having a basem*nt.

Old Hunter cursed gruffly in the back seat, while Albarino didn’t seem too desperate. He remained focused and concentrated on looking straight ahead, saying: ‘Just there, Clara mentioned that there was a window in the roof. We just need to find a house with a basem*nt above ground level… Herstal, can you hear the sounds of vehicles honking outside if you turn the volume up?’

The street was somewhat congested, with horns blaring sporadically. Herstal did as he was told, listening for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, but it's very faint.’

‘That doesn't matter, use the same method as earlier.’ Albarino nodded, ‘I’ll continue to honk the horn to distinguish it from the horns of other cars. When you can hear the sound of the horn from the computer, we must be very close to the basem*nt, and then we can get out of the car to search.’

Hunter kept peering forward from the back seat of the car to look at the computer screen in front of him, then he said rather bluntly, ‘Then you'd better hurry, I'm afraid the little girl won't last much longer.’

Eleven forty. (11:40)

‘Hunter's just a bounty hunter, nothing more. Didn't the WLPD’s registration files confirm that?’ Olga said in annoyance. She was now sitting behind the table of an interrogation room -- an unusual position for her as she usually sat on the other side of the table -- but since she wasn't handcuffed, she casually propped her feet onto the table.

‘Yes, he does appear to be a bounty hunter from the registration papers. But until he can provide the police with an alibi, he's still a suspect. You know the procedure.’ Mercader insisted, ‘And until we bring him in, you can't leave; it’s protocol…and it’s for your own good too.’

Although the conflicted expression on his face indicated that he seemed to have something else on his mind that he was holding back.

Olga snorted, feeling a little annoyed by the time that was slowly slipping away. ‘Even if I say I have more important things to do now, that won't work?’

‘Nothing will work unless you tell us why he came looking for you.’ Mercader shook his head in exasperation, his frown deepening, ‘I don't understand Molozer, if he's not the murderer in this case, what the hell do you have to hide? Tell me what you're with Hunter for and I'll let you go.’

The whole reason for her concealment was, of course, to keep the WLPD from sending a whole SWAT team to the murderer's location. Olga rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

‘In fact, you don't even believe in your heart that he's a suspect in the Buffalo case; your professional judgement told you a long time ago that he doesn't fit the profile, didn't it? You're just holding onto this now simply because the person you really don't trust is me.’ Olga didn't bother to hide the vicious note of sarcasm in her voice. She had figured out long ago the best wording to use to jab at Lavazza Mercader by mentioning these past events, ‘Does this scene look familiar? It's almost like going back to my time in the BAU, the time when you went to the higher-ups and told them that although I had a high crime solving rate, my personality was not trustworthy?’

‘Olga!’ Mercader suddenly raised his voice, visibly losing his composure.

Then Olga shut up and they were silent for a difficult ten seconds. Immediately afterwards Mercader said slowly, ‘…I want to trust you emotionally. I know you’re the best among us.’

Olga coldly interjected, ‘But intellectually --’

‘But intellectually, I must remind our superior of the many problems with your personality.’ Mercader continued calmly, his gaze lowering, ‘...I'm in charge of the BAU now, I have to do things like this.’

‘But what exactly is wrong with my personality?’ Surprisingly, Olga softened her tone when she spoke again, like a predator silently stalking its prey in the grass.

Then she continued, ‘Haven't you heard the famous quote by Frederick Wiseman[1]? ‘The camera should be like a fly on the wall.’ An excellent observer should remain unnoticed by the observed -- if I knew who the Butcher was, why would I happily join his tasteless hunt?’

[1] American documentary film director and screenwriter.

‘You would not.’ Mercader said with certainty.

‘So?’ Olga huffed, ‘I notice I'm still stuck in the interrogation room.’

Mercader was silent for a few more seconds, as if hesitating about something. Hesitation made him less like him; the head of the BAU had always been vigorous and resolute.

Then he suddenly raised his eyes, looked straight at Olga, and asked, ‘But supposing this excellent observer were sitting in the best seats in the theatre, could she really tolerate others interrupting this performance?’

Olga was silent for a moment and opened her mouth to say something, but just at that moment, there was a knock on the door. Mercader took a deep breath and tried in vain to smoothen his composure, then turned and opened the door.

Outside the door stood John Garcia, who had no intention of hiding the excitement in his voice, ‘Sir, two officers on patrol near 15th Avenue have sent word that while following a speeding Rolls Royce on the road, they noticed that one of the men in the car had a profile that matched Orion Hunter's description.’

‘Is that so? Let’s discuss it outside.’ Mercader replied, glancing back at Olga, who was still lounging back in her chair, watching him coldly.

‘I'll talk to you when I get back.’ Mercader told her.

Eleven forty-two. (11:42)

-- Hardy could already see the three buildings from among the forest of towering structures.

His experience patrolling the streets and alleys of Westland before his promotion to an officer was finally paying off. In just about ten minutes, he had taken a shortcut and was now approaching the three unused buildings.

Two of the three buildings had already been constructed, their tempered glass shimmering in the noon sunlight. The construction of the third had halted because the fire safety design review for the first two buildings had not yet been approved, leaving scaffolding and green netting still in place on the top floors.

Hardy himself, of course, trusted Albarino with his daughter's side of things -- he had no other choice, given the current circ*mstances. Even so, managing just one side of things was starting to become overwhelming. Thoroughly searching all three buildings seemed like an impossible task; if Olga had been there, they could have split up, but now ...

Hardy took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm the deafening pounding of his heart.

Eleven forty-three. (11:43)

‘I can hear the horn.’ Herstal said.

At the same time, Albarino jerked the steering wheel abruptly and the car came to a sharp stop on the side of the road. It had to be said that his parking skills were impressively clean and sharp, but then again -- the other drivers who had been startled by his sudden movements were honking their horns furiously behind him. On top of this, where they were currently parked certainly wasn't a legal parking spot.

Albarino, of course, didn't care so much. He simply opened the door and jumped out of the car, turning back to Hunter before he got out and said, ‘You call an ambulance first, and also help me find out where I can borrow an ice pack. If the ambulance doesn't come right away, I'll need to administer emergency first aid treatment.’

By the time he said the last few words, he had already swiftly jumped onto the pavement and vaulted over a fence, landing into the yard of the nearest house. But of course, this was the only way they could find the basem*nt, although theoretically, this probably violated certain laws.

Herstal was a few steps slower than him, only managing to catch a glimpse of his back as he leapt into someone else's yard. To some extent, he still felt annoyed, but probably more surprised: Albarino was becoming much more active in this matter than he would have ever expected, because he should not care. Herstal knew that ‘because Officer Hardy is a respectable opponent’ was still not good enough of a reason either.

It was true that Albarino could, at certain times, give off a strange illusion of inherent gentleness. Such as when he woke up in the other's cabin cornered by a dim light or the hint of a smile on the corner of Albarino's mouth when he had handed him that bell on Christmas Eve.

Thus, he couldn't help but want to sigh.

Eleven forty-five. (11:45)

Garcia reported that the two officers had tailed the car for two blocks before unfortunately being outpaced by the other car at a frighteningly high speed -- but Mercader didn't feel too anxious. He simply asked Officer Bull to arrange for more men to be sent over to search the area.

‘The Rolls-Royce should be relatively easy to find,’ he said, ‘and in any case, don't do anything rash once you find it; we don't have a warrant, so we'll have to ask him to come to the station and talk to us.’

Despite his words, Garcia still looked excited, as if finding Orion Hunter would definitely confirm him to be the murderer ...But now, Mercader hesitated: Olga was right. He had checked the registration documents within the WLPD, Hunter was indeed a bounty hunter. Was it all just a coincidence, as Olga had said? But why would Hunter, a bounty hunter, be investigating the case of the Butcher? And why wouldn't Olga say anything?

He had a vague premonition that the situation had gradually spiralled beyond his control and was gradually leading to an even worse outcome.

He tried to shake off this ominous premonition and arranged for Garcia to continue to follow up on the investigation. Then, after that, he walked back to the interrogation room and hoped to pry something out of Olga again -- when he was no longer standing in front of Olga, he realized that he was silently praying (he didn't believe in a god, so who was he praying to?) that Olga hadn't actually cooperated with the Family Butcher, who wasn’t even in line with her usual taste for criminals.

These thoughts flitted through his mind like snowflakes, so subtle that he was barely aware of them himself. Then he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

His hand froze.

Olga was gone.

The chair in which she had sat before was empty. The window of the interrogation room had been pried open a crack, and through that crack, a steady stream of cold air poured in, like some kind of mockery, coldly and blatantly displayed in front of Lavazza Mercader's face.

Eleven forty-nine. (11:49)

‘Over here!’

When Albarino heard Herstal's voice, he had just trampled over the freshly tidied flowerbeds of two yards and avoided a barking dog. It's difficult for the average person to imagine the series of chaotic events that unfold behind the scenes of a rescue against the race of time.

He reached Herstal by jumping over a Canadian red maple that had not yet sprouted new leaves, and in the process he accidentally broke a few of its branches. The latter was now standing in front of the basem*nt of a neglected house, where a small figure could be seen huddled on the dirty floor through a greyish window. The window rose a foot above the ground and appeared to have never been cleaned before.

Jerome McAdam was from Buffalo and it wasn’t like he would be staying here long term. This house was most likely an unsold home that he had holed up in. Houses along this stretch of road were extremely expensive, and the people who could afford to pay that amount of money were more likely to find a house more comfortable than to settle down here. The real estate agents probably did not have many customers who wanted to view the house every day.

These questions would be answered once the suspect was caught. Now was not the time to think about this. The two men exchanged a glance before Albarino rushed to the door in two strides and kicked it open.

Unlike the way it often played out in forensic crime dramas, forensic scientists and profilers would never, ever go to a suspect's door and kick it in on a regular basis. Albarino's actions were unfamiliar and slightly clumsy, but the good news was that the results were effective: the door opened with a crisp sound of cracking wood.

The two men walked inside, and Albarino had a feeling that something was amiss -- he worried that the suspect could be nearby; the Family Butcher enjoyed watching his victims fall into despair up close. If he thought it was more likely that Hardy would sacrifice his wife than his child, he might have chosen to stay put.

Herstal quietly removed a knife from the inside pocket of his suit, the blade glinting coldly as he unfolded it -- no one else could have imagined the aloof and reserved lawyer carrying a knife, except Albarino, only he could imagine Herstal rising up at any moment to suddenly stab his unintelligent clients in the skulls to entertain himself.

Herstal gave Albarino a condemning look, presumably because the little inexplicable smile on the other man's face unnerved him. He asked, ‘Where's that gun of yours?’

‘On me,’ Albarino shrugged, ‘but who knows what the carbon monoxide concentration is in that basem*nt. I don't want to set off an explosion when the gun is fired.’

As they talked, they had already made their way down the stairs and rushed to the basem*nt door; Albarino, as he had done previously, kicked the door open again. The door swung open under the force with an unwieldy thud. Albarino heard Herstal remark coldly, ‘Much more skilful this time.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Albarino said helplessly, and a particularly pungent scent of gas rushed out of the chamber head-on at them. Herstal let out a low curse and held his breath as he rushed inside, while Albarino followed close behind.

Clara lay soundlessly where she was, her skin had already changed to a cherry-red colour from the poisoning. Herstal gently picked her up carefully and took a few steps towards the door, while Albarino, who stood beside him, shifted his gaze elsewhere.

-- In the corner of the basem*nt, there was a small door.

This was a common design: a freight passage leading to the upper floors, allowing heavy items to be conveniently transported directly to the basem*nt without needing to carry them up steep, difficult steps. Clara had noticed this door before, but it had obviously been nailed shut and could not be easily opened with the strength of a little girl.

But now Albarino looked at the little door, and an ill sense of foreboding swept over him.

-- He had seen all the information that old Hunter had collected regarding the modus operandi of the Butcher. After he forced his victims to choose between their partners and their children, he would kill them one by one, regardless of the choice they made in the end. No one was able to escape the hands of the serial killer.

Albarino didn't think Bart would be an exception.

And if this serial killer's prediction from the start was that Bart would go to Clara's rescue, then there had to be a trap waiting for him here.

Although the freight passage leading upstairs was nailed shut, oxygen mixed with carbon monoxide must still be leaking out little by little into the passage through the gaps --

Then they heard a clang, the sharp metallic sound of something hitting the metal pipes of the freight passage.

It was such a familiar scene that it bordered to the point of irony: it had been the same on Christmas Eve, when Herstal had thrown that silver bell into the exhaust pipe. The very thing that symbolised death in some way -- later, the fire fighters would find a piece of blackened and twisted metal among the wreckage of the room, which was the lighter that had been thrown down the freight tunnel.

When the concentration of carbon monoxide in the air is between 12.5% ​​and 74.5%, it will explode when it encounters any open flame. They had almost made it to the door when the crash sounded, but then, the ensuing events all happened so fast --

Albarino realised he didn’t have time to shout; and Herstal hadn't reacted yet. Everything that happened next was purely based off of his instincts. He suddenly grabbed Herstal's elbow and shoved him out of the room, and the next second, the sound of an explosion rang out with earth-shattering force.

Something burned, something broke and fell, and tongues of flames almost licked the tips of Albarino's hair as they seared past. They were blown away by the blast and the ensuing wave of air -- the sensation at that moment was almost strange and comical -- Albarino used his body almost entirely by instinct to sheild Herstal from the flames, while the other man tried to protect Clara in his arms before they were flung onto a pile of hard steps.

In short, neither tasks went very smoothly. Albarino was thrown heavily onto the stairs by the wave of air, the sharp pain of the collision almost causing him to black out. At the same time, the ceiling of the basem*nt crashed onto the ground behind him, kicking up a wave of dust filled with the smell of char.

For many seconds, Albarino's ears were only ringing. Dazed, he propped himself up, then realised that Herstal's torso was almost bent into an arch, at least avoiding Clara's fate of almost being crushed underneath two adult males.

Herstal's fingers were scratched, and when he turned around, Albarino realised that his lips were bleeding as well. The other person looked at him with a tight frown, his lips opened and closed, but the sound was all but drowned out by the buzzing in Albarino's ears.

Albarino gestured to the other man, pointing to his ear and then shook his head. He might have been smiling, because he suddenly noticed Herstal's lips parting slightly and his chest rising and falling -- which meant he was sighing. Though he couldn't hear anything for the time being, Albarino realised that he understood the other person so well that he didn't need the guidance of sound.

Possibly realising that this way of communication wasn’t working, Herstal wrapped one hand around Clara, and with the other hand, he reached out and touched Albarino's shoulder.

In that instant, it was as if the pain finally penetrated the numb haze. Albarino gasped suddenly, and at the same time Herstal drew back his hand, opened his palm, and showed it to Albarino.

-- From his fingertips, a thick, red, liquid dripped downwards.

Eleven fifty-two. (11:52)

Old Hunter had called 911, but hadn't succeeded in borrowing an ice pack. Now he was standing stupidly in front of the obscenely expensive Rolls-Royce, holding a bag of frozen peas and a towel. He was sure that he was the dumbest looking person ever to stand in front of a Rolls-Royce.

It was at this moment that the explosion sounded.

He saw tongues of fire erupting from the basem*nt of a house, and the windows shattering outwards with a loud bang; for a split second, the bright light was so blinding it stung his eyes. The alarm systems of all the cars along the street set off in unison, and people were in chaos.

-- And that house was in the exact direction that Albarino and Herstal had gone in.

Old Hunter stared blankly in that direction for three seconds, then suddenly cursed, throwing his frozen peas and towel onto the roof of the Rolls-Royce haphazardly. He grabbed his walking stick, and limped off towards the explosion.

Eleven fifty-three. (11:53)

Hardy rushed out of the second building, panting.

The time had passed by too quickly. Even with the building being inaccessible on most floors because it wasn't operational, checking the first two buildings had taken him more time than he needed. The third building was even more so without power because it wasn't fully completed yet - he'd thought the killer wouldn't have picked the third building, and that would mean he'd have to climb it with the kidnapped Wallis in his arms, wouldn't it?

Time was slipping away too fast. Even though most floors were inaccessible due to the buildings not being in use, checking the first two had taken too much time. The third building had no electricity yet because it was still incomplete -- he had thought that the killer wouldn't have chosen it as it meant that he would have had to drag a kidnapped Wallis up the building, right?

Hardy plunged headlong into the stairwell.

He had to hurry. There was only seven minutes left.

Eleven fifty-five. (11:55)

Albarino leaned against Herstal’s body and staggered to his feet. He sincerely hoped that the explosion just now hadn't left him with any concussions; at any rate, he didn't feel like throwing up just yet.

Clara was still unresponsive, unconscious, and breathing weakly. When a moderately poisoned person was lying in front of you, you could no longer comfort yourself with ‘at least they’re still breathing’ any more.

Herstal held Albarino with one hand and Clara with the other. As they walked up the stairs, Albarino dripped a long trail of blood along the way. And the moment they reached the top of the steps, Herstal knew that their bad luck wasn't over.

Because a young, dark-haired man -- presumably Jerome McAdam -- stood in a maniacal state with a crazed look at the entrance of the basem*nt, pointing a pistol in his hand straight at them, its muzzle bobbing dangerously up and down.

‘Who are you people?!’ His shouts were hoarse, his voice frenzied and trembling, ‘What are you doing here?’

Herstal tightened his grip on Albarino’s elbow.

Eleven fifty-nine. (11:59)

Bart Hardy burst onto the roof of the building, the dazzling midday sunlight made him almost cry.

Then he saw his wife, Wallis -- hanging by a rope from a makeshift platform built from a patch of interlocking planks on the roof, the rope was tied to the edge of the wooden planks. Wallis's entire body was suspended and swaying in the wind, her mouth gagged with a towel, tears streaming down her face.

The problem was that there was also another person crouched on the platform, their black hair tossing wildly in the gale on the roof.

‘Olga!’ Hardy couldn't help but exclaim.

‘You chose the wrong roof earlier, Bart.’ Olga called out as she slowly struggled to pull Wallis up, ‘Don't you think a murderer like that would quite enjoy watching you anxiously climb the stairs but still not make it? His taste is extremely low -- stay back, don’t come any closer. I don't think this platform can hold the weight of three people.’

Hardy looked at the rickety timbers and had to admit that Olga was right. He stood anxiously at the edge of the rooftop and watched as Olga finally dragged Wallis up from under the platform and removed the towel from her mouth in the process.

Wallis didn't sob loudly or scream, just stifling a low sob. Then she hoarsely asked, ‘Bart, Clara, she-’

But what else could Hardy say? He didn't know what was going on on the other side either. Albarino was the victim of the Pianist, and a suspect who had to be taken seriously in the case of William Brown and Anthony Sharp, and Wallis, who as a prosecutor, had never been favourably disposed towards Herstal Armalight. So where on earth would he get the idea that these two people could save his daughter?

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could even get a word out, a loud noise rang out -- not far away was the iconic building of Westland's financial centre: the Westland Stock Exchange, which was built in the late nineteenth century and had a tall clock tower rising from the top of the building.

And right now, the clock struck twelve noon with a loud bang. As the first deep, resonant chime rang out, a small flame suddenly burst out from underneath the wooden platform: a homemade bomb made from a calculator, gunpowder, and a rudimentary ignition device was all that was needed to make a simple clay bomb. And for what the Butcher was trying to accomplish, he didn't even need much gunpowder.

-- The explosion was so small and minimal in size that it wasn't even enough to hurt anyone. But the wooden platform collapsed almost immediately after a key component was damaged. At that very instant, Olga shoved the not yet fully untied Wallis into Hardy's direction. Instinctively, Hardy reached out and caught Wallis by the waist and pulled her body, which had already begun to fall downwards, up from the collapsing platform.

Wallis writhed in his arms and the usually ever-calm prosecutor let out her first scream of the day.

‘Olga!!!’

Bart Hardy watched his advisor plummet with the gradually disintegrating debris of the platform, her hair looking like a bird's tattered wings as it was lifted by the gusting wind.

Then she fell.

Chapter 28: 64. The Altar of Isaac (6)

Chapter Text

John Garcia was en route to the scene with the SWAT team.

He had to admit that he had actually watched quite a lot of fictional films and TV shows full of fantastical plots before he actually enrolled in the FBI academy -- from Criminal Minds, where BAU members actually arrest suspects handsomely with guns, to Silence of the Lambs, where even under-graduated trainees can solve strange cases.

He had to admit, before applying for the FBI Academy, he had watched a considerable amount of fictional films and TV shows full of fantastical plots -- from the BAU agents dramatically apprehending suspects handsomely with guns in ‘Criminal Minds’, to ‘Silence of the Lambs’, where even under-graduated trainees could solve strange cases.

In short, such films and TV shows gave the viewers a significant misconception: that FBI agents were those unflinching individuals who could calmly investigate three-meter-high totem poles of corpses that mysteriously appeared on the beach.

-- But that was not the case.

Or perhaps it was better to put it this way: cases like Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia and the Zodiac Killer were famous precisely because they were gruesome and unsolved murders. The term ‘gruesome and mysterious’ often referred to killers who would cut out female organs, dismember their victims, carve smiles on the corners of their mouths, or write letters to the police in code.

A profiler spends most of their life dealing with cases like desperate kidnappings, a series of brutal night-time home invasions, or a serial killer who rapes and kills his victims. Most criminals acted out of uncontrollable, irrepressible, low-level desires, and even the ‘mass murderers’ were a rarity. Even the ‘Butcher’ was an outlier; the Westland Pianist’s logic was somewhat understandable, but encountering a serial killer like the Sunday Gardener was as likely as a meteor hitting the earth.

There was no doubt, then, that Westland was a city chosen by a meteor.

It was precisely because of this that Garcia was so excited to be en route to the location where Orion Hunter was seen: some of his colleagues would never be involved in a single capture of a serial killer of this magnitude in their lives, let alone the fact that Hunter's clues were essentially found by him from a pile of videos.

He was fidgeting in the back seat of the car, and as soon as they reached the intersection at 15th Avenue, a loud boom sounded off in the distance. Black smoke rolled up from somewhere further down the road, casting a dramatic shadow over the midday street -– clearly, an explosion had occurred.

It took several more minutes for the car to weave its way through the streets, which had been thrown into chaos by the panicked crowd, which wasn't surprising after all, given the lingering shadow of 9/11 had yet to fade. Yet, Garcia found it too coincidental that an explosion occurred right after receiving news about Hunter’s location -- but then again, the Butcher had never been known to commit his crimes using explosives, right?

He was confused, and as soon as the car pulled up alongside the road he caught a glimpse of the house whose white exterior walls were now scorched black. A small crowd of onlookers had already gathered not far from the house, and the sound of fire engine's siren wailed in the distance. Just at that moment, the door of the house where the explosion had just occurred burst open, and several people stumbled out of it.

Among them were several familiar faces: their suspect, Orion Hunter, Albarino Bacchus, who had been in the newspapers for a while because of the sensationalised Bob Landon case and the subsequent Pianist rape case that followed -- the WLPD had never revealed who the victim in that case had been, but that didn't stop the press from putting the latter's pictures in the paper -- and a man Garcia had never seen before, who was currently holding a little girl in his arms.

All in all, to further emphasise: these men were covered in blood, rushing out of a house that had just inexplicably exploded, and among them was a suspect suspected of being the Family Butcher. Therefore, it was completely understandable that the SWAT members chose to jump out of their car immediately and approach these suspicious people.

‘Freeze! Kneel down! Hands above your head!’

Whether they knew they were being mistaken for terrorists or not as soon as they left the house, Orion Hunter let out a series of curses as he dragged his not-so-functional legs to kneel down before being pressed down firmly by the SWAT who rushed over.

And Dr Bacchus, who had a large patch of blood staining his shoulder, even had the time in this situation to lazily shout, ‘We need an ambulance!’

And the man Garcia didn't recognise carefully placed the little girl on the ground, then turned to Hunter and asked in a menacing tone, ‘Did you put a bag of frozen peas on the roof of my car?’

A few minutes earlier --

Albarino couldn't help but begin to reflect on how often he found himself trapped in a room with a psychopath.

His ears were still buzzing, but at least he was beginning to hear a little, namely the frantic questionings of Jerome McAdam, a man who, like most serial killers with overflowing self-confidence, was completely unable to accept the fact that the person who he'd nearly blown up wasn't Bart Hardy.

‘So,’ Albarino interrupted lazily. After all, one shouldn't waste time on such meaningless conversations as ‘Who the hell are you? My plan can't possibly go wrong’ conversations. He might as well find another way to stall for some more time. ‘Why did you choose Officer Hardy?’

And as was with most villains in the world, this one was also apparently quite eager to explain to his victims the ins and outs of his nefarious plan. Really, haven't these people watched action movies? Those chatty villains usually die horribly.

‘I was staying in a hotel across the street from the primary school, and I wanted to pick a suitable victim from that school.’ McAdam hissed, his expression ghastly, his eyes bloodshot, ‘I infiltrated their school posing as a maintenance worker and saw that they were holding an art exhibition --’

Albarino roughly pieced together what was going on. Bart Hardy really was the kind of guy who would take pictures of his daughter's coloured-pencil drawings on his phone and then gleefully brag about them to everyone around him: Clara had won a prize at school for her drawing of something similar to ‘My Mum, Dad, and Me’.

No one could have imagined the consequences of a colourful pencil drawing, such was the unpredictability of fate. Herstal was holding Clara, his shoulders tense, his knife having fallen somewhere during the explosion. Albarino was trying to hide behind him as much as possible, trying to reach for the gun in his underarm holster without straining his wound too much -- an action that wasn’t going smoothly either.

To make matters worse, it was clear that McAdam was nearing the end of his speech, and the barrel of the gun in his hand moved forward again, almost touching Herstal's brow. Herstal flinched back almost subconsciously, his spine touching the back of Albarino's hand.

‘Although this isn't the situation I expected,’ McAdam announced, ‘But don’t you guys dare think that I’ll let you live --’

He didn't finish his sentence.

A sharp, bright, shiny blade protruded out of his chest, bringing out a cascade of bright red blood. It was at this moment that Albarino, quick on the uptake, lunged over Herstal’s shoulder to grab McAdam , stifling a grunt of pain from the wound in his shoulder. Then with a swift, hard twist, the pistol clattered onto the floor that was covered in charred black soot with a bang.

Then the sharp blade was pulled out neatly, and as if slow to feel the pain, McAdam shuddered and touched his chest with his trembling hands, only to feel a handful of blood. He fell to his knees in a slow, agonised heap. Orion Hunter stood just behind him, holding a sharp blade in his hand, the handle of which was clearly the handle of his cane.

‘I’ve never seen anyone actually hide a knife in a cane ,’ Albarino remarked with genuine sincerity, ‘Are you living in a 19th-century movie ?’

‘This dramatic gesture just saved your life, young man ’ Old Hunter replied with an unhappy tone. Then he turned to Herstal, hesitating as he glanced at McAdam, who was down on the floor moaning in pain, and asked, ‘...Uh, lawyer, this counts as self-defense, right ?’

Herstal really wanted to ignore them.

Now.

Fifteenth Avenue was in chaos: a fire truck was conspicuously parked on the side of the road, and heavily armed firefighters were nervously moving in and out of the house. One ambulance took McAdam away, and another took Clara. Before that, Albarino had carefully put Clara in a side-lying position under the watchful eyes of a group of SWAT, and then applied the bag of frozen peas wrapped in an old towel to Clara's forehead –- he said it was to reduce brain swelling -- in short, it was a rather skilful position for first aid.

Fortunately, the misunderstanding had been cleared up by now. The young FBI agent stood awkwardly beside the SWAT vehicle, looking highly embarrassed as he made a phone call to his superior. Meanwhile, Old Hunter, swaggering like a proud peaco*ck despite his limp, paced around him. Albarino, on the other hand, finally got a chance to sit in the back of the last ambulance, where an EMT attended to the burn on his shoulder.

‘You're lucky the burns aren't too severe,’ the soft-voiced female paramedic said, all the while pressing Albarino down with surprising strength to rinse the wound with cool water and apply iodine, completely ignoring the fact that her patient was grimacing in pain. ‘I'll dress the wound, and give you a tetanus shot just to be safe, and then you'll be fine.’

-- But things were far from ‘fine’.

Because on the one hand, they still didn't know how Hardy and Wallis were doing. Herstal had called Hardy multiple times and got absolutely no answer, so he had to settle for sending a text message regarding Clara's temporary safety. On the other hand, Herstal was eyeing up Albarino with a gaze that was like a knife cutting through bone.

That EMT finished treating Albarino's wounds, gave him an injection, and then left -- a neighbour had approached her saying that the explosion had shattered the glass in his house, and that the shards of glass had cut a child. He wanted to ask her to see if it needed to be bandage -- Albarino's eyes followed the female doctor's back until she disappeared down the street, before turning his gaze back to Herstal.

His gaze somehow still looked lazy, and when he spoke, his tone was neither salty nor bland. He simply said, ‘Ask.’

For a person who was so fond of talking in circles, it was still quite shocking that Albarino would choose to begin with such a straight-to-the-point approach. Herstal stared at the soft smile at the corner of the other person’s mouth. Albarino was topless, his shoulders wrapped in gauze, and his chest and abdomen were all covered with long, thin scars that were only just starting to fade from that uncomfortable tender red colour.

His fingers still had the other man's blood slowly drying on them.

Herstal thought for a moment and simply asked directly, ‘Why did you do all this?’

‘I remember I gave you a reason earlier today,’ Albarino winked softly at him, ‘Isn't that enough?’

‘You mean the 'Officer Hardy is a worthy opponent'? That sentence may be true, but for this reason you decided to risk your life to save a child? Do you think I would really believe that?’ Herstal asked aggressively in return.

Albarino stared at him for a moment, then sighed.

‘Jerome McAdam likes to force his victims to choose between their children and their partners as a way of putting the other person in a moral dilemma, but after the other person has made the choice, he will still kill everyone. Thus, the very act of making the choice is meaningless.’ Albarino said softly, ‘I don't doubt for a second that serial killers like him actually have a bit of a God complex, and -- surely you must have heard the story of Abraham sacrificing his only son to God, right?’

Herstal looked at the other man without saying a word: surely Albarino must have known that he was bound to have heard that story, given all the time he had spent in the church.

Albarino then continued, ‘God commanded Abraham to offer his only son, Isaac, as a burnt sacrifice. Despite his pain, Abraham obeyed; at the very last moment when Isaac was about to be sacrificed, God prevented Abraham from doing so. From a theological perspective, this was a test of Abraham's personal faith: he firmly believed that God was omniscient and omnipotent, and that human reason was not sufficient enough to understand God's will; therefore, although God's command put him into a moral paradox, and he didn't know why God asked him to sacrifice his son, he still obeyed unconditionally -- because he did not do it for the wealth and kingdom that God had promised him, but because God was inherently worthy of obedience. As Søren Kierkegaard said, 'God's will must be the ultimate goal of any man’.’

Herstal frowned and said, ‘Albarino --’

‘So,’ Albarino flashed him a bright smile, ‘if I told you I did this under the guidance of my muse, not knowing the purpose myself, would you punch me?’.

... Herstal was silent for two seconds, then made himself clear with his actions.

-- He punched Albarino in the abdomen.

Albarino let out an exaggerated cry and curled up like a shrimp, and in doing so, naturally rested his forehead on Herstal's shoulder. Suppressing a sigh and the urge to plunge the knife inside the pocket of his suit into Albarino’s spine, Herstal reached out with one hand to run his fingers through the ends of the other man's curly hair.

After a couple of strokes, he then decided that it was still a bit too much for the other man to be sitting topless like this in the February chill. So he reached over to fish out the orange blanket that had been left in the ambulance and draped it over Albarino's shoulders.

Albarino mumbled, ‘...You're not angry anymore?’

He made the mistake of choosing a tone of innocence, as if he was pretending to be only eight years old, which made Herstal extraordinarily tempted to punch him, or leave him in a cardboard box in front of an orphanage. He bared a fake sneer at the other man and said, ‘Not at all.’

Albarino was quiet for a short while, then continued, ‘The fate of Clara means nothing to me, and Bart, as much as he loves his family, would never give up his job because of a major blow. He'll be in a lot of pain, but he'll get over it -- I did this because I know that no matter how you behave on the outside, deep down, you actually love this state of a perfect, intact family in your heart.’

Herstal eyed him cautiously for a moment, then asked, ‘Are you saying this because you really think so, or because you think I would enjoy hearing such words?’

Albarino looked at him with a smirk and asked rhetorically, ‘Which truth would make you feel a little more dangerous?’

‘Both are indistinguishable from the other.’ Herstal flashed him a sneer.

Albarino let out a laugh.

‘Then come and kiss me,’ he replied cheerfully, ‘It's the way to do it once and for all: embrace the source of the danger.’

No matter day or night, the hospital was always a busy place, with worried family members crowding the doors of the emergency room. Albarino had seen too many of these scenes in his time as a pathologist in the hospital, and he hadn't thought that one day he would become one of them.

Bart Hardy stood anxiously in the doorway of the operating theatre, one arm wrapped tightly around his wife's shoulders; although Wallis was pale, she still stood firmly. At this very moment, their daughter was also lying in a hospital bed: moderate carbon monoxide poisoning had caused some bad consequences that could still be reversed. Hyperbaric oxygen chamber treatment and medication would allow her to recover within a month without leaving any bad after-effects.

But others might not be so lucky.

Standing in the doorway of the operating theatre was Olga's attending physician. His face was calm, obviously used to life and death, and even less likely to be moved by such a small scene now.

He calmly explained to the people standing in the corridor, ‘When she fell from the building she hit many scaffolding steel bars, on one hand, I have to admit, that it did act as a cushion. But on the other hand, it caused irreversible scarring to her bones -- she only hit her legs on the top of those steel bars, which is lucky, if it was her spine that hit those bars, she would have been left paralysed by now. However, now both of her legs are comminuted fractures, with the left one being particularly bad: in layman's terms, those bones are too broken to be fixed with steel nails or plates, and one of the open fractures already shown signs of infection.’

Hardy swallowed dryly and asked, ‘...So?’

‘We're going to amputate her left leg below the knee. The fractures in her thigh can be attempted to be saved, but the bones in her lower leg are beyond repair, we're doing this to avoid a worse infection.’ The doctor said, glancing down at the clipboard he was holding, ‘Additionally, the condition of her right leg isn't good either. We'll monitor it over the next few days, but if it continues to deteriorate, we might have to amputate that one as well, but I'm afraid her body won't be able to handle the amputation of both legs at once.’

Wallis was undoubtedly trembling, and Albarino glanced at Herstal, who stood beside him. The other man's lips were pursed tightly together and his expression cold. Then again, he'd never known exactly what Herstal's attitude towards Olga had been -- he wasn't supposed to be 'friends' with a profiler after all. The irony was palpable.

‘In addition, there is another piece of news that I must inform you of.’ As it turned out, this obviously wasn't the end of the story, as the doctor continued, ‘Officer, you said that after she fell down a few floors, her clothing got caught on the protruding scaffolding, is that correct?’

Hardy's face turned pale, and he was obviously reluctant to recall the situation at that time. He gestured helplessly and replied, ‘Yes, it was her scarf ... but it nearly strangled her. When I rescued her, she wasn't breathing, and I was the one who performed CPR on her.’

‘You did the right thing.’ The doctor nodded and continued, ‘Under normal circ*mstances, being suddenly strangled by a rope-like object during a fall ... would most likely break the patient's spine, but neither her spine nor her spinal cord were damaged. I believe this is due to the earlier obstacles cushioning her fall. However, the fabric severely compressed the cervical vessels and airways after she was hung.’

Suddenly realising what the other party was actually saying, Albarino finally frowned and asked, ‘Did her EEG show any problems?’.

‘Scattered waveforms.’ That doctor nodded, ‘Although it is necessary to be very cautious when making such a judgment, so it may take us weeks of repeated follow-ups to come to a definitive conclusion. It is my duty to warn you all of the worst possibilities -- and not to mention the patient's legs, I now suspect that she is in the midst of a deep, pathological state of unconsciousness.’

He paused, scanning over the other people standing in the corridor.

‘In other words, a vegetative state.’

The coffee at the WLPD was terrible, and as it turned out, the hospital coffee wasn't much better.

Lavazza Mercader stood in front of a coin-operated coffee machine and tried to scrounge a coin out of his pocket. Whether he just wasn't in the habit of carrying change with him or if he was just plain unlucky, but he found nothing.

Then, a hand abruptly jutted out in front of him, and in its palm lay a coin with the head of George Washington gleaming on it.

Mercader was silently taken aback, but his face showed none of it when he looked up. He looked over to the man who was grinning and leaning against the humming machine -- it was none other than Albarino Bacchus.

‘Why didn't you go to the waiting room? Or did you plan on going over to take a quick look before leaving immediately?’ Albarino asked.

‘I suspect that Officer Hardy might not be very eager to see me right now,’ Mercader was silent for a moment, then admitted calmly, ‘He'll think that I'm responsible for what happened to Molozer, and I suspect he'll be furious as a result.’

Albarino blinked, ‘Is that so?’

‘I made an error in judgement due to incomplete information, and in a sense it did interfere with your rescue mission, putting his wife and daughter in danger. There's no need to deny that.’ Mercader nodded slightly, his voice flat, ‘But there is no direct link between the series of delays caused by my misjudgement and Molozer's fall.’

‘A very rational assessment,’ Albarino chuckled, ‘but also very inhuman -- no wonder you didn't go in.’

‘Just like the law.’ Mercader continued in his emotionless tone.

‘Is that how you judge everything? Like the classic trolley problem, regardless of why someone is on the tracks, you’ll just let the train run over whichever side has fewer people that can be saved?’ Albarino asked, the smile that hung for so long on the corners of his mouth looked cold and vapid upon closer inspection, making people feel a little uneasy.

Mercader gave him a deep look, ‘Leaving aside the moral dilemmas people might face, what's wrong with that?’

‘As long as everything goes according to plan, there's nothing wrong with that. But as you know, Agent Mercader, things can never always go the way one expects them to.’ Albarino replied matter-of-factly, ‘It would be as if, no matter how many people were supposed to have died under the hands of Robo, Blanca Areola still killed two people who didn't deserve to die.’

Mercader's brows furrowed deeply for a moment before he calmly asked, ‘Are you saying that because you really care about the lives of those two people, or because you're just trying to irritate me?’

‘I don't think that's the most important thing you want to ask.’ Albarino shook his head.

‘Then why are you with Herstal Armalight? I remember you telling me last time that you didn't like him.’ With that, Mercader asked directly, and his next statement made it clear that he wasn't asking the question just for the gossip, ‘Was it you who took the piece of broken porcelain from Mr. Armalight in Elliot Evans' basem*nt?’

Albarino blinked, and then that smile on his face widened a little more.

‘I will invoke my Fifth Amendment rights to the Constitution, Agent Mercader.’ He replied lazily, ‘Perhaps you should call the prosecution's witnesses to the stand.’

Mercader eyed him carefully for a moment, then gave a short nod.

‘I see.’ He said.

Then he reached out and took the coin from Albarino's hand.

Chapter 29: 65. Diary of hospital attendant, Annie Brooke: February 4th, 2017.

Chapter Text

Friday -- Sunny

Truth be told, I've been in the caregiver profession for almost three years now and I've never seen a situation like this.

-- As I write these lines, I'm sitting outside the intensive care unit where a poor girl who fell from a great height and had her leg amputated is lying in a single room. Of course, falls from heights aren't rare, and I've taken care of multiple amputee patients. The doctor says she might become a vegetative patient, which is not new to me either: I once cared for a man in a vegetative state for six months until his wife could not bear the increasingly heavy hospitalisation costs, and finally chose to take him home.

When a patient is not yet in the general ward, there really isn't much I can do. My primary responsibility is to monitor the progress of IV infusions, and whether the dripping instruments are functioning as usual, though the chances of them malfunctioning are minimal. At this stage, it's not time to fight bedsores, muscle atrophy and other ailments, in fact, most people don't usually hire caregivers when their loved one is first hospitalised.

-- This is one of the strange aspects of this situation.

Firstly, the girl didn't have any family. I've seen unfortunate people like her before, and generally their hospitalisation always turns out to be particularly tragic. Secondly, this morning, the chief of the Westland City Police Department stood in front of me, with a tired look on his face, as if he'd been punched by someone.

'Ms. Molozer is a consultant for the WLPD,' he explained, Molozer being the surname of the poor girl, 'what happened to her ... is more or less related to our police department. Whether she will demand compensation once she recovers is another matter. For now, we must pay for her round-the-clock care and medical expenses.'

Beside him stood a much more gaunt looking officer, the officer who, according to this chief's explanation, was the one who had been working with Molozer, by the name of Hardy or something. He mumbled a bit and said, 'Sir, actually...'

'Shut up!' The Chief roared back fiercely, so loud that the officer and I were both shocked. 'If you had reported this to the department sooner, at least half of this wouldn't have happened! Not to mention the FBI --'

I watched him stop talking with a disgruntled look on his face, obviously swallowing back a lot of expletives and not saying what happened with the FBI. Then the Chief turned to me and awkwardly explained, 'In short, we have to hold a press conference regarding this matter. And it's your job to take good care of her ...then there's also going to be a lot of reporters trying to storm into the hospital, lots and lots of reporters, and you're going to have to be mentally prepared for that.'

I nodded my head in confusion, although at the time I didn't understand why there would be a lot of reporters storming in at all. Based on my understanding of the print media in Westland, they should only be interested in stories about serial killers and the WLPD Chief's extramarital affairs and the like -- especially if it involved the Chief having a fling with a city councilman's wife.

Then reality hit me quickly: I had greatly underestimated this situation.

And I certainly didn't expect -- that this was actually a love story.

It was around one o'clock this afternoon, when I was sitting in that lounge across from the ICU eating a sandwich bought from the vending machine. I still hadn't learnt my lesson from last time: ever, ever buy the hospital's salmon sandwich, that stuff tasted like something had died in it.

At that time, all the monitoring equipment for Ms. Molozer was functioning normally. One IV drip had just finished, and the new one would take at least ninety minutes to completely infuse, giving me a bit of a break. However, according to the doctors, she was still running a fever, and while it's not fatal, if the infection in her right leg continued to worsen, they would have to amputate her remaining leg.

Truth be told, the chances of something going wrong with the infusion reminder and the alarms on the pile of equipment are slim to none, and real patients don't actually go into cardiac arrest every two or three days like the ones in medical dramas. But since the WLPD was willing to pay a hefty sum, I must perform my duties diligently.

All in all, I was at least able to take a break in the middle of the day to read a few more chapters of 'Twilight: New Moon' in the lounge. The plot had just reached its most thrilling part -- the part where Edward, mistakenly believing Bella to be dead, decides to take his own life in Italy -- although this was my fourth time reading the book, I really shouldn't be this excited.

It was at this point that I suddenly noticed a man standing at the door of Ms. Molozer's hospital ward.

No, let me rephrase that: at the door of the ward stood an extraordinarily handsome man with lovely chestnut-coloured hair. I could have sworn to God that it was one of the best-looking men I'd ever seen (except for movie stars, and Robert Pattinson in particular). He stood there motionless and lonely, staring fixedly at the lifeless figure lying inside the glass window.

--Of course, from my angle I could only see the man's back, but I guessed that his face must have been full of grief. This was a woman's keen intuition.

'How sad,' I thought, 'this must be Ms. Molozer's boyfriend.'

Then, after a few more moments, just as I was about to immerse myself back into the romantic plot of the novel, a series of knocks once again interrupted my thoughts. This time, from across the corridor came an old man with a cane, from my angle I couldn't see his face, but I could see the gray hair on his temples.

He stopped in front of the chestnut-haired man and said in a gruff voice: 'Dr. Bacchus'

-- So, that WLPD consultant's boyfriend was also a doctor, what an enviable couple that would have been.

And as a doctor who saved lives and healed wounds, it must be a very painful feeling to watch your loved one lie in a coma and be powerless to do anything about it.

On the other hand, the surname 'Bacchus' sounded very familiar to me, but I couldn't remember where exactly I'd heard it before.

'Mr Hunter,' the handsome doctor replied, his voice sounded very soft and light. I guess he was the type who would suppress all his grief in his heart and not show it at all. I have seen too many people who pretend to be strong. 'I didn't expect you to come today.'

'What, do I look like the type of person who would just walk away once the culprit is caught?' The one called Hunter asked rhetorically, his tone sounding a bit rude anyhow; how could a person speak to a patient's family member in that tone?

He paused thoughtfully, probably in hindsight realising he wasn't being too polite, and softened his voice a little, 'I greatly admire Ms. Molozer's work. I'd only heard of her before this, but now I see her reputation is well-deserved.'

'I just wanted to say that I thought you would attend the press conference today. As I understand it, the launch takes place at three in the afternoon, shouldn't you be preparing to go to the venue by now?' Dr Bacchus said patiently.

Hunter snorted coldly and said, 'They're going to skip over my role in the whole incident.'

'With the threat of revoking your licence?' Dr Bacchus asked with interest. Perhaps I should retract my earlier comment; it wasn't exactly a forced composure; his self-control must have been quite strong.

But thinking about how his heart must be bleeding right now, I felt a twinge of sympathy as I looked at him.

The two of them didn't notice I was peeking over my book at them, and that Hunter continued in a bad tone, 'Apparently, they think there's some kind of procedural issue involved in this ... those bastards think I overstepped, as if they didn't realize more people might have died if I hadn't gone to Molozer. Do you really think Officer Hardy could have saved his wife and daughter alone? Molozer's role was crucial.'

'I think,' said Dr. Bacchus slowly, 'that if you hadn't gone to Olga, she wouldn't be in the position she's in now.'

Good heavens! I suddenly realised what I may be witnessing: one of those dramatic breakdowns from an intimate lover, with the whole 'If you hadn't done this, my girlfriend wouldn't be in a vegetative state' or something. What should I do if that actually happens? Should I go call security if he punched that Hunter in the face?

'Are you blaming me?' Hunter asked cautiously.

'No,' Dr. Bacchus replied, 'I think you did a good job.'

...Huh???

Then he followed that up by adding, 'A lot of people were saved because of it. Clara is only ten years old; she certainly didn't deserve to die from carbon monoxide poisoning.'

I don't think I could even pretend to hold a book anymore, even if it was my favourite novel. If I hadn't been eavesdropping on their conversation, I would have jumped up and applauded the doctor: what a touching sentiment! To pay the price of losing a loved one in order to save a life or for an even cause was nothing short of a moral triumph.

Hunter was silent for a moment, then said, 'That's a very noble excuse.'

-- Is that something a human being would say? I was puzzled by how Hunter managed to say something nastier with each sentence. Was he the ex-boyfriend of Ms. Molozer trying to break them up? Though I shouldn't hold any prejudice, but the age difference seemed a little too large, didn't it?

'Don't you think so?' Dr. Bacchus was so well mannered, he didn't sound angry at all.

'If you really thought so, you wouldn't have been staring at McAdam with such interest in that house on 15th Avenue.' Hunter's voice sounded rough but sharp, a little aggressive.

'Did I?' Dr. Bacchus asked rhetorically.

'You did -- even though you were wounded at the time, I'm certain of it -- an ordinary person wouldn't have noticed it, and perhaps Armalight wouldn't have picked up on anything either, but people like us are very sensitive to that kind of scent.' Hunter spoke quickly, and he took a step forward, to the point where he was close enough to Dr. Bacchus that it could be considered a little rude. I couldn't help but stare nervously at them even though I couldn't understand what they were saying at all, because I felt like Hunter might pull out a gun at any moment. 'Do you know what I was thinking at that time? I was thinking: the most dangerous beast in this room isn't the one I stabbed.'

'Oh,' Dr Bacchus said, and when he spoke again, his voice was unusually low, 'how do you know what a beast is?'

'Because it's the hunter's job to identify them. They certainly haven't fallen into any traps, left hair on the branches, or a single footprint in the dirt. But when the hunters smell their presence, they know whether they are wolves or foxes.' Hunter gave a light wave of his hand, 'And – Dr. Bacchus, I followed the Landon case. They say he killed the girl in the alley behind the bar. But how the hell did your fingerprints end up on that knife?'

I almost screamed in the lounge.

I finally remembered where I had heard the surname Bacchus from! Albarino Bacchus, the chief medical examiner of the Westland Forensic Bureau, the man who was suspected of killing his ex-girlfriend! But of course, he was later proven to be wrongfully accused, and it seemed that as a result, the police department compensated him with a sum of money for emotional distress. That case had a lot of media coverage at the time.

After the news broke, an almost 50-year-old caregiver at the hospital shared with me some other gossip. She had worked in this hospital for most of her life, and knew that both of Dr. Bacchus' parents were surgeons in the hospital -- his father seemed to have been particularly famous for his expertise in heart surgery.

Unfortunately, his mother drowned in an accident when Dr. Bacchus was very young, and within a few years, his father committed suicide due to depression.

I suppose it's not surprising then, that he became a playboy, which must have been some sort of vicarious compensation for a bleak childhood.

Does this mean he finally ended his playboy lifestyle and decided to settle down? Of course, Ms. Molozer, despite having a great figure, wasn't conventionally attractive (perhaps it could've been because she looked so emancipated that I couldn't accurately judge her appearance). He must have been captivated by her talent as a police consultant.

Isn't this the kind of romantic film that was popular in cinema some years ago? A talented prodigal son falls in love with an innocent and beautiful girl. He feels the love and warmth of home in his lover, and eventually becomes a reliable man of outstanding character under the girl's influence.

'Do you suspect me?' Dr. Bacchus asked calmly.

Now I even hate this Hunter a little bit, how could he suspect someone who was obviously wrongly accused? The reports of that Landon case couldn't have been any clearer, the crime scene investigation team found the hair of the female victims in Landon's house. So if the case had been committed by Dr. Bacchus, how could the hairs have ended up with Landon?

'I'm worried about you,' Hunter said gruffly, 'I'm not going to lie, I looked into you a little bit during the time of that Landon case, and then I noticed your mother ... I hope you don't follow in her footsteps. '

-- What kind of bullsh*t was this? Does he think Dr. Bacchus will commit suicide? Because of his seriously injured girlfriend? If I were Dr. Bacchus, I'd really be beating him up right now.

...Wait, no, wasn't it his father who committed suicide from depression?

I was really confused and felt like I didn't understand a word of it. But Dr. Bacchus clearly wasn't angry, and I even detected a smirk in his voice when he spoke again.

'Mr. Hunter,' he said softly, 'whatever accusations you're making, please be ever so careful.'

He truly had remarkable composure. Hunter paused for a moment, and then said cryptically, 'I'll be watching you.'

Then he turned around and limped heavily away.

Dr. Bacchus watched his back leave, then sighed heavily. He slowly walked into the lounge and took a seat just one seat away from me.

I couldn't sit still any longer. Knowing so much about the events that led up to this, I felt compelled to offer some comfort to this poor man. Though it may indeed have seemed abrupt, I turned to him sharply and said, 'Don't worry! Your lover will be fine!'

In retrospect, I wonder if I startled him. Anyway, he visibly froze for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

-- He smiled so beautifully, and if I hadn't known he had a girlfriend and was particularly affectionate, I would definitely have asked for his phone number by now.

'Thank you, ma'am.' He replied softly, 'I suppose I haven't lost my loved one yet.'

Chapter 30: 66. The Manuscripts of Orion Hunter the Bounty Hunter

Chapter Text

I know many of my colleagues have had the same thought: that in their youth they should take on some exciting commissions and make big money. Then after they retire, they could see if they can publish an autobiography, or, if they're lucky, a TV producer might take a liking to their story -- they might even get a TV series made about them, just like those made for Duane 'Dog' Chapman [1].

[1] A famous American bounty hunter. A&E made a TV series about him called, 'Dog the Bounty Hunter'.

...And I, more or less, thought the same when I was younger.

But now, the situation is quite different from what I expected: I'm sitting at my desk, racking my brain trying to come up with a story, which feels like I'm back in the third grade. In reality, my memories of the third grade are nothing but a bunch of kids who would steal your lunch.

I have to admit: this is more of a suicide note than a story.

-- It's like the plot of a bad mystery novel: a person, usually a neurotic old man (which is exactly how I am perceived by many), hands the protagonist of the story a safe deposit box, and mysteriously tells him, 'You have to wait until I die before you can open the box'. Then, of course, the supporting character dies mysteriously soon after, and the protagonist opens the safe to find a stack of yellowed manuscripts inside...

Is the atmosphere of this story eerie enough? This is exactly what I'm going to do: I'll finish writing this pile of crap, then give it to someone I trust, telling them that if I die mysteriously one day and my body is dumped on the interstate, to have him publish this stuff on the Internet.

That way, when I finally confront the killer, I can say to him, 'You can't kill me, or you sure as hell won't know what I'll post on the Internet!'

-- 'The Internet'. When I was 20 years old, I certainly didn't think that one day I'd be able to use this 'I'm going to move my finger and hit the enter key' as a means of saving my life. Another question is, can this thing really save my life? Will the person who wants to kill me care? Nobody knows, including me.

...Looking back at the pile of sh*t I've just written, I seem to have rambled on too much again. But forget it, I'm just too lazy to start over. So let's get to the point and let me start the whole thing from the beginning:

It was on the 18th of October 2016 that I first became aware of a person named Albarino Bacchus.

At that time, I had already started investigating various murder cases out of interest. In a city rampant with corrupt cops like this, getting hold of police files wasn't too difficult if you had connections and money. But the problem was that the police themselves weren't making much progress, and my legs seemed to hurt more year by year.

Back then -- anyone who paid a bit of attention to the news would remember – there was a murder case that was making the rounds, a serial killer preying on women in red dresses at night, which greatly reduced the number of people who dared to walk the streets of Westland at night by ten per cent.

Alan Todd happened to be in Westland on one of those days for a capture job. He had dinner with me in order to enquire about some backroads where he could avoid the police. His words were laced with a deep disdain for this damned city. I never liked this kid much -- he was cautious, in fact, according to most of my old friends, he was a little too cautious. He never took on any jobs related to gangs and stayed far away from anything potentially dangerous. Some people liked to call this rationality, others saw it as cowardice.

Todd said he'd taken on a big job: a bail-jumper with a bail set at $150,000. No wonder the bail bondsman who'd hired Todd was desperate. If Todd could catch the guy, he'd make at least $20,000 from the job.

Todd said the man he was after was named Bob Landon.

I'm one of the oldest bounty hunters in Westland, so it was only natural for Todd to come seeking for me for advice on such matters. Of course, with $20,000 on the line, I wondered why, if the fugitive was from Westland, they didn't contact me but went all the way to hire a young man from Syracuse.

But I still didn't think much of it; I told him all the information I knew, and he soon left Westland -- until the 18th, when I saw the news.

Albarino Bacchus, the chief medical examiner of the Westland Medical Examiner's Bureau, who had previously been arrested as a suspect in the Sarah Adleman case, had been acquitted of all charges. Bob Landon had been identified as the man responsible for the series of murders of women in red dresses.

And, Bob Landon had been killed the night before, at the hands of the Westland Pianist, according to the WLPD's press conference.

I stared at the heavily pixelated footage on the television, the pixels were covered in a thin layer of red, making it impossible to tell that the pile of things shot by the camera was a human being. I think my brain may have gone blank for several seconds, and when I finally reacted, I had already jumped into my car and driving down the highway to Syracuse.

By the time I got to Syracuse, I found Todd lying as if he were a dead corpse on the floor of his house, drunk as hell. Clearly he was trying to drown himself in alcohol to completely and utterly forget whatever had happened to him. When he saw me -- and I'm not even sure if he actually saw me, or saw several of me standing on the floor -- he flashed me a drunken grin and said, 'We're definitely not going to be seeing each other anymore.'

I was stunned by the lack of logic in his words, and it took more effort to pry more details of the story out of him. In a nutshell, what happened to Alan Todd was something like this: he was contacted by a professional agent who called himself William Smith, he was then sent a copy of the bail bond via email (though it was a fake, it looked extremely realistic), and then told to go arrest Bob Landon.

After Todd captured Landon, he dropped Landon off at the designated location: a locked apartment, and then left. He never saw this Smith person from beginning to end, but the next day, he saw Landon's death being reported on the news.

After that, Todd even got through to Smith, who had no intention of denying his connection to the murder during the call. But that didn't mean much, the other side was well prepared and that number must have come from a disposable phone, making it impossible to trace. The mysterious person who hired Todd had vanished like water into the sea, it was impossible to find him again.

'Did he admit on the phone that he was the Pianist?' I asked Todd.

Todd was obviously stunned for a moment, using his alcohol-filled brain, he stuttered: 'No, no, I don't think so?'

-- This is what never made sense to me: according to the news reports, Sarah Adleman was killed with a bouquet of mint placed on her chest, and in Landon's case, a delicate flower ball woven from mint flowers and leaves was stuffed into his chest. While no photos of the corpse were leaked, a reporter from Westland apparently found a way to get some photos of the evidence, and now photos of that flower ball was all over the internet.

Decorating a corpse with flowers didn't seem like the Westland Pianist's style, the mints always struck me as incongruous. I've studied the Pianist's cases; he uses metaphors and analogies to dress his crime scenes. He cuts open and sews up bodies, dismembering whichever parts he pleases, but ultimately, his decorations have meanings.

And what could that bouquet of mint mean? Was that the kind of puzzle he would leave behind?

'...Do you think it's possible,' I thought for a moment, then said to Todd, 'that the real killer who murdered Landon wasn't the Westland Pianist? Rather, someone else killed him and staged the scene to look like the Pianist's work?'

As it turns out, it's not a good idea to discuss issues with a drunken bloke either.

Todd blinked blankly for a long time, then said, 'Why? Wasn't Landon a criminal? The Pianist only kills criminals.'

Although the smell of vomit on Todd's body smelled like a dead dog, he had a valid point with that statement. The WLPD did say that they had received a letter from the Pianist, and it was well known that Pianists letters were all handwritten, so it shouldn't have been possible for anyone else to mimic the Pianist's handwriting.

But in any case, that mint woven flower ball was still very abrupt and concerning.

Speaking of which, decorating the corpse with flowers seemed to be the style of the Sunday Gardener?

'Or, was this a joint crime committed by the Pianist and the Gardener?'

I had expected to be laughed out of the room at that thought -- after all, these two serial killers had only crossed paths somewhat in the Norman Brothers case, so maybe the two of them didn't even know each other. But instead, Todd stared blankly ahead and after a moment, he muttered, '...Yeah, someone else was with him at the time.'

That was all that came out of that trip to Syracuse: I got the forged bail bond from Todd, which was of no use at all, since Westland is full of people who could forge such documents; there was also the phone number used by the murderer, which had long since been disconnected and the SIM card unregistered; and finally, there was the address of the house where Todd had delivered Bob Landon. I had gone myself to checked out the house once, and the house was empty. According to the estate agent, it hadn't even been sold yet.

Since then, all clues about the Gardener or Pianist seemed to break off. But I didn't want to give up on it. Hunting a fierce predator could be said to be a dream of mine -- but I didn't actually want to lose my life over this, which wasn't contradictory -- so I launched my own investigation after returning to Westland.

Before I left Syracuse, I also tried to invite Todd to join me in my investigation. I didn't have a large amount of cash to lure him in, so I could only ask things like 'don't you want to know the truth' or other things like that. But this drunken, lump-like figure just slumped on the couch and looked at me with a horrified expression, as if I was inviting him to jump into a crater with me.

'He's right!' Todd said to me, with a tone I could only describe as horrified, 'We shouldn't challenge the unknown.'

He was like the guy in adventure films who would jump out and put a stop to the protagonists search for the Pharaoh's treasure before he sets off to find it. I couldn't convince Todd that I didn't really want to get myself killed in this matter (he seemed hell-bent on believing that I would definitely be dead), and so the matter had to be put to rest.

I could only continue piecing together the known clues myself, hoping to figure out whether Landon was really killed by the Pianist or not. I had to admit: one of the most suspicious people in the whole Landon case was, in fact, Albarino Bacchus.

This man was the chief medical examiner of the Westland Bureau of Forensic Medicine, and according to Westland Criminal Secrets website, he was one of those typically talented playboys. One of the victims, Sarah Adleman, was his girlfriend. Adleman and Bacchus were seen having a confrontation on the night of the murder, seemingly over the victim's accusation that Bacchus had been unfaithful to her.

A few hours later, this woman was found dead in an alley behind a bar.

With Bacchus' fingerprints on the knife sticking out of her chest, it seemed like the nail in the coffin as to who was responsible for the murder. Bacchus was quickly arrested and in jail awaiting trial. But then, as everyone knows: Landon collected souvenirs from his victims, and CSI found Adleman's hair in his house.

Although the police still couldn't explain why Bacchus' fingerprints were on that knife, they still had to release him due to insufficient evidence. Furthermore, of the several crimes committed by Landon, the mint only appeared on the chest of the deceased in the Adelman case, while the same mint also appeared on the body of Landon himself.

From any angle, Albarino Bacchus seemed very suspicious. I doubted whether Bacchus could really kill Sarah Adelman and then go onto framing Landon for the murder. I didn't understand the significance of the mint leaves. Thus, I began investigating Bacchus' background.

The results were not promising. He was indeed released before Landon's murder, but I doubt there was enough of a time gap in it for him to commit the crime. It would require someone extremely efficient to kill Landon and stage the scene in such a short period of time, the chances of which were close to non-existent.

Bacchus also seemed to be well known in upper-class social circles, a reputation his father's family had built up for him, so I had no trouble finding out a lot of information on the subject. Dr. Bacchus was one of those people -- the kind of guys who would be the last person in the world you would ever imagine being a murderer -- well-off, well-educated, exceptionally well-mannered from a young age, and outstanding in his studies. He never even had his parents called in by the school for fighting or playing pranks on his classmates or anything like that. Even as an adult, despite his playboy tendencies, he maintained good relationships with most of his ex-lovers, who had nothing but praise for him.

To put it simply: one couldn't possibly even imagine him killing anyone, and presumably in the eyes of some in Westland, people were more inclined to believe that Prince William would kill someone before believing that Dr. Bacchus did.

Sarah Adleman, however, was somewhat of an anomaly: she was possessive, and everyone dating Bacchus knew that he had no intentions of marriage. But since Sarah was the type of person who wanted to spend the rest of her life with someone after just three dates, it was not surprising that she publically accused Dr Bacchus of leading her on in that bar.

From the information already available, it seemed like things were just an accident from start to finish.

But I wasn't going to give up, in fact, I didn't believe in my bones that anyone could be as perfect as they appeared on the surface. I believe that everyone had some dark little thoughts in their heart. So I continued my investigation aimlessly and found something interesting.

Technically, it wasn't about Albarino Bacchus, but his mother, Shana Bacchus.

His mother, also a surgeon, had come to the United States from Spain through marital immigration. I interviewed several sources who said that Shana and the late Dr. Bacchus were 'very much in love'.

The unfortunate lady died in a drowning accident, with her son by her side -- it is interesting to note that the absence of a parent in the early years of a child's life tends to affect the child in all sorts of ways, and that Dr. Bacchus himself has given the public too perfect an impression to be affected by it. Unless, of course, we're talking about his inability to maintain long-term intimate relationships, but he's even on good terms with most of his exes, which didn't fit the profile of someone with a messy personal life.

It doesn't seem like much, but the whole thing started when I managed to get my hands on old files from the hospital where Albarino Bacchus' parents worked. I looked through the files purely as a last ditch effort.

But while sifting through the documents, I noticed a subtle phenomenon. It's hard to spot such clues without being in my line of work, but bounty hunters are adept at dealing with such numerical issues.

The inpatients of the hospital died of the same cause of death with a certain imperceptible fixed pattern. Because most of them were critically ill, their deaths were attributed to ineffective treatment -- this part of the evidence is too complex, so it has been placed in the dossier bag that I have attached to this manuscript, which, in addition to the patient files, also includes two testimonies from the deceased patient's families.

In short, one can conclude from those files that there was an Angel of Death in that hospital.

I believe that if an experienced police officer looked at those files, they would also come to the same conclusion. But the perpetrator did so very carefully, so no one in the hospital noticed anything unusual, and if no one noticed anything unusual, no one reported it, and if no one reported it, there was no investigation. It's not surprising that the truth was left buried in a pile of unexamined documents.

At that point, I'd pretty much given up on the Albarino Bacchus investigation, so I simply went along with the Angel of Death leads – I could not have imagined how much of a hassle this would be beforehand. I can't even begin to describe how tedious it was just trying to get my hands on the hospital inpatient unit shift schedules. Then came the endless interviews, investigations, comparisons, bribes ... By the beginning of this year, I was nearly so broke that I almost had to apply for welfare. But I had finally worked out my most likely suspect from a list of hospital staff.

-- Coincidentally, it was Shana Bacchus.

Shana Bacchus was already in the ground, and I'm afraid that I'll never be able to confirm the truth. But my thoughts couldn't help but return to Albarino Bacchus: seriously, did he really know what happened to his mother? Or perhaps back to the popular topic: could a serial killer's influence affect their child?

It was at this point that a crazy thought that seemed to explain the inconsistencies in the Landon case popped into my head: could Dr. Bacchus have killed Sarah Adelman and framed Landon for it -- of course, he'd have to have had an accomplice, otherwise he wouldn't have had enough time to plant Sarah's hair in Landon's home. But didn't Todd also say 'someone else was with him'? -- And then ended up killing Landon to silence him?

Only if both cases were committed by the same person could the crime scenes signature 'mint leaves' be explained.

But that didn't make it very plausible that the murderer was either the Gardener or the Pianist -- the Gardener didn't need to frame Sarah's death on someone else at all. He would simply have set Sarah up like a large bonsai; similarly, I find it very unlikely that the Pianist would have killed Sarah, as he's the kind of murderer who had his own system of morality and therefore wouldn't kill anyone other than a criminal.

And I can't for the life of me imagine that a murderer like the Pianist or the Gardener would be inaccurate enough to leave ther fingerprints on the knife in Sarah's chest.

So, perhaps the most likely scenario is that Bacchus killed Sarah over an emotional dispute, then framed Landon for it (though I still can't figure out how he discovered that Landon was responsible for the series of murders of women in red dresses), and then killed Landon to eliminate all evidence.

Of course, this was just a preliminary guess, as some details stilled seemed quite implausible. I originally planned to investigate further, but then the Family Butcher struck in Buffalo, and I was obliged to put the matter behind me for the time being and rush to Buffalo.

-- The subsequent events were widely reported in the newspapers, so I need not recount it in detail. Anyway, my investigation in Buffalo went much smoother than in Westland. I obtained testimonies regarding the Family Butcher and sought the criminal psychologist Olga Molozer for help.

Then came a series of Hollywood movie-like chases. My leg was already in this condition, yet I still had to deal with such things? Anyway, I stabbed that murderous bastard just as he was about to blow Albarino Bacchus' head off.

I didn't expect to encounter Dr. Bacchus in this case, after all, I didn't know he was a friend of Molozer either. But obviously things just happened to happen in front of me in such a simple, brutal way: as I stabbed McAdam with the knife, I saw a fleeting, strange expression on Bacchus' face -- it was quick enough to make one suspect it was just a hallucination, but I did see a vague flash of interest in Bacchus' eyes.

If I had only known him as a normal person, then I would have said that I was drawing too wild of a conclusion. But on the contrary, I knew about Shana Bacchus, so in that moment I firmly believed that Albarino Bacchus knew exactly what happened to his mother. Not only that, but that he might follow in his mother's footsteps, perhaps he had already followed in her footsteps -- he was standing on a dangerous edge.

Later, in the midst of our chaotic rescue party on 15th Avenue, I stood near the perpetually unhelpful John Garcia and actually managed to eavesdrop on Bacchus' and Herstal Armalight's conversation. I was actually quite surprised about the relationship between the two of them, Molozer had told me earlier that they were a couple, but with all due respect, Armalight didn't seem like the type to be in a relationship with anyone by any stretch of the imagination.

The two of them kept their voices low enough that I could only catch a fragment of their conversation. But I could clearly see Armalight punch Bacchus in the back, which looked quite painful -- Bacchus leaned into Armalight's arms for a long time with a shameless manner that was inconsistent with the impression he left on the public, and then straightened up and said something.

Then I heard Armalight raise his voice slightly and say, 'If you know it's dangerous, you shouldn't embrace it. I thought this was common sense.'

What were they talking about?

'In that case,' Bacchus' voice rose a little accordingly, his voice still cheerful, 'are you still angry? Over the Blanca Areola case?'

Armalight's brows remained furrowed. He was silent for a while before saying, 'You are wrong about many of the conclusions that you make.'

Bacchus nodded, then continued, 'So you're angry because --?'

'You understand neither the hesitation, nor the pain of love.' Armalight said in an icy voice, 'I don't want to play this metaphorical game with you on this topic anymore; you know this is true.'

Bacchus just looked at him and smiled. I couldn't really see Bacchus' face from the angle I was standing at, but by the sound of his voice, I knew he was smiling. I suddenly realised that I hated the triumphant sound of his smile.

'So what are you going to do?' He asked.

Armalight seemed to be silent for a moment, as if he was trying to figure out how to answer -- in fact, he didn't. He just took a step forward, grabbed Bacchus by the shoulders, and pushed him backwards in one swift move. In this way, the two of them were all but blocked by the ambulance, escaping from my sight.

I suspect that Armalight kissed him.

-- In the end, I had heard nothing more than a petty lovers' quarrel. My interest lay solely in whether or not Albarino Bacchus was actually a serial killer, and I had no concern for his love life. At this rate, I might have to take matters into my own hands and test him myself.

However, my probing yielded no results. He appeared calm and sly, never revealing any flaws out of surprise.

'Whatever accusations you are making, please be ever so careful.'

He said this in a tone that was extremely, extremely unsettling -- a tone that made it certain anyone speaking like that was definitely up to no good. Even I was a bit sceptical; I wasn't even sure if he was saying it with the intention of killing someone off or doing something else even more terrible. That was not an exaggeration; when someone speaks in such a manner, it feels like they're capable of anything.

This was how the whole thing ended, without any results. It is also the fundamental reason why I wanted to write this down -- I wanted to find out the truth, but I am not sure what will happen to me, so I am using this as a final insurance policy.

During this time, Olga Molozer was in a coma, and I used this opportunity to frequent the hospital, because Bacchus was always there too, giving me a way to observe him closely. Moreover, the hospital, being a public place with many people around, meant no one would dare to do anything to me here.

One day -- probably sometime around late February -- on a weekend, I went to the hospital and happened to see Officer Bart Hardy and another man with an unfamiliar face standing in front of Molozer's ward.

It's really a shame that Molozer ended up where she did; she was far more useful than most of the officers at the WLPD. Officer Hardy was clearly worried as he looked inside the ward, and I was cautious to keep myself hidden: although I had more or less saved his daughter, there were still quite a few people within the WLPD who had a problem with me. What if the one beside him was one of his colleagues?

I'm guessing that the unfamiliar man was probably a cop or something as well, since he was built and looked quite fit, with tanned skin -- different from the fake tan, suggesting he was often on duty outside.

In any case, I'm a pretty good judge of people, and this current scenario, for example, told me that if these two discovered that I was eavesdropping, I wouldn't be able to outrun them with my bad leg. So I hid myself around the corner, where only the female caregiver sitting in the lounge reading a Fifty Shades of Grey novel with great interest could spot me.

But then again, I've been here so many times and that caregiver hasn't even noticed me twice.

Then I heard Officer Hardy say, 'I didn't expect to run into you here.'

'Because I try not to show up here -- at least when you're present.' The man replied, 'I know I'm not welcome.'

'Because I would hate you?' Hardy asked.

'Do you want to punch me now?' Mercader asked rhetorically.

'Not as much as I wanted to punch you on the first day.' Hardy shrugged his shoulders and said frankly, 'I understand your initial intentions were good, trying to catch the Family Butcher. Your starting point was correct, even though the execution was terrible -- but that doesn't mean I'm not angry with you.'

Oh, I now knew who this man was -- Lavazza Mercader of the BAU, the one who insisted on keeping Molozer at the police station, causing Hardy to have to search the buildings alone. Now, I understood why he asked, 'Do you want to punch me now?'. If Olga hadn't managed to get there in time at the end, Hardy's wife would have been dead.

Mercader nodded slowly, as if chewing over some words in his mind as he did so. He was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, 'I saw Dr. Bacchus here when Molozer was first brought to the hospital.'

Hardy tilted his head and looked at him, 'What did he say?'

'He thinks that the deaths of many people are my fault.' Mercader said.

I carefully huddled behind the corner to listen to them talk, but still couldn't fully make out what they were talking about.

Hardy sighed and asked, 'Does it matter to you what he thinks?'

'Very much,' Mercader enunciated, 'because I heard that Cherry, the witness in the case that happened in front of the Court House, she died didn't she? Car accident?'

Although I didn't understand how the topic turned in this direction, my whole body jolted: for I knew they were discussing the Sunday Gardener's case! They must have been referring to the case of William Brown and Anthony Sharp, the two men who had been displayed by the Gardener on the stone steps in front of the Court House in the manner of Judith beheading Holofernes.

Although I've always been interested in the Gardener and Pianist cases, I've never been able to get my hands on the case files for either of them. The WLPD, though rotten from the roots, were still very careful regarding these two's cases.

Hardy was silent for a moment, then asked, 'Are you implying something?'

'I have some personal opinions about your friends,' said Mercader, looking around cautiously as he spoke, and I had to press myself against the wall to avoid his gaze, 'This is not a good place to talk, I'd rather talk to you in your office -- Leaving that aside for the moment, about the case of the Gardener and the Pianist, did Molozer say anything about it in the first place?'

Hardy thought for a moment.

'You know all that speculation we've had internally...' Hardy waved vaguely, cautiously avoiding keywords which made me furious, 'Olga believed there was a simpler explanation, telling me, 'Entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity'.'

A long, strange silence followed.

I couldn't help but peek around the corner, only to see Mercader standing stiffly, staring blankly out the window of Molozer's hospital room.

Then he said dryly, 'f*ck.'

Hardy couldn't help but ask, 'Agent Mercader --?'

'I see,' said Mercader suddenly, his voice hoarse, 'There is indeed a simpler way. We don't have to sort out such complicated interpersonal relationships. If people are not as complicated as we think, then -- who's there?!'

My whole body shuddered violently, and I stood nervously still, unsure if I had been discovered and wondering whether or not to run. But Mercader seemed to turn and head off somewhere I couldn't see, and within a few seconds, someone ran desperately along the corridor.

It was a young man with shaggy hair and an unshaven face. He flew past me, almost knocking me over, leaving me with only a hasty 'excuse me' with an European accent.

The man fled like there was a fire chasing him, and I took the opportunity to escape into the lounge, where the carer merely gave me a curious glance from above her books and said nothing. While I escaped with my life, Mercader and Hardy gave chase in the direction of the other eavesdropper.

I just stood there, holding my aching leg and breathing heavily. After the fear of being discovered gradually calmed, I realised two things:

Firstly, I felt like I had heard some very important information -- probably related to the investigation of the Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener -- but I hadn't really understood what the two of them were talking about.

Secondly, who was the other fellow who had overheard them both, as I had?

Chapter 31: 67. The Fountain of Blood (1)

Chapter Text

It seems to me at times my blood flows out in waves

Like a fountain that gushes in rhythmical sobs.

I hear it clearly, escaping with long murmurs,

But I feel my body in vain to find the wound.[1]

[1] 'The Fountain of Blood', Baudelaire.

'No,' said Bates, stuttering as he uttered the word, 'You're kidding, right?'

We could take a moment to view the start of the new year from Bates' perspective: he had just enjoyed a pleasant Christmas holiday and returned from vacation only to hear that the WLPD had been attacked by a serial killer who had brutally murdered two police officers in a frenzy; and then not even two days of peace and quiet later, the Family Butcher had kidnapped Bart Hardy's wife and daughter, and Olga had fallen from a tall building and was still in a coma unconscious.

And now, on what should have been a lovely, beautiful afternoon, Bates had come to the WLPD to deliver a DNA test report and intended to briefly discuss a few things with the officer in charge of the case before he was inexplicably summoned into the office by Hardy with a serious look on his face.

The gentleman in front of him -- Lavazza Mercader, the head of the BAU, whom Bates had only met once before during the Johnny the Killer case -- was standing in the middle of Hardy's office, declaring in a resounding voice...

'I think Dr. Bacchus is the Sunday Gardener and Armalight is the Westland Pianist.'

Bates simply wanted to go home immediately and lie in bed, then open his eyes and go through the day again from the beginning. But it was no use; the serious look on Mercader's face, Hardy's headache, and the red mug which Olga had thrown in the corner of the room which had been gradually accumulating dust, all told him that this was no hallucination of his.

Bates blinked blankly, the way most people would react when their friend was being accused of being a psychopathic murderer. He struggled with the wording, 'But, Al...'

'He fits the profile -- actually, both of them do. I'm surprised no one has thought of it before.' Mercader said, waving his hand for emphasis, 'Age, time in Westland, even their occupations: Armalight is a lawyer, so he certainly has his ways of accessing cases to crimes that haven't been publically tried. We've been looking for traces of the Pianist among police officers previously; and as for Dr. Bacchus, he's a forensic pathologist, and his parents were surgeons, so he obviously has a medical background.'

'I don't think Al's behaviour fits in with any of the typical childhood characteristics of a serial killer,' Bates shook his head, 'Arson, animal abuse...'

'That's not the only set of characteristics. If you refer to Hare's Psychopathy Checklist, you'll find he fits many criterias.' Mercader countered, 'Irresponsible, superficial charm, impulsive, promiscuous, incapable of sustaining long term intimate relationships-'

'...Sorry,' Bates interrupted, confused, 'Promiscuity? Really?'

Hardy gave the other man an indescribable look; Because of the incident where the Gardener placed the bodies on the steps of the Court House, they had to bring Albarino in for questioning. Bates probably didn't known that during the questioning Albarino had mentioned a threesome.

Hardy thought it best not to tell Bates about it.

Besides, if the two men were indeed serial killers, their alibis would have been perjured, and the threesome never having existed -- but Cherry, the witness who'd testified to them, had died in a car accident. Which, according to Mercader, was something much more than a simple car accident, but they could no longer prove anything.

'And Dr. Bacchus being with Armalight now is strange in itself,' continued Mercader, 'He admitted to me that he wasn't close to Armalight during the Johnny the Killer case -- But then, after the Pianist's sexual assault case, he quickly got together with Armalight so soon after? This applies to both of them. Shouldn't this kind of sexual assault leave some sort of psychological trauma on the victim?'

'Because they were both 'in the same boat',' Hardy gestured, his expression not very good, 'Al told me that it was because their experiences were similar that they got together. But by your theory -- if it's true that one of them is the Pianist and the other the Gardener – does that mean that Al condoned the sort of thing that Armalight did to him?'

Bates knew what was going through his mind when he said that: they both envisioned the same gruesome scene: blood-soaked flesh, knife-carved letters, the creation of Adam.

Mercader retorted, 'Is that so hard for a psychopathic killer?'

'Alright, alright,' thought Hardy, who could only wearily intervene, 'This is just a suspicion. Since we started investigating these two serial killers, we've sifted through a number of characters that we thought fit the profiles perfectly, but none of them, upon elimination, were the actual killers. Agent Mercader, there's no way that 'fitting the profile' alone is going to be enough for a judge to issue a warrant.'

Bates nodded and added, 'We searched Al's residence during that Landon case, and I can assure you that there's no sign that he's killed anyone in his house.'

'Besides,' Hardy added, 'just on the basis of Olga's 'Entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity', I don't really believe ...'

Mercader waved his hand again, as if he recognised that his argument wasn't strong enough for the men in front of him. 'She's provided a good way of thinking about it, and we've been trying to find a relationship between the four; the Pianist, the Gardener, Armalight and Dr. Bacchus before. But any possible connection seemed too complex and confusing, but, if the entire incident only ever involved two people, everything would make sense.'

'Perhaps it does,' Hardy's brow furrowed deeply as he said this, 'but if you can realise this just based on hearing it alone, how could Olga not have thought of it? Does it seem possible to you that she proposed the concept without reaching the final conclusion?'

Mercader paused for a moment, and then had to admit that the other man had a point.

'I don't know either.' He said with a sigh.

'I have another question,' Bates hesitantly raised his hand, feeling like a schoolboy about to be repimanded when he was in front of Mercader, 'Agent Mercader, I've been wanting to ask since the beginning...shouldn't you be back at Quantico right now?'

Mercader scrutinized him for a long time, making Bates feel the urge to shrink back.

But the question was valid: it was already early March, almost a month since the Butcher's incident. Mercader and John Garcia should have left Westland long ago. But Bates had encountered Mercader at least twice during his visits to Olga in the hospital, not to mention this encounter in Hardy's office.

Did this man ever go to work?

Mercader was stunned for a moment and shifted his weight awkwardly.

'Uh, my colleagues are in New Jersey dealing with a premeditated mass poisoning case,' he said awkwardly, 'My case is almost wrapped up, so I took some time to check on things in Westland -- I'll be leaving soon.'

'I suggest you get back to your work as soon as possible as well. We'll keep an eye on the Pianist and the Gardener... Without any evidence, the WLPD can't do anything, and you should be mindful of any procedural issues your frequent visits to Westland might cause.' Hardy reminded him.

Mercader took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, followed by his statement, 'If the WLPD were willing to seek the BAU's help, there wouldn't be any procedural issues. The Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener cases may not be interstate crimes, but they should still warrant FBI involvement...I really hope you'll consider my earlier suggestion to turn the case over to me and my colleagues.'

Bates listened and couldn't help but sigh inwardly: it was a good idea, of course it was, and if the WLPD could actually request assistance from the FBI, Hardy would have a much lighter burden on his shoulders. No officer should have to handle two serial killings simultaneously.

-- But things weren't as simple as Mercader thought:

Bart Hardy had been promoted by his predecessor, a Chief who had harboured a number of bright and heroic fantasies in his heart before dying in a shooting five months into his tenure. The current Chief just wanted to use his position to make a quick fortune and retire to Malibu Beach. So of course he couldn't stand Hardy, who was an obstacle on his path to accept bribes, and wanted to find a reason to transfer him for a bad case.

The mayor of Westland, on the other hand, wanted to transfer the Chief out from his current position sooner rather than later so that he could have his cronies running the WLPD, which would greatly benefit him in his campaign for governor. He didn't care about the WLPD's crime solving rates and was only interested in trying to catch the Chief of police in the act.

In short, Lavazza Mercader knews nothing about the complex political landscape of Westland, nor could he have known that Bart Hardy was probably one of the few people in the entire police department who genuinely wanted to solve these two cases, while everyone else was more or less trying to make a profit out of these two serial killings -- and their first step to making a profit was to keep the FBI out of these cases in the first place.

Bates could only watch silently as Mercader shook Hardy's hand and walked away at a brisk pace, presumably on his way to New Jersey to join his own team and handle the poisoning case. Bates watched him leave and then turned his head to glance at Hardy, who seemed exhausted, his hair whiter, and his eyes filled with fatigue.

Clara was only a few days away from being discharged from the hospital. Hardy and Wallis had to find time out of work to go to the hospital to take care of their child in addition to juggling their work responsibilities, they were simply busy. And at this moment, mixed in his eyes was a deep concern ...a look of deep contemplation.

'Oh.' Bates whispered.

Hardy looked over at him, the corners of his mouth turned stiffly downward.

'You're seriously considering Agent Mercader's theory now,' Bates felt his voice lighten as if it were a whisper, and he felt a strange pang of unease at his realistaion, 'Aren't you? '

Hardy was silent for a long time, then nodded.

'I really don't want to think this way, they're all my friends and they just saved Clara's life.' Hardy's tone was heavy, 'But what other options do I have? Too many people have died already.'

'What a beast!' Tom gritted his teeth, 'And such a young child!'

-- It was the last autopsy of the day before the end of their shift. The light of the shadowless lamp focused on a bruised and battered body of a dead boy. He looked quite young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, lying naked on the autopsy table as if he were a lifeless white stone.

His body was covered with bruises. There were many restraint marks on his neck and wrists, and some strip-like wounds on his back, white in the middle and dark around the edges. These were the marks of being beaten with a cylindrical object, probably a baseball bat, according to Albarino.

At this moment, the autopsy was nearing its conclusion: the deceased's nails and lips were cyanotic, his right heart was highly congested, blood inside his vessels was unclotted, saliva and mucus had flowed out, and his eyes were protruding. It was clear that he died from mechanical asphyxiation. Combined with the extent of his sphincter tear, it was evident that this young man died from a cause that, while unseemly, was quite common.

'If this were an adult, people would say it was 'SM gone wrong',' said Albarino, seeing Tom wrinkle his nose, 'but this kid is clearly underage, so this is most likely a rape and murder case. Though the killer might have strangled him by accident, raping a minor is still a serious crime... He was found in the river, right?'

'Yes,' Tommy said, looking down at the report provided by the scene investigator in his hand, 'A dog walker found the body in the river this morning and called the police. There's been a resurgence in these types of cases lately, and the river's only just thawed enough to dump a body!'

Albarino shook his head, 'Cases like these tend to remain unsolved, the victim looks like he's been in the river for almost two days. Even though we've sent the materials to the evidence lab, experience tells me the river water has probably destroyed most of the evidence. If the WLPD can't identify the victim, there's a good chance that the case won't be solved.'

Tom pursed his lips, clearly unable to bear seeing such a young child die tragically. 'But--'

'This isn't a high-profile case,' Albarino gave him an amused look, even though the young man in front of him had been an intern at the Bureau of Forensic Medicine for such a long time, there were times when his naiveté and idealism still surprised Albarino, 'What I mean is, the victim isn't some celebrity, tycoon, or politician's child. If it turns out that he was a runaway or a kid who sold his body for money -- you know there are still many of those people -- the case is likely to go nowhere. If the case is handed to an officer like Bart, it might be different, but...'

'But there aren't many officers like Hardy in the WLPD.' Tommy admitted in a reluctant whisper.

Albarino nodded with a smile, 'That's what I mean.'

Tom muttered something in frustration. Meanwhile, the door to the autopsy room was knocked on and cautiously pushed open. Albarino's secretary stood in the doorway and asked, 'Dr. Bacchus?'

'What is it?' Albarino raised an eyebrow; his secretary didn't usually come to him when he was nearing the end of his shift.

'There's a gentleman here to see you in your office, says his last name is Armalight.' The other man replied. Everyone -- including the secretary and the receptionists at the Bureau of Forensic Medicine -- had become immune to the sight of good-looking men and women visiting Albarino at the Bureau of Forensic Medicine over the years. Overtime, they no longer even felt the urge to gossip.

...Except maybe Tommy.

Tommy's eyes began to glaze over at the mention of Armalight's name, and Albalino couldn't help but suspect he had heard too much gossip from Olga. Albarino nodded, feeling a headache coming on and replied, 'I see, you tell him to come straight over. Also, the recording of this autopsy is over,' Albarino said, gesturing to the lifeless young body behind him. 'You can finish the autopsy report tomorrow morning and give it to Officer Bull.'

-- Bull, Albarino had dealt with this officer before. He wasn't as responsible or as competent as Hardy. In any case, Albarino believed that if Officer Bull was in charge of this case, the case of the unidentified boy's body would end up being thrown into the pile of 'unsolved' cases, gathering dust like the hundreds of other unsolved cases.

Albarino's secretary probably felt the same way, but in any case, he simply nodded and exited the autopsy room, closing the door behind him. The faint smell of decay from the corpse and the lingering, damp odour from the river hung heavy in the chamber for a few minutes before the door was opened again, and Herstal Armalight appeared in the doorway of the autopsy room.

Herstal looked as immaculate as ever -- his tailored suit, expensive silk shirt and tie, and handmade leather shoes easily created an image of arrogance. Albarino knew that, despite Tommy's eagerness to gossip about their relationship, he was actually somewhat afraid of Herstal.

Tommy, who had been yelling at Albarino before Herstal walked in the door about whether or not the two of them had finally moved in together, snapped to a halt, like a student caught reading a p*rnographic novel by his teacher. He shrunk his neck and ducked behind Albarino to concentrate on stitching up the dissected corpse, while Albarino looked over at Herstal with a smile.

'Why are you off work so early today?' He asked.

'I'm skipping a banquet,' Herstal replied, his frown not loosening even a little, making one want to reach out and smoothen the crease with their fingertips, 'Holmes wanted to use this opportunity to network and make friends with socialites, but I really wasn't interested.'

Albarino took a few more steps forward while he was talking, reducing the distance between the two of them to something that was less than appropriate; but then again, Albarino was never great with personal space, even between normal people. Now, he lazily put his hand on Herstal's shoulder, and when the other man didn't tense up the instant his fingers fell, Albarino swept his fingers over the seams of the fabric with satisfaction.

'So,' Albarino asked lightly, 'you'd rather spend your time with me, right?'

His fingers crawled like spiders to the other man's collar, lightly brushing his fingertips there -- where a bite mark lay on the skin underneath, which had been left by Albarino the night before. It was now properly hidden under the layer of shirt collar and tie. Unsurprisingly, Herstal glared at Albarino.

'Watch it,' Herstal warned, 'The reception hasn't even started yet, so I could still change my mind at any moment and turn around to go back.'

'And take away the key to your place?' Albarino asked with a raised eyebrow, snapping the pockets of his jacket down as Herstal's fingers were stealthily making their way inside.

Apparently, Herstal's hand had already hooked onto the key ring, but he simply clicked his tongue and released his grip, giving up on the doomed attempt. Then he emphasised again, lowering his voice so that only the two of them could hear: 'Don't pry open the door of my house again. If one day you don't have a key, go back to sleep in your mouldy fridge.'

About the mouldy fridge, Albarino felt aggrieved. He could swear to God that the fridge in his house in the suburbs was definitely not mouldy, but that wasn't really the most pressing issue right now either.

What was perhaps the more pressing issue was that they had been sleeping together most nights recently, and they were good-natured enough after waking up as to not have killed anyone.

Albarino had stayed at Herstal's house for a while just before Christmas last year, and as everyone knew, that had ended on a very unpleasant note. And Albarino thought that since neither of them had any ideas of killing the other, or of getting tired of this game for the time being, and besides, considering that they've 'killed together,' they might as well continue the same lifestyle as before Christmas.

Herstal didn't object to the proposal, though he did have a look of disgust in his eyes.

And now they fell back into the routine: When Herstal wasn't working late, he would naturally stop by the Forensic Bureau, and they would go home together. It was too lifelike, but it was a good cover for fooling the police: they could never imagine the Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener coming home from work together; and it was really good evidence for the 'we're in love', a notion which Albarino enjoyed, probably just to see Herstal suffer.

And so, this day was like any other day. Herstal began to regret it three minutes after seeing Albarino -- but it only lasted for those three minutes.

For in the next moment, Albarino inadvertently sidestepped to one side, and Herstal saw the body lying on the autopsy table, as pale as marble.

In that instant, Herstal could not hear what Albarino was saying; an earth-shattering sound silently exploded in his ears. When he regained his senses, he found himself gripping Albalino's elbow tightly.

'Herstal?' Albarino asked in confusion, sounding as if he was genuinely worried.

Herstal swallowed dryly, then gestured towards the body with his chin.

'Who is that?' He asked.

Chapter 32: 68. The Fountain of Blood (2)

Chapter Text

Herstal’s complexion was not good, and that obscure look lingered in his eyes like dense clouds before a rainfall. Of course, the average person would say that he looked as serious and aloof as usual, but Albarino felt as if a flashing neon sign had appeared above his head, highlighting even the tiniest, little crease in his brow.

Albarino even glanced back at the corpse once again, as if hoping to discover some new secret from it, but unfortunately, it looked no different than any other miserable corpse.

And Tommy, undoubtedly, was one of those average people who couldn't read Herstal's emotions. He explained to Herstal carelessly, ‘This is the John Doe who was found on the riverbank this morning, he must have been washed ashore. We don't even know where he was thrown into the river from, and we haven't identified him yet.’

‘…Aren't we supposed to not disclose case details to unrelated personnel?’ Albarino hesitantly reminded Tommy.

Tommy looked at Albarino incredulously, ‘Isn't he your boyfriend?!’

The implication was clear: would he reveal case details to the media?

Albarino was stuck for two seconds, then silently confirmed in his mind that this young man, Tommy, would certainly suffer losses in such matters after he gets his forensic license and officially joins the team.

Herstal glanced at Albarino sinisterly, the mockery in his eyes was overflowing: Albarino was in no position to educate his juniors not to disclose information to uninvolved people. He himself was a guy who would rush in and sneak into the basem*nt of a suspect's house while the suspect was being questioned by the FBI.

Tommy, on the other hand, as always, was oblivious to the undercurrents between the others in the room. He continued, frowning, ‘...Although it really is quite tragic, but to be honest, it’s not very likely to be solved. There's been several cases like this before --’

Albarino tore his gaze away from the stalemate between him and Herstal, and abruptly turned his head to ask, ‘There have been several cases?’

Tommy nodded hurriedly, ‘Yes, I remember I was responsible for an autopsy of a similar unnatural death case at the end of last year. I stopped by to retrieve those previous reports when the scene investigation report came in at noon today. There have been five other similar cases since 2013.’

Albarino co*cked his head as he thought for a moment, then said, ‘Show me the autopsy reports -- Herstal, I may have to work overtime for a few minutes, so make yourself comfortable somewhere.’

Herstal surveyed the surroundings evaluatively: the ordinary autopsy room was filled with mobile autopsy carts, shadowless lamps, and all sorts of equipment. The ventilation system was working vigorously, and although the room didn't smell too bad, he really couldn't find a suitable place to ‘make himself comfortable’.

Tommy hurried off to fetch those autopsy reports. Herstal looked at Albarino's profile and asked, ‘What do you think this is...?’

‘If only one minor died after being sexually assaulted, I'd say that Westland had a paedophile bastard who played SM too much,’ Albarino whispered as he watched Tommy leave, ‘But if a total of six children died in a span of over three years? Then there are two possibilities.’

Herstal watched the subtle curve of Albarino's mouth and whispered, ‘There's a sexually sad*stic killer in Westland.’

‘Or there's a group of people with special fetishes having a little party.’ Albarino shook his finger and said slowly, ‘Neither of which are particularly pleasant speculations.’

Bart Hardy never understood why the name of the bar was ‘I Quit.’

Olga might know the truth, because she was probably very familiar with the bar owner – as when Hardy and Bates passed through the looming haze of marijuana smoke, and through the many young people with shiny skin tattoos and dyed colourful hair, the bar owner's hawk-like eyes picked them out from a circle of people.

‘Hey! You're a friend of Molozer, right?’ The bar owner shouted, with a beaming smile on his lips, ‘How come Molozer hasn't been around lately?’

Hardy felt the sensation of something prickly stuck in his throat. He forcefully flashed a pale smile at the other man before muttering something like -- ‘she hasn't been able to make it lately’, which was a lie as close to the truth as he could get. He then allowed the considerate Bates to drag him to a booth away from the bar, where the high leather back of a double sofa shielded them from the flickering lights and the owner's inquiring eyes.

Bates left briefly and returned with two beers. The heavy glass clanked down onto the wooden table top with a thump, leaving a ring of damp water vapour. Bates himself settled into the seat with the same thud.

‘Let's not talk about the Pianist's mess first,’ he said with a frown, ‘Bart, how long has it been since you've had a good night's sleep?’

Hardy knew the large, dark circles, under his eyes were obvious to anyone who wasn’t blind. He rubbed his dry eyes, unsure how to explain himself to the other party.

Bart Hardy's father had been a soldier in the Marine Corps, so it wasn't hard to imagine what kind of upbringing he'd been brought up under -- boys shouldn't cry, and boys certainly couldn't show vulnerability, which was the old Hardy's usual stance -- so he didn't know how to confide in Bates about the nightmares he'd had since his wife and daughter had been rescued, or how to approach the parts that had to do with Lavazza Mercader.

Olga lay silently in the hospital, and when Hardy looked at her, he often thought of the doctor's frightening words and the Butcher himself, until Mercader appeared inexplicably that one weekend and once again dragged his attention back to the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist.

-- And the other party thought that those killers were his daughter's saviors.

For a long time, they’d had some particularly preposterous speculations about the Pianist and the Gardener, and what Mercader said was undoubtedly one of the most absurd he had ever heard. He said: I think Dr. Bacchus is the Sunday Gardener, and Armalight is the Pianist.

At the time, they had just finished a breathless, inexplicable race through the hospital corridors, and they were both stood back in front of the window into Olga's ward. ‘That's what Molozer's words revealed to me.’ Agent Mercader said coldly and stiffly, while Olga, particularly uncharacteristically for the impression she left on the regulars lay as peacefully and quietly as she did, without speaking or saying a word.

This conclusion was so bizarre that he shouldn't have believed it, but...

‘I’ve been worried, so I’m... losing sleep.’ Now facing one of the leading figures of the Westland Crime Lab, Bates Schwander, he finally told the truth.

‘Because if those two are indeed criminals, you'd have to arrest them yourself?’ Bates asked, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back against the soft backing of his chair. ‘Let me put it this way, Bart: while I don't deny the role of profiling in solving cases, I believe in science more than I do in criminal psychology -- a lot of the conclusions of criminal psychology are summarised generalisations of countless previous cases, and even if they apply to a wide range of cases, there are always exceptions to the rule. Science, however, is irrefutable.’

‘And it's true that Al's house didn't show any suspicious evidence. CSI searched his house twice in two different cases, I know that.’ Hardy said propping up his forehead, perhaps they shouldn't have come to this bar in such a complicated state of mind about Olga, and the piercing music didn’t help with their headaches, ‘I know you're comforting me, thank you.’

‘Why on earth are you so concerned about what Mercader had to say this time? I'm guessing it's by no means just because Mercader said he got his inspiration from Olga, and it's true that I've never seen Olga make a mistake, but it's not like Olga's a god - so why exactly?’ Bates asked a rather to-the-point question, and as if to soften his slightly sharp phrasing, he picked up his glass of beer and brought it to his lips.

‘Albarino ...’ Hardy mused, ‘is a very strange man. You know what they call him, don't you?’

‘They say he's a 'genius', which I've heard a lot.’ Bates laughed.

‘He graduated from medical school at twenty-three, then went off to travel around Europe and returned to Westland at twenty-four.’ Hardy said, flashing a small smile, ‘You know, usually in their line of work, you're supposed to work as a pathologist for four years before becoming a forensic pathologist, but he only did two years before the hospital director wrote a special letter of recommendation for him to join the Bureau of Forensic Medicine early. Excluding his internship, he was appointed Chief Medical Examiner after only six years in the Bureau of Forensic Medicine. His achievements are astonishing.’

‘I feel you,’ Bates said sincerely, ‘so you were quite impressed with him back then?’

‘Very, very impressed,’ Hardy replied in a particularly serious tone, ‘When I first met him, I was an ordinary officer, and he was still only an intern forensic pathologist -- it’s not an exaggeration Bates, I'd never met anyone like him before.’

It was a hot summer's day when Bart Hardy first met Albarino Bacchus. It was well known that all forensic pathologists and homicide detectiveshated the summer months because the heat made corpses decompose into unpredictable horrors.

When Hardy crossed the yellow police tape, the place was already crowded with reporters, and several younger officers were puking in the corner outside the house. One officer shoved a DSLR camera into Hardy's hand, frustration etched on his face.

‘You, you're replacing the guy who’s responsible for evidence photos ,’ he said, gesturing to Hardy the guy who was puking until he was pale in the doorway, ‘he's about to vomit his stomach out.’

That's how Hardy stepped inside, clueless, donned in a blue protective suit, and immediately he was assaulted by an unbearable, pungent, odour. The house was a small, two-storey building, painted a lovely white, but the interior held none of that freshness that could be seen on the outside – unspeakable, putrid liquids mixed with blood that was running across the grey floor, with white maggots writhing and rolling around inside.

It took Hardy a great deal of effort to stifle the dry heaves. There were a couple of CSIs in the room, pinching their noses and going about their business. At the source of the odour -- a rough concrete pit built into the centre of the living room floor -- crouched a young, brown-haired man, who, by the look of the kit he had in his hand, was supposed to be a forensic pathologist.

Hardy carefully navigated across the floor to avoid stepping on any bugs . Once he finally managed to stand beside the young man, he asked, ‘You're the one who needs the body photographed?’

‘Yes. We'd better get busy and finish it before my boss arrives, or else he'll lose his temper again.’ The young man replied nonchalantly.

-- Later, Hardy learned that the ‘boss’ he was referring to was the Chief Medical Examiner of the Bureau of Forensic Medicine at the time, a very ill-tempered old man.

At this moment, the concrete pit in front of him was piled up with body parts. A few flies were buzzing around the pile of corpses, while dense maggots writhed on the surface of the body like a sea of white. Hardy saw five hands in just one glance, and they seemed to be mismatched.

But the young medical examiner didn't seem to be affected by the shocking fragments and the unspeakable odour. Instead, he nimbly poked his tweezers into the mountain of body parts and pulled a white worm out of it.

And now he could only watch as the other man put the maggot into a small vial containing ethanol: the type of worm on the body, its length, and the stage of growth the worm was in, were important in determining the time of death. But even so, the other man seemed a little too calm, not to mention the fact that he was the closest person in the entire room to the gruesome scene.

‘This is like one of those fairy tales, like the ones in Grimms' Fairy Tales .’ The young forensic pathologist commented enthusiastically, talking to him in a familiar manner. ‘The young bride opens the door to the room her husband won't let her open, and then discovers a large pool inside piled high with the body parts of young girls; and because she couldn't help but pry into her husband's secrets, she had to become one of them.’

‘Er,’ asked Hardy at last, after the first photograph had been taken, ‘don't you think this looks unpleasant?’

The young forensic pathologist pondered for a couple of seconds before replying, ‘Aesthetically speaking maybe it does, but considering that this is everyone's destination, maybe it's not so bad.’

‘I don't think my destination is in such a pool.’ Hardy muttered with a laugh.

‘But this is exactly how we return back to dust, it is the true form we present to others.’ The young forensic pathologist looked down at the body partsand concluded with regret. ‘ The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream’ .’ [1]

[1] 'A Carrion', Baudelaire.

‘This was what happened when I first met Al.’ Hardy said frankly, while Bates, whose glass had been drained, stared at Hardy with a bewildered expression.

‘...Should I make some comment about this way of meeting?’ There was a long moment of silence, and then Bates stumbled over his words, clearly at a complete loss as to how he should phrase them, ‘Just, this way of meeting is really... impressive?’

‘It does in fact seem overly impressive,’ Hardy admitted, and a familiar bitter smile once again appeared on his face. ‘I'll have to admit this fact to you: that's the only reason I'm worried. As I said, I actually know that Albarino is not an ordinary person, he's sharp, technically brilliant, skilled and so damned smart -- so while I still don't believe he'd do something like the Sunday Gardener...’

Bates caught the other's drift.

‘But you know in your heart,’ he said softly, pointing out as calmly as he could in his voice, a fact which the other's heart dreaded, ‘that he by no means lacks the ability or courage to do such a thing.’

The five autopsy reports were lined up in front of Albarino, accompanied with detailed photographs. The ghastly pale skin and criss-crossed wounds of those who had died looked shocking.

‘Okay, so far there are six victims, four girls and two boys, aged between ten and fifteen.’ Albarino quickly flipped through the autopsy reports, the harsh, shadowless lamp casting an ominous and deep shadow under the arch of his brow. ‘They were all sexually assaulted prior to their deaths, and were found in dishevelled clothes or simply completely naked ...but there’s nothing particularly common about the manner of death.’

‘Two of the previous victims died of asphyxiation, but one by strangulation and the other by a rope, respectively.’ Tommy was a little more familiar with the situation than Albarino after having read the autopsy reports earlier, ‘And then there’s this one, a congenital heart attack, and the other one died of craniocerebral injury caused by a heavy blow to the back of the head.’

Albarino nodded, ‘The causes of death are very different.’

‘You guys don't think one person did it?’ Considering the various confidentiality regulations, Herstal stood farther away, unsure if it was just the lighting, but he still looked pale.

‘If it was done by one person, there should be at least some similarity in the methods.’ Albarino mused, ‘Besides, assuming it was really done by one person, the accidental death rate from sleeping with him is a bit too high... No, I don't think this was done by one sexual sad*st -- at least not 'one' sexual sad*st. Tommy, has there been any testable DNA extracted from these cases?’

‘You can check the information on the CSI’s side, they took biopsies and the results from the crime labs are attached onto the end of the autopsy report.’ Tommy leaned over and flipped the autopsy report back a few more pages, ‘...okay, obviously not.’

‘The murderers were very cautious, they must have worn condoms.’ Albarino nodded and didn't look too discouraged, ‘All in all, it seems like there's still not enough evidence for a joint investigation right now. But as I said before, so many similar cases occurring in the same area means attention must be paid to it. Tommy, can you come to my office? Give these autopsy reports to my secretary and ask him to summarise these contents in the index at the end of the autopsy report of this victim. When the reports are handed over to Officer Bull tomorrow, I'll have him take a look at these, it might help in the investigation.’

Tommy gave a noise of assent and put the autopsy reports away before going out again. Albarino, meanwhile, went out to call his assistants in so they could wheel the body back to the morgue and into one of the cold cabinets.

By the time he returned, Herstal was still standing in the doorway of the autopsy room, arms folded. The expensive clothes made him look as if he'd just stepped out from the inside pages of some fashion magazine, out of place in the pale, quiet corridor.

Albarino tugged the latex gloves down from his fingers as he made his way over to him, finally stopping two steps away, close enough to be within earshot but not enough to share the same breath. He gave the other man two heartbeats worth of time before asking, ‘Herstal, do you care for that?’

Herstal raised his head at the sound of his voice and surveyed him, his blue appearing unusually light under the lamp's illumination, which made them seem cold and unfeeling, as people often said of light-coloured eyes. His voice was equally as cold and hard, like wind blowing through a long corridor built of white stone.

‘You think I care about a dead person?’ He asked rhetorically in his usual tone of voice, counting on the other man to hear the sarcasm in his voice and know better. Unfortunately for him, however, Albarino was usually impervious to his tactics.

‘Or is it the grave in your heart that you care about.’ Albarino pressed on.

Hestel clicked his tongue, ‘Is this going to be another metaphor filled conversation?’

‘No, this is entirely literal: I sense a cemetary here ...a cemetery abhorred by the moon, in which long worms crawl like remorse [2].’ Albarino laughed a little, and that laugh swept swiftly past the corners of his mouth like an icy knife. Then he reached out, his fingertips resting steadily on Herstal's chest, his fingertips could feel the vibrant heartbeat from beneath the fabric. The organ steadily pumping blood to all of his limbs, a river of red coursing through his body. ‘I discovered its existence the night Billy was killed. I'm guessing you buried a child there: a child who was powerless in the face of an overwhelming, irresistible force above him’.

[2] ‘Spleen’, Baudelaire.

‘You discovered its existence.’ Herstal echoed with a sneer, his eyes blazing like a fire. ‘How interesting, I thought you were the type to announce your discoveries to the world immediately.’

‘Why would I? If I keep silent, it and your beauty belong solely to me.’ Albarino replied smoothly, effortlessly uttering out the kind of sweet talk that would be too much even for a lady. ‘You understand how alluring that is to an artist, don't you?’

‘Very poetic, and somewhat creepy too.’ Herstal sneered, though what he really meant to say was probably something like ‘annoyingly melodramatic.’

‘This is advice from the Gardener, my love.’ Albarino continued in the same light voice, giving a knowing wink, appearing cheerful and pleasant, ‘Since that grave will always exist, why not use it to bury more dead people? The person that disgusts you -- or the people, it doesn't matter -- find them, kill them, bury them.’

He paused meaningfully, that hand still overlaid where it was, while he eliminated those remaining two steps forward, and kissed the corner of Herstal's lips.

Herstal did not move, nor did he hide, only a sigh as soft as the breeze blew from between his lips.

‘And then that child you buried in the cemetery won’t ever feel lonely.’

Chapter 33: 69. The Fountain of Blood (3)

Chapter Text

Westland was a very precipitation-heavy city, and even in March there was an unappealing drizzle every now and then. Temperatures would rise to tolerable levels, but rainy nights would still remain wet and cold.

Morrison huddled at the entrance of the porch, shivering as he tried to light himself a cigarette with his frozen, stiff fingers. The door opened onto an alleyway where the streetlight's glow couldn't reach, facing a river that gave off a damp, fishy odour wafting from afar; and the alley itself reeked of rotting garbage, with homeless people camped in the farthest corners against the low walls -- such alleys were common in the old town, these neighbourhoods have been left behind by the city's rapidly expanding economy, like an invisible hand tearing off a dark piece of the brightly lit urban animal.

These streets were known for their cheap rents, labyrinthine alleys, and outdated surveillance equipment, gradually becoming the perfect nests for the city's illegal activities. The land was divided into numerous pieces by various shady gangs. So much so that even the residents who've lived there for decades couldn't even begin to articulate the intricacies of what was at stake.

It was also because they were divided by the gangs so cleanly and thoroughly that the security of the streets was even better than in most other places -- each street was looked after by a different gang, and other gangs would not willingly trespass onto another's territory. As long as it was not at the boundary of power between two rival gangs, even road robbery and petty theft were very restrained. No gang leaders would allow their own minions to cause trouble on their own territory, which would not benefit the businesses they protected.

Morrison was a pimp living under gang protection. Whoring and prostitution were both illegal in Westland, but he didn't have to worry about that -- he paid a stack of cash to the local gangs every month, ensuring that the local police wouldn't kick down his door and search his house whenever they felt like it. Everyone could be bought off, especially the gangs in Westland and the police.

-- And of course, Morrison himself.

As he lit a cigarette with trembling hands, clenching it between his lips, a person emerged from the rain. They were dressed in a nondescript hooded jacket with the hood pulled all the way down to his eyebrows, and a scarf that made it hard to see his face. When the person stopped still in front of Morrison, the light from the yellow bulb dangling above his head fell on the figure, casting a deep shadow on the brim of his hood and the arch of his brow.

'Hey,' the person spoke with a grin, using the inappropriate topic of 'talking about the weather' to start the conversation, 'it's really cold out here, isn't it?'

This was an outdated tactic for picking up girls on a college campus, let alone starting a conversation with a pimp in a dark alley. Morrison eyed the other person warily and asked, 'What do you want?'

'Nothing much, just a chat. On such a lousy night like this, it's perfect for having someone to soothe a bored soul with, right?' The other party shrugged their shoulders and leaned casually against the porch beside Morrison, out of the way of the pouring rain, and sighed contently. 'Your girls are in the house right now doing that kind of soul-soothing work, and I'm sure you wouldn't want the police barging in and interrupting their noble job, right?'

Morrison stared intently at the other man, feeling a sense of betrayal. He spoke in a low voice, 'You here to collect protection money too? I just paid five hundred dollars to the Ravens two days ago, and you --'

'Shhh,' the man interrupted, shaking a finger, 'This has nothing to do with the Ravens. I have no intention of messing with the local leaders right now -- listen, I have a proposition that will save us both some trouble: Between the 25th and the 27th of last month, someone parked a car on that intersection over there ...'

He stretched out his hand slightly in front of him, and Morrison followed his finger to see the long river that appeared black in the night. Unlike this gloomy alleyway intersection, the one by the river was fairly well lit. By now the night was so dark that the street was empty, only bathed in a flawless orange-yellow glow by the night lights.

'And then a body was dumped into the river. With the drop from the embankment to the water being so large, I bet it must have made a good deal of noise.' The man continued slowly, 'You stand here every night supervising your girls' work, so you must have seen it, didn't you?'

Morrison stared the other man dead in the face and hissed, 'You one of the cops?!'

Morrison didn't spend time in the neighbourhood during the day, and it was only when he came back one night a few days ago, that he heard about what had happened during the day from one of the girls working under him: a number of police officers had come to the neighbourhood that morning, and they seemed to be investigating a body that had been dumped into the river.

They'd identified the dumping spot on the road outside the alley through surveillance cameras, but the quality of the cameras in the old town was too poor -- the mayor who'd taken office two years before had made a proposal to replace the city's cameras with high-definition surveillance cameras as a gimmick to get re-elected, but he only had time to replace the cameras in the main city before he was found guilty of corruption and bribery. After he stepped down, the proposal died down with him -- the police were unable to identify any physical characteristics of the suspect, or even the colour and model of the car that was parked on the side of the road.

As a result, the officers tried to find witnesses in the neighbourhood, but failed miserably; no one had nothing better to do than just sit and watch the river at night, and Morrison was completely unaware of the incident because he was away during the day. Besides, no one was going to tell the police that 'a pimp might be a witness' under the pressure of possibly offending the Ravens, so of course the matter was left unsettled.

Now Morrison eyed the man in front of him with suspicion: was it possible that this intruder was a police officer? If so, he was probably a corrupt one, because if he wasn't close with the Ravens, he shouldn't have known that there was a small-time pimp here.

But if the other party was a cop, what was his purpose? It was certainly impossible for a corrupt cop to be solely focused on pursuing the truth about an unlucky person whose body was dumped. So he could only be here for money, threatening to say, 'If you don't give me money, I'll tell the police that there is a witness like you'? That was very possible, because then he wouldn't be able to continue his business.

Morrison's mind raced several times, and what he said when he finally spoke was: 'How much do you want?'

'...What?' The other party looked as if he was genuinely stunned for a moment, before pausing and laughing sincerely, 'No, I'm really not here for the money. My purpose is simple: tell me exactly what you saw that night.'

Morrison was silent for a moment, then asked hoarsely, 'Or else what? '

'Otherwise you'll just have to tell the police,' the other replied lightly, 'and I bet you probably don't want to talk to the police yourself, do you?'

Morrison simply wanted to sigh, the other man's words were poking at every one of his weaknesses, leaving him feeling cornered. He let out a long breath and then spread his hands out to the other man in a half-hearted gesture of surrender.

'Alright, alright' he conceded, 'On the night of the 25th, I did see someone dump something into the river, but I swear I didn't know it was a person being thrown down there -- it was a black SUV driven by a bald man with tattoos on his face ...'

Natalie didn't expect to see her 'regular' that night.

Natalie ran a completely legal, indulgent nightclub in the East District called 'Sodom'. The letters were spelled out in crooked little neon lights, the pictures flashing colourfully in the night -- and it should be emphasised that the words 'completely legal' should be in a special font, because although the provocatively dressed bartenders and beautiful waiters in the club didn't actually have sex with the customers, they did have ties to the local gangs. Natalie had installed a few special ATMs outside the bar, so that when unlucky customers and their dancers and waitresses were about to engage in some unseemly 'private' activities, they would steal their credit cards and withdraw money from the ATMs outside.

It was a rainy, wet, and cold night, so business wasn't great: 'not great' was a relative term, the club was a 24-hour rave spot so it really didn't make that much of a difference, and the bad weather only deterred a few people. The dancefloor wasn't packed as of right now, which was the only difference the naked eye can see.

The room was suffused with sweet, cloying pink lights, and in addition to the people dancing, there were a few regulars sitting near the dance floor. Natalie, as usual, was sitting in the innermost booth, with a glass of brandy on the table. The man had been brought in by one of the girls serving drinks; he slid into the booth with familiar ease, but didn't pull down his hood.

Natalie had worked with this man a few times, or maybe 'worked with' wasn't the right word, because Natalie didn't actually know what he did. She guessed he was either a police informant or a trusted henchman of some gang boss, something of those sorts, because an air of coldness and ruthlessness exuded from the party's every move.

Natalie had connections with various gangs; she was close to the Norman Brothers -- of course, the gang was no longer called the 'Norman Brothers'. The last time this man had come around, it was during the uproar over Richard Norman's murder. He had paid Natalie a large sum to dig up any dirt on the conflict between Thomas Norman and his brother, or whether she had heard any rumours about Thomas' intention to murder his brother. Natalie had come back empty-handed, but the other man did not say anything.

Because her instincts told her that the man sitting across the table was not someone to be trifled with, and their last collaboration had cost him a lot of money for nothing, Natalie forced a smile as she greeted him.

'I didn't expect you to come by tonight, sir,' she said, 'What can I get you?'

'This is just a spur of the moment visit.' The man replied, his words delivered lazily and with a smile that Natalie didn't believe for a second. Instead, it sent a cold shiver along her spine, like a snake slithering down. 'And of course, there's a question I'd like to ask you.'

He paused, his voice a little softer when he opened his mouth, 'Is there a very tall man among your staff, bald, with a large tattoo running from his right temple to his cheek? He wasn't working on the night of the 25th -- I remember seeing such a person here before?'

Natalie nearly gasped.

Her nightclub was one of the largest in the East District, which meant she not only had to maintain a good relationship with various gangs, but also hire bouncers to watch the floor and avoid rival troublemakers, as well as drunken youngsters getting into fights and causing trouble. Her bouncers were all closely tied to the gangs, and sometimes they took on private jobs, which she never stopped them from doing, as long as they didn't bring trouble back to the club.

'Uh,' she began cautiously, her head instantly spinning at the thought that the only way to explain his earlier nuanced interest in the Norman brothers was if the other man was a police informant or a gang confident, '...has someone done something?'

The other man shook his head slowly.

Natalie's heart only partially settled before his next words sent it racing again, 'Except that while he hasn't committed anything yet, he's about to get caught up in something big -- the kind of big that the police are willing to spend their time tracing every lead. When that time comes, the police will inevitably have to check out your club as well. Even though you're running a legitimate business, surely police attention is not good for business, is it? Not to mention, I've heard that your place is still a favourite spot among some 'important' people.

Natalie steadied herself and asked in a low voice, '...What exactly do you want?'

'I want names.' The man said leisurely, as if savouring her distress, 'Give me his name and that's the end of it -- you won't see him again, and the police won't be looking for him.'

Natalie easily read the implication hidden behind his words, and couldn't help but feel a chill run down her spine.

'No, I can't!' After a long silence, Natalie said firmly, 'I can't do something that will definitely bring trouble just for the chance to avoid something that might not happen. Even here, murder is --'

The more she spoke, the lower her voice became, and the smile on the other person's face grew. When her voice had finally trailed off to the point where it was all but swallowed up by the music, the other person straightened up slowly. In the pink light, Natalie could finally vaguely make out that the mysterious man who had hidden himself under the shadow of his hood had light-coloured eyes, but it was impossible to discern exactly what colour they were.

'Ma'am,' said the other patiently, but Natalie keenly read a clear threat from beneath his patience, 'believe me, some things are inevitable -- just like how you know that the moon orbits around the earth, and the sun will rise as usual tomorrow -- it's all irrefutable. Soon, the police will start investigating a big case, and your bouncer who takes on private hires will be implicated, and then they'll naturally come to you with endless questions...so I'm proposing a timely solution: give me his name, and then no one will come to bother you about your life.'

Natalie stared at the other party steadily.

'Don't be naive,' the other man continued to encourage, 'you've been in this business for years, of course you're not that kind.'

Natalie was silent for a moment longer, then asked in a whisper, 'What will happen otherwise?'

'Didn't Thomas Norman end up dead?' The man said with a smirk.

-- There was a conspiracy theory circulating between the gangs about Richard Norman and Thomas Norman. Some people didn't believe that the two mob bosses were killed by the Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener. They thought that the two men had been murdered by assassins from another rival mob, who then framed the Pianist and Gardener for their deaths. Natalie had heard this theory but couldn't believe it...

She shrank back under the other person's smiling gaze.

Then she suddenly deflated and wordlessly leaned back against the booth, her voice revealing unspeakable frustration, 'The bouncer's name is Michael. I'll write down his address for you.'

The other man grinned and reached for the untouched glass of brandy she'd placed on the table, raising his glass to hers in a fake salute.

'Thanks.' He said, the empty glass clinking crisply on the table.

Natalie watched the droplets fall downwards from the glass, unable to resist asking the question buried in the back of her mind. She asked, 'What's going to happen?'

There was a pause on the other side.

'Watch the news,' the other said, 'You'll know when you see it -- there's never been any major news in Westland, has there?'

Michael woke up in the early hours of the morning in his rented, rundown, basem*nt apartment.

Usually, he was jolted awake by the sound of rats having a dance party on his floor, but today was different -- he woke up due to a pressure on his chest. The vivid dreams of sudden wealth and blonde beauties quickly shattered into pieces in the darkness as he realized someone was kneeling on his chest, with a knife pressed against the nape of his throat.

Standing at over 1.9 meters, Michael was considerably taller than his assailant, who certainly wasn't as physically imposing as he was. In terms of size, it shouldn't have been difficult for him to throw the other man off of him. But just as this thought flashed through his dazed mind, the other man swiftly reached out with a quick hand and dislocated one of his shoulders with a sickening crack.

That turned whatever thoughts he had in his head into a fog of pain, all while the knife continued to press deeper against his throat. The person restraining him -- a young man with beautiful curly brown hair which Michael swore he'd never seen before -- greeted him with a grin.

'Yo, you're awake.' The man spoke with an unsettlingly casual tone, 'I have a question for you.'

Herstal Armalight was awoken by the sounds of police sirens blaring outside his window.

It was early in the morning, a quarter of an hour before his alarm usually went off. What Herstal wouldn't have known, was that the flurry of sirens was due to the WLPD receiving a report of a suspected home invasion, where the landlord found a man in a basem*nt apartment seemingly killed during the break-in; such occurrences would happen almost daily, and no one would even care.

Upon waking, Herstal was enveloped by his usual morning grumpiness, but the aroma of toast and coffee wafting through the air helped to rouse his spirits a little bit.

Moreover, the spot beside him was empty, or rather, it was so neatly arranged it seemed as if no one had slept there at all.

Herstal frowned for a couple of seconds in recollection, and realised that Albarino did not seem to have returned home before he fell asleep last night.

But it was also true that the guy was indeed in the kitchen making him breakfast as a gold-medal boyfriend would. When Herstal went over, the other man was neatly dressed in a burgundy shirt, wearing a grey and white-striped apron, looking like a stay-at-home husband who'd just stepped straight out of some fantastical movie.

'You didn't come home last night.' Herstal pointed out to Albarino's back as he leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

'Uh huh, sometimes my work is unpredictable like that.' Albarino said calmly as he flipped an omelette.

Herstal sneered. In their relationship, sneers were more common than kisses: 'So would you care to condescend to explain what happened to the bloodstained jacket in the bathroom laundry basket?'

Albarino was busy cracking the second egg, his voice still very much at peace, 'That's just evidence I didn't have time to destroy.'

Herstal said stiffly, 'Albarino.'

-- People who owned pets will find that this tone was one that owners often used when they would say 'sit down' to their dogs.

'Okay,' Albarino immediately gave in, smoothly transitioning. 'I figured out what happened to the boy who was dumped in the river. If you've got some time over the weekend, I can take you somewhere and then you'll understand everything.'

Herstal looked at the other man's back, feeling the urge to sigh yet again for god knows how many times that morning. Then, he stepped forward and reached out to switch off the stove; the circle of blue flames extinguished, leaving the unconsolidated egg whites still bubbling in the pan.

Albarino turned his head to look at him.

'What's wrong?' He always asked this kind of question with surprising innocence, as if he really didn't know why the other man sighed, as if he'd done everything purely unintentionally. Those green eyes seemed to hold a hint of true confusion, and even the smile he often wore at the corners of his mouth faded in due course.

'Albarino,' Herstal said in a low voice, he was so familiar with Albarino at this point that he didn't need to say these words with an angry tone, 'I am not a sword in your hand, nor am I your dog. I am not someone who will bite whomever you lead me to at your bidding. '

Albarino stared straight at him for a moment, then suddenly laughed a little.

'It's not like that,' he replied in a remarkably relaxed tone, 'I'm not sure if you necessarily want to kill the culprit, but you do seem to care about what happened. I thought you might need to know the truth of the matter.'

He paused again, then didn't bother with the gradually cooling pan, instead moving over in Herstal's direction. Herstal felt the other man's soft lips brush lightly against his earlobe, and Albarino's voice was as light and as fragile as a bubble that would burst at the touch.

'I just want to make you happy.' He whispered in Herstal's ear, as if intending to devour his soul with that voice.

Chapter 34: 70. The Fountain of Blood (4)

Chapter Text

This was how you should deal with Albarino Bacchus: you must give him a clear answer, either a 'yes' or a 'no', and the result of being ambiguous or ignoring him will lead you to being dragged along by him, after all, this person had an uncanny talent for persistence.

'I just want to make you happy' -- such a humanizing statement. It was what children would often say to their parents when they came home trembling with their report cards, or what men would say to their girlfriends when a gift doesn't meet their expectations. Flattering words were one of the most effortless sentences that could be uttered without much effort.

-- And at this very moment, Herstal Armalight was silently reflecting on his many strategic missteps in dealing with Albarino.

It was Saturday night, March 11th, and the time was not yet eight o'clock, but the sky was already thoroughly dark. Herstal sat in the passenger seat of Albarino's red Chevrolet as the car sped along a road somewhere outside of the city -- a route that Herstal was unfamiliar with and Albarino used a GPS to navigate; the headlights illuminated the limited stretch of road ahead, and when he looked up, all he could see were dark woods lining on either side of the road.

Such scenery was common on the outskirts of Westland, the city nestled behind them like a behemoth of glowing lights, the wilderness of the countryside belonged to the domain of roaming foxes and wolves.

At last, the headlights illuminated a sign erected at a fork on the side of the road. The sign did nothing more than to indicate that following one of the roads all the way down would lead into a private territory. Albarino paused for a second or two, before decisively jerking the steering wheel in that direction.

'That's our destination over there,' Albarino said said calmly, sounding very much like a tour guide, 'The locals call it 'Sequoia Manor' [1] because the trees that grow around it are mostly western redwoods. The manor previously belonged to Philip Thompson.'

[1] (TL Notes) Can also be translated to 'Redwood Manor', as Redwood and Sequoia are often used interchangeably. I'm going with Sequoia as it sounds fancier.

Herstal recalled the name for a moment, then realised it did sound a little familiar: 'Thompson? The deceased newspaper mogul?'

Albarino hummed in agreement: 'You could also say that he was just a nouveau riche who made his first pot of money from investing in stocks, and that 'Westland Daily News' we're all so familiar with was his newspaper. But of course, as you know: the gentleman died almost twenty years ago and, having no heirs, devoted much of his estate to charitable endeavours, setting up all sorts of foundations ... but he also used a portion of it to continue operating a club at Sequoia Manor.'

'...A club?' Herstal frowned, obviously never having heard the story before.

Albarino nodded a little:

'He liked to meet up with some of his old rich friends at Sequoia Manor many years ago, and over time it turned into their own private club. They told outsiders it was a place for old men to play cards and hold dances -- although most people suspected they were actually meeting with high-class prostitutes for private parties and such, which wasn't uncommon among the wealthy.

'In any case, he later used the estate for that purpose alone, and a number of people of their status and interests joined the club, and Thompson hired a group of men to take care of the huge estate for that purpose. It appears that a number of other club members besides himself contributed to the maintenance of the club; and after his death the club continued to operate under the auspices of these constant streams of financial support.'

Herstal remained silent, while Albalino laughed to himself and said, 'It does sound strange, doesn't it?'

Herstal seemed to be choosing his words carefully, possibly harbouring some unpleasant thoughts in his head, and at last he asked in a low voice, 'What does this have to do with the case?'

'A great deal,' Albarino clicked his tongue lightly, 'I previously found someone who was hired by an anonymous client to dispose of bodies in the river. Three of the six recent victims were his responsibility -- he was tight-lipped, but not invincible-- at any rate, two of those three bodies were handed over to him near the Sequoia Manor, and he suspects that the deceased came from that very manor.'

The end of the sentence of this chilling speculation was silently swept away by the cold wind. It was a clear night, and under the light of the moon they were able to peer through the gaps in the trees at the manor house nestling among the woods: it was a vast building, with numerous windows emitting flickering lights, indicative of a number of people evidently moving about inside.

This time, Herstal was silent for a long time, and then said softly, 'Albarino.'

'Hmm?' Albarino responded, apparently at ease.

'That manor is a club for the wealthy,' Herstal emphasized the word 'wealthy', and now you suspect the manor is linked to a series of rape and murder cases. Regardless of whether your suspicions are correct or not, there's only one question: how exactly do you plan on getting in?'

Albarino glanced at Herstal, 'Aren't you wealthy enough?'

'I'm obviously not as wealthy as you think I am, and definitely not on par with Philip Thompson.' Herstal replied irritably.

'That's easily solved,' Albarino replied with no concern at all, reaching out to rummage through the Chevy's glove compartment before pulling out a copy of something from the very bottom and casually tossing it into Herstal's lap, 'An invitation.'

Herstal cautiously turned over the item that had been thrown at him: it was actually just a black card the size of a business card, made of thick paper, with a gold-embossed silhouette of a building printed on it, presumably the silhouette of the buildings of the manor that was ahead of them.

Although the card had been well preserved, you could still tell that the edges were slightly frayed, indicating it was quite old.

'As I said, Thompson was just a nouveau riche with no historical legacy.' Albarino said, 'While he was still alive, he consistently tried to integrate into the high society of Westland -- unfortunately without much success -- anyway, during that time he attended many elite gatherings and handed out these invitations to those he particularly wanted to befriend, inviting them to his club for 'entertainment.''

Herstal looked at Albarino with a complicated expression: 'He gave this invitation to your father?'

'Yes, but he didn't end up going. My father said Thompson's use of the word 'entertainment' sounded too much like he was planning on soliciting prostitutes on the manor.' Albarino laughed in complete disregard, 'Of course, he didn't tell me that himself. I guess no matter what, he wouldn't have said something like that in front of a child.'

Herstal felt a headache coming on for some reason, and waved the card in his hand, 'So this piece of paper is at least twenty years old.'

'More than that, my father was a lot younger when he was invited to the club.' Albarino gazed intently at the road ahead, the sprawling manor with its lights dominated their field of vision. 'But it doesn't matter, it's never been touched, it doesn't look that old. I asked a friend of mine who'd been to the club the other day, and he said their invitation design hadn't changed at all over the years; the club's on an invitation system, and only some of the older members have the right to recommend new people. That friend of mine couldn't get new invitations, otherwise I wouldn't have to use this trick.'

'Don't they have to report the name of the invitee?' Herstal was still feeling uneasy, this sounded a little too easy to expose.

'No, they value confidentiality, and it is said that the number of such invitations is very small. They trust the ability of those who hold the invitations to select newcomers.' Albarino smiled and licked his lips that were dried by the wind. 'This sounds like a club with many secrets, Herstal.'

Herstal looked at him with his head tilted, wondering if in his mind he was pondering the same thing he was; after all, the level of secrecy in this club was a bit strange, and using an entire manor as a club venue was unusual -- though not unheard of. Instead of voicing his thoughts, when Herstal spoke up a few moments later, the words even surprised Albarino:

'So, you've still kept your father's belongings.'

It wasn't a question, and the semantics of what was stated were so clear that there was no room for evasion. Albarino was silent for a moment, then lightly asked Herstal in return, 'Is that question important compared to what we are facing now?'

Herstal was silent for a moment.

Then, he raised his lips and said, 'Perhaps not important.'

Herstal drove the Chevrolet into Sequoia Manor alone.

Albarino had gotten out of the car midway, saying that the invitation allowed only one person to enter, and that he would have to find another way in. He seemed confident, and Herstal guessed that he had already made certain preparations before coming, so he didn't ask much.

Of the two of them, Herstal was indeed dressed more like a wealthy man whose status would allow him to enter a club like this; besides, because of the Landon case and the subsequent sexual assault incident that followed, Albarino's pictures had been distributed all over the news. Even now, the whirlwind of gossip still hadn't completely subsided, so it was probably wise to avoid the risk of being recognised by sneaking into a place like this.

On the other hand, Herstal was different. The victims in the case involving Johnny the Killer were all kept entirely confidential. Except for a few insiders, no one knew he had been involved in such an incident.

At that moment, Herstal slowed down the Chevrolet near the entrance to the manor. The computer-controlled metal gates slid open noiselessly. Once the wide private driveway of the manor's entrance was presented in front of Herstal's eyes, he suddenly really regretted not driving his Rolls Royce. Albarino's common car wasn't the best disguise for pretending to be a wealthy individual.

But then again, assuming that their guess was correct, and that this place was actually a pleasure paradise for a bunch of rich people to have fun in, it might have been better not to attract too much attention by disguising themselves in a less noticeable manner. The illegality of soliciting prostitution was clearly stated in the law, and of course, those wealthy bastards who paid attention to their public image would not take the risk.

When thinking of these things, Herstal always wanted to sigh: because he wasn't here to carry out any righteous actions. The starting point of the Westland Pianist was never 'justice', and Albarino was equally uninterested in the dead, whether they were three years old or thirteen years old.

The reason they ended up standing in such a place was entirely because of the shadow in Herstal's heart, and that endlessly flowing river of blood.

The profilers said that the Westland Pianist killed because of childhood trauma, and that he felt safe when he killed people who resembled those who traumatised him -- but those profilers were not quite accurate in their judgement.

He wasn't a vigilante in the dark, nor even his own saviour. He still stood in that river of blood.

But look at yourself, Herstal: you're getting so angry, and that anger isn't just because of what that tasteless guy did -- you're also angry because of what Billy chose, to run away from it all, and you're as annoyed at his running away as you are at yourself; so although you can certainly empathize with him, you don't choose to save him, and when you watched the soul leave his body, it was as if you were seeing the same person you were all those years ago.

'While there’s no point in discussing time travel right now, assuming you had that kind of a chance to go back in time, would you really let yourself die the moment you attempted to commit suicide?'

'How much do you loathe yourself for failing to put up a fight in the first place? How happy you are when you first kill them, and then how painful are the nightmares that visit you late at night?'

-- Albarino knew him too well, it was awful.

He frowned at these tumultuous thoughts. Meanwhile, the car had reached the end of the driveway, nearing the huge, brightly lit, white building. The manor even offered valet parking services, and just as he drove up to the gate, a valet came over to take the Chevrolet away.

At this moment, there was almost no sound coming from the huge manor. Herstal could only hear some kind of nocturnal bird chirping in the hedges that had been cut into the shape of robins. Those oddly shaped hedges looked like massive black shadows walking on the ground in the night.

Herstal could only walk alone towards the ridiculously large front door of the mansion in the middle of the estate. He first had to climb a series of long steps, which appeared bleak and grayish-white under the moonlight -- the door was tightly closed, and Herstal stood there and tentatively knocked, the knocking echoed in the dead of night.

Within seconds, the door was opened. It was clear that someone had been standing there waiting all along: it was another doorman in a waistcoat and bowtie. At first glance, he looked very much like a hotel waiter, and along the same lines, he gave him the perfunctory smile of a hotel waiter.

Herstal hadn't planned what to say, so he simply handed him the card in his hand -- since, as Albarino had said, this was a club for the wealthy, so he should put up the sorts of eccentricities that the wealthy may have.

The young doorman surveyed the card carefully, apparently not realising that it was probably older than he was. Then he opened the door and let Herstal in respectfully.

Herstal entered and was greeted by a foyer with a row of extravagantly luxurious crystal chandeliers: dazzlingly gaudy tapestries hung on the columns and a thick, bright red carpet on the floor which gave the room a hotel lobby like look; on one side of the wall, with diamond-shaped dark gold checkered wallpaper, hung a set of three abstract paintings, where the artist had depicted a bunch of gourds in a particularly erotic way with messy brushstrokes.

Now Herstal understood why Albarino had emphasised the 'nouveau riche' and the 'wanting to integrate into the upper class' part -- even though the entire house was very expensively decorated, this kind of mix-and-match style still looked headache-inducing.

'This isyourfirst time here, isn't it?' the doorman asked respectfully. 'Then please wait here for a moment, Mr. Stryder will be here shortly. He will introduceyouto the specific activities of this club.'

And so Herstal was left to remain standing in the colourful foyer that gave him a headache, until after a few more minutes, a door on the side of the foyer was pushed open by a hand. Before the owner of the hand could appear, a burst of cheerful laughter crashed into Herstal's ears first, causing his brows to twitch: there was something unpleasantly familiar about that voice.

'We haven't had any new members for quite some time,' the voice said boisterously, 'and I thought our regular patrons had long since used up their rare invitation slots!'

Then the person appeared, their polished leather shoes made no sound as they stepped on the soft carpet, an entrance so silent it resembled a dead ghost in a grave. He looked like a man in his late fifties, with a shiny forehead and sparse, gradually greying, blond hair combed into a Mediterranean hairstyle that didn't hide his receding hairline; he was slightly overweight, and his expensive suit couldn't contain his protruding beer belly; and nestled between the same sparse, light-coloured eyebrows and heavy eye bags, were a pair of small, nimble eyes that were now filled with laughter.

Herstal felt a chunck of ice sliding silently into his stomach.

Or perhaps, that description wasn't quite accurate. He felt the thick carpet underfoot suddenly turn into sticky quicksand, and felt the walls tearing apart and the air filling with cries of pain from an untraceable source. Those things looked down at him with a cold sneer, mocking his powerlessness and sending a bitter shiver down his spine. He felt something grotesque growing from his stomach, tearing through his flesh and blood, sprouting painful and hideous branches from his throat.

'I love you more than all the other children.'

Herstal didn't know what his own expression looked like at this moment, he wondered if he could maintain the mask that was supposed to be impenetrable, and this 'Mr. Stryder' -- that was not his real name, no doubt, at least the priest of the Church in Kentucky wasn't using his surname –- seemingly oblivious, he simply looked over at Herstal with that same fawning smile still on his face.

'My name is Kaba Stryder, the manager of this club. Back in the day, Mr. Thompson entrusted me with his favourite club to take care of.' Now the other party smiled and said, 'Andyouare?'

Herstal wondered if he had wobbled in place for a moment, his knees were numb.

When he opened his lips, all he felt was a fragmented breath being exhaled, like a dying bird flying from his mouth. He swallowed dryly before finding his voice.

'Herstal Armalight.' He said.

'Greetings, Mr. Armalight.' The other replied, holding out his hand to shake.

-- The other party didn't recognize him, obviously. So many years had passed that he no longer resembled the frail boy from Kentucky, whether in height, appearance, or accent; the cold mask fit so tightly that no one could easily glimpse his true heart.

During his time in Kentucky, he hadn't left any records that would be uploaded to the internet, and once he left his father, he changed his first and last name. He now used his mother's surname, and no one could easily connect him to the teenager he was back in Kentucky.

So now, in the eyes of this Kaba Stryder -- the former priest, who had somehow become the club's manager -- he was just an overbearing, wealthy lawyer. It wasn't surprising that the other party wouldn't remember his victim's face.

How strange it was that one could so easily forget those that they harmed. Herstal himself didn't remember every face of the Pianist's victims, but-

'How much do you loathe yourself for failing to put up a fight in the first place? How happy you are when you first kill them, and then how painful are the nightmares that visit you late at night?'

Herstal stared at the other man's smiling face, a nauseating desire lingered in his chest; a voice was screaming at him to run away, just as it had done those same days and nights when he was fourteen. That feeling of self-loathing was like a fishbone stuck in his throat, telling him: he was still no different than he was back then, just as weak and helpless, just as afraid.

Kill him, another voice whispered in his ear. Kill him. Kill him. And then you'll be free -- his fingers itched with needles driven by desire, and the knife lay as always in his pocket, his skin thirsting for blood more than the cold blade.

But his reason remained cold and unwavering amid the screeching waves, an immovable rock that stood still: because now was still not the time, if he acted now, no one could leave unscathed.

Herstal took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to concentrate: the only problem now was ...

It was still too coincidental that he participated in the investigation of this case at the instigation of Albarino's, and then met Stryder here. The deepening drama of it all begged the question, did Albarino really know nothing about this?

Could this have been planned by him?

If it was his plan ...

Herstal still remembered the snowstorm on Christmas Eve, the gift box wrapped in blue delphinium wrapping paper, and the weight of Albarino leaning his forehead against his shoulder in the ambulance on 15th Avenue.

Perhaps he shouldn't have had such needless expectations of the other man in the first place.

At this point he could still taste the thorn in his throat, it had given birth to something more pungent and piercing, stinging the corners of his eyes. Meanwhile, Stryder, completely oblivious to it, was still rambling on about the history of the club and such things, though Herstal didn't listen to a word of it.

They made their way to the end of the foyer, and Herstal felt almost as if he had trekked across the land of the dead. Stryder pushed the heavy wooden door open for him; the house was well soundproofed, and as he pushed the door open, loud music and a sweet, cloying smell hit him.

Behind the doors was a large banquet hall, the décor as over-the-top as ever; waiters in tuxedos went back and forth serving drinks to the guests in the room, some of whom were sprawled out on the soft sofas that could be seen everywhere, inhaling some smoke that obviously wasn't very legal; others were dancing to the music with some scantily-clad girls who were sticking a little too close, and the air was filled with giggles from the girls.

'You're very fortunate to come on a day when we're having a party.' Stryder exclaimed, seemingly proud to showcase the scene to Herstal, 'Mr. Armalight, welcome to our Utopia.'

Utopia, under the dome of the church, the priest's teeth scraped across his throat.

Stryder nimbly moved through the crowd to introduce Herstal to the rich activities of their party: the dance floor, some regular drinks and some spiked ones, marijuana leaves, ecstasy, and other small pills of pleasure, crowded gambling tables, and nearly naked boys and girls lounging on velvet cushions, available for selection.

'Ifyoufancy any of them,youcan take them to the rooms at the back, all the guest rooms are ready. Of course, ifyouparticularly like the feeling of being in the spotlight...' Stryder's voice was lowered, full of obvious insinuation.

Herstal felt a headache so intense it blurred his vision, a tension headache, an acute stress response – of course. But now wasn't a good time to stop to take aspirin; he couldn't risk letting the other man see what was going on. He still needed the truth about Sequoia Manor, otherwise there was no point in him blending in.

Herstal took a deep breath, hoping that his mask remained intact on his face. He scrutinized the young people harshly, as if he was picky, but in reality, it was hard to concentrate.

The ages of those young people seemed to range from legal twenties to not-so-legal seventeen or eighteen, but no younger. No, there weren't any as young as the children in the morgue at the coroner's office among them.

Herstal still felt a nauseating discomfort in his throat that made him want to dry-heave, but now he also had to focus on business: he considered whether or not to ask, and maybe Stryder would give him an answer. However, if he did ask if there were younger children providing sexual services in their club on his first day, it could easily arouse the other party's suspicions.

Stryder wasn't necessarily a smart guy, but he was certainly sharp. Otherwise, he wouldn't have disappeared without a trace before two of his colleagues were found hanging from the church ceiling.

If he had accidentally made the other man aware --

His heart was still beating wildly and uncontrollably. But it was at this moment that a little incident interrupted his internal struggle.

For a waiter was walking past them with a tray, the golden liquid in the champagne glasses glittering under the light of the dazzling crystal chandeliers. Herstal hadn't paid much attention to the waiter before, only catching a quick glimpse of his back: while it was true that the owners of this club had bad taste in décor, that bad taste didn't extend to the way they dressed their wait-staff: the tuxedo outlined the waiter's waist to an exaggerated thinness, which also accentuated the waiter's surprisingly firm buttocks.

If this had been a proper dinner banquet, dressing the waiters in such tight pants might have seemed overly frivolous, but since this was a promiscuous party for the rich, there was no need to be concerned with such details. Clearly, Stryder thought so too.

As this waiter walked past them, Stryder, wearing his usual smirk, reached out and slapped the waiter's buttocks. The waiter's entire body trembled in shock, and the champagne glasses on his tray clinked together.

Then, the waiter turned his head toward them --

Herstal stared at the face of Albarino Bacchus that looked like he deserved a beating.

No, in fact, he didn't even look like Albarino anymore: the other man must have been wearing contact lenses, concealing the bright green colour of his irises; Albarino had his hair neatly combed back behind his head, exposing his forehead, which was a rarity; his whole demeanour was cautious, with a nervous hunching of his shoulders, and underneath the subtle visual trickeries caused by the movements, his whole being appeared smaller.

Albarino's face already looked young, and now, coupled with that tense expression, he resembled a nervous young man in his twenties who had just stepped out into society, looking alert and naive. He shrank back nervously under Stryder's greasy smile, and said quickly, 'Sir,you--'

'I haven't seenyoubefore, young man.' Stryder said, still smiling.

'I'm here to fill in for Frederick's shift; he broke his leg in a car accident today.' Albarino still used that same nervous tone. Stryder still hadn't taken his hand off of his buttocks, not only had he not removed his hand, he even gave it an intimate squeeze, and Albarino's entire body shudder conspicuously, '...Sir!'

It was the classic 'I don't actually want to have sex with you' routine from p*rnos, which sadly, Stryder likely bought into it. Herstal was pretty sure that the bastard across from him had deliberately planned this, knowing Stryder would fall for it. He never minded flirting with his enemies. That was Albarino, unhinged, reckless, and uncaring.

A burning fire smouldered in Herstal's throat, leaving his throat gravelly and dry and his temples aching. That piercing desire surged through his fingertips once more, making him want to tear something apart, Stryder's throat or Albarino's smiling face.

At the same time, a series of dog barks came from outside the window. Harsh, piercing, and sounded very ferocious.

'What's that?' Herstal asked, speaking almost without thinking, desperately needing an excuse to change the subject.

'It's late at night, we've let the dogs out.' Stryder explained, finally withdrawing his hand from the other's buttocks before turning his head to scrutinize Herstal, acutely aware that the other man didn't seem to be looking too well. Then he smiled again, 'What? Doyounot like dogs? They're loyal creatures.'

Albarino still looked at them with that false, nervous smile, his false dark eyes as cold as bottomless pools.

'Perhaps so, but even though they are more tameable compared to other animals, some of their behaviours remain difficult to control ...which is very distasteful.'

Herstal sneered, his gaze skimming over Stryder before resting briefly on Albarino's face as he lowered his voice meaningfully.

'I really hope my dog doesn't go eating sh*t on the road.'

Chapter 35: 71. The Fountain of Blood (5)

Chapter Text

'It's not as difficult asyoumight imagine -- training them, I mean.' Stryder said, his smiling expression never faltering. 'Give them a little bit of pain, then a little taste of sweetness, and everything becomes easy.'

Of course, Stryder would think that way, just as he had treated the choir boys at the church back then. The vivid images still surged through Herstal's mind like a boiling sea. Herstal wondered if his face looked as bad as he felt, and if Albarino could see it -- but Albarino had glanced in his direction several times, a hint of genuine confusion flitting through his eyes -- he was quite the actor.

In short, Albarino, now realising that Herstal was in a bad mood, tactfully had the good sense to deftly extricate himself from Stryder's roving hands the next time someone called out for a waiter to help them with some trivial matters. With a slightly apologetic smile, he left them behind and swiftly departed.

With Albarino leaving systematically, Herstal could only exchange a few more meaningless pleasantries with Stryder before the other party took his own initiative to excuse himself, probably because he had yet another guest visiting.

Herstal was surprised to find that the other party's presence could actually give him the illusion of being trapped underwater and suffocating. It wasn't until the other party's figure disappeared into the depths of the crowd that he seemed to take his first real breath of the night. The whole time he had been in a constant 'fight or flight' mode, his mind constantly swirling with blood-red fantasies of plunging a knife into the man's eyeball.

Standing there, Herstal took a deep breath, the headache distracting him so much that he had to take a glass of champagne from a waiter who passed by -- it certainly wasn't the correct cure for a migraine, but the alcohol was good, and he certainly couldn't have cared less at that point.

Albarino had already blended into the depths of the crowd, and now there wasn't even a shadow to be found. Herstal's stomach felt like a churning sea, and he realised that he'd better not face Stryder again, or there would always be the inevitable moment when he'd throw up in the other man's presence. His mind was a mess, he couldn't help but think of the relationship between Albarino and the sudden appearance of Stryder, which pointed to a grim conclusion, and unfortunately, Herstal couldn't even control exactly what was going through his mind either.

But he had to take action, otherwise it was pointless to blend in. Herstal cleared his head and cautiously wandered through the venue, observing the men who were having a good time -- all members of this club shared the same dark secrets, and Herstal had to find a way to uncover them.

He did not see any children in the crowd.

And although he found nothing, some of the people attending the party were already having fun by now, and there were sticky moans floating from the depths of the crowd at intervals. Herstal could catch glimpses of some of the men and women tangled together on the long sofas, their skin white and dazzling under the lights. He really didn't want to know what they were all doing.

It was at this time that a soft hand rested on his shoulder.

'Is this your first time here?' A soft female voice asked against his ear, 'Handsome?'

Herstal still had a strong urge the moment someone appeared behind him: the same urge to stab the knife he kept in his pocket between the other person's ribs. But Herstal resisted, and he turned to see a small stage set up not far behind him for stripteases, and two girls were now dancing on that stage, tossing their underwear into the writhing crowd below -- Herstal was pretty sure that it was definitely against the law to perform with that level of nudity on such an occasion -- and the woman standing behind him had obviously just stepped off that stage, her skin still glistening with the sheen of sweat, and her hair lush like seaweed.

She was wearing something that could barely be called a strip of cloth, Herstal really didn't know how to describe it. She had black hair, black eyes, and smooth olive skin. She looked a little too young, definitely less than twenty years old.

Herstal raised an eyebrow. By this time, his discomfort had dissipated slightly to a point where he was able to engage in conversations. This girl seemed to be very interested in him, which was a good point of entry.

'How could you tell?' He asked.

The other party laughed softly, her hand still on his shoulder, leaning in until her full lips almost brushed his skin. She blew out a light breath, the stream of air mixed with the sweet scent of perfume grazed Herstal's earlobe.

'Becauseyoulook like a lost lamb in the crowd.' The young woman said with a smile in his ear, 'Well? Come and have some fun with me?'

Albarino hurried through the corridors, alert for any burly men who may ambush him and beat him into the ground as he went; from what he'd seen, there were quite a few bodyguards working at Sequoia Manor.

He had gone to great lengths in order to blend in with the team of waiters in the club, even going so far as to pay someone to drive into one of the waiters and break his leg -- although this sounded quite exaggerated, Westland had people who were willing to do all kinds of jobs, and hiring someone to break someone's leg can be said to be a very common and uninteresting part of a Westland gangsters' daily life.

Yet, he didn't find any suspicious children in that banquet hall; there were definitely a large wave of men and women who were under twenty years old among those available for pleasure, but it wasn't exaggerated to the extent that they were as young as ten years old.

That was the shrewdness of those club members: Thinking about it, if the managers of Sequoia Manor were really pimping out people for the paedophile club members, they certainly wouldn't do it in front of such a large crowd. Some of the details of the party were less than legal, such as the drugs and the 'high class' escorts who were probably not even twenty years old. But those things were just a little spice to a rich man's entertainment, a part of the business where things can be smoothed over by money and still be played with, while raping and murdering little boys and girls and then dumping their body was not.

So these transactions were most likely that conducted in more private moments, and they might get nothing tonight -- Herstal had just entered the circle, and would presumably have to gain a certain degree of trust from the manor managers to be able to unlock that sort of thing -- despite knowing this, Albarino was undeterred in his intention to roam the manor, not really holding out hope of discovering a secret basem*nt of some sort where children were being imprisoned. One couldn't just sit back and wait for things to come to a head.

The entire manor had been decorated in a style so opulent it was dizzying. Albarino walked through the empty rooms on the first floor of the manor, his eyes aching from the gold and red colours. But this floor was clearly unoccupied at the moment, and there was silence all around, as well as no particularly suspicious-looking, locked rooms.

Albarino was already debating whether or not to take the first step and withdraw first; the longer he stayed here, the more likely it was that the people in the kitchen would realise that he wasn't really a waiter at all. If it really didn't work, he could always just go ahead and leave here first, and wait at the edge of the driveway near the manor to pick up Herstal later.

However, just as he turned to leave, he suddenly heard a series of shuffling footsteps coming around the corner of the corridor.

Albarino turned back cautiously. He considered for a second whether or not to hide in one of the empty rooms, but dismissed the idea. The manor's entire team of waiters were hired on a temporary basis, and the housekeeping company that provided the services were paid a commission so expensive that the non-disclosure agreement guaranteed that they wouldn't say a word, otherwise they would await the fate of a jail cell.

This just goes to show that the manor's people weren't familiar with the individuals from the service industry. He was sure that he'd be able to muddle through a reason as to why he was here even if he wasn't supposed to be. If he hid in an empty room and was discovered, it would be far more difficult to explain.

So he kept his footsteps unhurried, and then he saw a housekeeper wearing plain blue dungarees pushing a cart piled high with clean, fresh sheets along the corridor. The housekeeper walked with a slight limp, and his hat was pulled down so low that it only exposed scattered golden stubble mixed with white hair.

-- Just like that, Albarino was caught off-guard, face-to-face with Orion Hunter.

It took Albarino a second to work out what was going on: Obviously, the truth could not be that Orion Hunt had risen to the challenge of becoming a cleaner after having to collect welfare. The last conversation he had with Hunter was very impressive. Hunter did not hide his discovery of Shana's affairs at all, and even told Albarino straight out, 'I hope you don't follow in her footsteps', which, it had to be said, was a far cry from Lavazza Mercader, who'd played endless roundabout hints with him over an automated coffee machine.

Even if Hunter did not find out that he was the Sunday Gardener, he obviously suspected that he had some direct connection to those murders. The other party was a guy who was as extremely curious, if not quite mad, about serial killers, just look at how he behaved on the Family Butcher case.

So the truth was bound to be that Hunter spent time tracking Albarino before realising that Albarino was investigating Sequoia Manor. Hunter likely thought that Sequoia Manor was the next step in some nefarious plan of Albarino's or something like that, so of course he figured out a way to infiltrate the manor to see what was going on.

Then, just like now, as if by chance, the two of them finally met in the corridor of the manor in their housekeeping company coveralls.

Albarino watched as Hunter's face flashed with a horrified expression that could be interpreted as 'oh sh*t, should I run away now?', his expression was so clear it could be read like an open book. But with the state of Hunter's leg, he couldn't have run far even if he wanted to.

Hunter obviously couldn't just ignore the facts of the matter and stared fixedly at Albarino for a few seconds, then gave an awkward dry cough.

'I shouldn't think you're planning to leave a good job as a forensic scientist to come and work as a waitress.' Hunter said in a low voice, glancing at Albarino meaningfully, 'Still, the tuxedo is quite nice, and the trousers are very tight.'

Albarino wondered if the other man was complimenting him, it didn't sound like it. In response, all he could do was shrug his shoulders nonchalantly and say, 'And surely you're not here to clean someone's sheets are you?'

'I'm practically broke.' Hunter put on a thick skin of a dead pig [1] and replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

[1] (TL Notes) 厚脸皮 -- 'Thick skin' is another way of saying someone is shameless and would confess or admit to anything regardless of embarrassment. No easily hurt by criticism.

Albarino sighed, knowing in his heart that nothing would come out of this entanglement. He decided to abandon those little thoughts for the time being, anyway, no matter what the other party was suspecting in his mind, he was certain that the other party definitely had not obtained any evidence yet.

So he smiled at the other party in a relaxed manner, took a few steps forward, and whispered, 'So, as a cleaner, have you found any places in this manor where children may be imprisoned, Mr. Hunter?'

Whatever Hunter had expected Albarino to say to him before, he obviously didn't expect him to say this. He was stunned, then said very helpfully, '...Ah?'

'Here's the thing: I suspect that there is some kind of child-related sex trafficking going on within this manor, so I'm investigating here.' Albarino shrugged and replied, 'Though, you know, the process of investigation is obviously not very... legal.'

Not only was it 'not very' legal, but there was nothing remotely legal about what they were doing right now. Hunter surveyed Albarino as if he was looking at a rare animal, and then asked sincerely, 'Are the forensic pathologists in Westland still in charge of covert investigations?'

'No forensic pathologist in the world is in charge of covert investigations,' Albarino snorted and laughed, 'but this is entirely just a guess. In fact, there's not a shred of evidence at all. Even if it is handed over to the WLPD, they can't start an investigation. Moreover, the officer in charge of the case is slightly ...' Albarino paused for a moment, stretched out his finger and tapped his temple, making a less than respectful gesture.

Hunter sneered and put most of his weight on the cart. As Albarino suspected, the old bounty hunter did not have a favourable impression of the police, so he did not raise any objections to Albarino's blunt statement that 'the other party's brain is not working well'.

Hunter asked rhetorically, 'Aren't they all like that?'

'I sincerely hope they're not all like that, but this case isn't in Bart's hands; the investigation is going nowhere, and I believe at least six children have been killed in this place so far.' Albarino said lightly, co*cking his head at the other man with a large smile, 'How about it? Are you going to help me in this matter, Mr. Hunter? I may need your professionalism.'

-- It was a very risky move, especially after the other party was already convinced he was a murderer.

Hunter stared at him, like an owl staring at a mouse running past the barn, a gaze as sharp as a needle, as if it could pierce his soul. Albarino met the other man's gaze, calmly and openly.

Then Hunter made the first move of giving way, and, with a tsk, asked gruffly, 'What? Am I supposed to believe you're a righteous man now, Doctor?'

'Wasn't I a righteous man before?' Albarino replied with a smile, 'Justice is a path that everyone wants to pursue.'

'I prefer younger girls.' Herstal told the other party. He wasn't really expecting such a girl to reveal any shocking secrets, but it was always a good idea to try.

The pretty, dark-skinned girl stared at him with her eyes widened exaggeratedly. In that somewhat artifical tone of surprise, she said, 'That's very rude ofyouto say to a young woman.'

Herstal gave the other party a soft smile, recalling the cases he'd handled --those of murderers, rapists, and drug dealers – and considered how to make his smile wet and sweet. He reached out and ran his fingertips gently over the other party's neck, touching the hard bones beneath the bare skin. The other party let him stroke them like a soft kitten.

The entire hall was sinking into an atmosphere of joyful indulgence, and not wanting to appear too out of place, Herstal brought them a little closer together and leaned in to kiss the other party's earlobe gently.

'...A little younger.' He whispered softly in the girl's ear.

The girl seemed to shrink a little and whispered, 'Oh.'

'What's wrong?' Herstal raised an eyebrow slightly. He didn't want to press the other party too much, so he pulled away, leaving a little distance between him and her. Of course, this didn't stop him from almost holding the girl in his arms, 'A friend of mine told me that this club would be to my liking.'

'There's nothing like that at this party,' the girl whispered, a few flirtatious hints still twining around the corners of her eyes, 'Mr. Stryder doesn't offer activities like that to new members, unless ... '

'Unless?' Herstal said with a raised eyebrow, feeling like he was touching the door slightly.

The girl winked and smiled, 'Unless someone within the manor proves to Mr. Stryder that the member is reliable -- someone who works at the manor regularly -- someone like me.'

'And how should I prove that I am reliable enough?' Herstal asked in a low voice, though he basically already knew what the other's answer would be; the rules by which things worked were similar after all.

The girl tiptoed closer to him, those red lips whispering a few words softly in his ear.

Then Herstal smiled and pulled away from her a little, drawing out his pen and a cheque-book from his suit pocket. The girl watched calmly as he filled in a long series of numbers in the amount column, and Herstal asked, 'What's your name?'

'Aurelie Delphine.' She replied with a smile.

'Okay, Aurelie.' Herstal filled in the payee's name, calmly tore off the cheque, and folded it in the middle. He tucked the piece of paper between Aurelie's cleavage, the voluptuous touch sweeping past his fingertips with vibrant heat. 'I hope you think I'm reliable enough.'

Herstal picked up Albarino from the driveway outside the manor. The other party had changed out of the tuxedo back into the jacket from before, the collar of the shirt inside was loosened by two buttons. When Herstal arrived, he was so idle that he was tearing bark off of a small tree on the side of the road.

Albarino had realised that Herstal was not looking well when he got into the car, but he didn't think much of it. He just assumed that the other man was upset because he was touched by someone else -- a tactical error, but after all, no one had a plan going in -- Herstal drove down the road for ten minutes, crossed the three-way intersection they'd come from, and, after driving a little further, jerked the car off the shoulder.

The red Chevrolet drove into the woods, following the rutted tracks left by the hikers. Once the dense black trees covered the road, Herstal stopped the car. He turned his head to Albarino, who was looking at him sideways with curiosity.

Albarino hadn't spoken during this time; he had wanted to tell the other man about the sudden appearance of old Hunter, but had decided in the moment that it was better not to provoke or offend him. But obviously, now he had to say something.

'No matter what you're up to,' Albarino said, 'first of all, the place you've chosen isn't good for killing and dumping bodies.'

He was right: it had rained just a few days before, and the ground was still soft enough to leave clear tracks and footprints. Even though Albarino's words made sense, they didn't hide the fact that Albarino had the ability to 'choose the sentence that Herstal least wanted to hear among all the words.'

Herstal glanced at him coldly and said, 'Get out of the car.'

Albarino did as he was told. No psychopathic killer was as well-behaved as the current Albarino, not even a psychopathic killer who was being held at gunpoint. He got out of the car and stood in the cold, early spring forest. The ground was still soft but not muddy.

And Herstal had already walked around the car, he suddenly surged forward and grabbed Albarino by the collar, slamming him hard against the side of the Chevy.

This was nothing to them, no more brutal than anything Herstal had done before, no more dangerous than the knife that had once been at his throat, but this was different: the colour of his eyes was just like the greenish-blue flame of carbon monoxide when it burned, and a strange, unfamiliar raging passion in them pulsed as incessantly as the flames.

Albarino recognised this look, but he had never seen such an expression on Herstal's face: it was the look of anger when the bottom line of someone's boundaries had been touched. And right now, Herstal was clutching his collar so tightly that he could almost feel the other man's fingers trembling slightly with rage.

'How did you know where he would appear?' Herstal hissed, 'Is it because you knew he would appear that you sent me?!'

Albarino was genuinely confused, such emotions were very rare for him, but he couldn't be blamed. He reached out to grab Herstal's wrist as it clutched his collar, genuinely fearing that the other man would strangle him to death in a fit of rage: right now, Herstal looked very much impelled to do just that.

He asked, in a tone that seemed to be of genuine perplexity, 'He...what?'

'Kaba Stryder!' Herstal seemed a little more angry as he repeated the name in a horrible tone, 'How did you know that he was the priest in Kentucky?'

Albarino's fingers on Herstal's wrist tightened slightly, digging into Herstal's skin, causing a slight pain; Herstal froze for a moment before he heard Albarino raise his voice slightly, 'He's the priest from Kentucky? The one who manages Sequoia Manor?'

Albarino's expression didn't seem to be faked -- but who knows, he was an actual psychopath -- Herstal's mind was blanked for a split second by him, asking 'Wha....?'

Then Albarino sighed.

Immediately after, he did something quite unorthodox: he leaned forward hastily, his lips grazing Herstal's cheekbone and face lightly, like a dragonfly skimming over water, with a little rough touch of stubble.

It wasn't a very passionate kiss, but it seemed to win out because of its familiarity: it was the kind of kiss that lovers who had been together for many years would exchange when they woke up early in the morning. Albarino rested a hand against Herstal's shoulder, fingers so warm they seemed to make his heart fall back into place.

'I didn't know.' Albarino whispered in his ear, his breath swept hot and wet across his ear, 'If I had known, I certainly wouldn't have let you go there.'

Herstal wanted to refute, he didn't believe it intuitively, but his headache was at a level that was near impossible for him to think properly. He frowned and said, 'Your lies --'

'I didn't lie to you.' Albarino interrupted, frowning a little, his voice a mixture of what seemed like genuine sincerity and a real contempt for something -- Herstal didn't know what it was, perhaps human emotions or something that seemed like common sense but was only terrifying to normal people.

What Albarino said next would sound bizarre to any sane person, but he clearly considered them to be sort of universal truths: 'We're past the point where I need to lie to you, past the point where I need to test you with someone like Elliot Evans. Since you don't hesitate to show me your beauty, then I will...'

Herstal had a premonition that Albarino could turn the rest of his words into a ridiculously florid love poem. But Herstal was like a balloon, once punctured, it was difficult for his anger to regather back to its previous intensity.

-- That was, the level that actually made him consider slitting the other man's throat once and for all.

Herstal took a deep breath and reached out to pat Albarino on the ribs, signalling for him to open the distance between them. So Albarino let go of the hand he had on Herstal's shoulder, took a step back, and stood up straight.

Herstal stared at his face and asked directly, 'Of all the things you just said, how many of them were just to coax me?'

'What do you think?' Albarino asked rhetorically, his tone light.

Herstal paused, then spoke once more, his voice cold and hard, 'Kneel.'

Albarino followed suit, without asking why the other man wanted him to do so, without even hesitating. The rough cloth of his jeans fell on the soft earth, and he could even feel the wet, cold touch of the soil at night.

Herstal stepped forward and looked down at him.

Then Albarino moved forward two steps on his knees in Herstal's direction, watching as Herstal reached out and brushed his fingertips through the hair at his temples. Then Albarino leaned forward slightly and rubbed the side of his face against Herstal's crotch.

'Do you like those sexual fantasies about dogs?' Albarino asked in an airy tone, running the skin of his cheekbones over the gradually hardening organ in the fabric of the other man's trousers.

'What?' Herstal tsked, narrowing his eyes, still slowly stroking his hair, 'Locking you up and restricting your freedom?'

'And then I wouldn't be free?' Albarino asked rhetorically, adjusting his position on his knees before using his nose to push open the fabric of the trousers, and then pulling down the zipper with his teeth. He did everything with his hands behind his back in a serious manner, holding the wrist of one hand with the other, as if it were a fine study.

He spat out the zipper in his mouth, then looked up, the corners of his mouth raising pleasantly, 'What about you, Herstal? Are you free now?'

Herstal was still stroking his hair intermittently, anger that had yet to fade pervading his voice, 'You talk too much.'

Albarino snorted and then deftly peeled the fabric of Herstal's underwear off with his teeth, rubbing the tip of his nose against the pale, tender skin near the other man's groin. He felt Herstal's hand leave his head, and there was a rustling sound of fabric -- Herstal pulled off the belt of his suit trousers, and the trousers hung low on his hips.

Then Herstal commanded, 'Raise your head.'

Knowing what he wanted, Albarino did as he was told. Herstal looked down at him, his irises drowned by dilated pupils under the unclosed headlight, their colour as pale and as shallow as the tropical ocean. Then, Herstal wrapped the belt around Albarino's neck, threading the perforated end of the belt through the buckle, gradually pulling it taut.

The tightening belt caused Albarino to stagger slightly at the pull, forcing him to reach out and grasp a section of the belt, his fingers brushing over the diamond-shaped patterns on the leather. He shifted his weight, licking his lips needlessly before taking the head of the other man's penis into his mouth.

Simultaneously, Herstal yanked the belt sharply, brutally forcing Albarino to take the entire length into his mouth -- something not easily done, contrary to the misleading impressions some might get from certain dubious websites. Albarino choked slightly, his gag reflex dutifully kicking in.

Herstal could feel the soft muscles of the other man's throat spasming to try and squeeze the foreign object out. He gripped the hair at the back of the other man's head with one hand as he continued to tighten the belt with the other, f*cking in more roughly.

Albarino slammed one hand against his hipbone, fingertips pressing into those taut muscles, only a few ragged gasps leaked out. From Herstal's angle, he could see his eyelashes trembling, the light from the headlights casting a faint and blurred shadows underneath his eyelashes, his lips crimson from the grinding friction, and there was saliva dripping down the corners of his mouth.

At this moment, few could have imagined what kind of soul lay beneath such a skin. Herstal knew deep down that he wasn't just simply throwing his carnal desires at the other man, but that he had signed a contract with Mephistopheles to sell his soul.

He pulled his belt tighter, listening to the other man's breathing become more and more difficult under the pressure, mingling indistinguishably with the sticky sound of water. Thoughts of wanting to kill the other man, to hurt him, still came to him at times, and eventually these ideas were compromised with his current actions.

But Albarino seemed as if he didn't care, the force from his hands were leaving painful bruises on Herstal's skin. Some tears spilled involuntarily from the corners of his eyes, staining them and making them appear to sparkle.

And those eyes were still smiling.

Finally, he ejacul*ted into the other's mouth, not pulling out right away, and just listened as Albarino choked and coughed, yet still dutifully tried to swallow some of the liquid.

Estimating that the other man was about to choke at this point, Herstal finally pulled out and watched as the other man shuddered and arched his body in a futile attempt to stop the coughing and dry heaving. Some saliva mixed with white liquid dripped out of the corner of Albarino's mouth, tugging at the thread that was about to break, more obscene and decadent than Herstal could have ever imagined.

He undid the belt from the other's neck and saw a red mark pressed into the nape of Albarino's neck, slightly sunken, the skin looking damp and soft.

So of course he gave in to his desires, pulling Albarino up off the ground after reattaching the belt around his waist, and leaning in to lick the blood-filled red mark on his neck.

'Herstal,' Albarino raised his neck and allowed him to move while whispering in his ear, his voice sounding unusually husky, 'As long as you ask, I will help you kill him -- and if you really can't face him, I can do it for you.'

Herstal pondered for a while, then spoke, 'Go home first.'

And that night, he awoke from a nightmare.

And the next night.

Chapter 36: 72. The Fountain of Blood (6)

Chapter Text

He dreamt that those stained-glass inlaid rose windows shattered into pieces, and what came out of the rotting wooden frames were not shards of glass, but colourful butterflies. Those butterflies fluttered down with flapping wings, the edges of their delicate wings gleaming as sharp as razor blades.

Their wings caressed against his skin like soft feathers, leaving invisible crack-shaped scars that spread like a spider's web. His naked eyes couldn't see exactly where the scars were, and he could only feel the piercing, excruciating pain.

When he reached out his hand to touch the source of the pain, he found that the place within his reach was covered in sticky blood, which dripped down along his fingers like cold worms wriggling and crawling through. Then his fingers touched the nape of his neck -- where a piano string was gradually tightening, cutting deep into his flesh, like a snake or the cold, slender fingers of death, or the spinning thread in the hands of the Fates.

Then he awoke from his dream.

Herstal's eyes snapped open, staring at the empty ceiling between ragged breaths, where of course, there were no colourful butterflies falling slowly from the stained glass windows, nor were there strings and blood running across the floor. A little later, he realised with disgust that his pyjamas were soaked through with sweat, which were slowly ruining his sheets.

The alarm clock on the bedside table was pointing to ten minutes before the time he had set to wake up, and the other side of the bed was empty. His 'bed partner' -- Herstal chose that word carefully in his head, because f*ck buddies don't spend the night at each other's houses, and lovers ...Albarino was a million miles away from the word 'lover' -- had long gone, and the smell of scrambled eggs wafted through the crack of the door, indicating the location of the other party.

So Herstal changed and went to the dining room, where Albarino and the scrambled eggs were waiting, like some sort of perfect boyfriend who only appeared in dreams. The other man glanced meaningfully at Herstal from above the dining table as he untied his grey and white striped apron. It was at this time that Herstal noticed a slight paleness under the other man's eyes.

Albarino said simply, 'You were screaming in your sleep.'

The truth itself was not as exaggerated as Albarino made it sound.

Herstal, like all successful people, had an impractically large bed. On this vast territory, the two kings could avoid each other and co-exist peacefully -- this wasn't an exaggeration. Albarino's sleeping posture was surprisingly good, contrary to the impression he left on some people.Herstal, on the other hand, often curled up while sleeping, a posture with obvious psychological implications.

In short, some people believed that partners should sleep in each other's arms, but that usually only resulted in numb shoulders and sides by the next morning.

And even though Albarino felt like he was a thousand miles away from Herstal, he was still awakened by a painful groan in the middle of the night.

When he opened his eyes and slowly adjusted to the darkness of the late night, he saw the other man tossing and turning restlessly in his bed, the mattress creaking. By the time Albarino propped himself up on his elbows to look at Herstal, he saw that the other man's hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat, the blond colour appeared extremely dark in the night, like fragmented cracks.

That was the moment when he was closest to Herstal's heart. This organ, which had been given too much significance by literature, was like a dying bird, struggling unwillingly and gradually losing its warmth. Albarino was as silent as a statue in the darkness of the night, and at last, stretched out his hand and brushed the wet hair from the other's forehead.

It was certainly possible that the other would wake up, and then be angry at Albarino for having witnessed his vulnerability -- human emotions were fragile and complex in such a way. Albarino still remembered the night when he had knocked on the door of his father's study, the fireplace burning silently, and the death he'd seen in the eyes of the middle-aged man.

Albarino slowly stroked Herstal's damp and cool forehead like a cat. He wanted to ask the other man if he dreamt of the high windows of the church or of the river of blood, but in the end, he chose to remain silent.

At the moment, Albarino's words were enough to shatter the illusion of a perfect boyfriend. A perfect boyfriend wouldn't say, 'You were screaming in your sleep,' in that tone of voice.

'Is that so?' Herstal said flaly, sitting down without looking up and picking up his fork.

'A little bit of an exaggeration at best,' Albarino shrugged his shoulders and sat down heavily at the other end of the table, 'or rather: you were groaning in pain and flopping around like you were in labour, but I figured you wouldn't like that description.'

Herstal chewed on his scrambled eggs, shooting him a cold, sweeping look: if this person knew that he didn't like to hear such adjectives, he wouldn't have said this sentence. Herstal had long since grown accustomed to his habit of saying every word in a joking tone. For Albarino, it seemed as if speaking seriously meant he was losing to the chaotic world.

Albarino quietly behaved for a few seconds, and given that his self-control was less than that of even a child, he quickly continued, 'Have you considered my proposal?'

'What proposal?' Herstal put his fork back on his plate and looked up at the other man, 'That you would help me kill Stryder?'

Albarino chewed a piece of sausage intently, asking in a light tone, 'What's wrong with that? I think it's kind of a good idea.'

He knew why Albarino wanted to do that; Herstal's reaction that night they returned from Sequoia Manor clearly showed that he simply couldn't face Stryder properly, and Albarino also understood that for Herstal, Stryder had to die, so Albarino wanted to do it on his behalf.

-- But that wasn't the right way to solve the problem.

'Yes.' Herstal pointed out coldly, 'Firstly, that court case of yours has attracted a lot of attention because the public thinks you're challenging the authority of the country's legal system; lately, Agent Mercader has been visiting Westland every three days, and the rumour on the street is that he's just trying to persuade the WLPD to get the FBI involved in the case. If you commit a crime now, you are basically sending yourself to him. Secondly, we provided each other with alibis in the last case, and as soon as you're caught, my alibi will be disproven as well. Thirdly, and most importantly, Albarino, do you really think that 'you helping me kill someone' is going to solve my current problems?'

Albarino looked at him quietly and asked, 'What else?'

Herstal was silent for two seconds.

'I need a list of names of the people within Sequoia Manor who attended that party: perhaps the Manor does let children provide sexual services to powerful individuals, but most likely not every member is involved, and I'm guessing that many of the Manor's members aren't even aware of such services.' Herstal said, 'I want to know who else was involved in this besides Stryder -- if I kill Stryder directly, they'll scatter.'

It was obvious that he wanted to find them one by one, and then --

Albarino smiled and propped his hand on his chin, then said, 'Indeed, that's the difference between you and me. It's true that the Westland Pianist is not a vigilante; he doesn't do these things because he feels that the other person is to be sanctioned by the law or by justice, which have no significance for the Pianist; he does them because such people arouses his bloodthirsty, raging, violent desires ...But despite this, he still has his own code of conduct. '

'You, on the other hand, do not.' Herstal said in a low voice.

'The Sunday Gardener would not, for their souls are not differentiated between the inferior and the superior to the Gardener. Since their inner selves have not yet reached the realm of 'beauty', only their bodies are of use. On that level, if we wanted to achieve the same end, I might suggest that you pick the time of their next gathering to set fire to Sequoia Manor; it would be more efficient and quicker. Though it might cause turmoil in Westland's financial sector, the overall benefits would outweigh the drawbacks.' Albarino replied easily, and he paused again, waiting for the atmosphere to build and take shape. '...But, you won't agree with my suggestion, will you?'

Herstal stared at him sharply, 'Of course not.'

'Indeed.' Albarino said calmly, picking up the bacon on his plate and throwing it onto Herstal's plate -- Albarino was an example of one of those rare people in the world who didn't like the taste of bacon.

'Then let's eat. We can still enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet, it won't delay anything.'

Orion Hunter sat beside a greasy wooden table with a glass of bubbling beer in front of him. The glass didn't look particularly clean, but there was no need to worry about such details now -- Hunter knew the ins and outs of Westland's streets, and this bar, despite its questionable hygiene, was considered 'safe.'

In other words, whatever he was about to say here wouldn't leave the confines of this bar.

He had been sitting there for twenty minutes before Albarino Bacchus arrived. Hunter had mixed feelings about Dr. Bacchus. On the one hand, he was very much impressed by the other's performance in the Family Butcher case; on the other hand, he was now wholeheartedly convinced that the other was indeed a killer, which only made Dr. Bacchus' image increasingly enigmatic in his eyes.

When Albarino sat down on the other side of the table, Hunter raised an eyebrow at him and said, 'Today is Wednesday.'

The implication was clear, and it was exactly the same question Herstal wanted to ask Albarino every time: 'Do you ever work?'

'We work in shifts. I worked last Sunday.' Albarino answered calmly -- but Orion Hunter knew exactly what he'd gone and done on Saturday night, so he let out a sarcastic grunt.

'You certainly have a lot of energy.' he said, adjusting his posture slightly, an action made awkward by his cumbersome leg. 'Then let's get down to business: what do you want to talk to me about?'

Albarino paused for a second or two, then said:

'The Sequoia Manor case -- if you're interested in it, I can share information from the Forensic Bureau and the Police Department with you. Officer Bull can't be relied upon, and I wouldn't count on him to solve the case.

'Anyway, given the sensitivity of the case, I need a list of everyone in the club involved in raping minors. I want to uncover the truth of the case and ensure those responsible rot in prison.'

But Herstal didn't see it that way. Herstal wanted to hunt them down one by one and tear them into pieces -- rapists were the source of the Westland Pianist's violent urges, and he could never resist them.

Of course Herstal knew about the recent surge of interest in Westland from Lavazza Mercader, and the Pianist's increasing number of crimes over the past two years had drawn significant attention from authorities. Although he was known for his calm demeanor, Albarino doubted Herstal could resist such temptation.

If the Pianist followed that list and started killing them one by one, it might result in a reshuffling of the state's wealthy elites, while the FBI, finally pressed into action, would start investigating the Pianist's cases.

Reflecting on his conversation with Agent Mercader in front of the coffee machine, he suspected that Mercader was not far from the truth. The FBI would seize this opportunity to catch Herstal -- Albarino didn't need to think hard to know that when dealing with someone like Agent Mercader, whether the Pianist committed a perfect crime or not, Mercader would have his own way of apprehending the person he suspected.

Herstal's plan, on the other hand, would keep him tied up in the country for a considerable amount of time. If the FBI's progress went smoothly, it might cause him to miss the best opportunity to escape. At that point, not even God himself would be able to prevent the Pianist from being arrested.

But that wasn't the plot Albarino had planned.

Therefore, he had better get a head start on finding a way to get those members of Sequoia Manor involved in lawsuits first. Most of whom were powerful and influential, so the evidence would have to be very, very strong for that to happen. The prey chosen by the Pianist were often individuals who had escaped justice, and as long as those men could be sent to prison, the Westland Pianist would not go on a killing spree against them.

Then, he would have to find a way to leave Kaba Stryder to Herstal. It wouldn't be fair to deprive Herstal of this layer of enjoyment as the Pianist.

Once Stryder was dead, it would cut off the shadow that had haunted Herstal for so long. At that point, he could logically suggest to the other man, 'I think the FBI is onto us now, are you going to come with me to Spain?'

This certainly wasn't moral, but it was obviously a little more feasible than the non-plan Herstal was weighing in his mind. Albarino couldn't have imagined that one day he would be the more rational one between the two of them, but now this seemed to be the case. The other man's sanity was teetering on the edge of breakdown, tormented by long-standing trauma. At times like this, Albarino should rightfully be the one steering the ship.

Although he hadn't thought deeply about when exactly he'd started to assume that they were actually in the same boat.

And as his mother had said, he needed to choose the right time and the right way, because it was an essential part of a great journey -- Herstal may not care when he dies, he was running to death just like he was running to his final home.

But for Albarino, the end of Herstal Armalight should not be now, should not be here.

So as of right now, Albarino's idea was basically considered a good plan, and as long as the Westland Pianist didn't massacre the entire Sequoia Manor in a fit of rage, everything could proceed according to the plan.

And this bounty hunter, who was staring at him suspiciously at this very moment, was a very important part of that plan.

If Olga hadn't had an accident, she would have been the best person for Albarino to work with; she wouldn't have asked so many questions or looked at him with such a questioning gaze. But unfortunately, even though she hadn't lost her other leg, Olga was still unconscious in the hospital. And in that case, Albarino had to settle for Hunter as a second best option.

'So you're choosing to ask for my help?' Hunter said, 'Because I was at that manor before, you want me to continue posing as a janitor and poke around the manor?'

'Isn't that a good idea?' Albarino asked happily, 'As a bounty hunter, you have more experience in such matters than I do. Most importantly, I can't spare so much time to do this, and with a number of people recognising my face after the Landon case, I can't keep taking these risks.'

Hunter's brow furrowed with suspicion as he asked, 'Is this proposal a manifestation of your sense of justice? You should know very well why I was at that manor that day, and in this case, you're still choosing to ask for my help?'

This bounty hunter clearly didn't believe him, the other probably thought of him as a serial killer bred by another serial killer. But that didn't matter, Albarino didn't need to earn the other's trust in order to act. After the case of the Family Butcher, he had more or less pinpointed Hunter's soft spots.

'Shouldn't I?' He asked rhetorically, his eyes widening innocently, 'Officer Bull's efficiency in handling cases is worrisome. He hasn't linked those children to Sequoia Manor, nor does he even have the courage to challenge the status of that club's members. As long as this conspiracy remains hidden, more children will be victimised -- so, Hunter, I'll say it again: we need that list in order to take them all down. Otherwise, even if the club shuts its doors, these things will continue to happen in other dark corners of the world.'

Hunter himself was single to this day, but Albarino knew that he had a soft spot for children. In the previous case, he had treated Clara with an unexpected gentleness that was quite unexpected. And as soon as Albarino spoke these words, he saw the other man's nose and eyes wrinkle, the wrinkle lines deepening threefold.

'I can do my best,' Hunter said after a silence so long that it felt like half a century, 'But if I find out you're playing any tricks --'

'Please, what tricks could I possibly play? Get the list of those beasts and then blackmail them?' Albarino said disgruntled, and Hunter's face showed a hint of embarrassment, clearly having thought exactly that.

Based on the expression on the other party's face alone, Albarino was sure that the other party must have only suspected him of being a murderer, but not the Sunday Gardener. After all, surely someone like Hunter, who knew serial killers well, would know that blackmail wasn't the Gardener's style.

'Forget it,' Hunter said, awkwardly changing the subject, 'But I have another question: why don't you investigate this with your boyfriend? Shouldn't someone like him have a pretty extensive network of sources as well?'

Albarino stared at him and then laughed.

With a slightly troubled but very honest tone, he said, 'Should I? Investigate this case with a lawyer who specialises in defending criminals? Some of the members of Sequoia Manor might even be his clients.'

Herstal had just visited a client who wanted to amend their will. He had barely sat down in his office for two minutes before his secretary, Emma, appeared hesitantly at his door. Her brow furrowed slightly as she said, 'Mr. Armalight, there's a lady here without an appointment who wants to see you. She says she's here for personal reasons.'

'No appointment?' Herstal raised an eyebrow; knowing Emma as he did, she should have stopped everyone outside of appointments at the door -- perhaps except for Albarino, they had never managed to stop Albarino from delivering lunch to him, which made everyone in the law firm aware that the Chief Medical Examiner of the Westland Forensic Bureau was either courting him or already in bed with him. Herstal hated this kind of attention.

'Yes, she said you'd let her in once you heard her name.' Emma nodded, her expression as weird as it could be, 'She said her name was Aurelie Delphine.'

Herstal was silent for a couple of seconds before recalling who this Aurelie was -- the dark-skinned girl with a stunning figure from Sequoia Manor -- so all Herstal could say was, 'Let her in.'

He could easily imagine why Emma's expression was the way it was; before he'd met Albarino Bacchus, his colleagues at the law firm were unsure about his sexual orientation. He'd heard that some daring interns had bet in private that he was asexual. After Albarino, they'd obviously had their own theories; now that a girl had come to see him for 'personal reasons', which he readily agreed to, the interns, who already had all sorts of ideas about the pretty girls who visited the firm, would now have even more to speculate about.

Moments later, Aurelie appeared in the doorway of his office, wearing a pencil skirt that probably cost more than the suits of some young lawyers just starting out. From this perspective, the work at Sequoia Manor seemed to provide a good living for her.

It was obvious that the manor's people had already investigated Herstal. Last time, he'd only given Stryder his name, and now they had sent someone directly to his office. It had to be said that those people were very efficient, although such a fact didn't feel too reassuring.

Aurelie smiled sweetly at Herstal and walked over to him to gracefully lift a leg and perch sideways on Herstal's desk.

-- This scene was starting to look like the beginning of a p*rno. Herstal frowned a little and said, 'Ma'am, this is a desk.'

'Yes,' Aurelie replied calmly, 'So, hypothetically, if I were to get down on my knees and crawl under this desk to give you a blowj*b, would it ruin your reputation in your law firm?'

Herstal was too lazy to play this roundabout flirtatious game with her, so he asked point blank, 'What brings you here, Ms. Delphine? I'm sure you didn't come all this way to offer me sexual favours.'

'Most men are begging for a scene like the one just described, and I do provide these services to various men on a regular basis.' Aurelie let out a cute snort, but Herstal just gazed at her coldly, forcing her to be serious.

Herstal's gaze, which could make intern lawyers cry, clearly had its intended effect.

'Alright, alright, I'm here to deliver a message. Because the manor's manager doesn't trust phones or the internet, I have to tell you in person.' After a brief pause, she finally said, 'I conveyed your wishes to Mr. Stryder. He said that if you wished, you can attend the club's event next Sunday, and that there will be several entertainments on that day that might satisfy your appetite.'

Herstal wanted to sneer: it didn't take much thinking to figure out what entertainment would satisfy his appetite.

This seemed almost a little too easy. Yet, thinking back to those days in Kentucky, Stryder had made some less-than-smart moves too. His arrogance had been the main source of those flaws. From that perspective, it was understandable that he might be somewhat gullible in this matter with Herstal.

'So, what do I need to offer in exchange?' Herstal asked. While Strayed might be gullible, he wouldn't invite someone to a private gathering for nothing.

Aurelie winked and smiled, 'A promise to keep secrets for your companions and a donation to the club: these donations will ensure Mr. Stryder can maintain the club's operations.'

-- It probably also ensured that he got to pocket a large sum too, Herstal silently added the latter half of the sentence.

These conditions were still relatively easy, in fact, anyone of sufficient status to enter the club at Sequoia Manor could easily come up with a large sum of money. Perhaps the greater likelihood was that his status as a mob lawyer had attracted Stryder's attention -- obviously, when doing this kind of high-class pimping, the stronger Stryder's backing was, the more beneficial it was for Stryder himself.

Herstal paused for a moment, then gave a smile that wasn't much of a smile, 'No problem, all his requirements are easily met.'

Aurelie nodded, but still stared at him. The woman had very bright black eyes that looked at others as if she knew exactly what was going on inside them. After a moment, she suddenly smiled and said softly, 'I think you're being a little too pushy about this.'

'Shouldn't I be?' Herstal asked rhetorically, 'You have no idea how desperate men are about such things.'

'I have a feeling you're going there for another reason.' Aurelie said with a sweet voice, but there was no sweetness in her words.

'Is that so?' Herstal asked, feeling a silent thud deep in his chest.

'That night I said you looked like a lamb in the crowd, it was true in a metaphorical sense.' Aurelie's voice was soft and calm, 'You know what a lamb represents in religion, don't you? 'Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain' [1].

[1] Revelation 5:6 in the Bible. The lamb refers to Christ, 'as if it had been slain' refers to Christ being crucified.

Herstal shook his head and said quietly, 'Ms. Delphine --'

'The heart that wore the crown of thorns was pierced by a lance[2].' Aurelie interrupted with a smile, 'The first time I saw you, I saw something familiar in you -- I guess you've been hurt before, haven't you?'

[2] Refers to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

That day, Herstal worked late as usual.

By the time he got home, Albarino was sitting on the living room couch, his knees, the couch seat, and the floor were covered with scattered autopsy reports. The bodies of children who had been abused to death and dumped into the river had their pale eyes open, forever gazing into the land of the dead.

'A long day, huh?' Albarino said in a relaxed tone, sounding like a normal man who could build a family with someone else. He flipped through the pages of the autopsy report in his lap and looked up at Herstal, 'Anything in particular happen?'

Herstal's throat tightened -- he should have told him about Aurelie, and about the gathering at Sequoia Manor next weekend. Albarino wouldn't have let him go back there alone. But what was the point? Even if Stryder's appearance had indeed been unexpected, Albarino probably wouldn't care.

'No,' Herstal replied, looking steadily at the other man, 'and you?'

Albarino smiled at him gently, as if he wasn't holding the last wisps of a dead person's soul between his fingers:

'No, I stayed home all day.'

Chapter 37: 73. The Fountain of Blood (7)

Chapter Text

It was March 18th, a weekend evening.

Orion Hunter was sitting in the driver's seat of a low-profile black car, clutching a greasy wrapper in his hands, wolfing down a sandwich. He looked very much like an old officer on a stakeout, watching a suspect's house for four days straight. In reality, his line of work wasn't far off.

'All in all,' he said vaguely, mouth full of food, fighting to swallow a large mouthful, 'They're very cautious. From my observations these past few days, they let the dog out into the yard after eight-thirty. You're bound to run into them when you come out, so you'll have to use your own discretion to handle them. '

The person who was being advised to use his own discretion regarding the dogs was Albarino Bacchus -- who was sitting in the passenger seat, looking like he was about to rob a bank, dressed in agile black sportswear and a black ski mask on his lap.

When Hunter wrote his long-winded manuscript with grim determination suspecting that Albarino had blood on his hands, he certainly didn't expect to find himself crammed into a car with the other man, planning to break into the late newspaper mogul's estate. Life was always so unpredictable.

In short, here's how it all began:

Old Hunter had been working diligently as a cleaner on the estate for a few days. The work wasn't too heavy, and to be honest, the pay as a cleaner was far better than his welfare benefits. If someone just seeking an easy life were doing this job, they might even consider becoming a cleaner for the rest of their life.

No one paid any attention to cleaners. To most people enjoying their services, they had no faces, no thoughts, no past or future. Sequoia Manor was visited by members every day of the week, the sheets in the guest rooms were changed daily, the long corridors were swept every day; old Hunter just looked like a poor man limping towards retirement in a place like this, passing his monotonous life with repetitive, dull work.

Until Friday afternoon, when they were informed by the boss's secretary -- the man who managed the club's funds apparently even had a secretary -- that they didn't need to come to work on Sunday.

'There will be a private gathering on Sunday night,' said Rowan, the secretary, who had a miserable looking face and looked very much like the sort of bloke who would haggle over his employees' wages. 'Our members need some peace and quiet, so you'll be coming back to work early on Monday morning. '

Hunter hid behind the crowd and frowned: according to Albarino, the child deaths that had occurred in recent years were likely connected to this club, but from what he'd seen in the few days he'd been working here, Sequoia Manor was, at most, a rather depraved palace of pleasure, with no minors in sight. He'd almost thought that Albarino had made an error in judgement this time, but then this development arose right at this juncture.

A private gathering, where no staff was allowed on site -- this was really strange, especially for these rich people who preferred to use mobility scooters even indoors. Needless to say, there were indeed many dirty secrets hidden behind the scenes.

In accordance with their previous agreement, Hunter informed Albarino of what he'd seen and heard. The ensuing speculation was obvious -- they both had the same thoughts. Unsurprisingly, the latter planned to sneak into the manor that night. And so they did -- at the moment, Hunter was sat in the driver's seat, warning gravely, 'Dr Bacchus, this is not one of those romantic games you play with your partners.'

Albarino swept him a lazy glance and replied, 'That's certainly true, I'm sure there's quite a difference between the two.'

Hunter hated his nonchalant attitude the most, he cleared his throat and emphasized through gritted teeth, 'You don't have a search warrant, this is considered trespassing. It's legal for them to put a bullet through your head if they find you, not to mention being arrested by the police.'

'That's true, but is there any other way for us to get that list of possible names other than this?' Albarino shrugged his shoulders, 'I don't mean to be accusatory, but you've been working as a cleaner at Sequoia Manor for a few days now, and you haven't even scratched the surface of any secrets yet.'

'Please consider my leg before you say that,' Hunter retorted sharply, 'This leg prevents me from sneaking into any rooms and escaping smoothly, not to mention the fact that unlike you, I prefer not to get my head blown off. Aren't you a doctor? Be reasonable.'

Albarino smiled tolerantly as he opened the car door while holding the hideously ugly ski mask in one hand.

Hunter still couldn't resist calling out to him, 'Wait'.

By this time, Albarino was already standing outside the car. He stopped his action of closing the door and lowered his head to look at Hunter, his eyes as cold as a wolf wandering in the wilderness. Every time he saw such eyes, it made Hunter feel a shiver run down his spine. He believed in a hunter's intuition about this matter.

'Why are you investigating this case? Do those lives really matter to you?' Hunter couldn't help but ask the question that was on his mind. It probably wasn't a good idea for any rational person to ask such a question; but there were already more than enough people who were convinced that Orion Hunter was indeed mad.

He didn't believe Albarino truly cared about those lives; the light-hearted tone he used when referring to each of the deceased and the cold, intent gaze he used when looking at the photographs of the corpses, as well as that fleeting, strange look in Albarino's eyes when Hunter stabbed the Family Butcher, all suggested he didn't care about human life.

'Why do you always have such suspicions about me?' Albarino asked in a tone of total innocence, 'Human life is important to most people, not to mention the lives of small children. They always have a sense of compassion for those that are weaker. Besides, as you just said: I'm a doctor; and even though I'm a forensic pathologist now, I once took the Hippocratic Oath.'

The Hippocratic Oath -- I will not use my medical knowledge to violate human rights and civil liberties, even under threat -- Hunter almost rolled his eyes at Albarino.

He asked directly, 'Did you kill Sarah Adleman?'

Albarino stunned for a moment, as if genuinely surprised by his question. Then he laughed, 'Of course not. Admittedly, sleeping with her wasn't pleasant, but not unpleasant enough to make me want to kill her.'

He paused, maintaining that smile.

'Then, if you have no further questions, Mr. Hunter,' Albarino continued, 'I'll be on my way.'

Herstal had no desire to return to Sequoia Manor for the second time; it felt like doing something you knew would have disastrous consequences, like drawing a moustache on your mother's passport photo as a child -- now he felt like there was an alarm in the back of his head, beeping whenever he got close to Stryder, more sensitive than a nut allergy to peanuts.

When he knocked on the door, it was somewhat of a relief that it was neither Stryder nor the doorman who answered.

The man on the other side had long, dry, pale yellow hair who looked to be in his mid-thirties with an angular, sharp-jawed face. He eyed Herstal suspiciously from behind those thick glasses, and it wasn't until he somehow finally passed the other man's scrutiny that the man averted his gaze.

He introduced himself as Stryder's secretary, Rowan. Herstal tried to keep his face calm and said, 'I thought Mr. Stryder would be here tonight; after all, according to Ms. Delphine, tonight's party is very important.'

'It is very important,' Rowan said slowly, his voice so dry that it sounded reminiscent of a frog dried out on asphalt, 'which is precisely why Mr. Stryder will not be attending tonight.'

Herstal, of course, easily understood his meaning: assuming that Sequoia Manor was caught red-handed, Stryder would likely have escaped the net because he had never been present at anything resembling an illegal event. Conversely, Rowan, who single-handedly organised such gatherings, would most likely end up going to jail. Who knew how much Stryder paid Rowan to make him so loyal?

Rowan led Herstal to a reception room next to the hall where the last party was held. The taste of the reception room wasn't much better, with soft, blood-red velvet curtains and a huge golden frame hanging on the gold embossed wallpaper, in which a painting was set: some sort of inferior imitation of Bosch's art style, depicting a mass of entwined bodies deep in desire.

'I thought I wouldn't be the only one tonight.' Herstal's gaze briefly skimmed over the painting -- the room's overwhelming decor gave him a feeling of oxygen deprivation -- as he asked with feigned curiosity.

'We offer the utmost respect for the privacy of each member,' Rowan said in his dry tone, 'Our members don't usually arrive at the same time, and even if they do arrive at the same time, we don't put them in the same reception room.'

That was the last answer Herstal wanted to hear. His original plan to meet other members who participated in this activity was shattered, but it had to be said that it made sense for Stryder to arrange it in such a way. There were many powerful and influential individuals among the members of Sequoia Manor, and having them meet in such a situation of 'Hey, are you molesting children? What a coincidence that I am also molesting children', was probably not a good idea. Not seeing each other would definitely make his clients feel more at ease.

But this also meant that his investigation would inevitably slow down. He may have to come to the club multiple times to figure out who was visiting, but honestly, he didn't want to spend even a moment in a place like this.

Rowan, of course, had no idea what was going through his mind as the other man snapped his fingers and a lady stepped out from behind a layer of curtains. It was none other than Aurelie Delphine.

In fact, Herstal was a little surprised: when Aurelie was able to bring his wishes to Stryder so quickly, Herstal knew that the other party's status in Sequoia Manor was not low, but he didn't expect that this 'not low' was in fact high enough to personally participate in such activities.

In that case, Aurelie probably knew the identities of the members who were involved in the rape of minors, but Herstal had never asked her directly. Aurelie attitude towards him was abnormally strange, with quite a few uncharacteristic hints in her words. Herstal was really worried that this was just a trap that Stryder had dug for him. Before he earned Stryder's trust, it was best for him not to act rashly in this regard.

Aurelie was holding a book with a thick cloth cover in her hands while Rowan nodded towards Herstal and said, 'Please choose according toyourown wishes. Delphine will arrange the rest foryou, now if you'll excuse me.'

With that, Rowan walked out of the room and Aurelie handed Herstal the book before going to pour him a drink. Herstal was still confused when he opened the beautifully bound book -- but then he immediately saw the truth written on those glossy, heavy pages.

That booklet wasn't thick, decorated like a menu of a Michelin restaurant. On each page were several photographs of children, both male and female, with their Christian names and ages simply labelled underneath the photographs. A cursory glance showed Herstal that they were all basically between eight and fourteen years old, with a particularly young six-year-old in the middle.

Of course, he immediately understood what this thing was; there was a reason it looked like a menu.

-- It was a roster.

Albarino climbed through the second-floor window along the drainage pipe.

Night had already fallen enough to cloak his figure, and the dogs had not yet been released. This was the best time to enter the manor. The most fortunate thing about Sequoia Manor was that, because it was obviously engaging in illegal activities, there were no surveillance equipment installed inside the manor except for the cameras along the outer walls. Clearly, they did not want any footage to become evidence when the day of reckoning came.

This, of course, also provided an excellent premise for any criminal activities involving breaking and entering. Albarino had figured out the blind spots of the outer wall cameras during his first infiltration into the manor. He was certain that if he wasn't unlucky enough to be spotted by anyone, there was no way anyone would ever realise that he'd even been in here after the fact.

But of course, fate proved he was indeed unlucky -- but not in the way he had imagined.

Albarino crossed the second-floor corridor, attempting to navigate the complex and glaringly colourful hallways to reach the third floor. Based on the investigation he'd done on the manor while posing as a waiter last time, the estate's manager, Kaba Stryder, had his office located on the third floor. He believed that a guy like the manager who exuded pride from every pore -- as evidenced by his overly sophisticated and hideously checkered suit -- would certainly keep some leverage over the club members for blackmail when necessary.

If he was lucky, that would be the list he wanted.

Albarino had just reached the spiral staircase when, while absently looking down over the second-floor railing, he saw a skinny man leading one of the members from below.

The thin man with pale yellow hair had been mentioned by Hunter before as Stryder's right-hand man, and the man following behind him was unmistakably Herstal Armalight.

Albarino was no less shocked than seeing a unicorn behind Rowan. He subconsciously took a step back, retreating to a spot out of sight of the two men. He stood quietly on the soft carpet of the second floor while his mind spun rapidly: Herstal's presence here was unexpected, after all, the last time he had asked, Herstal had also said that he hadn't made much progress, and that he might need to attend a few more gatherings at Sequoia Manor.

Clearly, that was a lie. Herstal had found a way to infiltrate the sinister parties at Sequoia Manor -- not only within a week, but more importantly, he had done so without intending to reveal a word to Albarino.

Why on earth would he do that? Hadn't Albarino made it clear that they no longer needed to lie to each other the last time Herstal had confronted him about whether or not he knew Stryder was at Sequoia Manor? Could Herstal still be worried that Albarino would stop him from killing Stryder?... Ah, of course, with Mercader also going crazy on the side, Albarino wouldn't let Herstal go and kill people based on some kind of list or a directory of Westland's rich and powerful, but he had sworen that he would never let the other party give up on his vengeance.

It was a strange feeling. Most people would probably call the feeling surging through his heart 'betrayal', but given that the two of them had literally put each other in prison and at the hands of other sexual perverts -- not to mention Albarino's identity as a forensic pathologist, which led to several beatings in the New Tucker Federal Prison during those few days when he was being imprisoned, leaving his ribs bruised when he went to find Herstal after he was released -- and besides, the fact that at this moment in time, Albarino himself had come to Sequoia Manor without telling Herstal, neither of them seemed to be in any position to talk about 'betrayal.'

Albarino gritted his teeth; if he didn't, he would indeed feel an uncomfortable lump in his throat (or heart). Quietly, he waited for the two men to walk off to god knows where on the first floor, before just as quietly heading up onto the third floor.

Following his memory, he found Stryder's office. The door to which was now locked, there was no light seeping through the crack, indicating that no one was inside.

Pushing aside his thoughts for the moment, Albarino knelt at the doorway and drew a length of wire from his pocket.

While Albarino was struggling with the extraordinarily complicated door lock, Herstal was staring at the roster in front of him.

He knew he had to choose from someone among them, and this was difficult in every sense of the word. What he was about to do made his throat close up, it was hard to imagine that the Westland Pianist, who remained calm in the face of blood and internal organs, would want to dry-heave over this.

On the other hand, it was very important that he chose the right child. In the absence of the other members and managers, he could only pin his hopes on gathering information from these children. Firstly, the child couldn't be too young, a child too young might have a hard time articulating things clearly, and secondly, it would be best if they hadn't stayed at Sequoia Manor for too long. Herstal was very worried that they would have already succumbed to the cruel fate, causing the child to tell Stryder or Rowan about what he had asked them as soon as he finished questioning.

The child he chose would ideally be slightly older, still retain hope of escaping, be brave, and co-operate with his actions. Which meant --

'Are there any new children?' Herstal asked casually as he flipped through the roster.

'Sorry, what?' Aurelie's reaction to his strange request was exactly what he expected.

Swallowing the uncomfortable feeling in his throat, Herstal slowly laid the roster flat on his lap and looked up at Aurelie. He smiled, then whispered, 'Well, you understand, a child who has spent too much time in a place like this can have all sorts of defects ... I hope the child I get is a virgin, is this an excessive request?'

A month ago, just a month ago, if someone would have told Herstal that he would be making such a request in a place like this, he would have hung the other person up and ripped out their tongue. But the feeing at this moment was just very strange. Aurelie's gaze shifted away from him for a brief moment, failing to completely hide her disgust, which stabbed into his heart like a thorn.

After a moment, Aurelie said, 'Yes...some of these.'

Aurelie pointed out two children in the booklet, both boys, one of whom was nine and the other fourteen. Herstal had originally considered the older child, the fourteen year old boy had soft, curly golden hair, adorably curled like the little angels at the bottom of the Sistine Madonna painting.

Below the photo was his name: Midalen. It was indeed an angel's name.

[1] (TL Notes) The original Chinese was 米达伦, which phonetically in PinYin would be pronounced 'Midalun' (for the sake of English it's pronounced more similar to 'len' than 'lun', so I'll keep it as 'len'), not Metatron (which is the official English name for the angel 米达伦). I'm going to keep his name as Midalen and not Metatron for... obvious reasons -- Metatron is one of the most powerful archangels, acting as the celestial scribe to the Book of Life, which keeps track of all the choices made by earthly and divine beings. Metatron also serves as the guide to humanity, is the speaker for God, and is granted the right to be in the presence of God.

There was something about this child -- his age, the colour of his hair, a certain youthful and determined look in his eyes that had not faded -- made Herstal feel a tremor of pain, it made him feel like he was about to be torn apart, just like his nightly dreams. He reached out to point at the photograph, feeling his finger burn slowly against the smooth surface of the paper.

'I choose this child.' He said.

Chapter 38: 74. The Fountain of Blood (8)

Chapter Text

Aurelie was silent for two seconds. Herstal felt as though she was deliberating something, but whatever it was, she didn't voice it. Still maintaining that flawless masquerade of a charming smile, she said, 'Alright, please wait a moment while I make the arrangements.'

Herstal didn't quite want to know what she was going to arrange, and in any case, she strode out of the reception, her figure disappearing once more behind the heavy curtains. With even that sound fading from the room, everything fell into a terrifying silence, even the ringing in his ears felt like an unending tsunami.

The rhythmic sound matched the beat of his heart, a sound that was generated from the blood flowing through his veins being transmitted to his eardrums. It didn't require special treatment as it didn't affect his quality of life. Herstal only heard this sound in extreme silence, and because it didn't affect his sleep, he had never paid much attention to it.

But at this moment, he realised once more that he was still drowning in that river of blood. The last time he'd felt like this was when he was standing before Billy's corpse with Albarino's fingers pressing lightly but firmly on his shoulder, saying, 'Pianist.'

Herstal sat still and adjusted his breathing, watching the coffee in front of him cool bit by bit, the last wisp of steam dissipating into the air. About fifteen minutes later, Aurelie appeared before him again, her formulaic smile still in place, but looking a little colder than the day she had conversed with him at the party.

She simply said, 'Please follow me.'

And so Herstal rose and followed her, much like Alice following the rabbit with the pocket watch down the winding rabbit hole -- but things were ever so subtly different, for in the end, Alice would still wake up from her dream and find herself lying in her sister's lap. But what he faced was not a dream he could wake up from, even if he told himself, 'I'm sure everything will be fine', he could never wake up from the dream. In real life, there were no cupcakes with sweet labels saying 'Eat Me' on them. They couldn't be sure if they would die the next moment after eating something.

He was most likely walking down a path toward death. It had always been so; and now he was trapped in a predicament.

Herstal followed Aurelie through the winding corridors, realising that the interior of the building was even larger than it appeared from the outside. Every inch of the walls and ceilings that could be decorated, was decorated, with patterns that showcased the owner's terrible taste and their abundance of money that had nowhere to be squandered.

They reached a blue corridor, at the end of which a taxidermied deer head was mounted onto the wall, its glassy eyes staring dully straight ahead. The corridor's overhead lights casted a branch-like blue-grey shadows behind the massive antlers. The walls were painted in bright colors, but it still gave off an unpleasant feeling: some psychologists insisted that living in a blue room for a long period of time could make one's mood depressed Herstal could vaguely see a hint of 'The Shining' set in this corridor.

'It's there, the red door at the end of the corridor to the left.' Aurelie said softly, handing Herstal an antique-looking key. 'This is the key to the room, Mr. Rowan has another spare, but don't lose it. When you wish to leave, please lock the door and return the key to Rowan -- he will be waiting in the front hall of the manor.'

Then she nodded and hurried away, perhaps to attend to another guest. She turned a corner and her figure quickly disappeared, leaving Herstal standing there with the key in his hand.

The door wasn't far from him, painted a deep blood-red, clashing horribly with the blue corridor walls. He wondered which little genius came up with the idea. Although he complained in his heart, Hestal knew this was likely the taste of the late Philip Thompson.

At this moment, Herstal had no choice but to walk up to the door and insert the key into the lock, turning it with a faint click. The hinges creaked as the door swung open. He had mentally prepared himself for what he would see inside, and these preparations weighed heavily on his mind like a large boulder.

And as he opened the door, all he saw was a figure lunging swiftly towards him; there was a flash of light before his eyes: it was the glint of metal under the light.

It took Albarino quite a long time to pick the lock.

He considered himself quite skilled in lock-picking -- he'd learned the craft from a French thief during his travels to Europe after college; the thief had made the mistake of trying to pick his pocket, and in the end had to save his own fingers by teaching him diligently -- but the lock in front of him was quite difficult to open. Furthermore, he was constantly distracted by looking out in case someone turned the corner down the corridor.

It took him about fifteen minutes to get the door open. He then silently slipped through the doorway, carefully locking it from the inside. The corridor outside was thickly carpeted, so he wouldn't be able to hear the footsteps of anyone coming. He could only count on Stryder's making a noise as he unlocked the door to give him a hint.

Of course, it would be best if Stryder didn't make a surprise trip back to his office; as there was no telling how much time Albarino would have to spend in here. Confirming that the door was securely locked, he straightened up and cautiously surveyed his surroundings.

He was now standing in a spacious office, facing a desk so large that it was enough to make love on, and ergonomically soft office chairs. Fabric sofas decorated the corners of the room, and bookshelves filled with books that had never been opened, merely displayed for show, lined the walls.

Albarino made his way around the room first, wearing latex gloves on his hands so he wouldn't have to worry about leaving fingerprints on anything. The first thing he did was go and open the window to the room -- it was an old house, and the locks on the windows had gradually rusted over time, but they could still be forced open.

That way, if someone did try to come through the door, he'd still have a chance to escape through the window: Stryder's office was on the third floor, and below it was soft grass. The long windows of the old manor included protruding carvings, and it wouldn't be difficult to climb down to the yard along the windowsill, and then down to the courtyard below using the drainpipe.

Albarino could see the dark, night-shrouded ground outside. In the shadows of the darkness, the bird-shaped hedges were barely discernible, and faint barking could be heard between the trees, indicating that the dogs had been let out. Figuring out how to deal with the dogs when he escaped was a problem for later; and he really didn't want to spend time thinking about that right now.

But he did have time to be distracted by the thought of something else: if he were the gardener of a manor like this, he would absolutely build a hedge maze on the property. He was very interested in a style of gardening that had been popular during the Renaissance era but had never been able to put it into action. His house on the outskirts of the city certainly had enough land, but it was best for Dr. Bacchus to stay away from his hobby of gardening.

While thinking of all these random things, Albarino efficiently searched every drawer in the office; focusing on whether there were any secret compartments in the bookshelves and desks, suspicious holes in the floors and walls, or a safe hidden behind the ugly Dadaist painting on the wall.

But as it turned out, he seemed to have greatly overestimated Stryder's ability to hide things -- or greatly underestimated his opponent's ability to hide things -- because in any case, he found nothing useful in any of those places. The only things he discovered were two p*rnographic magazines at the bottom of the bookshelf and a suspicious bottle of water-based lubricant in the right-hand drawer of the desk. He had found nothing, and the other party hadn't even played into the classic film cliché of 'hiding a safe behind a painting on the wall.'

Therefore, he could only admit that either Stryder was smart enough to hide things in a place where even Albarino couldn't find, or the other party was so pure that he didn't leave himself any leverage regarding the members of Sequoia Manor. Of course, there was also one last possibility: Stryder was extremely confident and had stored all the information on his computer.

Albarino shifted his gaze to the computer on the desk. The rather expensive, sophisticated device lay there looking as pure and as innocent as ever, as if it were lying in a normal person's office. Stryder didn't seem like a computer expert, nor did he seem to have anyone around him who was particularly skilled with IT. Albarino doubted that the other man could hide his information very well.

So he whistled contemptuously before walking over to the computer and switching it on. The computer was well worth its price, running quietly and smoothly, booting up quickly. The start-up screen then popped up, requiring a password.

This was probably the only protective measure that Stryder's shallow computer knowledge allowed him to make. If there was a hacker present in the room right now, they would likely have laughed out loud. But Albarino wasn't a hacker, and even forensic pathologists and psychopathic killers weren't omnipotent.

However, Stryder had set a password hint under the start-up password -- the password hint indicated to Albarino that the start-up password was the name of a book, and nothing more.

It was a laughable scene that definitely wouldn't appear in a spy blockbuster movie; no viewer would want to see a spy venturing deep into the enemy's lair, gaining access to the villain's computer, only to then find that the villain had set a password hint underneath the password.

It clearly wasn't cool nor dramatic enough. It was as if Stryder was just sitting in an ordinary office, doing a boring job like selling insurance or used cars. No one would ever know how many dark and nasty secrets were hidden in a computer whose start-up screen was a silly reindeer head. Although most people in the world lacked creativity, they never disappointed in terms of evil.

Albarino sighed and collapsed heavily into the office chair with such force that it creaked with the pressure. His fingers tapped the desk rapidly and randomly; he needed that password.

What could it be?

If Olga were here, she could probably have been able to tell Albarino the answer in three minutes, but thinking about Olga now was pointless; after all, fate was so unpredictable, even for a someone like Olga Molozer.

Albarino could only go over the useful information carefully in his mind: Stryder gave the impression that he didn't read very often. Of course, there was no denying that he must have learnt the Bible by heart when he was a priest, but now his dusty bookshelf spoke for itself.

He'd obviously abandoned his literary hobbies for a long time, but still had his start-up password set to the name of a book. His desk faced the magnificent but useless bookshelf; was it one of the books from that shelf that had inspired him?

Albarino stood up from the desk again and walked towards that bookshelf -- most of the books were covered in dust, and a few had traces of fingerprints. Stryder must have something important kept in this office, which was why he didn't let others in; otherwise, he would have had someone clean the dust off the shelves.

The dust was like footprints or tree rings. The thickness and patterns of the dust indicated the experiences of these books. Albarino quickly eliminated most of the books; they were heavy with dust, but the books themselves looked new, and the spines showed little sign of being read. Albarino's eyes swept over books on philosophy, psychology, some acclaimed masterpieces of literature...It seemed that only the popular novels had been opened; Albarino glimpsed a few fingerprints on the spines of a few books.

What sort of books would a person like Stryder favour?

Herstal had almost never mentioned what Stryder had been like back in Kentucky, but Albarino had already seen him smile at his own disrespectful display of frivolity at that last party. It was clear that sexually harassing the wait-staff was just a joke to him, a kind of vulgar, lowly pleasure derived from insulting others.

In that case, Albarino sincerely hoped that the start-up password for the computer wasn't the title of Playboy or a more obscene p*rnographic magazine. Although on second thought, it wouldn't be surprising if Stryder did something like that.

Albarino carefully examined the entire bookshelf, and finally, his gaze stopped on one book. It looked a little older, like it had been there for a long time, with a thinner layer of dust on the spine.

-- Justine, by Marquis de Sade. How interesting.

'Prosperity is always accompanied by sin ...'

Albarino murmured, reaching out to brush the spine of the book. His fingertips touched the line of letters along the spine, the touch of dust was coarse and light under his fingertips.

'The more corrupt and depraved you are, the more you can live what the world calls a happy life. [1]'

[1] Marquis de Sade, 'Justine, or The Misfortunes of Virtue'. (TL Notes: I can't seem to find a quote similar to the exact Chinese in the novel so I just translated the original Chinese. The book is available here.)

He gave a vague smile.

It was the kind of story Stryder would enjoy, infused with an image that wasn't actually humorous, and deep down he would laugh heartily at this unfunny joke. Albarino curled his lips, didn't really have an opinion on Marquis de Sade himself, but he still felt that Stryder's perspective wasn't exactly refined.

But now really wasn't the time to be dissatisfied with others' tastes. Albarino withdrew his hand and circled back to the desk once more. This time, he placed his fingers on the keyboard and tried entering that string of letters.

'J-U-S-T-I-N-E.'

To be fair, Albarino wasn't entirely sure that his answer was correct. There was a good chance that he was wrong, but fortunately, Stryder's computer skills weren't advanced enough to set up a program that would format the computer if the wrong password was entered. So even if he was wrong, he had room for another try.

Albarino paused and stared at the string of letters on the computer screen. Then, with a faint, meaningful curl of his lips, he lightly tapped the Enter key.

The screen flickered.

Fortunately, the next second, the computer desktop appeared in front of him.

Albarino let out a long sigh of relief and leaned heavily back in the chair. But now was not the time to celebrate his good luck; he needed to find what he was looking for on this computer.

Herstal instinctively sidestepped and grabbed the wrist of the person who lunged at him, they were apparently holding some sort of metal weapon. He slammed the person heavily against the wall before taking in the details of the room -- it was a beige wallpapered room, with a floor-to-ceiling lamp, and a soft, double bed. The decor in this room was far more pleasant than the blue hallway outside, as long as one didn't think about what might have happened on that bed.

But just thinking about what had happened in this room sent a shiver of numbness down Herstal's spine.

And now he was in control of the boy who had tried to jump up and stab him. The boy was glaring at him and baring his teeth threateningly, but he couldn't stop his wrist from trembling nervously under Herstal's grip.

Obviously, the boy who tried to attack him was called Midalen. Midalen was wearing a thin white shirt on his upper body and simple black trousers. One end of an iron chain was tied to his thin ankles, and the other end extended towards the bed, most likely tied to the headboard.

The boy looked even taller and thinner than in the photograph, almost so thin that you could see the distinctive ribs under his shirt. He wore a fierce expression, his light brown eyes were wide open like clear glass beads, and his blonde hair was indeed very curly.

When a boy reaches this age, his secondary sexual characteristics have begun to develop, and he has already treading awkwardly on that threshold between child and teenager. It was at this moment that Herstal suddenly understood why this boy had never been chosen by the VIPs of Sequoia Manor before; according to the notation on that roster, he had been here for at least three months.

Because he no longer looked like a 'little boy' anymore, the sudden realisation caused a familiar feeling of nausea to well up in Herstal's chest. He had to take a deep breath to swallow this feeling. The boy in front of him was doing him no favours in terms of helping him concentration, Midalen's hands were firmly restrained against the wall, but he was still writhing and trying to lift his foot to kick him.

The boy also held a crooked, dirty fork in his hand, the same thing he had just tried to use to stab Herstal with. The dignity of this fork made Herstal suspect that the boy had used it for other activities before: such as digging a tunnel underneath the bed to try and escape from this prison or something similar.

'Pervert! Let me go!' The boy cursed shrilly with a high-pitched voice typical of someone going through puberty, writhing like an eel under Herstal's grasp, 'f*cking fa*ggot!'

Herstal frowned at him with an indescribable expression, '...Where did you learn a word like 'fa*ggot'?'

'f*ck, does it matter?!' The boy continued to scream, piercing Herstal's eardrums. Now he didn't look like the little angel on the roster at all, but like a microphone that kept squeaking because it was out of tune, 'You're going to f*cking rape me!'

To be honest, he had a point.

'Listen, Midalen,' Herstal frowned. He had to find a way to make the other person calm down. He couldn't let him continue to yell like this, otherwise it would be even more troublesome if he really attracted the attention of other people in the manor; but it wasn't going to be easy, the boy was as headache inducing as Albarino was. 'I don't intend to rape you.'

...Never in his life did Herstal ever think that he would be having this conversation with a foul-mouthed fourteen-year-old, so it had to be said that fate was very indeed very unpredictable.

And Midalen looked at him as if he were a mentally retard person, with a 'Don't be ridiculous, don't think I don't know what you're doing in this place' look written all over his face.

However, Herstal had already thought of a suitable excuse; he had considered this matter over the past two days -- a small lie, but one with sufficient reason to make the boy believe him; moreover, even if the other party decided to tell Stryder what Herstal had said in this room, Herstal would be able to find a suitable reason to excuse himself.

'Well ... I'm an investigative journalist.' Herstal replied. He then paused for a moment, trying to make his tone as sincere as possible. Despite this, he still hadn't loosened his grip on Midalen's wrist, just in case the other person suddenly changed his mind and tried to stab him with the fork again. Midalen's aggressive demeanor made it seem quite likely.

Midalen, obviously not expecting that answer from him, froze for a moment and stared at Herstal suspiciously.

'I've noticed something strange about this manor before ...so I wanted to come in and investigate what was really going on here.' Herstal said to Midalen, to some extent, this wasn't entirely a lie. But the absurdity of the situation almost made him want to laugh; He had always lied to himself, and now he had to go out of his way to appear sincere to someone else.

Midalen whispered, 'You want to report this kind of explosive news to gain reputation --'

'No, it's not just about reputation.' Herstal interrupted, staring at him in an effort to convince the other party that he himself deeply believed that what he was saying was true. 'Reporting this kind of news will definitely attract the attention of the authorities, and the entire manor will be done for. Everyone here can be saved.'

He gazed into Midalen's absurdly large eyes and repeated, 'Please believe me.'

Chapter 39: 75. The Fountain of Blood (9)

Chapter Text

Midalen narrows his eyes and scrutinized Herstal, clearly skeptical of what he is saying. He asked, 'Are you telling the truth?'

The boy had left a general impression on Herstal after he entered the room: relatively calm, short-tempered, lacking in manners, and brave -- though given his act of trying to stab his assailant to death with a crooked fork, Herstal didn't think it was the intelligent type of bravery. The fork was still tightly clutched in his hand like a lifeline -- but in any case, this probably meant that they were able to have a somewhat adult conversation.

Herstal finally let go of him, allowing him to stagger back against the wall. Herstal took a step back and said, 'No matter what I say, you have no way of proving whether or not what I say is true. So you essentially only have two choices: cooperate with me, or not. Hesitation may cause you to miss your only chance and leave you suck in this place forever until the thing you fear happens to you.'

Midalen stared at him for a while, as if mulling over the credibility of what he was saying. Finally, he gave a sharp smile with a bit of bravado, 'I can go tell Mr. Rowan what you said to me, and let him know that your true purpose for entering this place was just to dig up news!'

In fact, Herstal had already considered this possibility before coming here, but the only problem was that he wasn't actually a journalist. So if he did arouse Stryder's suspicion, he could still righteously muddle his way out -- claiming he wanted to see if the people here were really tight-lipped, or if they would reveal the identities of the members, so on and so forth. After all, having their actions exposed was probably the biggest fear of those visiting Sequoia Manor.

But now in front of Midalen, of course he couldn't say that.

In the end he just laughed softly and asked, 'What? Do you intend to side with those people?'

Midalen was stunned for a moment, a deeply conflicted expression crossed his face as he muttered in a small voice, '...Then how do I know you aren't sent by them to test me?'

Herstal guessed that this kid had been causing trouble continuously in the few months since he was captured by Stryder's men, likely giving the people of Sequoia Manor a hard time, otherwise he wouldn't have brought up the idea of being 'sent by them to test me'.

Herstal sighed deeply and reluctantly reached into his suit pocket in a compromising manner. His action caused Midalen to take a wary step backwards, clearly worried that he'd pull out a gun; but Herstal didn't do anything threatening, he just held the object he'd taken from his pocket and laid it flat on his palm:

-- It was a butterfly knife, the metal surface gleaming softly under the warm light.

'I want to try to make this deal as fair as possible. So if you're willing to answer a few of my questions, I can give you this in exchange so you can replace your useless fork.' Herstal said calmly. 'Well? If I were sent by the manor, I wouldn't give you something this dangerous, would I?'

As it turns out, when one wanted to hide something, it was best not to hide it in a folder named 'Tax Record Sheets'.

First of all, Albarino didn't even think Stryder paid taxes; secondly, even if he did pay taxes, Albarino believed that Stryder wouldn't be the type of person who would diligently record and organize tax files. This folder sat on Stryder's computer like like an apple among a pile of potatoes, it looked as conspicuous as could be.

Albarino looked at the folder and couldn't help but snort, his finger twitching as he clicked it open with the mouse.

What then popped up in front of his eyes were a series of images, interspersed with a few videos in between. Unsurprisingly, Stryder hadn't forgotten to leave himself a way out while engaging in such despicable activities.

He had obviously placed hidden cameras in some of the rooms of the estate, recording scenes of club members with the children -- this was a polite way of putting it, as most of the scenes were disgusting -- these rooms had no distinguishing features and no other people appeared in them, so they couldn't be used as evidence to accuse Stryder of being involved in the incident. He must have kept these as blackmail against those wealthy individuals.

Albarino quickly skimmed through the pictures, his eyes filled with intertwined, pale bodies. The people taking the photos had clearly been selective, capturing each man's face very clearly.

This was the kind of 'list' he was looking for. Although there were no names on the photos, the club members were all wealthy, so identifying them based on the photos wouldn't be difficult.

Albarino fished a flash drive out of his pocket. He needed a copy of the photos and then had to delete the information from the computer. In any case, he didn't want to take the risk that Herstal would also get a copy of the list and start a killing spree, especially since Herstal appeared at Sequoia Manor today. This had to be done now.

The file was enormous, presumably due to the high definition of the photographs. When Stryder ordered his people to take clear photos of these men, he probably hadn't considered how troublesome it would be for someone trying to steal these photos. Albarino watched the painfully slow, snail-like progress bar and felt a strong urge to sigh.

It was at this moment that Albarino realized that his misfortunes weren't just the vicious dogs wandering outside, he excessively large file, or the lingering shadows in Herstal's mind that were bringing him down, it wasn't even the fact that Herstal had shown up at Sequoia Manor without a warning.

-- He heard the faint sound of a key being inserted into the lock from outside the door.

Midalen sat obediently on the edge of the bed, his skinny, bony legs dangling off the edge. Herstal pulled over the only chair from the corner of the room and sat facing him. The light brown curtains were drawn tightly shut, and the bedside lamp cast a scattered beam of light, creating a thin shadow over the two of them.

The atmosphere was suited for a specific kind of ambiguous, intimate, and lingering evening, which explained why it was incredibly awkward for the two of them. After all, it was hard to remain calm under the overarching premise of 'you're basically paying to rape me'.

Herstal had already searched the room earlier to ensure there were no hidden cameras or recording devices in the room before taking a seat across from Midalen. Midalen, on the other hand, hesitated for a moment before beginning to tell his story.

The beginning of Midalen's story wasn't much different from the beginning of any child with a tragic life; he'd been abandoned by his mother at the doorstep of an orphanage in the northern part of Westland before he could even speak, with a slip of paper with his name and date of birth tied around his wrist. Midalen never found his family again, and lived in the orphanage ever since, until a few months ago.

With the long lines of people wanting to adopt children nowadays, and the rigorous vetting that had to be done in order to adopt a child, the fact that Midalen had managed to stay in the orphanage all this time was quite telling. Rebellious, short-tempered, and not very social. Several families had tried to adopt him, all of which ended in a series of less-than-pleasant experiences.

But despite all this, Midalen was actually still a very good-looking young boy: which was precisely the problem.

'A few months ago, I noticed someone was following me.' Midalen said, with a low grunt of displeasure, 'I told the social workers, of course, but they didn't believe me, they said 'Midalen, you're lying again' -- but I wasn't! Besides, I didn't lie before, I just didn't tell them that my teacher wanted to meet my guardian, and about my fight with that little chubby kid from school!'

Herstal was speechless. It was clear that Midalen was also a victim of the boy-who-cried-wolf story. He reached up and rubbed his brow before asking, 'And then what happened?'

'One day, I was cornered in an alley by two men. One was black, and the other was a bald man with a big tattoo on his left cheek. I punched the bald guy until his nose bled,' Midalen made a grimace. It was strange to hear such words from someone with an angelic face. 'Then the other guy grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the wall, repeatedly ...'

He paused, swallowing dryly. Herstal saw his Adam's apple bob up and down. Then Midalen said, 'When I woke up, I was captured by them.'

'I'm going to need a more detailed description of what the two men who kidnapped you looked like, and also information about the place where you were being held -- anything you can remember.' Herstal said, frowning.

'Isn't that the police's job?' Midalen glanced at Herstal.

'You might as well believe in God if you're going to trust the Westland police to get you out of this hellhole.' Herstal sneered. Seeing Midalen's expression, he added with deliberation as to not let his attitude get too far from the characteristics of a reporter, 'If possible, I'd like to investigate the place where you were held. A news story without enough details isn't worth much.'

The boy wasn't easy to get along with, but at only fourteen years of age, Herstal was able to handle it.

So now, Midalen described, 'I was locked in a small room with a very high window and a small bed. Outside the window there was a beech tree growing, I could see parts of the top of the tree from the window of the room I was in. The room was very narrow, and I guessed that it was artificially divided into small rooms with thin wall panels. Many nights I could hear other children crying next door, but I'm not sure how many children were there ...'

At least ten, Herstal thought, the roster Aurelie gave him had ten names. But all of those children were at the manor tonight, so they likely had more.

'Twice a day they would bring water and food into the room through a small hole under the door, so I never had a chance to escape. Every two or three weeks, they would blindfold some of the kids and take them out, twice without me, but I heard footsteps next door.' Midalen continued, perhaps because he was a little older and hadn't been victimized yet, he was extremely articulate and spoke without much fear, 'They put us in a car and finally brought us to this manor.'

Herstal's heart sank: if Stryder's men had brought them here blindfolded, then there was a good chance that Midalen had no idea of the route they'd taken from where they'd been held to Sequoia Manor. In that case, as soon as Stryder died, his men would likely kill the children to silence them.

He asked without much hope, 'Even if you were blindfolded, can you remember anything specific about the route? Sharp turns or uphills and downhills for example?'

'I tried to count the time. It's not very accurate, and I'm not sure if it would help.' Midalen co*cked his head and said, 'But anyway, it goes like this: the car might start in a yard, then turn left out of it, count to 267, reach a junction, then count to 79, turn right, where the sound of water can be heard, maybe there's a fountain, and then count to 124...'

Herstal looked at him in surprise.

Midalen continued on and on. Who knew how he came up with such an idea or how he forced himself to remember it, but by the time Herstal reacted to what this meant, Midalen was saying, '...to 741, turn left, then a short downhill, count to 210, the car goes over a bumpy road, and then we arrived here.'

He stopped, nervously licking his lips and looked up at Herstal.

'Well?' He asked softly, 'Does it help?'

Herstal took a deep breath and pulled out a small notebook he always carried with him to keep track of things. Then he said gently, 'Very good, kid. I need you to say that again.'

When Albarino heard the soft click, he felt his hair stand on end: it wasn't that he hadn't thought Stryder would suddenly come in while he was still in his office, but he hadn't expected him to come in at such an inconvenient time. There was no time to do anything, Albarino didn't even get a chance to pull the flash drive out, so he could only turn off the computer and leap over to a corner of the office.

There was a long couch between the bookshelf and the wall. Albarino jumped behind it and crouched down low, his knees hitting the soft carpet.

That way, from the angle of the office door, Stryder wouldn't be able to see him hiding inside the office. Albarino kept his body as low as he could, his hand silently reaching for the dagger hidden at his waist -- if Stryder found him here, he would have no choice but to strike.

Of course, Herstal would be furious; but if he only seriously wounded Stryder, and then found a way to bring him out to Herstal, he'd calm down, right?

...Or maybe not, Albarino could already imagine Herstal's sarcastic comment, 'I already told you that moving on Stryder prematurely would only end up spooking him, didn't I?' or something like that.

Maybe he would die. Maybe this time Herstal won't show any mercy. This matter was Herstal's bottom line, and Albarino had known that fact for a long time. He sighed inwardly, but his heart remained calm.

Herstal might have been under the impression that it was Albarino who was controlling the game, but that wasn't really the case; it wasn't a game of chess, it was by no means a game that could be carried on by just one person but a mutual battle. From the moment Albarino chose to provoke the Pianist: he knew for a fact that in terms of committing crimes, the other man was far more ruthless and skilled as a hunter than he was.

The Pianist's preference for slowly torturing his victims meant that the Pianist had to possess force that could keep them under control; in contrast, the Sunday Gardener, who often slit his prey's throat with a single slash when the other was caught off guard, having the advantage of surprise.

Albarino knew that Herstal could certainly kill him if he wanted to.

He actually didn't mind dying in Herstal's hands -- but preferably not now, not with Stryder's affairs still unresolved. Albarino was far more interested in seeing the moment when Herstal would kill the shadow that haunted him with his own hands.

At this moment, Albarino thought of many things. If he was lucky enough, maybe he wouldn't end up in the position he'd imagined -- The office door opened and Stryder appeared in the doorway of his office.

At the moment, although his computer was in its usual position, the monitor was still warm, and in the direction facing away from Stryder, the flash drive was still plugged into the computer.

Stryder stepped hurriedly through the door, seeming to see neither Albarino hiding behind the couch nor the computer's unusual state. He walked to the desk and began pulling open drawers one by one, rummaging around for something. He was followed by someone else: a man with yellowish hair, presumably the Rowan that Hunter had mentioned earlier.

Rowan stopped at the doorway while Stryder continued rummaging around, saying, '... a missing person report was posted online. The problem lies in the fact that he disappeared in Massachusetts only six months ago, and his family and the local police are probably still looking for him, so --'

'You mean,' Stryder said slowly without looking up, not even looking in the direction of the computer, ' that the police in Massachusetts may have realized that the boy whose body was dumped in the river in Westland is the same one who disappeared six months ago, right? '

'There's a possibility,' Rowan said tensely, 'that this case will attract the FBI!!'

Stryder clicked his tongue, straightened up, and tossed what he was holding to Rowan, who caught it: a bulging envelope. Given Albarino's understanding of these people's methods, the envelope was probably full of money.

'Pay that cop you previously dealt with a bit more. We need to know if the Massachusetts police are going to take notice of this case or not.' Stryder arranged, 'If they do contact the WLPD, I need to be informed immediately.'

With those words, he pushed the drawer closed with his backhand and the two men quickly left the room again; it turned out that the two of them were only here to get some money. Albarino waited for the sound of the door locking again, and waited a further ten seconds or so before he emerged from behind the couch where he had been hiding.

He continued checking the file transfer speed on the computer while considering the information he had just overheard: The WLPD had posted a notice online to identify the drowned John Doe. This was something he knew. It now seemed that the boy had been kidnapped by Stryder and his people not too long ago.... Rowan's concerns were valid; if the Massachusetts police noticed that the boy whose body had been dumped in the river in Westland was in fact the same boy who had disappeared six months earlier in Massachusetts, they would definitely contact the FBI: this was, after all, an interstate case that needed federal jurisdiction.

-- And with the level of attention Lavazza Mercader had been paying to Westland lately, they would undoubtedly encounter that troublesome agent soon.

However, there was no point in thinking about it now; Albarino saw that the transfer process was complete. He quickly removed the flash drive and, after some thought, opted to restore the computer to its factory settings.

'You can't leave now.' Midalen said.

Herstal had already gathered a lot of information from Midalen: for example, he'd never received any guests, so he didn't know who was visiting Sequoia Manor, but the children were all being held in the same place, so if he could bring them out, he could certainly get a list of people from them. In addition, these children had only come into contact with Rowan and his men, and never knew of the existence of Stryder as a person.

This showed that Stryder was still quite cunning, and no one could prove at this point that he was actually involved in this organized case of sexual abuse of minors -- except maybe Aurelie, who had personally told Herstal that she had secured his participation in tonight's event in front of Stryder. However, Aurelie's stance was ambiguous, and it was not clear if she was willing to cooperate with the police -- Stryder had probably prepared for such situations, planning to push all the blame onto Rowan if something went wrong.

Knowing this information, Herstal felt that there was no need for him to stay any longer. As he straightened his cuffs, he glanced at Midalen and asked, 'Why can't I leave?'

Midalen, who was sitting on the bed intently playing with the butterfly knife, raised his head at his words and pointed the knife's handle at Herstal's lower body. 'They'll think you're too fast.'

... Herstal could kind of understand why the kid hadn't been adopted after more than ten years in the orphanage.

Herstal wanted to curse a little and to turn around and leave. But the main issue right now was that he regretted giving Midalen the butterfly knife in the first place. The way Midalen flung the blade out of its sheath was so clumsy that it looked like he was almost about to cut off his own finger.

Herstal watched Midalen for a while before he couldn't bear it anymore, finally relenting, he said, 'Come here, that's not how you use that knife.'

Midalen grinned and jumped off the bed.

Albarino stood in the shadows of the mansion.

He had climbed down from upstairs along the drainpipe and was now standing on the lawn. The lawn at Sequoia Manor was a mixture of ryegrass and tall fescue, evergreen throughout the year, and without a team of gardeners, it would be impossible to maintain a lawn that could grow up to thirty or forty centimetres tall. The ground was moist and soft beneath his feet, but the lawn ensured that he wouldn't leave any identifiable footprints. Albarino's gaze was fixed on a figure that was moving not too far away.

Hunter had helped him figure out the daily routines of the guards, which hadn't changed much even on such a special night. If he could take down the person moving in front of him, he could reach the manor's wall by the shortest route and climb over it. The dogs generally didn't patrol that direction, so as long as he was quiet and fast enough, he should be able to avoid the miserable fate of being chased by five dogs.

-- But Hunter wouldn't know what he was about to do next.

But that didn't matter; information between Hunter and Sequoia Manor wasn't shared with each other, and they would never find out what happened in the end.

Silently, Albarino made his way through the heavy shadows toward the figure. The person stood at a corner of the wall, looking in the direction of the courtyard wall, a cigarette clutched idly in his hand, the red tip glowing intermittently in the darkness. Clearly, this was a rather unprofessional guard.

Albarino crept up behind him silently, as nimble as a cat or a cheetah, and snapped a hand over the guard's mouth.

The other man was so startled that in the midst of his struggling he actually opened his mouth and bit down through the glove on Albarino's hand. Albarino let out a low hiss, but his movements never paused, stabbing the guard in the throat.

The guard made no sound, only warm blood gurgled and ran down his throat. Albarino withdrew his knife and wiped the blood clean off the blade on the fabric of the man's shoulder before releasing his grip. The guard's body, no longer having any strength to support itself, collapsed heavily on the ground.

Albarino's palms throbbed in pain. The guy had bitten down hard enough that the latex gloves he wore on his hands were probably torn, and the skin on his palm seemed to be bleeding; Albarino estimated that the injury would inevitably redden and swell, likely turning bruised and purple by the morning.

Albarino didn't even spare the body a glance, he just calmly stepped over it and quickly moved into the dense darkness. The scent of the blood and the slight commotion had already alerted the dogs, which were now barking on the other side of the manor, a cacophony in the night.

Albarino started to run, following the shadows as he slipped into the darkness, leaving the series of barks behind him.

Herstal's return to the reception of the mansion to return the key was poorly timed; there were no other members around. Rowan was standing in the corner on the phone to whoever he was calling, his voice was low, but it didn't hide the anger and anxiety in his voice. When Herstal approached, he only vaguely caught a few words, 'I don't know when ... the knife ...unable to find him anymore... '

Just from those fragments, it was clear that something had happened either at the place where the children were kept, or somewhere else in Sequoia Manor. Herstal wanted to stay and listen but was worried that lingering too long would arouse suspicion. So, he simply walked over and left the keys on the table in front of Rowan.

Rowan stopped talking and looked up at Herstal, then nodded to him and made an apologetic gesture, indicating that he couldn't see Herstal out the door.

There was certainly nothing more for Herstal to say under the circ*mstances, he could only turn and head outside the mansion, where the cool night breeze was already pouring in through the half-open door in the reception, bringing in a hint of the slightly bitter freshness of the night.

What he left behind were countless depraved beasts in human form who indulged in sensual pleasures in the manor. There was still a monster lurking in his heart, and another in the unknown darkness in the distance, waiting for him to return home.

By the time Herstal finally got home, Albarino was already asleep, and the house was silent. The curtains hadn't been drawn before the other man went to sleep, and the cascade of lights layered up on the horizon enveloped Albarino in a pale shadow. Herstal could only make out the outline of the rumpled sheets piled on top of each other, with the edges gilded in a soft, bright light like the contours of a mountain range or a river.

As quietly as he could, he went to the bathroom to shower and wash up. His hair was still not quite dry when he got into bed, the tips still damp to the touch. The mattress creaked slightly under the pressure as his weight landed on it, and behind him, Albarino stirred in response, mumbling something in his sleep.

-- Then a hand landed on Herstal's shoulder, the palm unusually warm. The hand slid down the curve of his shoulder and slowly encircled his waist.

Herstal stiffened for a split second and whispered, 'Albarino?'

Herstal's home, like most wealthy people, boasted an exaggeratedly large but a practically useless king-size bed. Albarino had always slept on his side of the bed as a rule, not even touching Herstal unconsciously in his sleep.

But now, there was a heavy fatigue in his voice, his voice slurred when he spoke, and his hand fell on Herstal's body.

'I read online that couples should have more physical contact while sleeping so that they can improve their relationship, I think it's written in a reasonable way.' Albarino replied matter-of-factly, 'You came back late.'

Herstal wanted to sneer at him. Normally, he would sneer at the other party for thinking that reading some random love advice online meant that he understood 'love'. He was in a position to say this, but at that moment, he hesitated. Simply because the lights of Sequoia Manor were still a speck in the thousands of lights that glowed outside his window, and his nightmares were still lurking under his bed, ready to extend their sharp claws.

So what he said in the end was, '...There's a new case that's going to require overtime.'

Albarino hummed vaguely, as if satisfied with the answer. His hand tightened a little, and his lips pressed silently and warmly against the back of Herstal's neck.

'Sleep.' He said.

Chapter 40: 76. The Fountain of Blood (10)

Chapter Text

'What would'st thou?' asked the Witch, coming near to him.

'I would send my soul away from me,' answered the young Fisherman.

The Witch grew pale, and shuddered, and hid her face in her blue mantle. 'Pretty boy, pretty boy,' she muttered, 'that is a terrible thing to do.'

He tossed his brown curls and laughed. 'My soul is nought to me,' he answered. 'I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.'

Albarino's voice was light and gentle as he read, and he turned back another page of the book in his hand with a slight scraping sound.

'What wilt thou give me if I tell thee?' asked the Witch looking down at him with her beautiful eyes.

'Five pieces of gold,' he said, 'and my nets, and the wattled house where I live, and the painted boat in which I sail. Only tell me how to get rid of my soul, and I will give thee all that I possess.'

She laughed mockingly at him, and struck him with the spray of hemlock. 'I can turn the autumn leaves into gold,' she answered, 'and I can weave the pale moonbeams into silver if I will it. He whom I serve is richer than all the kings of this world and has their dominions.'

'What then shall I give thee,' he cried, 'if thy price be neither gold nor silver?'

The Witch stroked his hair with her thin white hand. 'Thou must dance with me, pretty boy,' she murmured, and she smiled at him as she spoke.[1]

[1] The story Albarino read was Oscar Wilde's 'The Fisherman and His Soul'.

The story that Albarino had been reading came to an end for the time being; he felt his throat getting a little dry, and was obliged to pause for a moment. The person lying on the bed remained motionless -- Olga Molozer's complexion was as pale as the sheet beneath her. She had lost some weight since she had been bedridden, and on closer inspection, her face was slightly puffy.

Albarino closed the book and placed it in his lap, then asked, 'Have you been standing there for a quarter of an hour, Agent Mercader?'

Lavazza Mercader was standing in the doorway, looking travel-worn, as if he had just flown in from Quantico. Mercader waved a hand, as if he felt he should explain himself to Albarino.

'I'm here in Westland because of a case, and I've just been to the WLPD and stopped by to see Molozer.' Mercader scrutinized Albarino carefully. Apparently, Mercader hadn't expected to see Albarino reading to Olga as soon as he walked in the door. He continued, 'It's Tuesday, shouldn't you be at work?'

'I can't tell you how many times I've explained the shift system at the Bureau of Forensic Medicine to various people; anyway, I worked three night shifts last week and found out that I'm not scheduled for this morning.' Albarino snorted lightly, 'Bart's little Clara seems to running some sort of 'read Olga a story every day' campaign, but today she's attending a birthday party at her classmate's house and she's spending the night, so she delegated this job to me instead. '

He paused, looking at Mercader, who remained silent.

Albarino said, 'You're not really interested in what Clara is doing today or what story I'm reading, are you?'

'I'm more interested in you personally.' Mercader said bluntly.

'That's a shame, I already have a boyfriend.' Albarino snorted.

Apparently not finding such jokes amusing, Mercader reached out and pointed to the glass vase on Olga's bedside table. It held a cluster of red, bowl-shaped flowers with tall, smooth and intensely green stalks with dark-coloured stamens that looked somewhat like poppies.

He asked, 'Did you bring those flowers?'

'Yes, because Bart said it seemed uncivilised to come to the hospital and not bring flowers.' Albarino smiled slightly, as if he had guessed what Mercader was thinking, 'These are Flanders red poppies, from the same genus as opium poppies, but actually a variety of corn poppies, which are non-toxic.'[2]

[2] A simple way to differentiate between Flanders red poppies and Corn poppies is: the red poppy's branches and stems are smooth, while the corn poppy's stems have white bristles.

Mercader deliberated, 'You have a very unique taste in choosing flowers.'

'Poppies are a symbol of Hypnos, the god of sleep. These flowers are said to be planted in front of the gates of his palace. It's said that his son, Morpheus, the god of dreams, would stand by Hypnos' bed holding poppy fruits, guarding him from waking up from his slumber.' Albarino narrated in a calm, story-telling voice, his gaze drifting over Olga's pale cheeks and tightly closed eyes.

He paused for a moment before saying softly, 'It suits her, doesn't it?'

'I don't think Molozer needs a long sleep.' Mercader said with a frown.

'Why? Are you still hoping she'll wake up and point out the truth when she opens her eyes?' Albarino asked leisurely.

His tone suggested that he didn't know what truth Mercader wanted -- Mercader's current suspicion was that Albarino was the Sunday Gardener and Herstal the Pianist. It was a suspicion he'd only mentioned to Officer Hardy and had never disclosed to anyone else, but Albarino had still glimpsed a part of the other man's thoughts from his recent and unusual interest in Westland.

'I believe she's close to the truth.' Mercader said ambiguously.

'I believe so too.' Albarino leaned back comfortably in his chair, his sharp gaze looking straight into Mercader's eyes. 'The truth -- for instance, the seventh case in the George Robo serial murders. The seventh case was suspected by Olga as not actually being Robo's doing. The victim of the seventh case's brother is dead; did you kill him?'

'Then the previous case committed by the Gardener outside of the courthouse, a prostitute named Cherry testified for your and Mr. Armalight's alibi. She died in a car accident not too long ago.' Undaunted, Mercader countered, 'Was that arranged by you or by Armalight?'

This confrontation was practically pointless, as neither of them could produce any substantial evidence. The purpose of the whole thing was just to tell each other, 'I see through your little tricks,' like when animals puff up their fur to appear larger when threatened, but nobody really knew the final outcome of the whole thing.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Mercader's stiff shoulders suddenly slackened, and he awkwardly changed the topic: 'In any case, your day off is over for the day, doctor. You're going to have to come with us to the WLPD, there's a new case that requires your attention.'

Albarino co*cked his head, 'What?'

'Six months ago, the police in Massachusetts received a report about a boy named Kevin who had disappeared while his parents were out shopping. The police searched for the boy for a long time, and his parents posted many missing person notices on the internet and television, but to no avail.' Mercader narrated, 'Until about two weeks ago, when his body was found in a river in Westland.'

Albarino's mind reeled: the day he'd infiltrated Sequoia Manor, he'd overheard a vague conversation between Stryder and his assistant, Rowan, mentioning the WLPD's notice about the source of the body and the missing person's report received from the police in Massachusetts. At the time, Albarino had been worried that the FBI would come back to Westland as a result.

As it turns out, apparently, the anxious parents trying to find their lost child actually saw the WLPD's notice. This matter had clearly been reported to the FBI as an interstate case, and Mercader's presence here was justifiable beyond doubt.

So at this point, all Albarino could say was, 'I remember that case. I was responsible for the autopsy of the body found in the river. The boy didn't drown; he died from mechanical asphyxia and was sexually assaulted before his death.'

'Exactly,' Mercader said seriously, 'Dr. Bacchus, Officer Hardy and I are now investigating a vicious case involving children.'

Herstal took an extra turn on the drive back to the law firm.

He had gone to meet a client today, who was undergoing his fifth divorce and dealing with the division of property. The whole matter went very smoothly, ending an hour and a half earlier than he had told Emma, the firm's receptionist, he expected to return.

The reason he'd been so finicky with his timing was that he'd scheduled a private meeting during work hours.

When Hestal parked in front of the café, he felt like a scumbag carefully arranging an affair. It was true that he didn't want Albarino to know that he'd arranged this meeting: the other man was always opposed to him targeting the members of Sequoia Manor. And this time, Albarino's stance was quite reasonable; Herstal knew himself that if he really did go after those rich people, he would get himself into a whole lot of trouble.

But he couldn't control himself, and for the first time ever, he decided not to control himself.

Without Albarino to help with the investigation into Sequoia Manor, Herstal's already packed schedule became even more unbearable. As much as he wanted to investigate further based on the information Midalen had given him, he was beginning to feel somewhat overwhelmed.

Initially, he planned to start with the two thugs Midalen had mentioned kidnapping him. The person with the facial tattoo was distinctive and easier to find. However, after checking with some of his underworld contacts, Herstal found out that this guy had died in a home invasion robbery a dozen days ago.

This fact was so coincidental that it was suspicious. Herstal suspect that Stryder may have had him killed in order to silence him. But with this lead gone, Herstal had no other choice but to start with the same driving route that Midalen had provided.

-- And he had to admit, he wasn't that familiar with the street layout of Westland.

Herstal, who had always hated asking for help, walked into the cafe full of tension, where the person he was meeting was sitting boldly by the window. This person had been vetted and was the most trustworthy among those familiar with Westland's road network -- although for the Pianist himself, this 'trust' was minimal -- Herstal could only hope that after explaining the situation, this person would choose to help him rather than immediately call the police.

At this moment, Orion Hunter was sitting in the window booth, with a cup of coffee filled with lots of alcohol in front of him.

He waved cheerfully at Herstal.

Albarino was sitting with Hardy's officers, listening to Lavazza Mercader speak on stage. Tommy sat next to Albarino, looking like a child visiting an amusem*nt park for the first time, his legs trembling with excitement.

Ordinarily, a case like this wouldn't involve an intern like Tommy, but since he had discovered the link between the last dumping case and the previous ones, Albarino decided to bring him to the meeting. Tommy was extremely grateful, repeatedly promising to treat Albarino to a big meal afterward.

Albarino had just taken to the stage to explain to the officers the cause of poor Kevin's death, and the Forensic Bureau's judgement that this case was in fact a part of a series of murders -- however, he and Tommy had no solid evidence to back up their conclusion. Despite the victims of the six murders over the past three years all having been children and all having been dumped into the water, the manner of their deaths varied widely, indicating different perpetrators.

At this moment, Mercader was saying, '... If the autopsy results are not wrong, there are now two possibilities: one, there is no connection between these cases, and they are committed by different murderers; two while these six dumping cases weren't committed by one person, they were carried out by a regular, organized group, meaning we're dealing with an organization that sexually abuses and murders children, then dumps their bodies.'

'As you can see, there's a very big difference between those two possibilities.' John Garcia, who was standing beside Mercader, added, 'Different conclusions lead to entirely different investigative directions. Thus, correctly judging the nature of this case is crucial for the subsequent investigation.'

The audience nodded in agreement. Albarino straightened up slightly: if Mercader concluded that the case of Kevin's murder had nothing to do with those previous cases, and thus shelving the previous unsolved dumping cases for the time being, then the WLPD wouldn't be able to find Sequoia Manor in this lifetime.

In terms of the current situation, Albarino hoped that Mercader would treat this as an isolated murder case rather than link it to the previous five cases. Because Herstal was bound to kill Stryder, and the ideal scenario would be that after Stryder's death, Herstal would never find that list of Sequoia Manor members, and the matter would be left unresolved. Eventually, Herstal would realize that his identity had been completely exposed by Mercader, forcing them to leave the United States, and then, sooner or later, the whole affair would be put behind Herstal.

However, if Mercader decided to combine the cases, he would sooner or later find out about Sequoia Manor. And if Herstal killed Stryder, and Mercader got involved at such a critical juncture, the consequences would be unimaginable.

If Mercader encountered a situation where the suspect he was investigating was killed by the Westland Pianist, he would certainly not let it slide.

Albarino slowly narrowed his eyes, staring at Mercader on the stage.

Then, they all heard Mercader slowly say, 'I believe we should trust the judgement on the part of the Bureau of Forensic Medicine that these six cases were committed by the same organization.'

A murmur of confusion erupted from the crowd. After all, there were only two things of similarity between these cases: the fact that the victims were children, and that their bodies were dumped in the river. And in reality, Westland's law and order were enforced so poorly that the river was a favourite dumping ground for various gangs; every year, they would fish out numerous corpses with bullet holes in their heads.

Bates, who was sitting in the corner and was present on behalf of the crime lab, couldn't help but raise his hand, 'Agent Mercader, isn't it too hasty to judge that this is a series of crimes based on the current evidence? If the we're wrong, the direction of the investigation --'

'I think it would be valuable to refer to Dr Bacchus' judgement in this case,' Mercader said slowly with a slight smile, 'After all, we all know that although he's a forensic pathologist, he has a killer's intuition.'

Hunter watched curiously as the rather famous mob lawyer assumed his classic indifferent demeanour and sat down across from him. Actually, it wasn't that Hunter was being nosy, but he had always been quite curious about why Bacchus would choose such a person as his partner, he felt that they were two people with completely different personalities.

There hadn't been much news from Albarino's side in the past few days. His last foray into Sequoia Manor yielded no results, and when he returned to the car, he regretfully told Hunter that he'd gone into Stryder's office, but there wasn't anything resembling a registry of people or any similar documents.

'There must have been cash transactions between him and the members,' complained Albarino at the time, 'How are those incomes and expenses recorded? It can't all be in his head, right?'.

-- But no matter how reluctant Albarino was, the investigation ended there. Because Albarino had alarmed the dogs when he was leaving, Hunter was worried about the strict investigations he might face if he returned to the manor. In addition, his leg wasn't fit to work as a cleaner anymore, so he simply quit his job. Albarino said he would look for clues through other means but hadn't provided any new information since.

As a result, Hunter found himself unexpectedly idle for the time being. Thanks to the bonus from the police department for his help in the previous Family Butcher case, he wasn't worried about his living expenses for now, which was why he had the leisure to accept Herstal's invitation.

'So,' he asked as he sat comfortably in the booth, 'what did you want to see me about?'

'I have a...case-related question to consult with you,' Herstal began hesitantly, 'Given your familiarity with Westland's road network and traffic from the Butcher case.'

Hunter put on an air of listening as Herstal began his narration.

In his story, he described the sinister activities at Sequoia Manor, and the information gathered by a confined but resourceful and courageous child. This information could potentially rescue him and many others like him from their hellish situation -- it was no exaggeration to say that most people listening to such a tale would have marvelled at the resourcefulness and bravery of Midalen.

But not Hunter.

In fact, what was going through Hunter's mind right now was: So you're actually investigating the same f*cking case as Albarino Bacchus???

He vividly remembered Albarino telling him, 'Should I? Investigate this case with a lawyer who specialises in defending criminals? Some of the members of Sequoia Manor might even be his clients.' He still remembered that bullsh*t! How was it that in the blink of an eye Herstal Armalight himself also started investigating the Sequoia Manor case?

The crucial point was, if their goals were aligned, why weren't they working together instead of both mysteriously seeking out Hunter?

Hunter suddenly felt that this matter must not be as simple as Albarino had let on. The other party had sworn that he was investigating the case purely for the sake of those innocent children, but Herstal couldn't possibly be doing it for the sake of innocent children as well, right? Looking at Herstal's face, Hunter couldn't even associate the word 'children' with him. Armalight seemed like someone who was born fully grown, without a childhood phase at all.

And now, with that cold and sharp expression, Herstal pushed a notebook with the route provided by Midalen forward towards Hunter and said, 'Please'.

Hunter dragged the book over, but at that moment his mind was still spinning with other thoughts: he didn't actually know what Albarino's and Herstal's true intentions really were, but he genuinely believed Albarino was a murderer. From that perspective, if they were secretly investigating a case without informing the WLPD, something significant was definitely brewing.

-- He didn't know what exactly would happen, but his instincts told him it was something big.

As he rummaged through his own backpack for a map, what was going through his mind was that he couldn't do this kind of job anymore; where he was being led around by the nose by these two. There was nothing wrong with the fact that this case had to be solved, but he was going to solve it his own way.

The BAU had assigned Westland police officers to check buildings in the outskirts, assuming that this was a series of cases, and that the perpetrator had likely kidnapped and imprisoned a group of children. Kevin had been missing for six months before he died, during which time he must have been held somewhere. They had to have a house in an unobtrusive, discreet location to confine those kids, and considering that six children had died over the past three years, the house couldn't be small.

It was a massive undertaking, and officers busied themselves. Officer Bull was in the corner of the room arguing quietly with Officer Hardy about something, seemingly upset that the Kevin's case, which was originally his responsibility, had been handed over to Hardy due to the FBI's involvement, an arrangement which made Officer Bull upset.

At this point in time, Bates crossed the noisy crowd to Albarino's side and asked, 'How's Olga doing? I heard Bart say you visited the hospital in place of Clara today.'

'Sleeping like a baby.' Albarino said lightly, but it was clear that Bates didn't appreciate the joke either, giving a faint, bitter smile.

'We all miss her,' Bates said, 'Bart's been under a lot of mental stress since her coma, he feels guilty for allowing Olga to participate in the rescue.'

'She'll wake up.' Albarino's voice was gentle and comforting.

'I hope so too,' Bates glanced at him, looking somewhat torn, 'but ... you seem to be accepting that fact quite well.'

Albarino looked at Bates with a meaningful gaze and asked, 'Did Agent Mercader say something to you?'

Bates seemed taken aback, his eyes unconsciously shifting away, a classic indicator of a lie. As calmly as he could, he asked, 'What does this have to do with Agent Mercader?'

'It seems Agent Mercader doesn't like me very much. I'm afraid he's going to accuse me of not being ... eager enough for Olga recovery.' Albarino brushed it off lightly, 'But you know I'd love for her to wake up soon too, right? I've already planned what kind of recovery bouquet I'm going to send her when the time comes.'

The fact that someone like Bates, who spent all day in a lab, was completely inept at hiding his unease was a good indicator of how many truths Mercader had uncovered and shared with others...Albarino reached up and raked away a handful of hair that had fallen across his forehead, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

This meant his time in Westland was running out.

'There seems to be a total of two possibilities at this point,' Hunter said, tracing his finger over the chaotic lines he'd marked on the map, 'If the kid calculated the time accurately, he was either being held here, in an abandoned factory; or here, on this site, which used to be an old church orphanage. After the orphanage moved out, someone bought the vacant building. It's now privately owned, so it's rather difficult to trace the ownership.'

'And the difference between those two possibilities depends largely on how one of those turns was made.' Herstal said with a stern face.

'There's no way of clearly determining which one is the correct location, the odds are against it. Who could have guessed that one of the intersections happened to be a three-way street.' Hunter shrugged, 'This is as much as I can help, what are you going to do? Report it to the police?'

His implication was clear: he didn't think Herstal should have been investigating this matter single-handedly in the first place, it would have been much simpler to leave it to the police -- and the more that was being uncovered, the more Hunter felt that the purpose of these two people investigating the case was not so simple. He suspected that the case of Sequoia Manor might not just be about kidnapping and child sexual abuse. There must be something else behind it that attracted the attention of these two people.

Herstal deliberated for a moment, then said, 'This matter is related to one of my commissions, so I can't tell you the details -- but I promise that I'll notify the authorities when the time is right. You'll be able to read about it in the papers soon as a follow-up.'

He seemed like he was about to say something else, but his phone rang abruptly. Herstal frowned, nodded to Hunter, and said, 'Excuse me.'

Herstal walked to the door of the café before picking up the call, the caller ID was Albarino, and Herstal remembered that the other man wasn't supposed to have a shift today.

He pressed the answer button.

'Herstal, I think there's something you need to know.' Albarino's voice soon came from the phone, as calm and smooth as ever, contrasting sharply with the gravity of the news he had brought, 'Agent Mercader is here in Westland to investigate the Sequoia Manor case. The last victim was identified as a child who went missing six months ago in Massachusetts.'

Herstal's brow furrowed slightly; it wasn't that he hadn't thought of this possibility, but it seemed like things were happening a little too quickly.

Albarino, on the other hand, paused and continued:

'No matter what the case is, if you're still planning on killing Stryder -- I suggest you do it as soon as possible. Your time is running out.'

Chapter 41: 77. The Fountain of Blood (11)

Chapter Text

That day, Albarino got home even later than Herstal.

The WLPD officers had followed him to the coroner's office to examine the only remaining body; the other bodies had long been buried, and if it hadn't been for Tommy's keen observation, they would have been forgotten forever. The police officers in charge of the case interviewed the doctors who were responsible for the autopsies one by one and looked at many horrifying photos.

'... I think I agree with your perspective now,' Bates said hesitantly at last, his eyes darting between Albarino and Mercader. 'Although the victims died in different ways, these cases might indeed be linked -- the ages, signs of sexual assault, the way the bodies were disposed of... and the fact that all these victims were quite good looking.'

Indeed, even when those bodies in the photographs were so swollen and decomposed that they were beyond recognition, you could still see a vague likeness of what they looked like when they were still alive in the restoration pictures produced by the lab. Young, fair-complexioned children with large eyes and soft hair like golden roses.

Mercader looked at those pictures and mused, '... If these children were indeed gathered together purposefully by someone, all I can say is that the person who picked the children seems to have a preference for blonde hair.'

-- And now, Albarino Bacchus walked into the living room of Herstal's home. The room was dark, with only the floor lamp in the corner on. Its starry light complemented the river of lights flowing endlessly outside the floor-to-ceiling window, casting a gossamer, warm-orange glow over the room.

Herstal sat in an armchair in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, an open bottle of Chivas Regal whiskey on the table in front of him, the thick glass bottle seemed to be half filled with the sparkling lights outside; in his hand he held a glass vacuously, with a finger's width of whisky in it.

Damn -- that was Albarino's only thought. Probably because of his father's alcoholism, Herstal actually drank very little. He was the type to only have soft drinks even when out with Olga at bars. They had many 'weekend bar nights' with Olga, and Albarino had only ever seen him drink twice, and both of those times he'd given in to alcohol due to a severe headache from a bad day at work.

Which meant that Herstal must be in a very, very bad mood right now. This wasn't surprisingly considering that; if Stryder was arrested and left to rot in prison due to sufficient evidence, it would not be an outcome that the Westland Pianist would like to see. And he wasn't a vigilante for that very reason: he didn't want to make sure that the guilty were punished by the law, he wanted to brutally sanction them himself with his own hands.

Albarino spent half a second thinking about whether to run or not, but his own house was probably already drowning in dust, and if the fridge drawers hadn't been mouldy before, they were definitely growing hairs now, so he quickly gave up on that idea.

In the end, he chose to sit down directly across from Herstal. An empty glass was already sitting separately on the tabletop, evidently Herstal had been waiting for him to return. Herstal merely lifted his eyelids and swept him a light gaze as he sat down, not saying a word.

The halo of the night lights and the scent of wine reminded Albarino more or less of another summer evening. That bottle of sweet wine. That gun. That secret that was silenced on a summer night.

Albarino poured himself a glass in silence, the bottle clicking as he set it down on the table, and then he heard Herstal say, 'Let me see your hand.'

-- Albarino's hand was wrapped in a thin layer of gauze to cover the teeth marks that were left behind on the night he'd gone to Sequoia Manor. He had previously decided that if Herstal asked about the gauze, he would simply answer that he had hurt his hand on a falling box while in the archives, but Herstal had never asked.

Now, Albarino leaned forward slightly and directly held out his hand; Herstal's fingers brushed against his wrist and throbbing pulse, unwrapping the bandage and taking it off slowly. It had been two days but the teeth marks still had a slightly dark purple colour, the skin slightly red and swollen from the intensity that a person would leave behind when they were desperately struggling to escape death.

Herstal examined it for a long time, then pressed it lightly with his fingertips before hearing a low hiss from Albarino. He slowly ran his fingers over the bruise and asked in a low voice, 'Are you hiding something from me?'

Albarino laughed bitterly, his voice sounding almost sincere, 'I'd really like to say I'm not.'

Orion Hunter sat in his dull but reliable automatic car, cursing as he tried to find a more comfortable position for his aching leg. Though it only proved that such a position didn't actually exist in this world: his leg was more accurate than the weather forecast, and pain like this was a sign of impending rain, rain in this season meant a drop in temperature, damn it.

His car was parked across the street from the gates of the Westland City Police Department, directly in front of the dark alley where Bob Landon had once dumped a body; the WLPD office building was always brightly lit because there were always murders happening in the city.

Hunter had been waiting at the entrance for over twenty minutes when the person he was waiting for finally arrived, carrying a gooey sandwich from a vending machine. Hunter honked once, and the person began walking towards his car.

Hunter heard the passenger side door open and then slam shut heavily: Officer Bull got into his car.

Officer Bull was a burly two-metre-tall man, and as soon as he got into the car, Hunter heard the suspension groan as it sank. Bull's large hands held the sandwich from the vending machine as if it were a plastic toy he was playing with.

This man, who Hunter could never overpower, gruffly asked, 'What do you want from me?'

Before coming to the WLPD, Hunter had contacted a friend in the police department -- every bounty hunter had one or two friends in the force -- and his friend said that the river dumping case that Dr. Bacchus and Armalight were interested in had been taken over by the FBI as it was an inter-state case.

The case originally belonged to Bull but was reassigned to Hardy, who often collaborated with the BAU, and Bull had been very upset about this arrangement: he wanted a chance to impress the BAU agents, because if he could get through the screening process and join the FBI, he'd have a much brighter future than being a small-time cop in Westland.

Hunter was keenly aware that this fact was of use to him, which was why he came to the police station to see Bull at night despite the pain in his leg.

Among Westland bounty hunters, there circulated a private list of 'cooperative officers,' and Bart Hardy was always at the top of that list. Officer Hardy was good at listening to the bounty hunters and respected their methods, but he was also very, very sharp. Hunter didn't think he could hide what he was planning from Hardy and didn't want to take that risk.

Officer Bull, on the other hand, was pretty far down the list because he actually despised bounty hunters with all his heart -- but as Albarino Bacchus had said, Officer Bull had been responsible for the river dumping case initially, and also as Albarino said, Officer Bull didn't have much of a brain.

Despite his disdain for bounty hunters, he certainly wouldn't turn down a good deal delivered to his door. As it was now, for instance, Hunter was planning to not-so-ethically hand over the results of Dr. Bacchus' and Armalight's investigation results, which was a last resort when he had no other choice.

'Here's the thing,' Hunter phrased it carefully, 'Are you still working on that river dumping case?'

As he expected, Bull snorted angrily, 'Don't you f*cking mention it. The FBI got involved in that case and insisted Hardy be in charge, I'm just an errand boy for Hardy now.'

'That's too bad,' Hunter said slowly, 'after all, I've heard that Officer Hardy's case-solving rate isn't all that promising: the case of the Pianist and the Gardener are both in his hands, and there's been no progress made on either of those cases.'

'The State University woman works only with him because she was attracted by the cases of the Pianist and the Gardener; he's got a profiler in his hands who's resigned from BAU, of course he's got a higher case solving rate than anyone else, and the FBI's Mercader actually favoured him for this reason.' Bull tutted viciously, 'f*ck, I asked that bitch for help because of a murder case before, and she turned me down, saying that there was 'no challenge' --'

Hunter coughed lightly to prevent the whole conversation from going off topic to slander Olga Molozer.

'There are ways you can outshine Hardy on this case,' Hunter said mysteriously, 'and I can offer some options.'

Officer Bull looked at Hunter suspiciously: 'What do you mean?'

'You know I'm very interested in homicide cases.' Hunter said, hearing the other man fail to hide his snort of disdain. It was true, he had a variety of nicknames in the WLPD, such as Mad Hunter and Hunter the hunter, he was used to them all.

So Hunter continued smoothly, 'Anyway, I've been investigating the dumping case too and have made some progress.'

Sure enough, although Bull still looked at him with a suspicious expression, there seemed to be a hint of eagerness in his eyes, and he eagerly asked, 'What progress?'

-- Hunter grinned and made a money-counting gesture.

'This,' he said with deliberate slowness, 'will cost you.'

Albarino looked down as Herstal slowly rewrapped the bandage back around his hand, and then asked, 'Why didn't you ask the other day?'

'Because I figured you wouldn't tell me even if I did, and there would be no point.' Herstal finished wrapping the bandage, making it look as though it had never been unwrapped. Herstal straightened up, leaned back in his chair, and downed the rest of his glass in one gulp.

Albarino was silent for a moment, then asked again, 'So why are you willing to ask now? Did the alcohol heighten your expectations of my morality, or did it paralyse the part of your central nervous system responsible for feeling disappointment?'

'Maybe I finally realised that no matter how much you disappoint me, you don't actually disappoint me any more than the world at large does.' Herstal glanced at him slowly, speaking deliberately. 'You are the only tolerable, predictable, and most stable of all the bad things that might happen.'

Albarino stared at him for a moment, then slowly broke into a smile.

'No matter what you think, you can believe one thing.' Albarino said softly, 'Anything I do behind your back has nothing to do with Kaba Stryder himself -- no matter what, I've decided to leave him for you. I will not kill him; you are the only one who has the right to kill him, and that is my promise.'

Herstal sat there with his eyes downcast and nodded gently, so Albarino took it as an agreement -- an agreement to a great number of things -- Albarino decisively set down the glass in his hand, and rose to squeeze himself into Herstal's chair. The armchair could barely fit one tall man, let alone two tall men over 1.8 meters. Herstal cursed softly as he squeezed in.

Albarino laughed and unrelentingly wrenched his chin to kiss him. Herstal frowned and pushed him lightly in the chest, but didn't stop him. Herstal's lips tasted faintly of alcohol, warm and soft.

'Now,' Albarino whispered against his lips, his warm breath fanning across his skin, 'I can help you figure out how to kill Stryder.'

Hunter had long since learned how to deal with people like Officer Bull: if you offered him something he wanted outright, he'd be suspicious of your motives, but if you say 'this comes at a price', he'll find it entirely reasonable.

Therefore, all Hunter needed to do now was to present the information he thought Bull would find valuable, then name his price. After all, even if Officer Bull ended up taking credit for this information, it would eventually end up in the hands of Mercader and Hardy; given that Hunter didn't know what Dr. Bacchus and Armalight were trying to do with this matter, handing the information over to Hardy and the FBI was the safest bet he could make.

He didn't trust that those two were investigating the Sequoia Manor case purely out of the goodness of their hearts; a suspected murderer and a mob lawyer? Who were they kidding.

The problem was that Hunter didn't know exactly what they were up to, so he couldn't come up with any countermeasures. If it were a normal case, Hunter would probably just let them get along with it, but this case involved so many children -- those children!

And now Bull was staring at him closely, asking suspiciously, 'Why do you --?'

'Come on, even if I continue to investigate this case, I won't get any praise from the police. I know they can practically all hate me.' Hunter said gruffly, 'Compared to that, I'd rather make more money with it.'

'... That'll depend on what you have on hand before I can decide if I want to pay for it.' Bull thought for a moment, then offered.

The fish had gradually taken the bait, and Hunter grinned inconspicuously in the darkness. He drawled lazily, 'A list of suspects in that case, along with the addresses of where they might be hiding the children.'

Bull's eyes widened instantly, looking a little comical, 'How did you get that kind of information?!'

'One of my informants got it for me, forgive me if I can't reveal the source, but that's how I make a living.' Hunter settled comfortably against the back of the driver's seat, carefully stretching his aching legs as things finally progressed to a stage that made him happy. 'Think about it, Officer Bull, are you willing to pay for this information?'

'Simply put, you need two things right now,' Albarino said, raising two fingers. 'Stryder's life, and a list of people who attended those parties at Sequoia Manor.'

Herstal had just described to him how he'd got Aurelie Delphine to introduce him, and what he'd seen and heard on his second visit to Sequoia Manor, and everything that happened with Midalen. Previously, Albarino had somewhat wanted to help Herstal kill Stryder, so this was something Herstal had never told him.

Now that the other party had made such a promise, and things had already spiralled to such an uncontrollable point, it seemed unnecessary to continue hiding it anymore.

Herstal nodded and said, 'Yes. I believe that by finding a child who has stayed at the manor long enough, we can get a description of the client's physical appearance. And then by simply interrogating one of those clients; they'll give up the others who frequent Stryder's special parties -- Rowan told me that they never meet each other, but I don't believe that. Judging by how Stryder holds these parties, it's likely that he's also thrown parties for those pedophiles to indulge in together too,' he said. 'They're all rich, and the mentality of being accomplices promotes close cooperation between them.'

Albarino thought for a moment, then nodded, but at the same time pointed out, 'However, if you want to get the truth out of a child, you have to make them feel safe. The child would have to have been at the manor for a long time to know that much detail, and to win the trust of a child who has been imprisoned for so long, you'd have to take them out of the manor.'

'Yes, but as soon as the child is brought out, Stryder will find out and then go into hiding.' Herstal sighed.

Albarino shrugged, 'And similarly, if we kill Stryder first, the people of Sequoia Manor will surely move the children somewhere else right away, and we won't be able to find them for a while. So --'

'So rescuing the children from where they're being held and killing Stryder must be done simultaneously to prevent them from warning each other.' Herstal said, feeling that familiar pain around his temples. He couldn't help but reach out and rub it with his fingers.

Albarino, meanwhile, looked at him sideways with a look of concentration.

'What's wrong?' Herstal asked, frowning.

'I was thinking that in your description, that Aurelie woman treated you strangely.' Albarino said slowly, tapping his fingers on his knee one at a time, 'I think that her position may be ... swayable. Perhaps we could talk to her, there's nothing else we can do now anyway, we still don't know anything about Stryder's movements.'

Herstal took a light breath, 'Assuming she actually knows any useful information ...'

'If she can help us get a handle on Stryder's movements, one of us can rescue the children and the other can kill Stryder.' Albarino nodded, 'Once Stryder is dead, Mercader is sure to find us immediately. I think he has suspected that the two of us are the Pianist and the Gardener for some time now. So the safest way is for us to get useful information from the children, then leave right away and then come back to take care of the rest when the wind dies down.'

And since it was definitely Herstal who was going to kill Stryder, the task of rescuing the children would fall into Albarino's hands ... who was not going to bring out any children alive. Herstal wanted to kill everyone who participated in those gatherings, but this workload would be too dangerous even if they waited for the wind to pass and then returned to Westland to take care of it. He didn't want to take that kind of risk.

For Herstal, the final outcome would look like this: Stryder would be dead, but the children all tragically died during the rescue process. They would have no way of knowing who was their target and couldn't stay in Westland otherwise they would simply be waiting for their deaths. Given enough time, Albarino was certain that Herstal would slowly put the matter behind him.

And right now, Herstal was unaware of the plan in Albarino's mind. Even if he knew that Albalino was doing this for his own good, he definitely wouldn't accept it. Currently, he was carefully considering Albarino's words and slowly nodded his head.

'So, it's settled?' Albarino asked, a careful attitude between his words, 'Kill Stryder first, then you come with me. I can arrange for us to leave the country.'

Herstal sighed heavily, looking exhausted, 'A month ago, I didn't even think I'd be having this kind of conversation with you.'

And at Christmas, Herstal had been furious over the incident, because he didn't think that Albarino should have made such a life-changing proposal with that kind of carelessness. Herstal certainly wouldn't have liked such a proposal before, because Albarino guessed that he probably really did like his life in Westland -- but this moment was different from any other before it, and they were both aware of the strange movements on Mercader's side. This current moment was the calm before the storm, but even Herstal had to admit that they were indeed running out of time.

-- As long as Herstal was going to make a move against Stryder, he had to be prepared to flee, there was no doubt about it.

Albarino said nothing more, just watching his face intently.

Finally, Herstal said softly, 'All right.'

Aurelie Delphine awoke from her dream.

She lived in a cold, upscale apartment with a view of the city's lifeless skyline from the balcony, the traffic intertwined to form a sea of white and red lights, moving mechanically and tirelessly.

And now there was a man sitting on her soft bed.

A very good-looking man -- the kind whose looks were so in line with popular aesthetics that ninety percent of the population would find him attractive -- the kind of man who would be suitable for either the film or p*rnography industry, both of which would sell their appeal to customers.

Either way, this man shouldn't be sitting by her bedside in the middle of the night.

It was a little too scary, and Aurelie let out a small scream before the man covered her mouth, muffling the syllables before they could be fully uttered. His fingers were very strong with a layer of thin callouses, and they pressed unmercifully against her lips, hurting Aurelie.

She struggled desperately under the other person's suppression, sincerely hoping that she hadn't met some kind of home invasion rapist -- rather ironically, many people didn't think that sex workers would care about being raped.

But the man did nothing more than to study Aurelie's face intently, and then, abruptly, he said, 'Nose broken twice ... no, three times.'

Aurelie froze.

The other party used one hand to suppress Aurelie, and the other to carefully caress the skin of her cheek. His voice was very light, as if he were murmuring to himself, 'There are stitches in the corner of the left eye ... the scars have healed well, and the makeup technique is also very sophisticated; however, I can still feel a little wrinkle caused by the stitches. As for the arm --' the man grabbed the hand that was still trying to pry the other's fingers off of her mouth, and roughly yanked her arm in front of his eyes, not knowing what he was examining, '-- These scars are either from self-harm or suicide attempts where you missed the veins, with the latest scars being within the last two years.'

Then he released her, and Aurelie immediately retreated to the farthest corner of the bed away from the man, frantically wrapping the sheet around herself. The man straightened up and looked at her lazily and said, 'You were being abused, Ms. Delphine.'

Aurelie began, 'You --' and then she paused as she noticed Herstal Armalight sitting in the far corner of the bedroom, farthest from the light source of the window and the nightlight that had been switched on, his expression unreadable.

'What's going on here?!' Aurelie demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

Herstal swept a glance at the man and said quietly, 'This is my friend --'

'Boyfriend.' The man corrected cheerfully, earning a subtle eye roll from Herstal.

'... Albarino Bacchus,' Herstal continued, his voice smooth as if he hadn't been interrupted, 'He's a forensic pathologist.'

'So, Ms Delphine, who was it that used to abuse you? Was it Kaba Stryder or those club members of his at Sequoia Manor?' Albarino asked with interest, not even attempting to hide his eager expression, which was indeed quite rude.

If Aurelie were a hedgehog, all the spines on her body would have been standing up by now. She eyed Albarino warily and retorted, 'And what does this have to do with you?'

'A great deal,' Albarino smiled lazily, with that careless look of his that was annoying to even look at, 'because after all, there are only three possibilities for the two of us to be here at the same time: Firstly, we are connected to the police and want to catch those scumbags in Sequoia Manor; secondly, I am also particularly fond of small young boys, and would like you to introduce me to them; and thirdly, the two of us would like to have a threesome with you --'

'And as everyone knows,' Herstal sneered as if he'd heard some hidden joke, 'Dr. Bacchus is really good at instigating threesomes with people.'

Albarino acted as if he hadn't heard the sarcasm and continued looking straight at Aurelie, 'How about it, Ms. Delphine? Which would you like the answer to be?'

'If I answer, you will tell Stryder my answer immediately,' Aurelie said coldly, 'You rich people have too many ways to test our loyalty.'

'So, that means you hope we are the police.' Albarino asked with a smile.

-- Aurelie glared at him.

'Here's the thing, we're friends with Bart Hardy, a police officer from the WLPD. If you check the news, you'll probably find some stories about us working with him against the Family Butcher.' Albarino said in a relaxed tone, 'The police have been looking into Stryder's case recently -- and you know what he's done -- so if you could be so kind as to tell us when Stryder will visit the building where the children are being held in, that would be great.'

Earlier, Albarino and Herstal had deliberated for a long time, and thought it would be better to wait until Stryder and the children were in the same building before taking action. It would also be easier for the two of them to watch out for each other if they were closer to one another. Stryder definitely had bodyguards around him, and it would be unwise to act alone.

Aurelie frowned deeply: 'You know I won't say anything. I repeat: if I do, you will tell Stryder my answer immediately.'

'Yes, this could be a test of your loyalty,' Albarino nodded, 'but the question is, to what extent do you hate him? To the extent where you're willing to take this risk?'

'Why do you think I hate him?' Aurelie asked back aggressively.

'The answer is written in your eyes,' Albarino smiled slightly and gestured with his hands, 'Just like how you only approached my boyfriend to hit on on the dance floor that day.'

Aurelie stared at Albalino, seemingly stunned. Instead, Albarino simply pulled his business card out of his shirt pocket and gently placed it on Aurelie's nightstand. His voice remained soft when he spoke, like the remnants of a lullaby.

'In any case, if you make up your mind, please feel free to contact me at any time.' He said, 'Just know that whatever choice you make next is very important to you and me.'

Then he turned around, and as if to mirror his movements, Herstal rose from his chair in the corner at the same time, like a dance that had been carefully choreographed. Aurelie sat there without moving, her chest heaving, her fingers twisting the sheets tightly.

She watched as the figures of the two men disappeared into the darkness where the light did not shine.

Chapter 42: 78. The Fountain of Blood (12)

Chapter Text

Eleven days later --

As Bart Hardy was sitting behind his desk, dealing with the pile of documents that had formed a small mountain, Officer Bull pushed the door open and walked in.

For a week now, Officer Bull had been inexplicably displaying a condescending, better-than-thou demeanour in front of him, confusing Hardy. In retrospect, it seemed as if this state of affairs began last Wednesday.

That morning, Bull had brought news from one of his informants -- Bull was adamant on not revealing this informant's identity, so Hardy didn't press him either, as most police officers tend to keep such things to themselves -- the informant had pointed out that the bodies of the children who had been dumped in the water were possibly coming from a manor on the outskirts that had once belonged to the late newspaper tycoon Philip Thompson.

Bull's informant claimed that Thompson had left behind a pleasure club, which was still in operation, and that the club allegedly collected children for the pleasure of the club members: it sounded quite plausible and matched the BAU's profile of the case, which made it hard to ignore.

For the past week, Hardy and his team had spent all their time surveilling the club's manager, Kaba Stryder, while another team conducted a painstaking investigation and finally confirmed two things:

Firstly, Stryder's club was definitely carrying out some sort of illegal activity. Even if it wasn't the imprisonment and sexual abuse of children, it was certainly prostitution, gambling, and drug use, none of which were legal in Westland; secondly, there was a suspicious building that had been transferred to a private individual and previously it had been used as a church orphanage. It was very suspicious that Stryder's assistant, Mr. Rowan, went there two or three times a week. It was very likely that that was where they kept the kidnapped children.

However, despite these findings, the police didn't act immediately: these criminals were extremely cunning. If they raided the orphanage prematurely, the criminals would surely destroy the evidence. The only way to catch them would be to catch them red-handed. They were now counting on Stryder to organise another members' party and bring those children to Sequoia Manor, which would provide solid evidence.

That was why the police and FBI had been taking shifts to monitor the suspects around the clock. Hardy had just finished his shift that morning and was now trying to catch up on the backlog of paperwork.

Although the police were busy during this period of time, Hardy hadn't seen Albarino. Tommy, who occasionally dropped by the station to deliver materials, said that coincidentally, Albarino was also extremely busy: the East Side gangs had started another turf war, injuring dozens of people, and half of the medical examiner's office had been pulled in to do injury assessments. Additionally, the prosecutor's office wanted to take the opportunity to prosecute the gang leader, and three forensic experts, including Albarino, were required to testify as a technical witness in court.

This just illustrated how, in the unscientific cycle of alternating between busy and idle periods, everyone always seemed to be busy at the same moments. So he wasn't particularly surprised when Officer Bull came rushing in when he'd only finished three copies of his report.

'There's news from the surveillance team over at Sequoia Manor,' Bull said hurriedly as soon as he entered, 'Stryder's gone out today, and judging by the direction of his car, he's probably heading in the direction of the church orphanage.'

'Really!' Hardy was quite surprised. They had been relying on the hope that the children would be taken to Sequoia Manor as a way of incriminating Stryder, but they hadn't expected Stryder to deliver himself to their doorsteps. Hardy pushed the papers in front of him haphazardly and asked, 'Are the SWAT team already on their way?'

'They're on their way,' Officer Bull replied, looking a little too pleased, and even somewhat smug, 'Agent Mercader and his team are on their way over there as well. Let's go too.'

Hardy nodded and stood up.

Meanwhile, Herstal and Albarino were sitting in a rented SUV. The vehicle was parked in a weed-covered vacant parking lot behind the building of the former church orphanage in the outskirts of the city.

There was a campsite nearby, where people parked their cars to go fishing and stargazing in their tents, so the SUV didn't look particularly conspicuous. Especially now, with the sun almost setting, leaving only a faint red line at the end of the horizon, everything looked hazy in the poorly lit wilderness.

Albarino was sitting in the spacious backseat, a large heap of messy papers piled up on his lap. At the top of the pile was what appeared to be a floor plan of some building, heavily annotated in red pen along the margins. He held one corner of the plan in one hand, and said, 'Alright, let's go over the plan one last time.'

Herstal glanced at Albarino through the rear-view mirror and could only see the top of his fluffy hair. The corners of his lips curved upwards as he said, 'I don't remember you being this cautious when you were working alone.'

'We talked about this when we were tailing Anthony Sharp, do you remember?' Albarino laughed, 'What did you say back then? That I should follow your lead in suitable situations? I think this is the right time to follow your lead -- this is your case.'

Herstal blinked, it was hard to guess what was going through his mind at that moment; he merely asked rhetorically, 'Is that what you think?'

'I know what Stryder means to you.' Albarino shrugged his shoulders and quickly changed the subject, 'So here's the plan: at six o'clock sharp, Stryder will come to inspect this building where the children are being held. This is undoubtedly the closest he'll ever be to the building, and the best time for the two of us to make our move. Given his desire to keep the club's child kidnapping activities at Sequoia Manor a secret, he won't bring any bodyguards, it'll just be him and Mr. Rowan.'

Herstal nodded calmly, 'Provided Ms. Delphine wasn't lying.'

Ms. Aurelie Delphine had called Albarino four days earlier.

'I've made a decision.' Those were Aurelie's first words after Albarino answered the phone. Her voice was hoarse, trembling slightly from nervousness, but it was undeniably her.

In fact, Albarino wasn't quite convinced that things were really going to go as smoothly as it was -- because his understanding of Aurelie's actions was based on mere speculations. He wasn't even sure if Aurelie had indeed been abused byStryder -- it was possible that they'd indeed gotten very lucky, but it was equally as possible that they'd simply fallen into a trap.

However, in such an urgent situation, they didn't have much of a choice. If they couldn't determine the exact timeStryder would visit the location where the children were being held, they would have to split up and act on opposite ends of the city, unable to support each other if one side encountered danger.

Albarino had thought about this possibility many times. He felt that he would probably abandon the task of rescuing the children after Herstal went to kill Stryder, choosing instead to sneakily follow Herstal in order to help him at any moment.

But in reality, if Herstal entered Sequoia Manor alone to deal with Stryder, the chances of failure were very high. Even if Albarino arrived in time, there was no guarantee that he could save him... Moreover, even if the rescue succeeded, Herstal would immediately realise that Albarino hadn't even attempted to get that list for him, and then Albarino would have to face his wrath.

All in all, this was also a terrible scenario.

Now, he could only hope that Aurelie was sincere. When he spoke, he made sure to perfectly control his voice.

'So,' he asked gently, 'is there anything you want to tell us?'

Aurelie's tone was urgent, with no pauses; she was evidently hesitant, and feared that she would lose her courage if she stopped, 'I overheard Mr. Stryder and Mr. Rowan talking. They plan on visiting the children together at around six o'clock in the evening on the last day of this month.'

'Where will those children be held?' Albarino asked. He and Herstal had actually already determined that the children were being held in the former church orphanage, but he still asked more questions anyway, he wanted to determine just how much Aurelie knew about all of this.

'I don't know; they never took me there.' Aurelie said. She thought for a moment, then added, 'In fact, I was never even responsible for receiving guests before. The day Mr. Armalight went to the Manor for the second time, Mr. Rowan had specifically asked me to go and get him the roster because I was his referral, that's why -- It seemed like he didn't want Mr. Armalight to know how many people in the club are involved in these activities. I guess he still doesn't quite trust new members. Otherwise, normally Mr. Stryder would never let me touch those rosters.'

'Okay, I know now.' Albarino replied ambiguously. He couldn't make any promises to the other party about how they planned on resolving the situation.

'Please ... please don't let me down.' Those were the last words Aurelie said to him. Her voice sounded as if she was still afraid, but very sincere.

'I don't want to stay in that place anymore.'

Albarino, obviously having also considered the same possibility Herstal had raised, chuckled.

'If she's lying, we'll have plenty of time to abandon today's plan and go back to slit her throat.' Albarino snorted lightly. 'After all, it's too dangerous to act before Stryder arrives; waiting for him to leave is the best option. If Stryder shows up with an entire commando team, we can still escape right away.'

Herstal apparently didn't appreciate his sense of humour too much, simply gazing earnestly into the distance: from their vantage point, they could see the only road leading to the targeted building. The lights of any approaching vehicles would be clearly visible, like giant arrows.

And Albarino continued, 'We'll notice Stryder as soon as he arrives; he'll definitely be in Rowan's car, and we've already identified Rowan's vehicle. Once he enters the building, you leave first, and I'll stay where I am.

'I'll head down the road about 1,500 metres away, and then use these --' Herstal gestured with his hand in the direction of the passenger seat, where there was a cloth bag that seemed to contain a bunch of heavy metal objects, with several spikes poking out of the bag's coarse fabric, '... caltrops, how tasteless, reminds me of Johnny the Killer.'

Clearly, Herstal was still holding a grudge over his Rolls Royce that had been punctured. Albarino let out a laugh, 'Make do under special circ*mstances. Anyway, you need to puncture their tires as soon as they stop. There won't be any campers on the road at this time, so no need to worry about being spotted by witnesses. There's a bend in the road about 1,500 meters away, so no one in the building will notice anything unusual.'

Herstal habitually reached out to straighten his cuffs, 'Get them both under control and disguise the scene as a robbery or kidnapping --'

'I suggest you just kill Rowan as soon as the car stops. The Glock 17 I gave you will be enough to blow his head off through the car door.' Albarino interrupted gently, 'Then use the car we've hidden in the woods to take Stryder away. Do whatever you want to do to him, it'll go smoothly.'

'Stage a robbery to fool Mercader.' Herstal said.

'You won't be able to fool Stryder's men at Sequoia Manor,' Albarino continued, 'I have no doubt that his men at Sequoia Manor will scatter as soon as they find out that he didn't get back on time, and it's less than an hour from here to the Manor. '

'In that time, you'll need to find at least one child who knows what's going on.' Herstal pointed out seriously.

'If everything goes well, that shouldn't be a problem,' Albarino said, nodding at the map on his lap, 'That building was constructed in the late nineteenth century, and according to the original designs drawn from that time, the nearest outlet for the old sewer is on the riverbank over there. It's easy to gain access to the orphanage from there.'

-- They had made a point of exploring that sewer a few days earlier. After the city stopped dumping household waste into the nearby river, the sewer systems had been abandoned, leaving only large, dry pipes. Herstal and Albarino had used pliers to take care of the grate at the sewer's river outlet the last time they'd gone exploring, confirming that there was indeed a smooth, unobstructed walkway from the pipe to the backyard of the building. There was a manhole cover leading above ground there, hidden in the weeds, which could be opened from below.

It was also thanks to that backyard that they were able to find the correct address from the two that Old Hunter had surmised without much difficulty: there was a beech tree in the backyard, just as Midalen had described. Whereas there was no similar plant in the vicinity of the abandoned factory building that Old Hunter had considered to be the other location.

'Based on Midalen's description of the window and the tree where he was imprisoned, he would have been kept in the back of the first floor. When the building was still an orphanage, that area was a series of dormitories.' Albarino said slowly, his finger tracing over the building's floor plan, 'According to our earlier observations, no one is guarding the back door where the manhole cover is located, although there should be someone inside the back door that I think could be taken down by surprise with a taser.'

Herstal nodded, 'According to our previous observations, there are at most five people guarding the building, which would fit Stryder's paranoid nature. As long as they don't all come at you at once, you should be fine.'

'They can't all be together at once, they have to guard different sides of the building to prevent curious campers from approaching.' Albarino laughed, 'If I'm lucky enough, I'll only have to take down two or three guards. Once I get one of the children out, the remaining guards won't even realize I was there.'

Herstal shook his head rather disapprovingly, and this time, he didn't look at the rear-view mirror, but turned directly to face Albarino, his expression serious.

'Your task is much more demanding than mine,' he said with a frown. His tone and expression seemed genuinely concerned -- Albarino realized that he was better off not contemplating the deeper meaning behind that right now -- 'Don't underestimate them, Gardener.'

'Of course,' Albarino said casually, 'And you take Stryder and leave, go do what the Pianist needs to do, and don't worry about my side of things. I'll meet you at the previously agreed location with the child. If all goes well, we'll be in Mexico by this time the day after tomorrow.'

Herstal looked at him deeply, and his gaze was full of worry.

'I hope so.' He said.

-- And that was where the troubled lied; no matter what, Herstal would never know that after he left Albarino to deal with Stryder, Albarino had no intention of entering that dangerous building at all: for the Westland Pianist was not destined to get that list of members of Sequoia Manor, so Albarino had no need to rescue a child for that purpose.

All Albarino needed was a lie. Compared to the enticing prospect of living abroad safely with Herstal, without ever risking needing to return to Westland, whatever price he paid would be well worth it.

Once again, old Hunter was huddled in his car, straining to peer through the windshield at the building not too far away -- it was a sprawling three-story building with a long history, once used as a church orphanage before the end of the twentieth century, where it gradually became abandoned as the nearby parish declined.

The car was parked between a row of dusty vehicles, the others presumably belonged to people camping by the nearby river. The recent clear skies and relatively good air quality compared to the autumn and winter months had attracted many astronomy enthusiasts and photographers in the vicinity to the countryside, where the atmospheric visibility was high, to photograph the stars. These people would be camping out all night, making Hunter's car blend in seamlessly.

Although he had already given the information regarding Sequoia Manor to Officer Bull many days ago, his friend in the police department wasn't responsible for such serious criminal cases and couldn't help Hunter track the progress of the investigation on Officer Bull's side: had Officer Bull handed the information over to the FBI and Bart Hardy? If so, how much of the information did they believe? Was their investigation heading down the right track? Hunter knew nothing.

Although whatever would happen next seemed to be completely out of his hands, if Albarino Bacchus' speculations were correct, those scumbags at Sequoia Manor were imprisoning children! Hunter had tossed and turned over this for two days at home, completely restless and unable to sleep and eat properly. And now that he still had some money left in his account, he decided to temporarily abandoned his bounty hunting job to continue investigating the Sequoia Manor case.

He spent several days confirming whether the children were being held at the orphanage or the abandoned factory, and finally concluded that the orphanage was more likely. The people in that building were purchasing an excessive amount of cheap food on a daily basis, clearly meant for the children

Hunter had even considered approaching the cheap food suppliers to see if he could spike the food with sleeping pills, but ultimately he was worried that the guards wouldn't eat the food at all, and that he'd botch it instead. So in the end, he didn't dare do anything.

He now found himself in this awkward situation: he didn't dare act rashly for fear of jeopardizing the safety of those children, but he always felt that once he left this place, something crucial that was beyond his control would happen. Thus, he could only stake out the building day after day, strictly calculating the time and frequency of his daily sleep, and only going to the nearest gas station to replenish his supplies when necessary.

By now he was on the verge of hallucinating: he felt that if the police didn't come soon, he might die here.

At this moment, old Hunter was still staring at the building in the darkness with bloodshot and dry eyes, as if he were looking at a giant beast lurking in the wilderness.

Today might be another fruitless day.

'We're almost there.' said Rowan, both hands gripping the steering wheel.

Stryder gazed out the window at the rapidly receding grass and trees, the dark shadowy outline of the building already faintly visible, and nodded, 'Good. Today we just need to check on the condition of those kids and give the guards in charge a few more instructions. I want them gone by tomorrow morning at the latest. We can't afford any mishaps before then.'

'Are we really going to do this?' Rowan asked, looking more haggard than ever, his already sunken cheeks appearing even more ashen. 'Moving is a huge operation --'

'The FBI is onto us!' Stryder snapped, raising his voice so sharply that it startled Rowan, 'It's all because that idiot you bribed couldn't even get us any intel on the progress of their investigation, and whether they've connected the dots or not, we're bound to have to move now. If they link that interstate disappearance to those dead kids we've dumped...'

He trailed off, letting out a heavy sigh.

'Anyway,' Stryder spoke once more after a few moments, 'our best move right now is to leave Westland immediately.'

Mercader drove his car behind the black jeeps belonging to the SWAT team, speeding down the highway on the outskirts of the city. They were already a step behind Stryder, having only been alerted when the surveillance team saw him leave Sequoia Manor earlier. They needed to pick up the pace to catch him red-handed.

At this moment however, he was a little distracted. This time he was thinking: It would be great if only Dr. Bacchus wasn't so busy with those gang cases.

If he hadn't been so busy, he probably would've followed up on the river dumping case as well, and then he would have gotten the information that Officer Bull had brought in. If he knew that the whole case revolved around a group of perverted pedophiles, what would he have done?

Would he share the information with Herstal Armalight?

Would the Westland Pianist set his sights on someone like Stryder, the mastermind behind the case?

From the Pianist's previous cases, it was clear that he had no tolerance for rapists...If only the Bureau of Forensic Medicine wasn't swamped with gang cases right now, maybe they could have waited until the Westland Pianist was working on the case. That way, they'd be sure to catch the Pianist in the act this time as well.

Mercader tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and fell deep into thought.

... Could they let Stryder get bailed out by a lawyer? Or be released due to insufficient evidence? If this got to Herstal, maybe the Pianist wouldn't be able to resist the urge to kill such a criminal.

Would that be feasible? Or, like the old Robo case back then, where the hair at the crime scene seemed deliberately placed from the current perspective ... No, maybe if some key physical evidence was destroyed before CSI arrived this time, then no one would notice. In any case, the SWAT team was bound to clash with the people guarding the children in the building, who knows how much evidence they'll destroy; maybe by the time CSI and Officer Hardy arrive, they'll discover the whole building riddled with bullet holes.

Moreover, the most important thing was: there would be no Olga Molozer this time ... or perhaps in the future.

Mercader reached out and rubbed his brow, trying to put the overwhelming thoughts in his head behind him.

Right now, he needed to focus on the present.

Herstal straightened up.

He saw a bright light illuminating the path between the sparse trees, moving like a star heading towards the ground in the direction of the building that loomed dormant in the darkness.

He could feel Albarino doing the same, leaning forward slightly, causing the back seat of the car to make a slight sound at the sudden change in posture.

Herstal felt his heart beat gradually quicken.

'They're coming.' Albarino said.

Chapter 43: 79. The Fountain of Blood (13)

Chapter Text

Herstal watched as the car drove smoothly through the period-style courtyard walls of the building, the glow of the car's headlights quickly fading into nothingness. Herstal said nothing more, just silently picking up the things he had placed on the passenger seat earlier, opened the car door, and slipped out noiselessly.

Albarino hesitated for a moment and then followed him out of the car.

By now, the last hues of red light at the end of the horizon was swallowed up by the shadows, leaving the sky a somber, uniform, dark blue colour. With the early stars that appeared first shimmering with a faint silver light around the edges of the sky. At this moment, everything around them was almost silent, only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees could be heard, making a continuous sound like the waves, and there was the faint murmur of water coming from the river in the distance behind them. The river, flowing toward Westland's city center, would eventually carry the bones of those children to their final destination.

Herstal glanced back at Albarino, the other man's face was gilded with a heavy shadow by the fading twilight. And under this shadow, for once, his usual smile was absent.

Standing by the side of the car, Albarino tilted his head, watching him. Then suddenly, he asked, 'If I were to say 'Be safe' to you at this time, would you not believe I was telling the truth as well?'

Herstal always wanted to sigh when faced with such questions. He pondered for a moment before saying, 'There are times when I think it's better for me in itself not to consider such questions.'

Albalino was silent for a moment, then smiled a little, and Herstal saw the shadows distort slightly as the corners of his mouth tugged. Then Albarino stepped forward, crossing the line of social distance that was generally considered 'inappropriate' as easily as he had done on many previous occasions.

For a moment, Herstal thought that the other man was going to kiss him, but in the end, Albarino did not.

Albarino simply said softly, 'Be safe.'

A bearded man approached from the other end of the corridor to greet Stryder and Rowan. Stryder was not familiar with the man because Rowan was responsible for taking care of everything in the building that used to belong to the Church orphanage, and Stryder made an effort to appear in the place as little as possible. But Rowan had mentioned before that this man was in charge of the children's guards, and he was someone who was appreciated by Rowan for his meticulousness and bravery.

So Stryder allowed himself to stand a step back and decided not to speak unless it was necessary. His appearance here was because he was uneasy about the future, moving the children was a significant task after all, and if there was nothing wrong with Rowan's arrangement, there was no need for him to intervene.

In fact, most of his thoughts were on something else -- the computer he had previously kept in his office at Sequoia Manor. It had been mysteriously restored to its factory settings after the last 'party', wiping out everything he had kept to ensure his own safety. On that same day, one of his men died in the manor.

This implied an intruder had entered the manor. Had they taken the incriminating pictures and videos he'd saved? And what was that person's purpose in doing so? It had been quite a long time since that incident, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened: no police suddenly came to his door, much less blackmailed him with his secrets. But Stryder's mind was still filled with anxiety, not to mention the fact that all the leverage he had against the rich and powerful were gone, which was another strong motivator for him to get ready to leave the city as soon as the FBI showed up in Westland.

The bearded man nodded slightly at the two of them, then said to Rowan bluntly, 'Everything's ready, the van is parked on the side, disguised as a courier delivery truck. It can transport all fourteen kids at once.'

Fourteen -- that was the total number of children owned by the club at Sequoia Manor. At its peak, the club had eighteen, but some couldn't adapt, as evidenced by the bodies found in the river.

Rowan frowned and asked, 'Have all traces been erased?'

'Absolutely,' the bearded man said confidently, puffing out his chest. 'We've burned everything that could be burned. There's not a single scrap of paper left with any writing. Ifyouwish, we can leave tonight.'

Rowan thought for a moment, but then rejected the idea, 'It's still too early. I think we should stick to the original plan and leave at 3 AM. That way, we'll reach our destination before dawn...'

He suddenly stopped, because another person wearing a black knit cap suddenly came rushing from around the other corridor, nearly colliding with the bearded man. Panting and anxious, he said: 'Boss, there is a problem! -- We've spotted multiple cars approaching from different roads through the perimeter surveillance!'

Herstal stood among the shadows of the trees, the branches above his head criss-crossing like giant bone claws.

Many trees grew on both sides of the road near this building; in fact, most of the roads in Westland near the outskirts cut through dense layers of forest. The thick foliage provided excellent cover to hide Herstal's form as he stood on the ground that was covered in dead leaves that had not yet decayed, looking down at his watch with the bag of caltrops at his feet.

He had just reached his intended spot in the exact time he had previously calculated, and because of the bend in the road, the orphanage's view was cut off so that even if someone in the building happened to be looking out of the window, they would never be able to see him.

A rustling sound came from deeper within the forest, possibly a fox or rabbit. The woods around Westland were full of such creatures; there was no disputing that the night was a hunter's paradise.

Herstal bent down and picked up the bag of caltrops, and was about to step out onto the road --

But a dazzling white light illuminated the road, and the sound of vehicles approaching came from far to near. Herstal frowned and instead took a step back, completely hiding himself within the shadows of the trees.

Then he watched as several black-tinted cars sped down the road, four of such cars passed swiftly by in total -- and they were followed by a black SUV. The driver's side window was rolled down, revealing a man behind the wheel, holding the steering wheel with one hand and his elbow resting casually on the window frame.

In those two seconds, Herstal saw the man's face clearly: it was a tall, dark-haired man, the head of the BAU and Olga's former superior, Lavazza Mercader.

Stryder froze and couldn't help but blurt out, 'What?!'

Rowan was no less surprised than Stryder. He stared intently at the man who had just arrived and asked a more valuable question, 'Is it the WLPD?'

'Can't be sure, they're still a bit far away at the moment,' the man replied urgently, clearly worried, 'But I think their destination is here.'

This road didn't lead to any busy interstate, and this time of day wasn't when campers on the riverside campsite would normally arrive, so the sudden appearance of these vehicles were suspicious in any case. Stryder considered for a moment and then said, 'There's no time to confirm. We leave now.'

The bearded man was visibly stunned, not expecting things to escalate so quickly. '... Boss?'

'The boss is right,' Rowen said succinctly, 'You go notify the others to start moving the kids. The rest will leave with me and the boss through another exit -- if it's really the WLPD's people who are coming, we definitely can't let them find the children, we have to grab them and take them away first!'

Then he turned to Stryder and said in a serious voice, 'Mr. Stryder, let's go.'

Herstal's mind went blank for two seconds.

From the moment he had stood in this forest, his heart had been beating wildly, not from nervousness, but from the euphoric excitement brought on by the adrenaline, the kind that only leaves an overwhelming exhaustion as the frenzy faded. As a hunter -- let's call him that for now -- Herstal knew that this wasn't a good state of mind to be in, and that the various hormones produced by emotional fluctuations were their biggest enemies.

... But this was different. This was Kaba Stryder. Though he had never held out much hope before, when it was really happening, Herstal realized that he had been waiting for this moment for the past thirty years.

So when he saw the familiar side profile of Lavazza Mercader, he felt as if something was clutching his heart.

Because this wasn't how it was supposed to be, it was as if at this moment he could foresee how the entire situation was going to derail from the planned track and plummet into the unseen abyss. The man in the driver's seat was about to strip something terrible and crucial away from him. He stood there for a second or two, or maybe even longer, hearing the blood screaming in his ears while the bag slipped from between his fingers and fell silently onto the decaying earth.

At the same time, a voice -- sounding strangely like Albarino's, rang out in his mind -- reminding him that: Your rash actions will lead to irreversible consequences.

Herstal swallowed slowly, then turned suddenly and retraced his steps towards the old church orphanage building.

Midalen was locked in a large room with the other children, their hands tied in front of their bodies, and had been tied continuously for several hours. By now, Midalen's arms were numb and he could barely feel where his fingers were.

This was the first time he'd seen the other children since he'd been captured in this place. Before, when they were taken to the other big house, the terrifying men had blindfolded them and transported them in separate compartments.

There were thirteen other children with him now, the older ones were about his height, the younger ones looked no more than six or seven years old; a few of them were huddled in the corners, sobbing quietly, the others looking around in terror, and a few stared numbly at the empty walls.

What the hell was going on? Once upon a time, the guards would never permit the children from meeting, had something unusual happened? Midalen surveyed his surroundings, feeling his heart race faster than ever before. The knife pressed against him near his ribs -- the one given to him by the journalist with the cold expression but surprisingly kind heart -- the cold metal object warmed by his body temperature gave him a weak sense of security.

The reporter said he would write a story, and then get someone to rescue them. He'd given the journalist the only route he'd figured out, the police could find them with that information right?

Midalen was debating on whether or not he should use that knife to secretly cut the ropes, when at that moment the door was suddenly opened: a tall figure stood in the doorway, causing several children to flinch reflexively, erupting into a sob or two.

'Stop f*cking crying, all of you!' The menacing man shouted, 'Follow me! Hurry!'

Mercader jumped out of the car, wearing an FBI-marked bulletproof vest over his shirt and a gun at his waist. Reality wasn't like those TV shows, the BAU wasn't responsible for kicking down doors and rescuing hostages themselves, but this equipment ensured that it was better to be safe than sorry.

John Garcia got out of the car after him, he had never been involved in such a big operation since he joined the BAU. Whether it was because of his nervousness or excitement, he was visibly shaking from the root of his hair to the tips of his toes. The rest of the SWAT team members also got out of their cars, with one group waiting on standby for orders, and the other two bursting through the front door. The additional teams had already moved to other parts of the building, disappearing into the overgrown, not-yet-green weeds.

'All we can do...,' Garcia asked, his throat a little dry, needing to stop and rephrase, 'All we can do now is wait?'

Mercader watched the building calmly and nodded, 'We can't go in until the SWAT team has the situation under control -- hopefully by then we'll still be able to find some evidence that will be enough to get a conviction in this case. The judge was reluctant to even sign the arrest warrant based on our current evidence. If there's no trace of any children in there, we're in big trouble.'

But looking at the clues brought in by Officer Bull's mysterious informant, Mercader actually believed that there was a good chance that Stryder was indeed the initiator of the river dumping cases. But he'd long since stopped being so naive, and he wasn't as heartless and indifferent as Olga Molozer, so he knew that it would be difficult to convict a man who had so many connections with big names, and even if he was accused, he likely had many ways to get out scot-free.

Instead of letting Stryder spend a meaningless two or three years in prison, it was better to find a way to get him bailed out straight away ... it was a pity that Armalight knew nothing about the case right now, after all, even Dr. Bacchus rarely came to the police station these days.

If he could reveal he truth to Herstal Armalight, would the other party follow his expectation to kill Stryder? Waiting for the Pianist to kill Stryder and then capturing the Pianist himself was certainly a strategy that encapsulated the best of both worlds, but ...

Beside him, Garcia was still looking in the direction of the building with a nervous expression on his face, while Mercader was already long lost in thought. The naive young man still didn't understand the inherent flaws of the so-called 'investigation', 'evidence', 'law' and other words. If all cases relied on evidence, there would always be those who would escape punishment by luck, just like the Simpson case, cases like Stryder's, and people like Herstal Armalight.

Since he has no right to judge others, and didn't want to lynch like the Pianist, he could only choose the last option. With this last option, Stryder could die a brutal death in the hands of another cruel murderer while building another set of 'evidence' to use against Herstal Armaligt, who had little political power behind him.

Of course, that was something he would have to start planning after the SWAT team succeeded.

If Olga Molozer had the possibility to open her eyes again, she would have pointed out -- as she would always endlessly say -- 'Mercader, you are not infallible, you're going to be wrong one day.'

Mercader understood what she meant; people who thought like he did, who fabricated charges for people who hadn't yet been found guilty, could one day truly send an innocent person to prison.

But he was different from the others... he would not make those mistakes.

Lavazza Mercader gazed at the building immersed in darkness in front of him in a trance, this ghost in the darkness, this vortex of sin.

At least, he hadn't made any mistakes yet.

Hiding in his shabby automatic car, old Hunter noticed a number of cars approaching the outer walls of the orphanage from different directions, before pulling up in droves to hide in hidden corners nearby.

His brow slowly furrowed and distinct wrinkles accumulated on his forehead: Were those police cars? Had Mercader finally come to his senses? -- Due to Mercader's performance in the Family Butcher case, Hunter didn't have much goodwill towards the FBI agent. Or, were they Stryder's men who were preparing to do something big?

From his binoculars, he could only tell that they were black jeeps, no discernible features were particularly visible, they were all covered by foliage that were almost as tall as a person. From Hunter's angle, he couldn't even see what kind of people were getting out of the cars.

Hunter frowned tightly as he thought about it, finally, he gave a low curse and pushed open the car door, limping out of his car.

Nothing could be seen clearly from such a distance. If it was the police, it would be fine, but what if it was really Stryder's people? Why would Stryder send so many people to this place? Hunter knew that there should be nothing in the building but children, they wouldn't really plan on killing the children to silence them, would they?

Hunter grabbed his double-barrelled shotgun from the passenger side seat and held back a hissing gasp of pain as he made his way over in the direction of the building.

Herstal returned the way he had come in the direction of the old orphanage site. He was still standing in the dark forest, but from this angle, he could already see the orphanage gate: a clearly marked SWAT jeep was parked at the entrance, and a team of fully armed, helmeted SWAT officers stood by. Mercader and another young man wearing FBI-marked bulletproof vests were also standing nearby.

Meanwhile, another sedan sped along the road and screeched to a halt outside the courtyard wall. Officer Hardy and another tall man in a police uniform jumped out of the car and quickly walked towards Mercader.

-- Sure enough, the police had arrived before them. Although it was impossible to imagine how the WLPD had managed it, this was an undeniable fact.

Herstal stared fixedly at the darkness, the few bright lights in the building were like lanterns floating in a river of blood. The sound continued to roar unceasingly in his ears, and he tasted the illusionary metallic flavour of blood in his mouth.

'Where is the priest?!'

The fourteen-year-old had shouted at that time, his fingers tightening around the wire, causing the metal to cut into his skin, causing a vague pain. The deacon collapsed beneath him, his lips turning blue and his body spasming, his fingers clawing noiselessly across the floor.

'Where is he???'

'He ... he's gone. He left, left yesterday.' The other man gasped with effort, struggling to speak. He squeezed the fractured words out one by one from between his lips, 'You ... missed your oppor- opportunity.'

Herstal looked at the building standing silent in the distance. He took a deep breath, and then a step forward.

-- The next second, his wrist was suddenly grabbed by someone.

Herstal calmly turned around and saw that Albarino had stood behind him at some point, apparently having rushed over to find him after seeing those SWAT cars. The corners of the other man's mouth was without its usual smile, and his eyes were as bright as a wolf's.

'You did not follow the sewers into the old orphanage site as was origionally planned.' Herstal recounted calmly.

Apparently not even bothering to answer the question, Albarino asked directly, 'Where are you planning to go now?'

Stryder, Rowan, and three other people who were supposed to be responsible for guarding the manor, hurried along the winding corridors. They went down through a hidden underground passageway, and then rushed out of the building through a hidden door constructed beyond the outer wall of the orphanage's backyard.

Rowan had prepared for the possibility of such a scenario a long time ago, and had pre-emptively had a secret passageway built for such purpose. But no matter how prepared he had been, he had never expected to be doing this with Stryder. Stryder never came to the orphanage, but this time, because of the FBI's involvement, he had come to take a look. And surprisingly, once he came, he happened to collide with the police.

Numerous expletives poured out of Stryder's mouth as he stumbled after one of the guards, sprinting through the weeds in the direction of one of the cars they had hidden behind the building. Rowan had cash stocked in the car, and papers that he had gone to great lengths to have forged. With these, they could easily start a new life somewhere else --

'Bang!'

A gunshot rang out violently, echoing over and over in the darkness. Stryder shrank his neck in fear.

He looked up to see seven or eight heavily armed SWAT members, wearing body armour and helmets, assault rifles in their hands, approaching them. Their bright lights instantly zoned in on them; apparently, these SWAT squad members, who had been ambushing the periphery and had not made any rash moves, had spotted them as soon as they left the secret passageway!

'Nobody move! Down on your knees! Hands on your head!'

Stryder's mind went blank. It's over, he thought.

His knees buckled, meeting the soft, dry grass.

Herstal glanced at Albarino, his expression cold and hard, like a dead man wearing a lifelike mask. Albarino noticed that the corners of his eyes were a little red, which was not a good sign.

Herstal said in a low, deep voice, 'I want to see --'

'See what?' Albarino interrupted him firmly, 'There's nothing there. The police are already here; they'll all be arrested.'

-- As if to confirm his words, they heard a loud sound, suspected to be a gunshot, coming from the direction of the distant building. Reverberating deeply in the darkness of the night.

Herstal stared at Albarino and waited for two heartbeats.

'You missed your opportunity.'

Then he said slowly, 'This is my last opportunity.'

Albarino seemed to let out a soft sigh, then he said, 'We still have a chance. We can wait ...'

Some word in this sentence -- perhaps 'wait.' Albarino later thought, it should probably have been the word 'wait' -- seemed to ignite his anger so violently that Herstal's body language changed almost immediately at that moment. Albarino watched how he stood straighter, the muscles in his shoulders and spine tense, just like when he first met Albarino, when he felt consistently threatened by the Sunday Gardener.

He growled, 'Albarino Bacchus! It's not as if you've ever been able to understand --'

Obviously, Herstal had done his best to keep his voice down in consideration of the FBI and police officers in the distance. But Albarino could still feel the sudden, almost illogical rage of desperation rolling over him, and it was too much. The sound was too much for a night like this.

Albarino subconsciously stepped forward and covered Herstal's mouth with one hand, dragging him a few steps deeper into the forest while looking in the direction of the manor at the same time -- thankfully, the police officers didn't seem to have noticed any unusual noises on their side.

Meanwhile, Herstal violently broke free of his shackles, and then, like all desperate beasts, bit into the forearm that was wrapped around his neck and shoulder, sinking his teeth in deep.

Midalen and the other children were herded by the menacing man onto the grass in the backyard of the orphanage, which contained another gate that was currently open, allowing for a van marked with a delivery company's logo to be parked outside the yard.

The man roughly shoved the children into the back of the van, like a vicious sheepdog with saliva dripping from between its teeth. The dark compartment was filled with the cries of children, but the man just calmly closed the door, not even bothering to look at them for more than a moment.

Midalen nervously watched the other person's movements while using his body to block the man's view, trying to cut through the rope around his wrists with the butterfly knife in his hand that he had hidden earlier. This wasn't going too smoothly, the rope was too rough and strong.

He realised that this was his only chance of escape ... These people were going to take them somewhere else soon, and at that point, that route Mr. Reporter had recorded would become useless. Why were they suddenly moving? It couldn't be that Mr. Reporter's actions had aroused the other side's suspicions, could it?

Midalen looked nervously at the man who was struggling to close the carriage door --

Suddenly, the man's entire body froze strangely.

-- That was because something suddenly hit him hard on the back of the head. The man's head buzzed, and his whole body fell down without a sound.

Behind him stood Orion Hunter, who was panting from the rush, a shotgun clutched tightly in his hand.

Seeing that he had finally caught up, old Hunter discreetly breathed out a sigh of relief.

In fact, old Hunter was very tempted to shoot the other party with a shotgun, but he knew how powerful the shotgun bullet in his hand was. Even a single shot could cause the other party to haemorrhage to death. Since he was a bounty hunter, it was best not to get involved in a lawsuit like that.

Hunter limped over to re-open the back door of the van. He looked at the children who were all cowering together like small animals, subconsciously softening his voice, he asked: 'Are you all okay?'

The bravest of the children, a boy with angelic blonde curls standing further back in the carriage looked over at him. He was about to say something, when suddenly a scream erupted from his mouth, 'Behind you!'

Hunter didn't have time to turn around -- in fact, he didn't have time to do anything -- before he felt a searing pain hit his left arm. In theory, a bullet had only torn through his skin and flesh, and then passed through the other side, but he felt as if a branding iron had burned him so heavily on his arm that the cane in his hand flew out, and he dropped to his knees on the grass as his legs gave out from the excruciating pain.

Then, he barely raised his head and saw a bearded man striding over, aiming the pistol in his hand straight at him.

Bloody hell! Hunter's arm hurt so much that he couldn't even lift it. Black spots began to flood before his vision, and the shotgun wasn't able to be fired with just one hand. His other hand trembled in pain as he reached for the pistol in his waistband, but it was probably too late -- the cold muzzle of the gun was pressed against his forehead.

The next second, the blonde child unexpectedly jumped out of the van and threw himself on top of the bearded man with a swing of his arm -- old Hunter didn't see what the child did, but the bearded man let out a sharp cry. He swung his arm around and threw the boy down with a loud, painful thud.

Then, some kind of warm, blood-scented liquid fell down like rain onto the back of Hunter's hand. He squinted in surprise and saw the bearded man clutching his neck frantically with his hands, but the blood still gushed out in rhythm with his heartbeat, splattering everywhere.

A butterfly knife, glinting with a metallic lustre, was lodged in his neck.

As the severely injured man collapsed in convulsions, the boy who had been thrown heavily onto the ground staggered to his feet, his beautiful blonde hair was tangled with dry grass. His face was splattered with blood, and those blue eyes stared directly at Orion Hunter.

Whirling around, his gaze quickly shifted away to look at the man who had collapsed in a pool of blood, then turned back to Hunter. He frowned and asked a little nervously, '... Is he dead?'

'Obviously.' Hunter replied, struggling to hold his bleeding wound with one hand.

The boy glanced at him a few more times, then continued, 'Andyouare?'

'Son, I'm a bounty hunter.' Hunter replied with a grimace, '-- and if you would be so kind, please come over and bandage my wound, or I'm going to die too.'

Albarino grunted softly in pain, but at the same time he didn't hesitate to trip himself, knocking Herstal onto the ground with him. Skillfully pinning him to the ground amid the dry leaves.

At that moment, he had no doubt that as soon as he let go, Herstal would really dare to head in the direction of the old orphanage site. People in desperation were capable of doing anything. Albarino knew what Herstal was thinking: it wouldn't be difficult for Stryder to slip away from the prosecutor's grasp. Either by only spending a few years in prison, or spending a lot of money to bail himself out. But as soon as he would be given his freedom, the man's connections and wealth were enough for him to evaporate without a trace straight away. It would be extremely difficult to find him again.

So for now, he could only hold Herstal down tightly, blood was slowly seeping out of the bite mark on his arm, slowly soaking his shirt. Herstal clutched his shoulder and bent his knee to slam it heavily into Albarino's abdomen.

Albarino whimpered and almost curled up like a shrimp. He grabbed one of the other man's hands and pressed his arm above his head, gritting his teeth and growling low, 'Herstal!'

The sound was like a whip, drawing something alive out of the other man's body -- a soul, vitality, and so on -- as if something hard and fragile had crumbled in this body with a heart-stopping snap. Herstal wasn't struggling anymore, but the fingers were still on his shoulders. Albarino frowned in pain as he half-kneeled, then pulled Herstal up as well. The other man leaned his forehead against Albarino's other shoulder as if he'd lost all his strength.

Albarino felt something hot and wet slowly soaking through his shoulder, sweat, or blood, or -- he stiffened, not looking down, just slowly, tentatively pressing his fingers against the other man's back.

'It's all right,' Albarino whispered, 'we'll find another opportunity.'

He knew it was a lie, and so did Herstal. Stryder had run the club at Sequoia Manor for so long that he would not have failed to come up with a plan of how to get himself out if things went south.

At the same time, Albarino saw several SWAT officers escorting Stryder, whose hands were cuffed behind his back, along with other suspects, out from behind the building's courtyard wall. Officer Hardy and the others hurried to meet them in that direction.

Herstal laughed softly, his voice oddly hoarse.

'It's no use,' Herstal said slowly, as if he was exhausted, 'I just missed my last opportunity.'

Chapter 44: 80. Well of Truth, Clear and Black [1]

Chapter Text

[1] This quote is from Baudelaire's 'Flowers of Evil' (Les Fleurs du mal). (Specifically 'L'Irrémédiable')

Late at night, the lights of the Westland Police Station were still on, and as usual, most of the officers were burdened with endless overtime duties. Lavazza Mercader on the other hand, was sitting in a small office in the police station that had been specifically allocated for him and members of the BAU. He had just finished making a phone call to report what they had found during the case. Given the current police findings, it was imperative that a press conference be held, after all, this was an interstate kidnapping and prostitution case involving over a dozen children.

At that moment, the door was pushed open, and Bates peeked his head through the gap, 'Agent Mercader, I've brought the physical evidence you requested.'

-- Indeed, he was holding a cardboard box in his arms containing some items in evidence bags. Hardy had hoped that they would find the ledgers of Sequoia Manor or a list of all the members who had attended the club or something along those lines. However, according to reports from the on-site investigators who were at Sequoia Manor and the old church orphanage site, no such evidence had been found.

Therefore, Mercader offered to look at the available physical evidence to see if he could deduce anything from them -- it was highly unlikely, and a complete last-ditch-effort. Mercader didn't actually believe that Stryder would have documented all his criminal activities in a little notebook.

Bates set the box down in front of him and Mercader rummaged through it twice. At the same time, Bates looked at him and asked, 'Can you convict the bastard?'

'Have you gotten any key evidence?' Mercader responded without even looking up.

'Not at the moment. We've matched all the fingerprints extracted from the place where the children were held with Stryder's, but his prints weren't found on any key evidence. The rest are still being screened in the database; maybe we'll be able to find any other suspects who've been to that orphanage.' Bates sneered, 'Guess what? I heard from Alexander, one of Bart's men, that when he was arrested, he claimed that Rowan had introduced him to a children's charity project and that he was just inspecting the orphanage site!'

Bates vented his frustration at length, forcing Mercader to interrupt him with, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Schwander -- can you tell me where this piece of evidence was collected from?'

-- In Mercader's hand was a clear evidence bag containing a butterfly knife.

After another night of overtime, Wallis Hardy pushed open the door of her house wearily. A little girl came running over with quick steps, and flung herself exaggeratedly into her arms.

Since the incident with the Family Butcher, Wallis was reluctant to leave her daughter alone at home. Like all small children who had experienced such a horrifying event, Clara showed signs of PTSD: afraid of the dark, unwilling to be alone, scared of strangers, and extremely clingy. If she could, Wallis would love to stay by her daughter's side twenty-four seven, but unfortunately, that just wasn't possible.

Today, she was busy with a case until late at night again. Her husband was also unable to come home due to a major criminal case, leaving Clara alone after school. Wallis stroked the top of the little girl's warm hair with a pained heart and asked, 'Sweetie, why aren't you in bed yet?'

'I can't sleep alone, I'm waiting for you and Daddy to come home.' The child said, pouting childishly despite being nearly eleven years old, knowing this expression would make her mother smile.

'Daddy might not be able to come home tonight, he has important work to do.' Wallis told the little girl. In reality, she knew through various channels about the case Bart was currently working on. If it really involved kidnapping, imprisonment, and child sexual abuse, then there was a good chance that she would also become busy as well. Just thinking about it made her want to sigh.

The little girl just looked at her with wide eyes, as if she had never realised just how much her parents owed her. Wallis compassionately touched her soft face and asked, 'Since Daddy won't be home tonight, how about Mommy sleeps with you?'

Then she was able to get a kiss from her daughter as a means of comforting a weary mind and the nightmares lurking in the night.

Midalen sat on a chair in the interrogation room, his hands neatly resting on his knees.

Of course, this wasn't a real 'interrogation' -- a real suspect wouldn't be drinking hot cocoa, and he was holding a cup in his hand. The female officer in charge of him almost burst into tears when she ushered him out of the police car, repeatedly asking if he felt capable of making a statement, as if he just needed to say 'no' for the police to immediately tuck him into a bed surrounded by teddy bears.

Across from him sat a young man with a messy head of ginger curls who introduced himself as Agent Garcia of the FBI. Agent Garcia's questions started with irrelevant parts, such as what his name was, where he lived before he was abducted, how he was abducted, so on and so forth.

Midalen answered them all. His story wasn't remarkable: he'd been abandoned by his mother in front of the orphanage when he was a child, leading everyone to suspect that his mother was an unwed pregnant teenager or something like that -- such women often abandoned their children due to poverty. His current surname was that of the person in charge of the orphanage where he was living back then, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to even get the paperwork for enrolling into a school and everything else without it. He was also pretty sure that the staff of that orphanage were watching him from behind the one-way mirror, ready to take him back once the questioning was over.

Sequoia Manor was scary enough, of course, but the orphanage itself was also dull: in such a place, no one truly cared about you. Most people put on a sympathetic expression, but would never explore where your heart truly belonged.

The strange kid finished answering the questions in a nonchalant, couldn't-care-less tone, his attitude was obviously a little beyond the expectations of Agent Garcia. But of course, most people's PTSD only came after they'd been rescued, and in some cases, the symptoms appeared even later, so it was hard to say what the kid who seemed so calm and collected now would look like in a month.

Garcia thought for a moment and then asked softly, 'Uh...so you're saying you were taken to Sequoia Manor twice for their so-called gatherings? And you didn't... um, seen what their members look like?'

The agent's hesitant implication was obvious: what did the people who sexually assaulted you look like? Midalen felt like rolling his eyes, because 'I was too tall to attract the pedophiles' seemed like an odd reason to give. But of course, it wasn't entirely true that no one visited... there was that reporter after all.

Midalen slowly pursed his lips. He felt something was off after the reporter left, the reporter said that once the story was published, the police would come back to rescue them. But according to common sense, wouldn't a normal person be worried that by publishing the story first, it would alert the criminals and cause them to run away with the hostages? Or was Mr. Reporter planning on calling the police first before publishing the report?

Moreover, just now, Midalen had borrowed the female officer's phone to make a call to the orphanage. After making the call, he'd searched the internet on the phone, and there had been no similar reports published recently regarding the case, which meant that at least what Mr. Reporter had told him wasn't the truth.

-- So, did Mr. Reporter really call the police?

He thought for a moment, then suddenly asked miserably, 'Why didn't any of you come to rescue me after I was locked up in that place for so long?'

This statement was slightly unreasonable, but when a hostage child who was just rescued was sitting in front of you, you would inevitably feel pity for them no matter what they say, and apparently, Agent Garcia was one of the victims of that law. Garcia looked at him and softened his voice as he explained, 'Because those people at Sequoia Manor covered it up so well that we didn't realise something was wrong until recently when an informant reported it to us.'

Informant? Midalen's expression didn't change, but his mind was racing. Did that mean that Mr. Reporter was a police informant? Not quite ...if he was, there would have been no reason for him to say that he was an investigative journalist in front of him. Wouldn't it have been better to gain trust by saying that he was a police informant? Or did he have no relationship with the police at all, and that the police didn't even know about his existence.

So it could only be said that Mr. Reporter... lied to him? Maybe he didn't even call the police and just wanted to get his hands on a breaking story.

No, it didn't seem like that either. Midalen mentally rejected that thought, something in his gut told him that the reporter was not such a person.

Midalen held a biased preconceived notion that the reporter who had provided him with the weapon was a good person. And for obvious reasons: if it weren't for the butterfly knife and the reporter's instructions about how to correctly hold the knife that night, the bounty hunter would probably be dead, and they'd have been taken to who-knows-where. Even if the reporter hadn't notified the police after his investigation, in a sense, he had still saved Midalen's life.

Moreover, if the other party was just a person bent on chasing big news, there would have been absolutely no need to give him that knife. The existence of such a thing could easily arouse the suspicion of the police or the people of Sequoia Manor. Assuming that Midalen didn't hide the knife afterwards and the guards found it, those bad guys would easily suspect Mr. Reporter, and doing so would only bring trouble upon himself.

Midalen quietly bit his lower lip, the information before him now was contradictory: if Mr. Reporter really cared about this matter and the children, he wouldn't have not called the police; if he didn't care about the children, he wouldn't have given Midalen the knife, let alone delaying on publishing the story.

...So what the hell was going on? A new thought popped into Midalen's mind: Or, maybe that person wasn't a reporter at all? He said he was a reporter just to win his trust? It was obvious that he really did care about the children of Sequoia Manor, but he had other reasons for gathering information about Sequoia Manor, and didn't intend to go through the police at all?

Midalen didn't know much about the law, but he was pretty sure that in this case, the person who went to see him, who may or may not have been a journalist at all, must have been doing something illegal on some level.

Midalen made a decision the moment he thought of this possibility. He said quickly: 'I didn't receive any...guests. I only went twice, and maybe because I was too old, no one from the club picked me.'

He finished the sentence and took a deep breath: it was true that Mr. Reporter wasn't a rapist anyway, and not saying anything about him shouldn't have any impact on the investigation overall. When he got back to the orphanage, he'd have to find a way to get a trace of the reporter and go ask him personally what the hell was going on.

Of course, if he revealed the matter to the FBI agent in front of him, there was a good chance that the police would go back and do the same thing, but Midalen reckoned that the police wouldn't tell a minor the results of the investigation at all.

Most likely due to being abandoned as a child, Midalen would always trust himself more than he trusted others.

'Mr. Hunter told us that you were the one who attacked the guard who brought you to the car with a knife,' Garcia continued, completely oblivious to the fact that Midalen was hiding some secret, 'Where did that knife come from?'

'I swiped it off one of the guards.' Midalen lied without changing his face, 'On my way back from the manor the second time. He didn't tie my hands then, only blindfolded me. I sat next to him, and when he seemed to be asleep and snoring, I secretly swiped it from his coat pocket.'

It was at this moment that the door to the interrogation room opened and a wheat-skinned black-haired man walked in. Agent Garcia saw him and said softly, 'Sir.'

Garcia's superior walked over to Midalen and showed him the screen of his mobile phone: on the screen was a news website, and on the website clicked on by Mercader, there was a news photo of the very man who had given Midalen the butterfly knife!

Midalen quickly scanned it, and the news headline above the photo read 'Manslaughter! Newspaper Mogul's Beloved Daughter Escapes Murder Charges,' and the sub-heading read, 'A&H Law Firm Wins Another Victory, Prosecutor Wallis Hardy Calls Bar Morally Corrupt'.

Quickly realising what this thing in front of him meant, Midalen took a deep breath and raised his head calmly. He looked at Garcia's superior.

'No,' Midalen said clearly, 'I've never seen him before.'

Ms. Aurelie Delphine sat quietly in one of the armchairs in the living room, staring blankly at the endless river of lights flowing outside the window. It was still slightly chilly on a late March night in Westland, but not so much indoors. Despite this, Aurelie still felt like shivering.

She hadn't been able to lie to her heart in the end, and so she finally chose to call Albarino Bacchus, telling the other person about Stryder's intention to go to Sequoia Manor. And today was that day in Stryder's plans, something must be about to happen.

Aurelie didn't know exactly what Dr. Bacchus and Armalight were planning, but they wouldn't have interrogated her for that information without a purpose -- she just waited quietly for what was about to happen.

The clock was approaching twelve midnight, and the first day of April was approaching; this was April Fools' Day, which some believed originated from the French calendar reforms of the sixteenth century. Aurelie wasn't interested in a holiday filled with lies and jokes, that was one of the things she hated most since she was a child.

Before the clock's minute hand jumped past midnight, the sound of the doorbell rang ahead of her, as if it were the footsteps of a grim reaper approaching. Aurelie sighed, she gathered her silk nightgown in her hands, slowly got up from her chair, and walked over to open the door.

At the door stood two men in police uniforms, one of whom nodded towards her with a serious face and asked, 'Hello, areyouMs Delphine?'

And so, Aurelie knew that the moment had finally arrived.

Old Hunter dragged his weary body to the door of Olga Molozer's ward.

He'd come to the hospital to have his wounds treated; The whole process was extremely painful, and he could no longer feel his arm under the effect of anesthesia. But the good news was that the doctor told him that the bullet hadn't hit any nerves and wouldn't leave any irreversible damage.

Officer Hardy had scheduled a follow-up appointment with him to go back the next day and give his statement. What he actually wanted to do most right now was to fall into bed and sleep through the night. But somehow, he ended up outside the door of Olga's ward again -- he'd been here many times before and had long since familiarised himself with the route over -- the harrowing scene from earlier that day was still repeating itself over and over again before his eyes, the blonde boy's wide-open eyes and blood-stained cheeks ...

It was too dangerous, too close to being too late.

Every now and then, at such moments, he couldn't help but wonder if the case could have been solved more smoothly if Olga had still been awake.

It was a question no one could answer, especially not the silent figure lying in the hospital ward.

Fortunately, Olga's carer, Ms. Anne Brooke, was still awake. She let Hunter, who had already become a familiar face, in, while she herself returned to sit on a folding bed in the corner of the single-patient ward, a book spread out on her lap.

Hunter stood alone in front of Olga. Her face had lost its healthy colour, deprived of its blood, making people feel slightly unsettled. He wished she could answer his questions about Dr. Bacchus and Armalight, tell him why these two men cared so much about the case of Sequoia Manor, tell him whether Dr. Bacchus was a murderer or not, tell him why there were so many crazy and wicked people in the world, but these questions were destined to go unanswered --

Hunter's eyes suddenly widened and he took a step back, his cane hitting the foot of the bed with a loud, resounding thud.

'What's wrong, Mr. Hunter?' Anne asked, sitting on the folding bed behind him.

'She ...' The first word escaped out of Hunter's mouth dryly. He swallowed before continuing, 'Her eyes are moving.'

Chapter 45: 81. Fool's Celebration (1)

Chapter Text

Hardy couldn't help but yawn.

He and the others in charge of the case at hand had basically been up all night: they were responsible for collecting the evidence, relocating the children, engaging in endless and meaningless bureaucratic conversations with the police department higher-ups and the city council, as well as drafting a statement for the upcoming press conference -- it was strange that there were at least two serial killers that have been active in Westland for over a decade without being apprehended, yet the councilmen and the Mayor felt that what was happening now was more damaging to their careers.

Now, the sun was slowly rising over the edge of the city, casting a hazy, milky white mist over everything; in another two or three hours, the news would spread, and the front door of the WLPD would be swamped with reporters, photographers, and flashing lights, like vultures circling a corpse, revelling in the feast of decay.

Meanwhile, Lavazza Mercader walked down the corridor, the shadows under his eyes no lighter than anyone else's. He rubbed his temples as he said to Hardy, 'His lawyers are here, we can get started.'

-- Yes, they had held Stryder overnight, as was customary, and of course, the other man refused to say a single word until his legal team was present, which didn't surprise Hardy. Now, as the two of them entered the interrogation room, Stryder sat in the chair on the other side of the cold hard table, looking more composed than any of them, as if he had slept better than either of them.

Seeing the state police and the federal agent who had just entered, Stryder gave a fake smile, showcasing his teeth without restraint.

He said slowly, 'Good morning, gentlemen.'

At that moment, the door to the interrogation room was pushed open once more, and the late lawyer walked in slowly with the typical arrogance of a guy who would defend a rapist. He walked over and sat down beside Stryder. Hardy's eyes swept over the expensive bespoke suits and cufflinks embedded with unobtrusive gemstones, then he froze.

Because Herstal Armalight was sitting across from them, and as usual, with a touch of obsessive-compulsive stubbornness, he reached out and straightened his cuffs. Then he looked up, the corners of those blue eyes like a mirror reflecting an empty sky.

'We can begin.' He said coldly.

-- Two hours ago.

Someone like Herstal would never celebrate a holiday as boring as April Fool's Day. In fact, he didn't even understand why anyone would invent a holiday focused on deceiving others with absurd claims like spaghetti growing on trees. This moment was the only moment when he sincerely hoped that someone in this deadly-serious law firm would actually celebrate April Fools.

He hoped it was an April Fool's joke, but sadly it wasn't.

'What,' he had said flatly to Holmes, 'say that again, please.'

And the other man looked at him with that pitying look of, 'Did you not sleep well?'. Holmes was, to some extent, right in his suspicions about him. Anyone who knew Herstal could tell from his dark, gloomy expression, the shadows under his eyes, and that bloodshot look, that this man's sleep quality was obviously poor.

And Mr. Holmes, as a person who had run a law firm with the other party and worked together for six whole years, should have known better than to impose on the other man at a time like this, arranging for him to do something he clearly had no business doing.

Generally speaking, this was true, but Mr. Holmes was a man who had worked with a psychotic serial killer for six years and still knew nothing about it. He hadn't even thought much about the fact that one or two of his clients had been murdered by the Westland Pianists after they had successfully been acquitted of their crimes, so of course he unconsciously repeated the absurd words that came out of his mouth with confidence.

'A gentleman has hired us to exonerate him and is willing to pay a substantial amount for the service.' Holmes explained, 'His name is Kaba Stryder -- I don't know if you still remember the man -- but he managed a club for the late newspaper magnate Philip Thompson. Every year, Thompson's foundation sends a significant amount of money to this club.'

Herstal stared back icily, an expression that would have made his secretary, Emma, go weak in the knees, but it apparently had no effect on the thick-skinned Holmes -- when Herstal had chosen to run his firm in partnership with the man, it had been under the assumption that the other party was careless enough and his moral bar low enough that he wouldn't even notice that his partner's occasional days off coincided with the Westland Pianist's murder days. But now, for the first time, he was beginning to question this decision.

'And as you say,' Herstal said stiffly, 'this gentleman is now accused of kidnapping and imprisoning children, forcing minors into prostitution -- perhaps even raping the little boys and girls himself -- and he was even in the building where the victims were imprisoned when he was arrested. This is not an easy case, Holmes.'

Holmes was completely oblivious to his old friend's strange mood, and even asked jokingly: 'Are you afraid of the challenge this time?'

'This case looks airtight at the moment.' Herstal replied, 'And I don't understand why he contacted our firm; if he's being funded by the Thompson foundation, he should be reaching out to the Thompson foundation's legal team.'

In reality, Herstal already knew the answer: Stryder had contacted A&H Law Firm solely because of Herstal's presence in the firm. Maybe the people at the Thompson Foundation had no idea what this club actually did, or what the money allocated each year by the late Thompson will end up actually being spent on.

While it was only right that the Thompson Foundation's legal should be cleaning up Stryder's mess, Stryder evidently still thought that Herstal was a better choice -- a gentleman who was also a member of the club, having enjoyed the hidden pleasures of Sequoia Manor as well. They were now accomplices, and if this lawyer didn't want his scandalous story exposed, he'd better stand on Stryder's side.

For Stryder, this was a simple equation.

And Holmes, who of course knew nothing about the inner twists and turns of the matter, patted Herstal on the shoulder pleasantly and said, 'Exactly! He had a whole team of lawyers to choose from, but he chose us in the end! I understand your concerns about this case, but I think this is a great opportunity: the more high-profile and challenging the case, the more it will boost our firm's reputation. We might even become as famous as the historical O.J. Simpson defence team!'

Most people wouldn't use 'famous' to describe the Simpson defence team, but Holmes was certainly not an ordinary man; he was the kind of man who relished any attention he received, regardless of whether or not the people were watching him with condemnation towards his moral aptitudes. Herstal understood what he meant; outsiders who were not involved in the case would certainly think it was absurd to defend the devil, but when they themselves are faced with imprisonment, they would also naturally be willing to choose those who are capable of freeing even the devil out of its cage.

But this time was different.

Herstal was silent for two seconds, concealing all his emotions with a tightly sealed, icy mask, as if he were a silent stone statue. Then he simply said, 'I don't want to take this case.'

He calmly stood up and wordlessly turned to walk outside of Holmes' office. His colleague and friend had plastered the interior of the office with various newspaper clippings of media coverage of the cases they'd been involved in, most of the bold red headlines cursing moral decay and the failures of the legal system. Somewhere behind him, Holmes stood up, loudly calling his name.

'You know the other lawyers here aren't up to this!' Holmes shouted urgently behind him. 'Defending a suspect in a case like this, only you and I together can do it -- I can't just pull a team out of the law firm!'

Holmes emphasized the word 'together' unnecessarily.

Without turning his head, Herstal replied, 'I have other work --'

'Push it aside! I know you don't have any major cases on your hands right now, and those interns under you can do all that work!'

Herstal didn't slow down, his hand touched the cold, spherical doorknob. The texture of the brass and its engraved patterns burned into the underside of his palm.

Holmes' urgent voice kept drilling into his ears, 'Mr. Stryder specifically named you as the man he wants to defend him. He said you met at a reception party and even had good conversation -- damn it, he's even put down a large deposit already!'

Click, the handle turned, and the latch retracted.

'Herstal! Why not this time?' Holmes shouted, 'We've handled so many cases like this -- we've defended the heiress who murdered her boyfriend, we've defended the brat who dumped a prostitute's body after an S&M session went wrong, we've defended a movie actress who blew her husbands' heads off with a single bullet, we've defended a politician who raped his sixteen-year-old adopted daughter. In all these years, you've never been picky about your clients, so why not this time?'

Herstal paused in his act of opening the door.

Right. That was a question.

Why not this time?

And Lavazza Mercader was still watching them ... watching him and Albarino.

What would Mercader think if he found out that Stryder had hired the A&H Law Firm to handle the case, but that Herstal had refused the commission? How perceptive was he, and how much truth could he discern?

Even if Stryder didn't reveal the fact that Herstal had also been to Sequoia Manor, Mercader would undoubtedly realised that there was an inextricable connection between him and Stryder by the very fact that he had refused to defend Stryder. Because the Pianist would choose to defend a person and then kill them, but had never been so disgusted with someone that he refused to even defend them. The personal likes and dislikes reflected in this was far too obvious -- a truth that would be as plain as day in the eyes of the profiler.

...If Mercader became suspicious and insisted on conducting an investigation in that direction, given the focus of his recent attention, it would inevitably lead back to Albarino. Then he might find out that Albarino was also 'coincidentally' investigating Sequoia Manor as well.

The bite-shaped bruise on Albarino's hand had not yet faded completely, and although the other party had said that it wouldn't affect Herstal's plan to kill Stryder, Herstal wasn't naïve enough to believe that Albarino hadn't secretly returned to Sequoia Manor again -- the last thing he needed was for Mercader to obtain a search warrant and extract the bite mark from Albarino's hand, and comparing it extensively with the dental records of unidentified corpses in Westland.

In that brief moment, thoughts like these surged through Herstal's mind like a tide, the background still that disgusting smile on Stryder's face. Herstal couldn't help but reach out and rub his temples for a moment, letting out a soft sigh.

Then he turned around, facing Holmes.

There was clearly some look of shock in Mercader's gaze as he looked at Herstal, as if he hadn't expected things to develop in such a way, or this lawyer to appear here in such a manner.

And Bart Hardy's gaze was even more shocked. He stared frozen at Herstal for a long time, unable to look away.

-- Herstal, likewise, hadn't anticipated today's situation either. At this moment, he was even thinking that if Olga Molozer had already woken up, perhaps then the other party wouldn't have been so confused by all these tricks and boring mis-directions at all. Perhaps she would have been able to see through to the truth at a single glance, and then Herstal wouldn't have to sit in this cold interrogation room, and could instead surrender immediately.

These were thoughts he never voiced to Albarino. There were times when the temptation to 'rest' and the temptation to continue walking overlapped in his ears, like Mephistopheles tempting Faust, and the sound was both equally as loud. Death and darkness was like a soft bed, lying between his breaths, the vibrations of his vocal cords, and everywhere he looked.

Stryder gave him a polite smile and said, 'Mr. Armalight, you're finally here.'

The man's eyes conveyed words that couldn't be spoken -- my accomplices, my hunting companion in the sweet and sinful den, my friends with whom I shared the feast, that sort of thing. He paused, then added with a cheerful smile, 'I feel at ease now that you're here.'

Yes. Because the courtroom was certainly not a stage for Herstal to write his own drama by any stretch of the imagination, not to mention the fact that he was nothing more than a member of the entire legal team, and Mercader himself was sitting in the audience.

This meant, firstly, that the defence strategy was not solely crafted by him, and that if he made any glaring errors, they would be pointed out to him by Holmes, who, though careless, was indeed an excellent lawyer. Secondly, if he made any grave errors in court that led to his client's conviction, Mercader would be the first to notice that something was wrong, and then they would most likely circle back around to that one catastrophic conclusion where they would have failed before even having a chance to act.

In fact, he knew that after the failure of the operation at the old Church Orphanage, the best strategy would be to abandon the plan on murdering Stryder and just leaving the country, as there would be no more suitable opportunities... but he couldn't do it.

So now, he ended up sitting here.

And Stryder had obviously rehearsed this scenario in his head many times, so he was even at ease when he spoke, spreading out his hands and saying frankly to Mercader and Hardy, 'I'm innocent.'

'Sir,' Hardy said in a deep voice, 'there were a dozen children locked up on the ground floor of that old orphanage, and you were found on the porch of that building.'

Stryder shrugged his shoulders and co*cked his head at his lawyer -- a gaze that pierced straight through Herstal's heart like a knife. How ridiculous it was that the person holding the sharp weapon didn't even know how dangerous the weapon he wielded was. Mercader focused most of his attention on Herstal, as if he could find something in him.

Herstal swallowed, then slowly said, 'But that doesn't prove he knew what was really occurring in the depths of the building. You have no evidence that my client had been to that old orphanage before; it's quite possible that this was the first time he's ever been to that place.'

This was the first time Herstal had found it hard to lie, as something was sinking into the pit of his stomach, making him want to vomit.

'And my assistant, Mr. Rowan, told me that it was an orphanage in need of donations. He strongly persuaded me to visit the place with him in order to consider whether or not to use a portion of the funds provided by the Thompson Foundation for charitable work.' Stryder said smoothly, 'I never expected to encounter such a situation upon entering the orphanage -- and frankly, I believe I fell into a trap.'

Meanwhile, in the adjacent interrogation room, prosecutor Wallis Hardy watched the delicately built, dark-skinned young woman across from her.

The other party had a French name, Aurelie Delphine, a so-called 'high-class socialite', who at the same time, also managed some of the affairs of Sequoia Manor for Stryder. Thus, shortly after Stryder's arrest, she was also detained.

The reason why Wallis was sitting here now was because the other party had specifically requested a meeting with the prosecutor in charge of the case.

While Wallis actually felt a little puzzled, Aurelie's attitude was strangely candid, as if she had been waiting for the other shoe to drop -- Wallis' intuition told her that she could get some important information from the other party, and thus she carefully asked, 'Miss Delphine, why did you want to see me?'

The beauty looked up at her and slowly revealed a lazy, enchanting smile.

'I want to be your tainted witness [1],' she simply said.

[1] TL Notes: A tainted witness is an individual whose testimony may be influenced by ulterior motives or involvement in the events under scrutiny.

'Mr. Armalight!'

Herstal heard the shout just as he was about to leave the police station. He turned around and, unsurprisingly, saw Hardy hurrying over. The man looked extremely fatigued, as if he had aged a few years overnight.

And it was obvious that Hardy wasn't here to exchange pleasantries with him at all; as soon as the serious-faced officer stopped in front of Herstal, he asked bluntly, 'Why did you take this case?'

'I take a lot of cases. Mr. Stryder hired our firm, so here I am.' Herstal did his best to speak in that matter-of-fact tone of voice, even though he was already dizzy from the headache that had developed in the space of two short hours, as if a fiery hot dagger was slowly piercing through his temple bit by bit, gouging at his eyeballs. 'I was also once the lawyer for the Norman brothers; you should be well aware of what they've done.'

'But he's a paedophile!' Hardy emphasised.

It seemed that after the Family Butcher case, Officer Hardy felt that he could change his mind about Herstal. As if a single good deed meant a person was good forever. People often fell into such strange prejudices.

Herstal forced himself to look directly at Bart Hardy and said in a very calm tone, 'I can't agree with that. I think he's a paedophile who can pay a hefty fee.'

There was a moment of silence, and then Herstal heard the other man take a slow, deep breath in before letting it out just as slowly.

'You know what, Mr. Armalight? I was pretty prejudiced against you when I first met you in the Norman case, and I think my wife was too -- you know, a mob lawyer and all.' Hardy said quietly, his voice revealing a genuine bitterness, 'So after you saved Clara with Al and the others, I genuinely felt deeply ashamed that I'd misjudged you, and I just hadn't figured out how to apologise to you.'

Herstal stood silently with his eyes downcast, his eyes unreadable beneath their pale lashes.

'But now, with everything that's happened...'

'It just goes to show that you've misjudged once again.' Herstal said calmly, 'I'm not the person you thought I was.'

'Clara wanted to invite you over. Last time, their teacher had them do a project about their family and friends, and she presented about you... she wanted to show you the notes and drawings she made for that project.'

Hardy's voice was hoarse, sounding oddly broken.

'Now I don't know how to tell her that Uncle Herstal won't be coming.'

Chapter 46: 82. Fool's Celebration (2)

Chapter Text

Albarino had not yet begun the dissection of the body before him when Tommy came bursting into the room, full of energy as usual. He was slowly and methodically putting on his latex gloves, the scalpel gleamed a cold and white light under the shadowless lamp.

Tommy closed the door behind him, leaning closer to Albarino, and said in a hushed tone that all gossipers choose to use, 'Did you hear? The suspect in that series of river dumping cases we suspected, has been linked to the arrest.'

'I was the forensic pathologist in charge of that case,' Albarino said with a slow glance at Tommy, his voice sounding neither surprised nor overly emotional. 'Bart, of course, notified me as soon as they arrested the suspect.'

Tommy shifted his weight a little, carefully observing Albarino's profile. After he was sure that the other man had nothing more to say, he hesitantly whispered, '... I just met with Ms. Wallis Hardy because the prosecutor's office wanted a copy of the autopsy reports for those cases. And then, uh ... she told me that Mr. Armalight's law firm chose to defend the suspect.'

As he spoke, Albarino was using a scalpel to cut a long arc from the left shoulder to the right shoulder of the deceased, with the lowest point crossing the sternum of the corpse; this unnatural death was covered with purplish red livor mortis, and the abdomen was a greasy green due to decay. The thin blade drew out of the flesh, and not a drop of blood dripped. Then Albarino stopped the motion of his hand and looked at Tommy.

Tommy saw him slowly furrow his brow in an expression as if troubled, but soon that expression disappeared from his face as quickly as if it had been erased by an eraser.

'Is that so?' Albarino said calmly, then he lowered his head again, reinserting the knife into the corpse's chest, slicing down from the lowest point in the centre of the curved incision all the way down to just above the pubic symphysis.

'You don't seem surprised.' Tommy noted with a frown.

They all knew that Albarino's boyfriend was a mob lawyer -- though why Albarino would choose a mob lawyer as a boyfriend was beyond them -- but defending a paedophile who had likely raped and murdered several children? That really was going a bit too far.

While many understood that the law and court system was essentially only a sophisticated game of rules where everyone was entitled to their own defence lawyer, and that 'innocent until proven guilty' was a fundamental principle, people on the side-lines couldn't help but judge everyone involved in the incident through their own moral concepts, such as Herstal Armalight.

Just like Tommy himself now, who found the lawyer's choice rather incomprehensible.

But Albarino's response was, 'Herstal is a lawyer.'

-- Of course, since Kaba Stryder had been arrested, he was bound to need a lawyer, and under such circ*mstances, Herstal was his best choice. With Stryder's current financial resources, a number of big law firms in Westland would have been willing to represent him, but who could compare to Herstal himself, who had once entered Sequoia Manor?

He was the most trustworthy of all the choices, because he was bound to be desperate to save Stryder, just as he needed to save himself -- at least in Stryder's eyes, Herstal stood in that position.

And Albarino suspected that Herstal would have to ultimately stand in that position in the end, because the risk of a blatant failure in court was too high. Not to mention Mercader, even a veteran prosecutor like Wallis Hardy, would be able to sense that something was wrong. The only outcome of doing so would be to fall into the predator's trap before he even touched a hair on Stryder's head.

Albarino thought he could make a bold estimate of where things would go from here: Herstal would exonerate Stryder. A complete and immediate, released-in-court kind of exoneration, which he knew Herstal was capable of.

Because if he wasn't, there was no telling how many years Stryder would be sentenced to incarceration. The Westland Pianist was not a magician, nor was he powerful enough to kill a man in prison without anyone noticing. He had to get Stryder released first so that he could find another chance to kill him himself.

-- And until he killed him, the man would obviously not leave Westland.

It wasn't a good plan, but rather the only one available in this current situation, and it was also the worst of all the previous plans, especially while Mercader was still in the city.

A rational person would point out the inherent insanity in this, but Albarino wouldn't, for it was precisely such qualities that made Herstal beautiful; just as tragedy was inherently beautiful, and ugliness just another manifestation of beauty, there was no contradiction between the two.

For a moment, many thoughts flew through his mind like birds, while his hands continued to steadily and skillfully slice through the adhesions between tissues and the yellow layers of fat, peeling back the skin to expose the bones and internal organs of the corpse.

Then he began to cut the ribs one by one with forceps, each cut producing a crisp sound. Such a task would have been easier with a rib spreader, but he consciously slowed down his movements, as if it could buy him some time to think.

It was at this moment that he heard Tommy ask in confusion, 'Did you expect something like this to happen?'

'What sort of things?' Albarino asked rhetorically, and with a forceful motion of his hands, the instrument made a crunching sound as blood and bone fragments splatterd.

'That Mr. Armalight would do something that would challenge the moral boundaries of most people? And even defend someone whose crimes seem as indisputable as nails in a coffin?' Tommy asked.

He still looked uneasy, and Albarino could understand why he thought that; many people become forensic pathologists with some idealistic notion of seeking justice for the dead. In most cases, that was not a bad thing.

Albarino lowered his head and reached into the exposed internal organs of the deceased, the white ribs standing up like strange horns. He took hold of the dead man's heart, and with a slight pressure from his hand, he ripped the organ out, severing off the remaining attachments with his scalpel, and placed it on a stainless steel tray. He looked down at the dark organ, which carried far more symbolic meaning in human society than its actual function warranted.

Then he said in a lazy, airy voice, 'The law always has many loopholes.'

'But the human heart doesn't.' Tommy replied stubbornly, his hands folded in front of his chest in a somewhat defensive posture.

'That's right,' Albarino said as he sliced open that heart, 'which is why he will lose many people because of this choice.'

'Including you?' Tommy asked.

'Right ventricular congestion, suspected mechanical asphyxiation, further signs needed for confirmation.' Albarino did not answer the question of the trainee forensic pathologist, but said this.

Tommy looked at the dissected heart, a drop of fresh blood that had not yet coagulated trailed down the blade of the scalpel. The body, with its organs exposed, emitted a strong odour of decay and looked like an array of neatly arranged fruits.

'You see, Tommy, the human body is so fragile, and death is much easier than we imagine.' Albarino looked at the organs thoughtfully and said softly, 'But I think death itself is not the most important thing, but rather how and when it comes.'

Tommy frowned slowly, clearly not understanding the meaning of his words.

'So what you want to ask me is, does his choice touch my moral boundaries? Would I stop loving him because of this?' Albarino looked up at Tommy, the scalpel still pressed against the heart. The corners of his mouth curved lightly into a smile, 'No, Tommy. The heart's intentions isn't the most important thing; what's most important is the final choice made in the end.'

Hunter thought it over and decided to visit the nearest orphanage to the WLPD.

With the help of that friend of his in the police department, he'd learnt that the children who were kidnapped by Stryder were now housed in that orphanage, where they could be conveniently questioned and treated by professional psychologists regularly. Those with traceable families were waiting for their relatives to arrive in Westland, and those who could not find their families for the time being could only stay nearby.

As a matter of fact, now that the things Hunter needed to do had come to an end, he shouldn't be here dragging his injured arm around, but at home waiting for the police department's next bonus to be paid. But after he thought about it, he couldn't shake his concern -- when a beautiful blonde boy stabs a thug to death with a knife in front of you, you couldn't help but care.

He swore he was just heading to the supermarket to stock up on instant meals when he found himself near the orphanage's gate. At first, he really did just want to look through the closed fence gate to see if everything was all right with the kids -- but as luck would have it, just as he arrived, he saw a fluffy blonde head peeking over the corner of the wall.

The head looked familiar, and Hunter was sure that he'd seen its owner stab someone in the carotid artery the night before. Speechless, he watched the blonde head spot him and curse under its breath before disappearing behind the wall.

A few seconds later, the youth cautiously peered over the wall again, his eyes sweeping from Hunter's bandaged arm before landing on his face. 'Are you the uncle who was shot down in front of me last night?'

... Why didn't this sound like a good thing to say.

'With all due respect,' Hunter said to him sternly, 'anyone would have gone down from a shot like that.'

'I didn't even ask your name yesterday!' The kid continued in a rather excited tone, sounding far too cheerful for someone who'd been held captive by a criminal gang for three months. 'What's your name, Van Helsing?'

Hunter didn't bother correcting the kid's misunderstanding of the two types of 'hunters', he replied gruffly, 'My name is Orion Hunter -- but that's not the point. The point is, what were you planning just now? Running away?'

A knife-wielding minor escaping from an orphanage the day after being rescued from a criminal gang sounded like the beginning of a dubious script that was very suitable for conspiracy theorists.

The blonde teen stared at him for a few seconds, then shrugged and decided to be honest.

'Uh, well it's like this,' he said sincerely, 'it's almost lunchtime and I noticed a pizza place across the road.'

-- Which is how, a quarter of an hour later, Hunter, the best bounty hunter in Westland, and Midalen, who had secretly sneaked out of the orphanage, were sitting across the road in a pizza shop. The unlucky kid, who'd rather eat junk food than the nutritious meals carefully provided by the social workers of the orphanage, took a big bite of the roast beef pizza and almost burst into tears.

'It's f*cking delicious!' Midalen said with his mouth stuffed to the gills, 'I haven't had pizza in three whole months!'

'Finish it quickly and hurry back. If the orphanage can't find you within the hour, they're going to call the police for sure, and hopefully the WLPD won't arrest me as a kidnapper.' Hunter warned with a sullen face, while wondering why he was paying for this little bastard to eat pizza. Some scientists say that human cubs use their cute appearance to manipulate adults into caring for them -- maybe they were right. 'Also, you're not old enough to swear yet, kid.'

Midalen snorted and continued to chew furiously, looking like a chipmunk.

Hunter watched him calmly, and as the boy was almost done with his third slice of pizza, he suddenly asked, 'Who gave you that knife?'

Midalen stopped eating and looked up at Hunter. The boy's gaze was unnaturally bright, like a sparkling blue gem.

'If I tell you, will you keep it a secret for me?' He asked cautiously after some thought.

'Depends.' Hunter replied ambiguously, but in fact this answer revealed that the source of the knife wasn't that simple. In fact, what Hunter was thinking at this time was: the child's attitude was a bit strange. He wouldn't be harbouring one of Stryder's men who hadn't been apprehended and brought to justice, would he?

'Let's look at it in another way then,' Midalen blinked and suddenly broke into a smile, 'Aren't you a bounty hunter? I want to hire you to investigate something. I'll find a way to pay you in instalments in the future, trust me on this point -- I'm your employer, so you have an obligation to keep my secret.'

This statement was indeed a bit childish, but Hunter felt that the kid was definitely not thinking about things in the kind of way that an average child would. He wanted to point out to the kid that bounty hunters weren't obligated to keep his secret if he really did do something illegal; as well as the fact that bounty hunters were mainly responsible for hunting down fugitives who jumped bail, and that investigations were generally the job of private investigators.

But in the end, his curiosity got the better of him, so when he opened his mouth he said, 'Tell me about it?'

Good grief, Hunt thought at the same time, what kind of childish game had he gotten himself into?

'Last night, I borrowed a social worker's computer to look something up. I'm certain now that the person who gave me the knife was named Herstal Armalight. He told me he was an investigative reporter, but in reality, he isn't.' Midalen articulated clearly, his eyes fixed straight at Hunter, 'I want you to investigate for me his true purpose for going to that manor.'

It was dark by the time Herstal got home. He'd pushed the last bit of work on his hands off to a colleague on the grounds that he wasn't feeling well, and he was indeed dealing with a headache that lasted almost twelve hours from morning to night. By the time he opened the door, his temples and eye sockets were still throbbing and swollen, making him see things a little blurry.

And the interior was almost pitch black, except for a dim glow that emanated hazily from the dining room. As he walked past, Herstal noticed that the chandelier above the table was on, and that the table itself was meticulously set in a very strict manner with a full set of cutlery, including, but not limited to; plain white dinner plates, different kinds of knives and forks, and wine glasses, all arranged in order. The table was additionally furnished with a bottle of wine and a glass vase, which was adorned with two half-opened irises.

Albarino turned his head from one of the chairs to look at him. He smiled faintly but said nothing.

Herstal was silent for two seconds, then said, 'Of all the possible reactions you might have had in response to this, this was the one I least expected.'

'Is it not good?' Albarino replied slowly, his voice soft, 'After all, hysteria and regret is meaningless.'

Herstal actually wanted to point out that they both knew that Albarino wasn't the type to be hysterical -- see, he would prepare a romantic dinner in response to what had happened. Herstal had no doubt that he had already prepared a whole range of food from appetisers to cold cuts already in the kitchen, just waiting to be brought to the table. And while it was impossible for the two events to be connected in any ways by logic, perhaps in Albarino's world, this was completely appropriate.

Herstal paused again, then asked, 'Will you stop me from continuing to try to kill Stryder? Or are you planning to leave the country yourself?'

'I will do neither,' replied Albarino calmly, his expression even serious the moment he said those words. When he wasn't smiling, he could easily display a sense of calm composure. 'Because I believe that without killing Stryder, you are incomplete -- and, Herstal, as a work of art, you are becoming more and more perfect.'

This was Albarino's way of offering praise, which sounded honest, blunt, emotional, and cold. Herstal followed the line of his pale fingers resting on the tablecloth, which appeared almost white under the light, all the way to the blue flowers with their thin petals on the table, and ultimately did not question his answer any further.

Albarino smiled, evidently not surprised by Herstal's silence. He moved his chair very gently and walked in front of Herstal. Although they had known each other for so long, even to the point of sharing a bed, Albarino's invasion of his personal space often triggered Hestal's instincts to pull away, a sharp intuition towards danger.

But today he didn't do that. He just silently felt the warmth of the other man's breath on his face, and then instead of touching him with his hand, Albarino just leaned forward slightly, and softly kissed the corner of his lips.

'So let us embrace whatever fate may come our way.' Albarino said softly against his lips, 'After all, life has no meaning if we can't do as we please.'

Chapter 47: 83. Fool's Celebration (3)

Chapter Text

'Nervous?' Old Hunter asked.

He now felt like an unlucky single father with a kid in tow – because at this very moment, on a bright and sunny noon, Midalen and he were sitting in a restaurant. The kid was eating a huge burger in a crude manner that didn't match his good looks at all, with sauce smudged on the corners of his mouth.

There were a lot of questions that Orion Hunter didn't know the answers to: for example, he knew that growing boys tended to eat a lot, but he still couldn't figure out how Midalen could eat so much; for example, he didn't know why he was inviting the other boy to eat again and again, when the orphanage where he was currently staying provided these poor traumatised kids with all kinds of food every day under the watchful eyes of the WLPD; and for example, why on earth did he accept the commission of this kid sitting opposite him, when the other party couldn't even pay him a penny?

But all in all, he had indeed invited the kid, and he was investigating the matters related to Herstal and Sequoia Manor at Midalen's request and his own curiosity -- which conveniently provided a good reason for their frequent meetings.

Although, if those WLPD officers knew that Midalen was frequently in contact with a bounty hunter, their first reaction would probably be to arrest Hunter.

Midalen licked the remaining sauce from the corner of his mouth with satisfaction, looked up at Hunter, and asked, 'Why should I be nervous?'

'Tomorrow is the pre-trial hearing for Stryder's case, and you are required to be present as a witness.' Hunter pointed out. He paused for a moment, but still decided to explain the meaning of a pre-trial hearing to the other party, '... During which, the prosecutor and the defense attorney will present the evidence they've collected before the judge, who will then decide whether or not you're required to testify in court.'

-- As per Hunter's expectations, Midalen would definitely need to testify. Although the victims in this case were minors, it didn't make them mentally incompetent, so the witnesses would most likely have to testify.

The thought of these lamb-like children facing Stryder's team of lawyers gave Hunter a headache. Those articulate lawyers would undoubtedly tear them apart. Moreover, forcing these children to recount their traumatic experiences in public seemed excessively cruel.

Midalen stared at him steadily for a few seconds, pondering something, and then asked, 'You don't think the outcome of the trial is going to be favourable, do you?'

'Where did you get that idea?' Hunter asked dryly in return, the other party's questions really didn't sound like something an ordinary child would ask.

'I could have guessed it by how much the prosecutor lady was frowning when she came to question us. Although she reassured us that everything would go well, it was plainly written on her face that 'I don't think the trial will be optimistic'.'

Midalen shrugged nonchalantly, stealing a sausage from Hunter's plate with his fork before continuing, 'I've asked the kids who were rescued with me, and none of them had ever encountered Stryder at Sequoia Manor or the place we were being held in. From our perspective, we can only identify that Rowan guy; we can't prove Stride orchestrated the kidnapping.'

'Or they may have found other evidence.' Hunter speculated out of thin air, but given his understanding of the cautiousness of those scumbags, he actually knew that that wasn't very likely.

'Or we could just not count on them.' Midalen winked, 'I believe there's a breakthrough at hand -- it's about why exactly Mr. Armalight pretended to be a journalist to get into that manor.'

Midalen was obviously trying to make the statement as serious and mature as possible, but he was only fourteen years old after all. It always seemed a little funny when it came out of his mouth with a straight face. Hunter looked at him, not rushing to answer the question, trying to stifle his own laughter first.

Sure enough, Midalen's straight face lasted for less than two seconds before he scrunched up his nose when Hunter didn't respond, 'Hey, say something. You must have found something, right?'

'How do you know I'm going to help you investigate Armalight? You might not even be able to pay me,' Hunter replied, stifling a laugh.

'I definitely will. You have leverage on me.' Midalen's eyes widened innocently, 'But you do know that I told the federal agents that the butterfly knife came from a guard -- I heard perjury is a serious crime, right?'

Although he didn't put on a stern face this time, there wasn't anything childish about that logic or thought process. Hunter stared at Midalen silently for two seconds and couldn't help but reach out to pinch his cheeks and pull it.

'Ow!'

'You really are just a kid, right?' Hunter released his hand and ruffled Midalen's hair haphazardly, 'And not some kind of adult who turned into a child, like in '17 Again'?'

Midalen flailed desperately under his teasing, all the while not hesitating to mock Hunter's taste in movies. Hunter enjoyed the feel of the soft blonde hair for another two seconds before pulling his hand back and saying slowly, 'Well, I did investigate Herstal Armalight.'

Midalen didn't rush to smooth out his messy hair, but lifted his head to look intently at Hunter.

'The conclusion is: there should have been absolutely no reason for him to enter Sequoia Manor to approach you.'

It was exactly one o'clock in the afternoon when Herstal entered the pale, long corridor outside the WLPD's interrogation room. Outside the corridor loitered some unfortunate officers who could only rely on buying sandwiches from the vending machine to fill themselves up. Herstal had opted for an empty stomach before the upcoming meeting -- he had a stomach-ache as a result, but it at least kept him from feeling nauseous.

His meeting with Kaba Stryder, who was still being held at the police station, had been scheduled for this time. After the pre-trial hearing, if Stryder was denied bail, he'd be transferred to the New Tucker Federal Prison to await his official court date.

This day was the last before the pre-trial hearing, and they needed to discuss the defense strategy one last time -- it was some kind of 'professional ethics' that compelled Herstal to stand here, even though he would have scoffed at the word 'ethics'.

Emma stood behind him, flawlessly performing her secretarial duties, including but not limited to, knowing their schedules and timetables by heart, helping Herstal organise and carry all the necessary materials, and wearing domineering and indifferent makeup as well as a pencil skirts more expensive than the average police officer's monthly salary.

And as they stood in this cold corridor, Aurelie Delphine stood beside the one-way mirrored glass. Hearing the footsteps, she turned slightly to look at Herstal, a smile lingering on her lips like a decaying mask.

'Ms. Prosecutor is speaking withyourclient now. I will need to wait here for her for a short while.' Aurelie introduced softly, as if Herstal really needed an introduction. Then she paused and added, 'Mr. Armalight,youtruly disappointment me.'

Herstal blinked slowly, and with Emma standing beside them, he didn't need to make the implications too clear, 'You think you misjudged me.'

Aurelie had once thought that they shared the same aura, so when Albarino appeared at her bedside that night, Aurelie finally decided to tell them the truth.

'I just thinkyoulack the courage to risk everything.' Aurelie said slowly, her gaze cool and piercing, like holding ice in your hands during the winter, feeling the melted water flowing through your fingers, the pain bitter, and the ache that burned coldly through your bones.

She continued, 'If I didn't knowyou, I'd thinkyouwere a hypocrite -- but I've seenyoursecrets.'

And look where she stood now -- clearly, after their late-night meeting, Aurelie believed Herstal had once wanted to investigate Stryder. But the whole affair ended miserably, with Herstal still standing by the defence. Evidently, Aurelie now believed that Herstal harboured a helpless heart, and had simply surrenderd to some unknown and powerful force.

'I have far more secrets than you think.' Herstal took a step forward and whispered to the woman.

'So you feel that you have more things that cannot be sacrificed.' Aurelie gave a pale smile and lowered her voice considerately to a level that Emma couldn't hear. 'I don't know what happened, but it's clear he asked you to defend him, and you agreed -- you didn't even have the courage to stand against him.'

'Courage comes at a high price.' Herstal replied.

'Everything has a price, and the price you will pay may not be any better than the price I have to pay.' Aurelie shook her head disapprovingly, 'Perhaps you will find, that after you have compromised, that things will only get worse -- you must have heard of many such examples, just like those theories of bread, jam and carpet.' [1]

[1] TL Notes: Not sure what this is referring to, my best guess is perhaps the 'Buttered toast phenomenon' (even though the original Chinese has no mention of butter). It is used as an idiom to represent pessimistic outlooks -- buttered bread will always land face down on carpet.

She paused, and then continued, 'Perhaps in the end, after going around in circles, you'll realise that the price you pay is no less than mine. At least I know that at this moment, you're probably in more pain than I am.'

Herstal remained silent, no one could see the 'pain' on his flawless mask.

'You know, I dropped out of high school and left at seventeen to try and find myself a job. I ended up taking on a position as a housekeeper at Sequoia Manor.' Aurelie sighed and continued, 'And then I met Stryder -- at first, he was nice to me, and I thought he was someone who genuinely liked me and wanted to help ... Ha, at least I thought so until he raped me in the manor's storage room. Mr. Armalight, these past few days have been the most relaxing ones I've had in years.'

That was why Aurelie had chosen to strike up a conversation with Herstal at that party in Sequoia Manor; perhaps her premature entrance into society gave her a keen eye for people, or perhaps she was born with amazing intuition. It was then that she had watched Herstal walk through the noisy crowd, frowning inconspicuously amidst the flowing lust. There was something hidden in this person's eyes that led her to believe that the man had entered Sequoia Manor for another purpose.

Some subtle expression in the man's eyes reminded her of herself looking at her own reflection in the mirror during the dead of night.

Aurelie still had that smile on the corner of her lips, as if her statement did not cause her to feel pain. Then she said to Herstal, 'I spent the night at the police station, and it was the best sleep I've had in years -- my testimony may not have even been enough to convict him; maybe it was all meaningless, but I still think it's better than other choices.'

'Perhaps what you're trying to say,' Herstal pointed out coldly, 'is that it's better than my choice.'

Aurelie still smiled, acquiescing to the silence growing between them.

It was at that moment that Wallis Hardy stepped out of the interrogation room, still frowning. Then she saw Herstal, but the next instant her gaze twisted away, her shoulders stiffening as if she was unsure how to greet the other party. She seemed even angrier than she had been a moment before.

She walked sharply towards Aurelie, mouthing something along the lines of leaving, and quickly brushed past Herstal as if she were fleeing.

Herstal stared straight ahead, wanting to sigh more than any moment before, but even that faint sound he used to vent his emotions seemed to have been all used up. A cold wind scraped through his throat, and finally, no sound came out.

Then he made his way over in the direction of the interrogation room -- where Kaba Stryder sat. And as soon as he would enter, the other man would look up courteously and smile, as if he had just seen the saviour who would pull him out of the lake of sulphurous fire.

He would say, 'Mr. Armalight, I'm so glad you're here again.'

'I've checked out all those reports related to him -- he didn't only do bad things, right? He saved that officer's daughter, and the reports says that you were involved in the case too.' Midalen mentioned lightly, though the truth was that he had pestered a social worker for a computer to play with just to secretly look up information on Herstal.

'That's because he happened to be at the crime scene when we arrived.' Hunter frowned and shook his head, 'He didn't have a choice other than to help out in the Family Butcher case, whereas the Sequoia Manor case was different: he didn't need to get involved in this mess at all. Moreover, kid, people are very complicated. A person can be enthusiastic about charity while doing all kinds of evil. No matter what you think, I want to remind you that it doesn't necessarily make him a good person just because he helped you in some extent.'

Midalen looked at him quietly, then nodded slowly.

'I understand.' He whispered, 'But everything should have a reason -- I want to know what these people's reasons are for everything they do.'

Hunter was momentarily stunned, then suddenly laughed, 'God, you really sound just like Molozer.'

'Who's that?' Midalen asked curiously.

'A particularly impressive girl.' Hunter said vaguely, then he shook his head as if to dismiss the more complicated thoughts before continuing, 'Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that Armalight had no interest or dispute with Sequoia Manor in the first place, and his behaviour proves that he's clearly not a paedophile; and with all due respect, he doesn't seem like someone with a strong sense of justice. So there was absolutely no reason for him to enter Sequoia Manor as a member and ask you for that information. He obviously didn't enter Sequoia Manor for a sense of justice, a police request, or any other reason, which leaves only one possibility ...'

'...He's particularly interested in something or someone in that place?' Midalen asked hesitantly.

'I think it's more likely that he's investigating someone, unless he's actually Philip Thompson's illegitimate son trying to reclaim his share of the inheritance back from Stryder.' Hunter joked, 'In fact, I ruled out the possibility that this matter was related to the Thompson family from the beginning; Thompson had two sons, and if this was related to Thompson, Armalight would have started with his sons. Then we can move on to the elimination process: it can't be a hitman or a staff member of the estate; Stryder was very cautious and rotated his group of employees every once in a while, it's hard for anyone other than him and Rowan to know exactly what people were working at the estate. My friend at the WLPD gave me some insider information; only three people are permanently at Sequoia Manor, Stryder, Rowan, and a woman named Aurelie Delphine.'

Midalen thought for a moment and quickly caught on, 'So you think that Mr. Armalight was investigating Sequoia Manor for one of those three?'

'I suggest we rule out the woman named Aurelie first. In addition to frequenting Sequoia Manor, she is also a high-level socialite... er, you're still too young to know too many details. Anyway, my point is that if Armalight's intentions were related to her, there would be absolutely no need to find a way to enter Sequoia Manor, there are many safer ways for him to meet up with her.' Hunter said with some embarrassment.

Midalen made an odd face at Hunter: the bounty hunter likely didn't realise how precocious boys growing up in a digital age could be.

'Then I went through a series of investigations and ruled out Rowan next. He's a native of Westland and Armalight came to Westland about seven years ago. As a prominent lawyer, his movements are easier to trace, and I found no potential connections between them.' Hunter spread his hands and spoke honestly.

'So you think that Mr. Armalight's investigation into Sequoia Manor has something to do with Stryder?' Midalen asked slowly.

'It's just a hypothesis based on eliminations without evidence.' Hunter replied, 'But the next thing I did was investigate Stryder, and I found him to be quite an interesting man. He came to Westland about thirty years ago, initially taking on a job as a labourer on Thompson's estate. Somehow, he became increasingly successful, eventually becoming the late old Thompson's steward at Sequoia Manor. After his employer's death, he left a will to let him run the club in Sequoia Manor.'

'That just sounds like he's been a consistent pedophile for thirty years.' Midalen curled his lips. He had no doubt that the late Thompson used the money at his disposal to do such activities thirty years ago.

Hunter shook his head, 'That's not the most important thing, the most important thing is: I don't know anything about Stryder's life before he was employed by old Thompson. In other words, before appearing in Westland, Stryder didn't exist.'

Midalen was taken aback, '...so his identity is fake?'

'Apparently so.' Hunter nodded his head in a mature manner, 'Armalight never entered that circle of old Thompson's during his years in Westland, and it stands to reason that he and Stryder would not have crossed paths unless they knew each other before they came to Westland. Of course, this is just a theory, perhaps I'm fundamentally wrong and Armalight didn't come to Westland for that reason at all.'

Midalen nodded slowly, obviously gradually realizing how difficult it was to investigate such things. He hesitated for a while, then raised his head and asked, 'So what do you plan on doing next?'

'Next, I plan on returning you back to your residence before the social workers at the orphanage call the police.' Hunter replied dryly.

Midalen's eyes widened for a moment and he bared his teeth in displeasure like a small animal.

'Alright, alright, young man.' Hunter chuckled, waving his hand heavily, 'No more jokes, I'll keep investigating through other channels. Since you 'hired' me, I'll make sure to give you a satisfactory result.'

The moment Herstal stepped out of the police station, it was already the hottest part of the day, and April was far from hot. Albarino was standing under the sunlight beside the road, leaning against the ostentatious red Chevrolet, with a big grin on his face.

Herstal considered for a moment, but decided to walk towards the other man -- his temples still throbbed with every step he took. These symptoms flared up more frequently when the light was strong, and with the frequency of his migraine attacks lately, his doctor would definitely recommend him to have a brain MRI.

'Your idleness is astounding.' He said as he stopped in front of Albarino.

'Only those unfortunate enough to have a pre-trial hearing on Monday need to work late on Sundays.' The forensic pathologist and technical witness for the river dumping case replied lazily. His mask perfectly concealed any of his emotions, leaving only a template of an emotionless smile, as was Albarino's habit.

But when he opened his mouth to speak his next words, they revealed a different meaning.

'So until then, what do you want, Herstal?' Albarino asked, lowering his voice meaningfully, 'Just like before the Battle of Salamis began, the Athenian general Themistocles personally killed three Persian noble boys with his own hands as a sacrifice to the gods -- what do you want me to sacrifice to you before tomorrow comes?'

Herstal glanced at him silently, and Albarino still maintained that same smile that was like any other time before.

'Would you like a lavish dinner?' Albarino asked with a smile, 'Or a soft bed and a dreamless, peaceful sleep. Or do you want me to f*ck you in this car, in this very spot right across the street from the police station? Until I can wring those bad thoughts out of your mind, until you can let yourself cry out.'

Herstal continued to stare at him, his gaze calm and level with Albarino's eyes. Herstal said, 'I know what you're trying to express by saying all of this now.'

The curve of Albarino's mouth seemed to deepen slightly, as if asking; what?

Herstal spoke slowly, 'You're trying to make me realise that no matter what is going on in the outside world, only you will remain unchanged from beginning to end -- you will always observe it with the same attitude, never softening, never leaving, and let alone betraying.'

'Isn't that good enough?' Albarino asked rhetorically in a calm tone.

'From a normal person's point of view, I'm afraid this is probably not considerate enough, and even a bit creepy.' Herstal choked out a fragmented laugh from his throat, his eyes like knives, glowing with a dark light that didn't exist in this world, 'But honestly, it feels safe.'

Hunter stood before a two story white house.

He hadn't gone home immediately after dropping Midalen off -- though his legs were protesting their desire for this option after taking a few more steps -- now, he found himself standing in front of Kaba Stryder's well-located apartment, gazing out over the grassy lawn inside the white picket fence.

Indeed, Stryder didn't live in Sequoia Manor twenty-four hours a day. Hunter suspected that this was a calculated move the other man made in preparation to get himself off the hook; if he stayed there 24/7, he wouldn't be able to argue that he had no knowledge of what was going on within the property.

At the moment, the yellow and black caution tape surrounding the white fence fluttered in the breeze, catching the curious glances of occasional passer-bys. When Stryder had first been arrested, the neighbourhood had been swarmed with prying journalists; the charges of imprisonment and rape of minors alone was newsworthy enough, not to mention the fact that the late newspaper mogul was involved. People were always full of unnecessary curiosity regarding such public figures.

However, the neighbourhood had since returned to its usual tranquillity. After scanning the area, Hunter chose a blind spot out of the cameras' view and limped across the shaky caution tape.

He had this gut feeling about things: that Armalight's actions were key to uncovering the truth behind everything, and Albarino Bacchus's interest in the case was likely linked; likewise, Stryder's unknown history before he came to Westland absolutely warranted investigation.

These thoughts all stemmed from the experience he had slowly accumulated over thirty years of being a bounty hunter. Hunter knew that not so many coincidences could happen in real life, and most were deliberately orchestrated by people. It was impossible for Dr. Bacchus and Armalight to be separately concerned about a case, and there shouldn't be a suspect with a mysterious and elusive origin either.

Among all the scattered clues, there was bound to be a hidden red thread that could connect everything together. He had now appeared before Stryder's house in search of a trace of that red thread.

Because this case was under the scrutiny of federal agents, there was absolutely no way that anyone he knew at the WLPD could help him get the evidence collected by police from Sequoia Manor. Sequoia Manor was now blocked off at every level, and the bushes beyond the garden walls were full of lurking journalists, so much so that at any given time, a dozen or so journalists could be kicked out. Therefore, it certainly wasn't a place that he could get into either. So in the end, Stryder's house, which was no longer in the sights of the police and the reporters, became his final destination for exploration.

Hunter knew that a person's home was almost a direct representation of their inner world, and even if they were careful to cover up their past, it was hard to avoid letting their history seep into every corner. And as they all say, the devils in the details.

Hunter crossed the lawn with less agility than in his prime and entered Stryder's home through a glass door in the backyard. The interior was dim, and a thin layer of fingerprint dust covered the floors and surfaces, which had obviously been searched thoroughly inside out by the CSIs.

The most valuable evidence was likely already taken, and Hunter didn't expect to find anything that could convict Stryder here. Such people who skirted along the edges of the law wouldn't just leave such incriminating items lying around the house.

Instead, what he was looking for was a window into the world of Stryder's mind -- at moments like this, he always thought of Olga ironically, as if to confirm that if that profiler had been present, they could have gotten closer to the truth. At other times, Hunter thought it was just a manifestation of his cowardly evasion of responsibility, 'It was precisely because such an excellent profiler was not present that I did not see through to the truth of the matter', which was obviously just an excuse for himself.

He scanned the room with great caution: although everything was covered in dust, Stryder's residence was surprisingly neat and orderly, not quite the state a single man his age could maintain. However, that guy was paranoid by nature, and it seemed unlikely that he would hire a housekeeper to clean his room for him on a regular basis ...In addition, although the house was in a good location, it was neither large nor ostentatious. Apparently, Stryder did not want to expose the fact that he was actually very rich. In that case, it was more likely that the house would have to be cleaned by him most of the time. Had he developed this neat and tidy habit of living since he was young?

Hunter moved slowly through the interior, scanning one thing after another ... there were almost no photos, save for one of a younger Stryder with other staff members at Sequoia Manor. There were no photo albums, mementos, or long abandoned items that proved Stryder's experiences when he was much younger. It looked as if Stryder had appeared straight out of thin air, empty-handed, to Westland. Did he move to this city without any belongings?

After meticulously searching the bedroom, living room, and study, Hunter concluded this was almost certainly true: the house contained essentially only things that had come from Stryder's move to Westland; old newspapers and magazines (mainly p*rnographic magazines, Hunter noted) were dusty and neatly stacked in the bookcases, all of which had invariably been in print within the last thirty years. On the shelf of the living room, there sat a couple of small trophies with the inscription for 'Best Employee Award', obviously from his days working for Thompson. Drawers containing barely used chess sets, playing cards, and other knick-knacks indicated that the man hardly ever entertained guests in his home.

Hunter frowned, feeling discouraged, and pulled open the last drawer on the right-hand side of the study table in frustration. He rummaged through neat stacks of gas and rent bills, ballpoint pens and paper clips, and other small items, before his fingers paused slightly.

He pulled out an item from the drawer that had been thrown in haphazardly, something that he had never expected to find in Stryder's home.

-- A string of rosary beads adorned with a bitter image of the crucified Christ underneath.

Hunter looked at the object in his hand in confusion. He could not imagine in any way that Stryder could be a religious person, however, the string of rosary beads in his hand looked old but still smooth and soft in appearance. It looked as if it had once been used frequently by someone ... He unconsciously turned the crucifix in his hand over to the back, and suddenly realised that there was a line of faint letters engraved on the back of the wooden cross.

'The Church of St. Anthony the Great'.

Chapter 48: 84. Fool's Celebration (4)

Chapter Text

Aurelie was walking through the dimly-lit alley, the darkening sky above was swirling with thick clouds, hinting at an imminent rainstorm.

She had stayed late at Wallis Hardy's office, instinctively refusing when she had been offered a lift home. At that moment, Wallis had looked at her with a worried expression, and almost blurted out the words, 'I'm worried about your mental state' -- Even now, years later, it was difficult for Aurelie to accept unwarranted kindness.

It was almost laughable: a prosecutor genuinely worried about her tainted witness.

The following day was the pre-trial hearing, and Aurelie, as one of the witnesses, would be testifying in court. She still had many details to go over with the prosecutor. Inevitably, she was nervous, but Ms. Hardy had told her in a relaxed tone that there would be no way Stryder would ever make it through the pre-trial detention hearing, and that even a lawyer of Armalight's calibre would not be able to get him released on bail before the trial.

'You're safe.' That prosecutor emphasised in a gentle tone.

Aurelie had heard too many legal terms within the past few days, so she easily understood what this prosecutor meant: the purpose of the pre-trial detention hearing was not to prove the suspect's guilt, but rather to prove that the suspect would be a major flight risk after being granted bail.

Stryder had been arrested in the house where the abducted children were being held, which undoubtedly qualified as an offence stipulated under section 3124(e) of the Code (Wallis Hardy often emphasised this to Aurelie, although Aurelie still didn't understand what those code provisions were): that is, the suspect was involved in an offence involving a minor victim, and would therefore be ineligible for bail.

So even though the hearing had yet to begin, it was almost certain that Stryder and his men would remain in custody until the official court hearing.

Aurelie didn't know if she should have felt relieved by this... Even though she had made many preparations for this day, when things were finally coming to a head, she still felt an irrepressible fear in her heart: as a woman who was particularly sensitive to the emotions of other people, she was keenly aware that underneath Wallis's warm, reassuring voice, lurked an unobtrusive agitation.

It was likely due to the insufficient evidence they had. Wallis may not be confident about convicting Stryder. With Aurelie as a witness, Stryder's rape conviction might stand, but the others ...

... the children.

Aurelie had been by Stryder's side for many years, so she knew that he was always extremely cautious when it came to the matters concerning those children. Thinking about this, Aurelie couldn't help but sigh, because if Wallis Hardy's suspicions were correct, the road ahead would be even more difficult than she had imagined.

At the moment, she was walking through the alley with a worried expression, carefully avoiding the puddles of dirty water on the ground -- after cooperating with the prosecutor, she had given up her nice penthouse in the city centre and moved into a much smaller apartment in order to avoid retaliation from any of Stryder's men who had slipped through the net. Stryder didn't know about this new address, which made her feel much more at ease.

It was at this time that she heard a crisp sound of metal clanking from behind her, echoing abruptly in the gloomy alley.

Aurelie was startled, she turned around to look behind her. The alley remaimed dim and quiet, the sound just now must have been from a stray cat jumping into a rubbish bin, right? After nightfall was a common time for animals to be active. Despite this reasoning, she still couldn't help but pick up her pace for the rest of the journey.

'Courage comes at a high price.'

-- Those were the words of Herstal Armalight at that time.

Orion Hunter sat in the airport terminal, a cane without a hidden blade rested on his knees, and a small backpack at his feet that contained nothing more than a change of clothes or two. He looked like a homeless old man.

Even though it was nearing midnight, the airport was still lively and bright. Tired people who had to wait for flights in the early hours of the morning for various reasons sat around, each of them carrying a good story that newspaper columnists would have loved.

Hunter had spent much of his youth running around trying to catch bail-jumpers, so he was used to strange situations. Yet, even he found the current circ*mstances odd.

-- A day ago, he wouldn't have thought he'd be planning to leave the city, and a month ago, he never would have thought he'd be buying the quickest flight out based on a vague piece of information.

The screens in the terminal displayed flight information in various fonts, indicating the boarding times for each flight. There were about fifteen minutes left before his flight began boarding. Hunter clutched his phone tightly in his hand, the screen displaying a photograph:

It was a picture of the cross. After snapping a few pictures, he had hastily shoved the ornament back into the drawer, and then quickly erased all traces of his presence and left Stryder's apartment. So now, the only thing guiding him in this uncertain direction were these photos. The cross had been weathered by the passage of time, but the letters inscribed on it were still clearly visible.

'The Church of St. Anthony the Great.'

St. Anthony's Church, after searching through the internet, Hunter easily found news about this church: there was only one Catholic church named after St. Anthony within the entire United States, and it was located in the state of Kentucky.

Why would Stryder have a cross with the name of that church engraved into it in his drawer? Did it hint at his origins? Or was it a memento left by someone important to him?

Hunter had various speculations in his mind, but it was meaningless to speculate on which ones were true before the plane had even taken off. But the fact remained clear: he had found no other physical evidence than that cross that could potentially lead him to Stryder's past. Without knowing Stryder's past, it would be impossible to find out whether he had any grudges with Armalight, much less uncover Armalight's true intentions for entering Sequoia Manor.

According to his friend at the police station, the police had yet to trace Stryder's origins as well. Even if the other party had loosely revealed anything to them, what came out were definitely all lies. Hunter didn't expect to be able to uncover any truth from the other party's confession, and it was evident that the police had overlooked the small wooden cross in Stryder's drawer during their evidence collection, so relying on them wasn't an option either.

Therefore, the only path before him now was for him to personally visit Kentucky, and that church himself to see if he could find any more clues regarding Stryder there.

With this determination, Hunter set out hastily, feeling even more impulsive than a runaway high school student. Now, sitting in the terminal, he calculated the time remaining before boarding and decided to call Midalen to inform him of his trip, lest the kid climbed out over the wall to look for him in a few days.

Hunter adeptly dialled the landline number for the orphanage, the busy tone sounded three times before it connected. The youth's voice sounded light and relaxed, it was almost hard to believe that he had been kidnapped by a group of deranged criminals.

Midalen said neatly, 'Hello?'

From his tone, Hunter suspected he already knew who was calling. It made sense -- only someone like Hunter would be calling an orphanage child in the early hours of the morning, and only a disobedient child like Midalen would be awake at this hour.

Hunter quickly explained his findings at Stryder's home and why he'd decided to go to Kentucky. He also informed the other party that he wouldn't be able to treat Midalen to a big dinner after the pre-trial hearing as he had promised.

There was two or three seconds of silence on the other side of the phone, and then he heard the kid choke out a giggle between the blurred electromagnetic static.

'You're quite an interesting person, Mr. Hunter.' The overly mature boy said.

Hunter didn't quite understand what the other party was trying to express, so he could only remain silent. It was at that time that it started raining again, as he could hear the slight noise of raindrops hitting the window on the other side of the phone.

And it was over this continuous background noise that Midalen spoke, 'Look, I don't even have the means to pay you right now, and 'Stryder once had a connection with a church in Kentucky' is nothing more than a one-in-a-thousand possibility. Many people wouldn't fly to Kentucky in the spur of the moment during a situation like this, it's like ... well, we all know that skipping school can bring us joy, but there's only a very small percentage who would actually do it.'

Hunter really wanted to ask Midalen what his teacher would think about this strange insight he was offering about skipping school, but ultimately, he didn't open his mouth. Instead, he reflected on the boy's question for a few seconds -- he thought of Olga Molozer standing on the lectern at Westland State University, the blood splattered on Midalen's face, and the documents he'd written before out of suspicion of Albarino Bacchus.

He had to acknowledge the fact that he'd been walking on the edge of a knife for a long time. He knew that Alan Todd had indirectly become a pawn in the hands of the Westland Pianist, he knew that Shana Bacchus had once been an 'Angel of Death', he knew that Albarino might be a secret murderer, he knew the trail of the Family Butcher who had been travelling from state to state, and now he knew that Armalight might have known Stryder in the past... Most people, or those who 'don't skip school', as Midalen had put it, would have called the police immediately after knowing these things, and then withdrew to safety. They wouldn't have written a detailed letter recounting their experiences, nor decide to buy a plane ticket to Kentucky.

-- Then he thought once more of Olga Molozer.

The latter had driven him to the WLPD to look up information relating to the Family Butcher. He remembered the way she had tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. At the time, he had sincerely said to the other party: 'I thought you would call the police immediately after hearing my speculation.'

'Why?' Olga asked back with a smirk, still concentrating on looking ahead, 'I thought your previous investigation and speculation made sense. Following that line of thought, maybe we can really figure out who the Family Butcher is. Isn't that interesting?'

'The average person wouldn't call a serial murder case where so many people died 'interesting'.' Hunter pointed out gruffly back then.

Olga had merely laughed softly as the car sped through a green-light intersection. Then she said, 'Maybe my wording is not quite accurate, but death itself is not interesting, and serial killers are not always interesting -- at least, when they caught, they lose that interesting essence. As far as I'm concerned, it's interesting to grasp their essence so that you know what drove them to be what they are now, and you can also predict their future actions based on that.'

She paused, then said thoughtfully, '... Maybe it's like fishing. There is a saying that fishermen who go out to sea to fish can judge the type, size, and swimming direction of fish schools based on the unique ripples on the water surface... Then you can catch them accordingly. It demystifies the ocean in your eyes. How interesting is that?'

Hunter thought for a moment, then said slowly, '... Hunters are like that too.'

'Yes,' repeated Olga with a pleasant hum, 'Hunter are like that too.'

And once again, for no apparent reason, this dialogue came to mind while Orion Hunter was sitting in the terminal with his mobile phone in hand. He could still hear Midalen breathing softly through the phone, and then he sighed and said, 'It's like being a hunter.'

'I'm sorry, what?' Midalen asked with curiosity.

'A hunter,' Hunter said, stretching his neck a little, then explained, 'The process of catching prey is already thrilling enough, and the amount of profit that can be gained through these trophies are secondary. In earlier times, the nobles of Europe would hunt during the right seasons, not to obtain food, but to simply enjoy the thrill of it.'

'Actually, the nobles didn't need to hunt for food because they were super rich.' Midalen retorted without hesitation

... Thinking about his unemployment benefits, Hunter suddenly felt like he'd been stabbed in the heart by this heartless little bastard.

But Midalen didn't mock him any further. He paused briefly, then asked, 'So you're willing to pay so much attention to this matter now because you're beginning to enjoy the thrill of it?'

'Yes.'

Hunter thought for a moment, then continued, 'And, I feel as if I've touched the a corner of the truth.'

It was at that moment that the announcement for boarding sounded. Hunter looked ahead and saw that the line of words marking the name of his flight jumped from one colour to another.

So he slowly stood up, put on his backpack, gripped the cane in his hand, and walked in the same direction as the bustling crowd.

It was raining outside at the moment, and he could smell the bitter odour of dampness that had travelled down the hallway with the wind.

Herstal thought he had been awoken by the sound of the rain, but perhaps not.

When he opened his eyes, flashes of lightning streaked intermittently outside the window, casting a pale shadow over the ridge-like folds of the bedsheets in the room. Albarino had somehow squeezed in behind him without him knowing, one hand wrapped around his shoulder like the stubborn roots of a plant, and his breath falling warmly on his neck.

In this moment, Herstal had three epiphanies:

First, he realised that somehow Albarino had crossed the boundary in the middle of the unnecessarily large bed without him realising, as if the rift that should have existed between them had never existed in the first place; second, he realised that he did not wake up from his sleep when Albarino approached him from behind, and pull out the knife he kept underneath his pillow to stab the other man in the throat.

Third, it wasn't the sound of rain that woke him up, nor was it the muffled thunder that rolled in from time to time beneath the thick clouds. His mobile phone on the bedside table was vibrating fiercely, emitting a series of indistinct buzzes in the darkness.

Albarino hummed something vaguely behind him, a string of indecipherable mumblings that made it hard to tell whether he was really awake or deliberately showing vulnerability; with Albarino, anything was possible.

Herstal ignored him and reached out for his phone. When he pressed the answer button, a broken, somewhat familiar-sounding sob came from the phone.

-- The sound pierced his heart like a small needle, causing his entire body to stiffen for a moment, and a tingle started up his spine for no apparent reason. Perhaps, even before he reacted to whose voice it really was, his intuition had already signalled to him the worst possible outcome.

Albarino had obviously sensed his abnormality. Herstal heard the other party take a breath in before exhaling slowly, his tone was still a little sleepy, 'What's wrong?'

And Herstal asked the person on the other end of the phone, 'Ms. Delphine?'

He had heard it, despite the fact that the female voice coming over the phone was fragmented by sobs, he was still very sure that it was Aurelie Delphine. Why was she calling so late at night? After their meeting at the police station, she seemed to have no desire to interact with him again.

'You're right,' Aurelie whispered on the other end of the phone, her voice strangely interspersed with intermittent gasps, as if in pain, 'Courage costs... a lot.'

The end of the sentence was stretched into a painful groan that was gut-wrenching to hear. Herstal's frown grew tighter. He propped himself up a little with his arms to sit up and continued, 'Ms. Delphine, where are you now? Do you need help?'

'I envy you.' Aurelie's voice was tinged with tears, and every word she spoke trembled, 'There are ways of letting go of the past, you could, you started life anew...you could even defend him. I wish I could make myself not care...'

I've never stopped caring, Herstal thought. His fingers tightened around the phone. When the capillaries are compressed, the blood flow will decrease. Under the illumination of the lightning that flashed every now and then, his knuckles were as pale as bones.

At that moment, Herstal sincerely hoped with all his heart that Aurelie was just -– for example, drunk, and calling someone randomly to vent her anxieties. But his intuition told him otherwise. On the other side of the bed, Albarino had already climbed up with a grim face and started dialling Hardy.

'... But I can't hold on any longer.' Aurelie sobbed.

The voice tore sharply through the sound of rain, causing his fingers to feel some strange tingling. Me too, he thought -- this thought emerged from the bottom of his heart without him even realising. Me too. This thought was so clear and distinct that it seemed like a sudden and strange visitor to him: he had never allowed such thoughts to arise in his mind, and any thoughts that resembled 'surrender' was intolerable to him, but there they were.

And the voice of the other party soon grew lower and more indistinct, a strange mixture of 'Help me' and 'I don't want to die' and 'I still want to live', and then Herstal heard a loud noise on the other end of the phone, and Aurelie Delphine began to scream, and kept screaming, and then --

Click.

Then the phone hung up abruptly, as if snuffing out a life. Herstal still held the phone, but there was no more sound coming from the speakers.

Bart Hardy, clad in a raincoat, escorted Albarino into the scene of the crime from his parked car outside the cordon to the crime scene. It was just before six o'clock in the morning, where the weather was gloomy, as if it were the end of the world due to the gradually increasing rainfall.

Officer Hardy had done his best to wrap himself tightly with the raincoat, but it was obviously no use; his face was covered with rain, his hair so wet that it was plastered to his forehead, and the rain was dripping down his brow and into his eyes. Albarino held up his umbrella, but it swayed wildly under the ravages of the gale. By the time he crossed the cordoned tape and walked deeper into the alley, the clothes below his chest were soaked through, as if he had just swum in a large body of water.

Every now and then, a muffled thunderclap rolled across the sky, and the lightning made everyone's face look very pale. The officers had propped up a plastic sheet in the alley in an attempt to protect the crime scene outside, but it was completely futile: the ground was covered in sewage and stank of rubbish. Any evidence would have been completely destroyed under such a downpour.

Amidst the sewage, which was floating with rubbish and dirty oil, Albarino saw Aurelie Delphine.

The beautiful face was soaked in blood. If he hadn't been mentally prepared for this, Albarino would never have been able to identify her as Aurelie until the DNA reports came back. The once delicate features were marred with slashes of all sizes, some sort of sharp blade had sliced off her lips and nose, her eyes gouged out with the tip of a knife. The vitreous fluid mixed with blood flowed all the way down. Not to mention the severed fingers, the abdomen that had been slashed open with a knife, and the intestines and other organs that had been ripped out and strewn all over the ground. Blood flowed across the filthy ground like a bloody river.

If it wasn't for the rain diluting the smell of blood, some of the officers present might have vomited.

Albarino surveyed the scene without any expression: the crime scene looked like an altar of blood; he had seen countless gruesome deaths, and orchestrated many bloody acts himself, he had sculpted bones and flesh, and he had done things that many people could have never imagined in their lifetimes. Such a scene should not be a big deal to him -- but he realized what this murder meant and what purpose lay behind such cruelty.

It was obvious that the person who had committed this murder was making some sort of demonstration.

Hardy stood beside him, looking at the body with a very complicated expression. He knew that the deceased was a tainted witness in Stryder's case, and that the existence of this witness was very important to his wife, Wallis. Of course, he also knew what the other party's death meant as well.

Hardy thought for a moment, then asked over the sound of the rain that was so furious it seemed to be tearing everything apart, 'You told me earlier that she made a phone call to Mr. Armalight before she was killed? Do you think we need to --?'

'No need.' Albarino interrupted the unfinished sentence briskly, shoving the umbrella in his hand into Hardy's arms as he stepped into the crime scene that was barely sheltered by the plastic sheets with his forensic investigation kit. Rain cascaded down his hair, as if there were invisible wounds under his skin.

'Herstal doesn't need to see this crime scene. I'm sure he doesn't know who the killer is either, and showing him photos of the scene won't reveal any more evidence.' He said in a calm voice, while silently adding to his heart the other sentence that was yet to be voiced: Before the trial, he didn't need to be distracted by any more painful things.

And the trial was approaching fast.

Early in the morning, Herstal sat in the driver's seat of the car, which was parked in the car park outside the Westland State Court. The windshield wipers worked tirelessly, but the view outside remained a blurred mosaic of colours under the curtain of water.

The pre-trial hearing started at eight o'clock. His colleagues from the law firm and the defendant would meet him outside the court. He suspected that Holmes and the others may already be waiting, but he had no intentions of leaving just yet.

Albarino had left the house before dawn, making a show of being called in suddenly, as usual, to investigate a crime scene. He had not returned yet, nor had he provided any updates

But Herstal had more or less guessed what had happened, and therefore he knew what kind of a smile he would see on Stryder's face if he went into the court now.

This wasn't surprising; there were undoubtedly others working for Stryder besides the ones who had been arrested, and Aurelie was the only one who could testify against him for rape.

Even though the pre-trial hearing wasn't a formal procedure and the evidence presented at the hearing didn't necessarily have to comply with the Federal Rules of Evidence -- meaning hearsay evidence could be admissible at a pre-trial hearing, although such evidence would likely be excluded as illegal in the formal trial -- even if some of the testimonies presented by Aurelie during the pre-trial hearing might not be considered valid evidence at the formal trial, Stryder had still decided to go ahead and strike first.

He couldn't even tolerate the other party's presence at the pre-trial hearing.

Herstal sighed slowly. The day had only just begun, but he already felt exhausted. His hand unconsciously fiddled with his phone, pressing play on the call recording and listening to the chaotic sounds of rain and broken sobs flow out.

It was a product left behind after the call had been going on for a while before he had the hindsight to remember to record it. In this recording, the strong, always smiling lady was crying. Her broken voice echoed over and over in the car, and Herstal could recite almost every word of it.

'You could even defend him. I wish I could make myself not care...'

' The first time I saw you, I saw something familiar in you -- I guess you've been hurt before, haven't you? '

'... But I can't hold on any longer.'

'You didn't even have the courage to stand against him.'

'I don't want to die, I still want to live.'

'Please ... please don't let me down.'

'I don't want to stay in that place anymore.'

Those recordings flowed out from the phone in a steady, continuous stream, like a never-ending viscous river. Herstal couldn't help but lift his hand to rub his brows, feeling something pulsing beneath his veins, screaming to break free.

Herstal let the recording play once, and then again. Then he silently switched off the phone recording, pushed open the car door, and took a step into the cold curtain of rain outside the car.

From where he stood, through the gray rain and layers of watery mist, he could see the Greek-style pediment of the courthouse, adorned with carved reliefs. The same courthouse where Albarino had placed the bodies of Billy and Anthony Sharp on the high stone steps, with red flowers extending from their feet like spilled blood.

Herstal saw the statue of Lady Justice, holding the scale and a blade, swaying in the wind and rain under the leaden grey sky.

Chapter 49: 85. Fool's Celebration (5)

Chapter Text

Orion Hunter drove through the desolate small town in a car rented near the airport.

His destination was a town called White Oak -- like the other surrounding towns, this town was originally established on the nearby hardwood forests that produced white oak and hickory. Later, around the turn of the twentieth century, it had briefly prospered thanks to the discovery of a coal mine near the town.

But in the last twenty years, the town of White Oak had begun to decline as the local coal resources were gradually depleted. There were still some people who stayed in the town to run their hardwood business that had been passed down through their families for generations, while the people who'd once lived in the town as miners gradually moved out to other places where there were coal mines.

Hunter drove over the dusty road, and saw cars pulling hardwood driving past the road at the edge of the town. The town's infrastructures were visibly dilapidated, and many of the uninhabited houses were left in a run-down grey, with old glass windows covered with spider-web-like cracks; there were very few people on the streets, lacking prosperity and liveliness. At a glance, most of the pedestrians were middle-aged and elderly, with few young faces, which made the town look all the more lifeless.

Hunter soon found St. Anthony Church by following the map and asking for directions. The church was located in the town center, looking as gray and as worn as the other buildings, with withered weeds growing on the front steps. Hunter parked his car nearby and entered the church under the dim morning light -- the temperature in the early morning of April was still slightly cool, and there was a slight smell of dust floating in the church.

It was a small church, with only two or three elderly people sitting on the pews for morning prayers, their hair looked white under the morning light streaming through the stained glass windows. There were no lights on in the church at this hour, of course, and the image of the crucified Jesus was shrouded in deep shadows cast by the high walls. It was still too early in the morning for Mass to have started, and an elderly man dressed as a clergyman stood beside a small blackboard erected along the aisle, writing the passage numbers for today's mass readings with chalk.

He evidently heard Hunter's footsteps and turned around.

In such a small town, the only priest likely knew every person with a religious inclination, so Hunter didn't expect his status as an outsider to go unnoticed. The priest quickly approached him, smiling, but with a noticeable hint of curiosity on his face.

'Hello,' the priest said, 'I'm Father Johnson, how can I helpyou?'

'My name is Orion Hunter. Uh... actually I do have a question to askyouabout.' Hunter thought for a moment, and with a hesitant and expectant look on his face, he propped up his cane with one hand, and with the other fished out the phone in his pocket to show Father Johnson. Displayed on the screen was the photograph he had taken earlier at Stryder's house: the name of the church was clearly inscribed onto the back of the cross, 'Doyousee this cross? Is it from this church?'

Due to being delayed by the disfigured corpse in the alley, Albarino unsurprisingly missed the vast majority of the pre-trial hearing. However, he was scheduled to be one of the technical witnesses required to appear at the pre-trial hearing, so he had to rush to the courthouse immediately, despite the heavy rain and being soaked to the bone.

By the time he arrived at the state courthouse, the prosecutors and defence attorneys were arguing over the admissibility of a piece of evidence.

CSI had extracted Stryder's hair from the bedsheets in one of the 'guest rooms' at Sequoia Manor. Given that Stryder had claimed that he'd only stayed in his own room at Sequoia Manor, and knew nothing about the children that Rowan had raped behind his back. This discovery cast doubt on his statement, after all, from the jury's standpoint, if he had stayed in the guest rooms which were clearly used for questionable activities, who knew what else he might have done there?

At this time, the defence attorney was arguing that the CSI's evidence collection procedures were improper, and that the hairs could not be presented to the jury as legitimate evidence. The CSI technician who had been tasked with collecting the evidence -- a colleague of Bates, whom Albarino had seen many times at various crime scenes -- had also appeared in court as a technical witness, looking flustered and red-faced under the defence attorney's questioning. Just by looking at his appearance, Albarino realised that the defence's allegations were not baseless, and that there really seemed to be procedural issue with the evidence collection.

-- And that defence lawyer was none other than Herstal.

At this moment, Kaba Stryder was sitting comfortably in the defendant's chair, like a spectator watching a show; and Mr Holmes, who had not spoken, was seated a little further back, visibly pleased with his partner's performance.

Seeing their confident demeanor, it was clear that Stryder believed he had dealt with the biggest problem, believing himself to now be untouchable: with Aurelie dead, it was no longer possible for the witness who could testify against Stryder that he had raped her as a minor to appear in court. It was obvious that Rowan was the man who was supposed to take the fall. Under these circ*mstances, if it wasn't for the case involving kidnapping and child molestation, as well as Sequoia Manor being the estate of a dead tycoon and drawing too much media attention, they could have avoided trial altogether, with Rowan securing a private plea deal with the prosecution.

Herstal was calmly citing two previous instances of irregularities in the evidence collected by the same technician, one of which had resulted in disciplinary action from the forensic lab. The intention of presenting this information to the court at such a moment was clear: to convince the judge that this evidence was not admissible, and Albarino, as a seasoned technical witness in criminal cases, had seen such situations many times before.

Therefore, he found a seat in the back row corner and didn't even bother to listen to what Wallis Hardy, as the prosecutor, was arguing with Herstal. Anyway, if the hair evidence was confirmed to be improperly collected, it would undoubtedly be deemed inadmissible, and hoping for an unlikely outcome was pointless

Albarino let his mind wander, trying his best to ignore the fabric that clung wetly to his skin, and stared at Herstal in boredom. From his seat, he could see a bit of Herstal's profile. Albarino noted that the other man's brows were furrowed, and the blue of his eyes were as deep as stagnant water.

Others might not notice any difference, as Herstal was a man who never put on a good face, looking as if everyone owed him money. But Albarino knew that that was not the case. He sat inconspicuously in the corner, propping his chin lazily on his hand as he gazed into Herstal's face.

Albarino wondered in his mind what Herstal had been thinking when he heard about Aurelie Delphine's death.

Father Johnson examined the photo in Hunter's hand for a long time, and then he blinked slowly, trying to recall something with difficulty.

Finally, he said with uncertainty, '...It should be. The church used to have a gift shop where we sold Bibles, rosaries, and other small items. We used the money we made to repair the church and the parish schools, and to pay the clergy. I remember the crosses sold there at that time looked like this, but I'm not particularly sure. I was assigned to this church for only a few months before the gift shop closed due to poor business.'

Hunter looked at Father Johnson, who gave an apologetic smile. 'I came to this church almost ten years ago. Because more and more residents of White Oak moved away, fewer and fewer people were coming to church. Before I came, I heard that this church had at least two or three priests, and several deacons; but because there are not many believers left, now only I and another young deacon are in charge of the church.'

Hunter had to admit that he was a little disappointed. Stryder came to Westland thirty years ago, while this priest only came to White Oak ten years ago. It seemed basically impossible that he would know anything about Stryder's past; and based on what he said, the deacon was very young, and likely wouldn't know anything that happened thirty years ago either. Unwilling to give up easily, Hunter continued to ask, 'Then doyouknow where the parish priest of the church is now? The one beforeyoucame to this church to take office?'

'Youwould be talking about Father Anderson,' Father Johnson nodded, 'The reason I took over this church is because the parish bishop passed away... and now Father Anderson has taken the roll of parish bishop.'

... Hunter couldn't help but reach up and wipe his face.

With the introduction of Father Johnson, Hunter realised that things were bigger than he had thought. Father Anderson -- who should now be called Bishop Anderson -- managed churches in seven nearby towns. A parish bishop was not on the same level as a small parish priest. So of course he could enter St. Anthony's Church to ask about Stryder, but to go into a parish bishop's office and ask such questions? Forget it.

Unless he could forge an identity for himself that would allow him to ask such questions openly, like a state police or a federal officer, realistically, those who think they could impersonate a police officer and ask others questions so openly have probably watched too many movies and TV shows. Assuming that a parish bishop was being questioned by an officer, his first reaction would definitely be to contact the Kentucky State Police to find out what was going on, and then Hunter would be exposed in minutes.

At this moment, Father Johnson also looked at him curiously and asked, 'Sir, why areyouasking questions about this cross?'

He didn't blame the priest for being curious, mainly because his behaviour since entering the door had indeed been strange. Hunter swallowed for a moment before he began to make up some nonsense, 'It's like this: recently, I heard that an old friend of mine passed away, a comrade from my time in the army.'

Hunter didn't miss the priest's eyes subtly glancing at the cane he was holding, and it was obvious that pity was spilling from the priest's heart: because the person standing before the priest was none other than a poor veteran, with a leg injury that was presumably left over from his time in Afghanistan or Iraq.

'He didn't have any other family or friends, so he left all his inheritance to me.' Hunter continued to babble, offering a slightly pale and hesitant smile in the process, 'To be honest, I was also surprised... because we've barely had any contact since I was discharged due to my injuries. Perhaps he truly had no one else to turn to.'

He paused and continued, 'It was only then that I realized I knew next to nothing about my friend. There was nothing in his belongings that shed light on his past. I found this cross in his inheritance, so on a whim, I decided to visit this church ... I thought maybe he lived in Kentucky in his childhood? To be honest, I wanted to leave those legacies of his in the hands of someone who meant more to him than to a casual friend like me who only knew him for a few years.'

'No, I think that sinceyoucare enough to inquire aboutyourfriend,youcan't just be an ordinary acquaintance.' Father Johnson countered in a gentle tone.

Hunter thought for a moment, and then asked, 'So are there any written records in the church? Like lists and photos and such? Assuming this friend of mine participated in church donations or some other activities before, I may be able to find some clues about his past through his name.'

Then he gave an even more apologetic expression and said, 'Youknow, asyousaid, there are fewer and fewer people in this town, and I really don't know who I should ask about these things.'

The most important thing was that Hunter actually had no idea what name Stryder had used back then, and he had no idea how to ask. His only hope now was that the church might have kept some old photos so that he could recognise Stryder through them.

Assuming, of course, that the old fox hadn't undergone plastic surgery before moving to Westland. Hopefully, he wasn't that unlucky.

The priest pondered for a moment, and then he suddenly gave an easy smile, 'I remember there used to be a deacon in this church who loved to take pictures. He took photos of many festivals in this church, and the album is on the bookshelf of my office.'

Father Johnson gestured for Hunter to follow him, so the two of them made their way to the church door. There was a staircase on the side of the door that led to the church bell tower, where apparently the priest's office was located. As Hunter limped and struggled up the narrow stairs with difficulty, he asked, 'Where is that deacon now? Perhaps I could talk to him?'

The priest was strangely silent for a while, and then softly said, '... He's dead. I'm not sure of the cause and effect, but I heard he died thirty years ago.'

Putting aside the process of excluding illegal evidence and the inexplicable murder of Aurelie Delphine, the outcome of the entire pre-trial hearing was basically as expected: as a suspect in a case of kidnapping, rape of a minors, and forced prostitution, Kaba Stryder had naturally lost any possibility of bail. He was to be temporarily detained in New Tucker Federal Prison until the formal trial.

The trial was scheduled for the beginning of next month, and with no new evidence, everyone wanted to get the case over and done with as soon as possible. As public opinion continued to fester, many were keenly focused on the case already, especially considering the questions it raised about how many wealthy individuals had been members of the club at Sequoia Manor, now known to be a haven for pedophiles, and whether old Thompson himself was a pedophile. Many hands were likely working behind the scenes to hastily conclude the case so that the storm could pass as soon as possible.

After the court was adjourned, Kaba Stryder slowly stood up and shook hands with all the members of his legal team. He had never expected to be granted bail in this case, so he was in a very relaxed state of mind. He patted Holmes on the shoulder several times and said, 'You've done a very good job'.

Herstal stood a little behind Holmes, watching Wallis Hardy, who stood not too far away, looking in their direction with a complex expression. Instead of Aurelie, who could no longer be there, a blond boy named Midalen stood beside her. He was one of the witnesses present at the pre-trial hearing and had made a rather brave and articulate statement in court earlier.

Herstal had already heard some stories about Midalen from various places, about how he had bravely attacked the guards with a butterfly knife, saving his own life as well as the other children's -- Herstal was a little surprised that the other party hadn't told the story of the role he had played in the whole affair.

The boy was staring at him from a distance now, his eyes as clear as blue lake water.

Or perhaps the boy still had faith in his humanity -- their brief encounter in Sequoia Manor may have convinced the boy that Herstal was a good person.

Midalen blinked at him.

Herstal lowered his head inconspicuously and avoided the youth's gaze without leaving a trace.

'Running away from a problem says a lot about you, I'm guessing it doesn't just mean you don't want to remember the tragic past. You're not the type who can never move on from the past. It may haunt you in your nightmares, but it doesn't stop you in your tracks, otherwise you wouldn't be who you are today...'

Even at this moment, Albarino's whispering continued in his ears.

'You empathize with Billy, but you don't like Billy, do you? You even loathe him; you loathe his weakness as much as you loathe yourself for being powerless over everything back then.'

It was at this point that Stryder smiled and came over to shake Herstal's hand. His clammy skin clung around Herstal's fingers like a dead man's, and he heard Stryder say cheerfully, 'A very brilliant defence, Mr. Armalight.'

After saying this, he still did not let go of Herstal's hand. What's more, Herstal felt the other party rub his thumb somewhat meaningfully against his palm.

Herstal stiffened violently for a moment, trying to supress his desire to step back -- of course, Stryder had always favoured the blonde type, as he had been when he was a child, and as Midalen was now. And although the other party obviously favoured younger children, he didn't mind taking advantage of others around him when he was in a good mood. Stryder's inappropriate treatment of Albarino on their first trip to Sequoia Manor being a good example.

There was still a hard lump choking the back of his throat, sending bloodthirsty tingling sensations to his fingertips, but there was no more inopportune time or place than now: they were still standing in the aisle of the courtroom, the judge and the clerk had just left, and the prison guards were about to take Stryder to the police car and escort him to the federal prison.

Herstal drew a deep breath, lowered his eyes slightly, and unobtrusively withdrew his hand from Stryder's grasp, saying, 'Ms. Delphine is dead.'

It didn't seem like a good idea to test the other man in the present situation -- but Herstal desperately needed an answer. He didn't understand why Aurelie had called him. Given the impression he'd left on her, she should have been far more inclined to call Wallis Hardy in her dying moments than him.

The only other possibility he could think of was that Aurelie's last call had been forced upon her by the person who'd killed her. One of Stryder's allies had betrayed him, and now he desperately needed to make an example of her to deter his other allies from betraying him too. Among them, Herstal, who had only been to Sequoia Manor twice, was likely one of the people he was most uneasy about, not to mention the fact that Herstal was part of his legal team.

'I heard about the accident, it was very unfortunate.' Stryder said calmly, a small smile tugging the corners of his lips, 'And unlike her, Mr. Armalight, you are a good man -- you will not have such a tragic ending.'

Herstal raised his head and looked at the other man levelly without any expression, and unsurprisingly, he saw a hint of complacency in Stryder's eyes.

This forced him to close his eyes for two seconds to suppress the endless roar in his ears.

'Yes,' Herstal said slowly after a moment, 'I hope so.'

He saw Wallis not far away. Her face was filled with the disappointment of accepting reality as if she had already resigned herself to her fate. One hand fell on Midalen's shoulder, and the boy couldn't help but look back in their direction one more time before leaving with Wallis.

Hunter was a little unsure of how to feel. How did this detective story suddenly turned into a ghost story?

The priest obviously didn't think too much of it, and the other party lead Hunter all the way up to his little office in the tower, which was so small that it wasn't even as big as a broom closet. The two of them couldn't even turn around after they squeezed in.

The most prominent feature of the room was the large bookshelves covering two walls, filled to the brim with various books, papers, and many thick volumes bound in leather. Father Johnson gestured to the leather-bound volumes, saying with embarrassment, 'These are all the photo albums... They're not organized chronologically, and I'm not sure which is which. If you're looking for clues about your friend, I'm afraid you'll have to go through them one by one."'

Hunter looked at the rickety bookshelf and couldn't help but reach up and wipe his face again.

-- He now realised: this was going to be a lot of work.

It was still pouring outside when they left the courthouse, but that didn't stop the press from gathering around like sharks that had tasted blood. Camera flashes flickered palely against the darkening sky, beads of water condensed on the plastic sheeting covering the machines, high heels and dress shoes trampled roughly through puddles, and the splashing dirty water was akin to splashes of blood.

Stryder left under police escort, with Herstal and his law firm colleagues following close behind. At this moment, the technical witness had slipped away unnoticed through the crowd like fish, while the prosecutor and the others were tightly swarmed by reporters. Herstal could see Wallis standing just a short distance away, blocked by several reporters who were trying to get to her. Midalen was no longer by her side; her black hair, damp with rain, clung messily to her cheeks.

'Ms. Hardy, may I ask your opinion on the decision to bar bail --'

'How confident are you about the upcoming trial --'

One of the male reporters with shaggy hair rushed forward, and without hesitation, he stretched the tape recorder in his hand towards Wallis Hardy's face, and asked loudly in English with a European accent, 'Ms. Hardy, the lawyer in the defence team, Mr. Armalight, saved your daughter in the previous Family Butcher case, do you have anything to say about his choice to defend Mr. Stryder?'

The rest of the words were drowned out by the overwhelming sound of the rain, which crashed onto the ground like thunder. The black umbrellas held by the police escorting Stryder were blown around by the wind. It was only when a drop of rain hit Herstal's eye hard that he realised he had no umbrella.

But that didn't matter, he was already swallowed up by the rain, as was Wallis, who had yet to answer the reporter's questions, and those reporters, and their endless flashing lights were also swallowed up. In the bustling crowd, Stryder was a tiny figure stuffed into the backseat of a car by the police. The fragments of voices from the parade of journalists following him were hitting his skin like raindrops.

'Did the late Mr. Philip Thompson have any involvement in the Sequoia Manor --'

'-- Rape --'

'-- If it has nothing to do with this case, then do you think --'

A hand fell on Herstal's shoulder.

Herstal looked to his side numbly and saw Albarino Bacchus standing there, with wet hair plastered onto his forehead, holding an ugly plaid blue umbrella over his head.

The forensic pathologist wrapped an arm affectionately around Herstal's shoulders, his fingers pressing into the fabric of his suit that was spotted with dark dots by the rain, supporting his weight inconspicuously like a piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean.

'Herstal,' Albarino said his name softly and briskly, his mint-green eyes harbouring many indecipherable emotions, 'Come home with me.'

Chapter 50: 86. Fool's Celebration (6)

Chapter Text

The whole world lives in darksome night

In blinded sinfulness persisting,

While every street sees fools existing

Who know but folly, to their shame,

Yet will not own to folly's name.[1]

[1]The Ship of Fools, Sebastian Brant.

In the face of the upcoming trial, the prosecutor of the case, Wallis Hardy, did not try to hide her somewhat pessimistic outlook on the case.

'We must do our best, but doing our best doesn't mean being blindly optimistic,' She told our reporter, 'As you know, after Ms. Delphine was brutally murdered, we're lacking a crucial piece of evidence in the rape charges against Stryder. If we cannot prove that he has a direct connection with the prostitution ring in Sequoia Manor, he may not be found guilty of several charges.'

Several legal experts interviewed by our paper held similar views on the trial, especially after Stryder unexpectedly switched from the Thompson Foundation's legal team to the renowned A&H Law Firm at the outset of the case -- although Ms. Wallis Hardy hadn't ever faced the lawyer Herstal Armalight before, she has had four encounters with his firm, only one of which she won -- a track record that does not inspire much confidence among concerned observers.

However, when it comes to her personal attitude towards Mr. Armalight, Ms. Hardy's stance remains noticeably vague. It's well known that this lawyer, who doesn't have the best reputation in Westland's legal circles, can be said to be Ms. Hardy's benefactor -- having saved her daughter's life after she was inadvertently caught up in the Family Butcher's murder case.

'You always ask me what it's like to be on opposing sides of the court as Mr. Armalight,' Ms. Hardy said, 'I don't see the relevance -- do you mean that our past connection prevents us from opposing each other? Or that I should show leniency towards him because of what he did? Regardless, in this case, Mr. Armalight has made his position clear.'

'But what aboutyoupersonally? Areyoudisappointed with his choice?' The author asked, 'Youare also a mother, and the person who savedyourdaughter's life chose to defend a suspect who is most likely a paedophile.'

Ms. Wallis Hardy took a long time to phrase her response, and although she tried her best to hide her emotions, a bitter smile could still be seen on her face.

'This matter doesn't concern me, nor Mr. Herstal Armalight,' she said evasively; 'This only concerns justice.'

-- Leohard Scheiber, 'Westland Daily News'.

(TL Notes: The previous translator GRain translated his name as 'Ohard' but I'm going to change it to Leohard because the Chinese Pinyin of 里奥哈德 is 里 (Lǐ) 奥(Ao) 哈(Hā) 德(Dé). TLDR: They are the same people)

The sky was overcast, with a few faint flashes of lightning flickering across the sky; Westland received a lot of rain throughout the year, and long-term residents were accustomed to its frequent downpours. The white walls of the hospital were imbued with a strange smell of disinfectant mixed with the rough and hard fabric of the beds. The flowers placed on the bedside table were gradually wilting, emitting a peculiar sweet scent as they gradually dried.

The last time Lavazza Mercader had visited this ward, the bedside table had been filled with extravagant poppies -- Albarino had insisted that they were yucca poppies, though Mercader had been a little confused about the subtle differences between the two plants -- and now they were replaced by lilies that had already began to wilt, left behind by an unknown visitor.

Mercader stared at the flowers for a moment, and then suddenly acknowledged that the Sunday Gardener had been right -- that Olga Molozer really wasn't suited with such commonplace flowers.

The owner of the ward lay on clean white sheets, even more sallow and thin than the last time he came. Under the quilt, there was a hollow space where her left leg should have been. Her carer, Anne Brooke, mentioned that her weight was still gradually dropping, though the doctors assured them it was nothing serious, but --

At the moment, the carer was in the lounge watching one of the Twilight films for the umpteenth time. Mercader hadn't seen any of them, of course, but a colleague in his department had liked them a few years ago. Mercader understood the fascination with these fantasy stories: the ability to save dying people with a pair of canine teeth and a little bit of blood, extraordinary powers beyond human comprehension, and the ability to dispense justice without the constraints of the law, eliminating threats to their kind.

He gave a snort and placed the newspaper back on his lap. Doctors often say it's beneficial to talk to patients in a vegetative state, but no one could be sure if the other person could hear them or not. Mercader had just finished reading the latest report from the Westland Daily News, and the person lying on the bed didn't even condescended to twitch their eyeballs, looking as good as dead.

Mercader rested his elbows on his knees and supported his chin on the back of his hands. He sat in the wearily silence for a while, then continued the seemingly futile 'treatment'. 'Tomorrow is the day when Stryder's trial will officially begin, and I will be appearing as a technical witness,' he said carefully.

The person on the bed responded with a heavy, dead silence.

Mercader continued in a calm voice, 'I don't actually think that Wallis Hardy can win this case. During the previous pre-trial hearing, Stryder pleaded not guilty and shifted all the blame onto his assistant Rowan ...Of course, this isn't surprising, Sequoia Manor was run by Rowan and he handled everything related to those children. None of the children can actually testify that Stryder sexually assaulted them. However, among the 'guests' they entertained, there were many who concealed their identities, so it's not surprising that Stryder would be mixed among them. He was always cautious about matters regarding Sequoia Manor, so taking such precautions wasn't unexpected.'

Mercader paused and then reached up to rub his brow. At this point in the case, when it had already progressed so far, his role was quite limited. Of course, the scientists at the Forensic Lab were still examining the physical evidence, hoping to find something that could be used to incriminate Stryder, but Mercader didn't hold out much hope.

'Even now, things are still strange, and you would have noticed it too if you were awake.' Mercader suddenly gave a low chuckle, not hiding the exhaustion in his voice. No one responded to him in the empty room, and the person lying there was no better than the gradually withering flowers. 'Why would Herstal Armalight take this case? Forget about everything else... I investigated him, and in all his years at the A&H Law Firm, he's never taken a child rape case, which is consistent with the profile. The Westland Pianist has always hated rapists, as the previous autopsy reports have undoubtedly proved.'

He paused once more, the doubt in his voice growing stronger and stronger, until it emerged in a low tone from between his lips.

'Why the exception this time?'

'Why was Stryder an exception?'

Lavazza Mercader's instincts told him that he was missing something -- something very, very important. But at this moment, he still didn't know where the right direction was.

The rain continued to pour. Westland residents had long grown accustomed to carrying umbrellas around this time of the year, and Herstal Armalight was no exception.

Umbrellas provided excellent cover; during a heavy downpour, it could conceal your features, and make your face invisible to others. On this rainy morning, Herstal stood underneath a black umbrella in front of an alley, where the dirty sewage water had soaked his pant legs. Not long ago, a woman named Aurelie Delphine died here.

That news of her death had attracted a significant amount of attention within the city due to its relevance in the Sequoia Manor case, and the old newspaper tycoon, Philip Thompson. And judging by the direction of the media interviews, most believed that the poor girl had died in a purposeful, brutal assassination.

Which was why this small alley, filled with the sour stench of garbage, had been spontaneously transformed into a memorial site by the citizens: the same way people did after shootings and terrorist attacks. People put smiling pictures of the girl, flowers that would gradually wither, and white candles, in the cold corner where she died.

Now, under the misty rain, the photographs were fogged with moisture, the petals of the flowers were scattered in puddles, the candles were extinguished, and a teddy bear left by a child on this fragile alter was soaked and matted. In the rain, human life was ever so fragile, just as it was in the rain that carried Noah's Ark, the rain that belonged to Johnny the Killer, and the rain before them now.

Herstal stood with his black umbrella before the pictures of Aurelie and the wet patch of flowers. This would be the city's last memory of her, for people were quick to forget, and once Stryder's case was over, they would soon forget about him too.

Herstal silently bent down and laid the bouquet of flowers he brought -- a bouquet of white irises -- in front of a photo that was adorned with an ivory-white frame.

Then, Herstal heard footsteps, and a person stopped somewhere beside him. Herstal looked up and saw Albarino Bacchus standing next to him, without an umbrella, letting the soft raindrops fall onto his hair and the tops of his shoulders. The man always had a smile on his face, which was the only thing that would not change in this strange and ever-changing world.

'You shouldn't have come here.' Albarino said with a smile.

'How so?' Herstal asked rhetorically, raising an eyebrow.

'That reporter from the Westland Daily News -- you know, the guy named Scheiber -- has been squatting here all day long recently, interviewing passersby, trying to portray Ms. Delphine as a tragic heroine who was cruelly murdered.' Albarino narrated.

The implication he made was very clear: if any reporter found Herstal here, it wouldn't end well. If he showed any sympathy for Aurelie's death, he could raise Stryder's suspicions.

'That's not surprising. Now the citizens want to hear such stories, so of course he will tell such stories.' Herstal said indifferently, 'But with the trial starting tomorrow, he wouldn't have any free time to stand here, he'd definitely be interviewing legal experts.'

Albarino actually wanted to ask a question, he'd seen how busy Herstal was before trials, but how come he had time to stand here at this very moment?

Albarino was silent for a moment, then said, 'You're going to lose.'

'Is that your opinion of this trial?' Herstal coldly swept Albarino a glance.

'No, this is my opinion on everything that's about to happen,' Albarino shrugged his shoulders, his smile never faded, but those green eyes were devoid of laughter, 'No matter how things turn out, you're going to lose.'

Herstal remained silent.

They stood quietly for a few more seconds before Albarino spoke again, 'Won't you consider my previous offer? -- How about leaving with me now? My previous arrangements are still viable, and if you're willing, we can leave the country by dawn tomorrow.'

I have a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? I know a flower that grows in the valley, none knows it but I. It has purple leaves, and a star in its heart, and its juice is as white as milk. Shouldst thou touch with this flower the hard lips of the Queen, she would follow thee all over the world. Out of the bed of the King she would rise, and over the whole world she would follow thee.[2]

[2] The Fisherman and His Soul, Oscar Wilde.

Herstal still said nothing.

Albarino waited patiently for him, and after a few moments he added: 'I can make you feel at peace.'

But it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price.

'You know it's impossible.' Herstal answered him calmly.

Albarino's smile remained unchanged, but he let out an exaggerated sigh. A moment later, he leaned forward gracefully and slipped under Herstal's black umbrella, reaching out to hold the hand that was gripping the umbrellas handle.

Herstal looked at him quietly, until Albarino held the position and leaned forward to kiss Herstal on the lips.

'Herstal Armalight.' The young, unpredictable, killer whispered in his ear, softly and slowly, 'You truly distress me.'

As Orion Hunter walked into the church, an elderly woman sitting in the last row of pews took the time to look up and greet him, saying, 'Mr. Hunter, back at the church again today?'

Hunter wasn't sure how to respond, mainly because White Oak was such a small town that an extra stranger could easily attract the attention of others. After only a few visits, the regular churchgoers had noticed him, a stranger among them. And after someone inquired with the priest, the story of a 'heart-warming retired veteran searching for his friend's past' quickly spread through the town.

It was something he had told that troublesome brat Midalen over the phone, only to be met with a barrage of shameless ridicule, consisting mainly of, 'Hahahaha, Mr. Hunter, ifyoukeep this up,youmight even get interviewed by the local paper!'

The situation wasn't much better than what the kid had joked, as many of the churchgoers were so moved by the veteran's story that they offered to help Hunter search for his friend's past -- Hunter had to make up a name for this 'friend' on the spot. The name that Stryder currently used certainly couldn't have been used in White Oak at that time, even if he asked the townspeople about Stryder, it would lead nowhere -- fortunately, the coal mine in White Oak had not been exhausted thirty years ago, and the town still had residents, including many transient workers. None of these enthusiastic citizens could recall whether there was a man named 'John Smith' or something along those lines in the town at that time.

Hunter breathed a sigh of relief, if these enthusiastic people really sent him a witness who knew the so-called 'John Smith', he would have been truly alarmed.

There was no luck in investigating from Herstal Armalight perspective either. The town had never had a family with the last name Armalight; the elderly woman in the church was sure of it. She said she'd grown up in White Oak and had more or less an idea of anyone who'd lived there for more than three months, and there certainly hadn't been anyone with a last name as unusual as Armalight.

If the person Hunter was looking for had an ordinary and common surname, Hunter might have doubted the old woman's words -- but Herstal Armalight's surname was indeed rare; Hunter didn't believe that anyone who had heard this name could have no impression of it at all. Therefore, he could only believe that the old woman was telling the truth.

Moreover, Hunter had also investigated Armalight before. This person came to Westland six or seven years ago to run a law firm. His earlier life could be traced back through his internship, law school, university, and high school, but before that, there were no records. It was as if 'Herstal Armalight' had vanished, as if he'd started life as a high schooler.

Armalight's high school years were almost twenty-eight years ago, coinciding closely with the timeline of Stryder's arrival in Westland thirty years ago -- a detail hard to ignore.

At this moment, none of that mattered. What mattered now was the fact that the famous bounty hunter was under the assault of an elderly woman's affectionate smile. And as everyone knows, even legendary bounty hunters are powerless against an old woman's smile. Hunter could only awkwardly smile back and hobble up the creaking stairs, once again immersing himself in that huge a pile of documents. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck; the deacon who loved taking photos left behind a massive collection of photographs and undeveloped film negatives. Hunter suspected that just this deacon alone could keep an entire film factory in business.

The result was that the priest's small office was entirely taken over by him; many albums had been moved off the shelves and placed in piles here and there, scattered all around, making it hard to move. Not to mention the yellowed paper documents on the bookshelf, which recorded in detail the names of people who had raised money for the church, as well as the rosters of the church school at the time, all of which would require a great deal of time to examine.

Hunter sighed and sat down in the priest's chair, dragging over an album he hadn't looked through before. The cover of the album was covered with cracked brown paper, marked with only a scrawl of letters and numbers in one corner: 'June 1985'.

He felt tired before he even started. This was, after all, like looking for a needle in a haystack, and while he was lucky to have found photographic record of the time period he was investigating, who knew that the deacon was such a photography enthusiast!

The album contained, unsurprisingly, choir rehearsal photos, more choir rehearsal photos, and yet more choir rehearsal photos... an endless array of choir rehearsal photos. Besides a few photos of the scenery surrounding the church, children playing in the streets after school, and a handful of group photos of the church clergy at the time, the album was filled with various choir photos. Was this deacon in charge of the children's choir rehearsals?

Hunter frowned as he looked at the faded colours in the album; it had been so long since the photos were taken that the paper was faded and the colours were yellowed, making it difficult to distinguish the appearance of different people from the pile of blurred heads. Hunter flipped through a few more pages, which were still full of choir children standing in line in the church: the church hadn't changed much in thirty years, still dim and dark, with the most vibrant colours coming from the stained glass of the rose window. The children stood underneath that rose window, holding their sheet music in their hands and faces full of innocent smiles.

In the photo, the rose window depicted a young man standing before the Egyptian Pharaoh. Hunter, with difficulty, mustered what little knowledge of the Bible he still had left in his mind, and realised that the picture depicted was of Joseph, the son of Jacob and Rachel.

The rose window was just to the left of the altar, above the velvet-covered piano. Hunter quickly compared this photo with the current church, and realised that the piano had not moved places in thirty years, but the piano looked relatively new in the photo... but in fact, so many years had passed.

Hunter lamented in his heart and was about to turn over the page -- when suddenly, something in the corner caught his eyes, which made him focus on this ordinary photo again: although there were many choir photos, the angle of this photo was different from the previous ones; it was a candid shot, the angle was slightly tilted so that you could see the piano that was often hidden by the choir children.

-- A little boy sat on the piano bench, appearing for the first time in these photographs. Before, even when the piano was photographed, it was usually with a priest or a nun sitting at the piano.

Even though the photo was taken in such a dimly lit scene, the boy's blurred blonde hair could be seen, a colour that was extremely eye catching within the dark church. The child looked no more than eleven or twelve years old, with bony knees and elbows, wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt and suspenders.

Hunter stared at the small silhouette of the face like a hound, trying to see something familiar on this face -- perhaps a slightly high-brow arch, and deep-set eyes, or perhaps a pair of blue eyes.

Even in childhood, the features of adulthood could still be vaguely seen on his face, but Hunter's fingers could only touch the yellowed paper, a dead blur of colour.

Orion Hunter couldn't help but take a deep breath, some fragments in his mind were vaguely connecting: Sequoia Manor -- the children who were forced to provide sexual favours to rich and powerful scumbags -- Kaba Stryder himself -- that cross thrown at the bottom of a drawer in his home -- Herstal Armalight, whose origin could not be found -- this church in Kentucky.

The children's choir.

Hunter felt a breath of cold air catch inside his throat. It couldn't be.

The next second, he quickly pulled the picture out of the album and staggered to his feet, with one hand struggling to support himself on the Priest's desk.

'Mr. Warden.' Stryder said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

He was escorted by two prison guards to the Warden's office at New Tucker Federal Prison. The Warden -- a man with a growing beer belly and huge bags under his eyes -- sat sternly across from him. The two guards closed the office door, and silence fell over the room.

'How have you been lately, Mr. Stryder?' The Warden greeted in a stiff tone.

'Solitary confinement is quite boring.' Stryder snorted, taking a seat across from the Warden's desk before the other could speak, as if he owned the office.

'It couldn't be helped. Some big names associated with Sequoia Manor are worried that you might reveal their 'secrets'.' The Warden said slowly, 'I'm quite sure that if you weren't in solitary confinement, you'd soon 'commit suicide' in prison.'

'Aren't you worried that I might actually reveal some secrets?' Stryder asked in a relaxed tone.

'I see your determination in this matter.' The Warden replied.

'Determination?'

'Yes. The woman who was trying to be a tainted witness -- Aurelie or whatever her name was -- she's dead, isn't she?' The Warden replied, smacking his lips regretfully, 'It's such a shame; I remember she was a beautiful woman, quite tight down there. Though it seems that her mouth wasn't as tight.'

Stryder sneered inwardly: the Warden couldn't possibly be treating him well in prison out of concern for his 'determination' regarding the Delphine incident. The Warden wanted to protect his life purely because they were in the same boat. After all, the funds at Sequoia Manor included twenty percent of this gentleman's investment. At the same time, Stryder also had no doubt that several of the manor's wealthy clients wanted him dead, just to keep those dirty secrets buried forever.

'Anyway, her situation was thoroughly resolved.' Stryder shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to discuss the unpleasant matter of Aurelie further.

'No,' the Warden shook his head, 'I'm afraid it hasn't been resolved.'

Stryder looked up, frowning at the other man.

'You had your men call that lawyer of yours while they were killing her, didn't you? The one who had just joined Sequoia Manor and whom you didn't quite trust yet? Was that to intimidate him?' The Warden said, his understanding of the situation somewhat muddled.

'You know how I operate.' Stryder scoffed contemptuously again, 'That lawyer had only been to Sequoia Manor once, who knows if he'd spill the beans? It's crucial to have him on our side.'

The Warden shook his head, his face becoming uglier, 'Your subordinate asked me to tell you that when the woman called the lawyer, she said, 'I envy you. There are ways of letting go of the past. You could even defend him.' and other strange things -- what does this mean? Did you and that lawyer know each other before?'

Stride froze, staring blankly at the Warden for a moment, his gaze gradually became solemn.

'I remember this young man.' The old woman looked at the photo, a smile appeared along the corner of her lips, as if she was caught up in the lost memories of the past, 'He was the son of an electrician ...I can't remember their last name, but that was about thirty years ago.'

Thirty years, that most important point in time. Hunter frowned slowly, but his voice remained steady, 'Canyoutell me more about this child's family? I found a photo among my friend's belongings of a boy who looks a lot like this child.'

This was pure nonsense. The child's father couldn't have been Hunter's 'friend' in terms of age. Hunter hoped that the old woman in front of him wouldn't care about such details.

The old woman slowly recalled, '...He was a good child, very quiet, didn't talk much, and was well-liked by the clergy. He learned to play the piano at this church and would often accompany the choir. Since I went to church often back then, I saw him many times.'

Hunter's voice softened a little more when he spoke again, and he could feel a terrible suspicion stirring within his mind. He slowly asked, 'Even ifyoudon't remember his last name, is it possible foryouto remember his first name?'

The old woman was silent for a long time, her cloudy eyes gazing at the cross on the altar of the church, on which the suffering Jesus was nailed.

'I remember the priests at the church called him ...' the old woman slowly and hesitantly spat out a name, '...the priests called him 'Will'.'

Chapter 51: 87. State of Westland v. Kaba Stryder (1)

Chapter Text

(On a gloomy morning, in front of the Westland State Court. Red and blue police lights flashed as officers stood in front of the courthouse in a futile attempt to maintain order. At the bottom of the steps, a passionate crowd waved banners and signs with protest statements, while journalists and TV presenters carrying cameras mingled among them.)

(Talia Stoker stands in front of the camera, dressed in a smart gray suit, holding a microphone.)

TALIA: Hello to our viewers watching the live broadcast. I'm Talia Stoker. Today, Westland Local Television brings you a special programme that takes you to the scene of the State of Westland v. Kaba Stryder case -- it's currently 8:40 AM on the morning of May 3rd, and the first day of the trial will begin in twenty minutes. Assuming that Stryder will be convicted of the charges brought against him, it would prove that, as the manager of the late Thompson's Sequoia Manor, he was deeply involved in the horrific act of forcing children into prostitution. Several anonymous insiders who do not wish to be named, have already pointed out to us that the victims acting as witnesses in this trial have already revealed several members of the Sequoia Manor Club who participated in these sexual assaults. One interviewee stated that some of those involved are 'prominent figures, beyond imagination'... We can now see that the front of the courthouse is already packed with protesters. Since most of the legal community is not optimistic about the outcome of this trial, local residents hope to draw the jury's attention through these demonstrations.

(The camera pans to the crowd of protesters, where one woman holds up her sign to the camera: the left side of the sign depicts a crying child, and the right side reads, 'Let paedophiles rot in prison!', in blood-red capital letters.)

TALIA: These demonstrations have already led to three violent incidents this week, resulting in two police officers being injured in these incidents. The Westland Police Department urges the public to remain calm during this trial--

(Just then, there is a sudden clamour from the journalists on the scene as two police cars struggle through the crowd and pull up in front of the courthouse)

TALIA: Ah! Stryder has arrived! We can see him being brought out of the police car -- he looks very calm, I would even describe him as 'relaxed'. As everyone knows, Stryder's bail request was denied at the pre-trial hearing, but it seems that the nearly month-long time in jail has not affected him too much... Of course, his demeanour seems to be making the protesting crowd even angrier.

(The crowd yells something and surges towards Kaba Stryder, who steps out of the police car, only to be held back by the police maintaining order at the scene. Surrounded by police officers, Stryder ascends the courthouse steps with a smile on his face.)

Excerpt from: 'The Stryder Case: Choices and Secrets'

Author: John Garcia

Publication Date: 2018-03-15

The case of Kaba Stryder garnered such a staggering amount of attention, not just because of sensationalist terms like 'child sex abuse' and 'forced prostitution', nor because of the defence attorney Herstel Armalight's decision to plead not guilty. What really attracted the attention and panic of the locals was that after this case, they were finally forced to confront the question: How long have such dark forces hovered over our children's heads?

Everyone in Westland is familiar with Philip Thompson -- his family had taken root in Westland since before the War of Independence, and his ancestors stand as heroes of the Civil War, immortalized in a statue in front of the City Hall. As for the late Mr. Thompson himself, it was his tireless philanthropic efforts that reached deepest into the hearts and minds of locals, in addition to his Westland Daily News. This millionaire established numerous libraries and schools in Westland, and spent a great sum of money each year on local orphanages.

And this moment in time, the question inevitably rises in the minds of everyone concerned about the Stryder case: What were the true motives behind old Thompson's support of the orphanages? Was there something more than just philanthropy, did he have a greater, more unspeakable purpose?

If Kaba Stryder was found guilty, it would suggest that Westland's beloved philanthropist, the late Mr. Thompson, was the one who built this hell on earth, and that the seemingly sophisticated figures of high society were, in reality, wearing the face of the devil behind their backs.

Without any physical evidence linking Stryder directly to the crimes, convicting him becomes particularly challenging. It's no surprise that his legal team made the decision to enter a plea of not guilty; anyone in such a favourable position would strive for acquittal -- At this point, it seems that the only thing that can influence Stryder's sentencing is the moral compass of the jury members, and whether his lawyer has a silver tongue.

From past experience, Hestal Armalight was clearly the best among the articulate.

At this critical moment, the admirable prosecutor, Ms. Wallis Hardy, took on the burden of bringing these demons to justice -- although the foreseeable outcome seemed bound to be futile and hopeless. Her opening statement during the trial was powerful, moving, and shocking.

'When WLPD officers and the SWAT team raided the building where those poor children were being held captive, the defendant you see before you was on the scene, attempting to flee.' Ms. Wallis Hardy stated in her opening, 'Now, we have ample evidence that Sequoia Manor was a hell on earth where children were tortured and sexually abused for fun, resulting in the deaths of at least six minors on the property. Kaba Stryder, as Sequoia Manor's manager, could not have known nothing about this. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, our purpose here today is to determine whether this defendant is guilty with the utmost impartiality and rigour; many of you may be parents or will become parents, and most of you have children -- do not fail these victimised children, for it was this man in front of you who destroyed everything they had.'

Did this serious and strong prosecutor think of her own daughter -- Clara, a little girl not yet eleven years old -- as she made this opening statement? As a child of a prosecutor and a police officer, this girl had been exposed to too many dangers that she should never have been exposed to. I'm sure my readers are aware of the harrowing encounter between her and the Family Butcher.

And this little girl's saviour, the hero who slayed the dragon in the fairy tale, was sitting beside the defendant. Herstal Armalight, the defence attorney, was looking at the prosecutor at that moment, his handsome face expressionless.

These realities seem to always be used to illustrate the following truths: that underneath the face of an angel, lies the heart of a devil, that justice always comes too late, and so on and so forth. People always hope that children like Clara and Midalen can maintain their pure, innocent heart, but the cruel reality is often disappointing.

HARDY: State your name, please.

WITNESS 1: My name is Midalen Pullman.

HARDY: Midalen, can you tell us what happened on the 10th of December last year?

WITNESS 1: Uh, that day I went back to the orphanage from school as usual -- the orphanage I was in was in the town of Somerville, and the school was located nearby so I usually went home with a few kids from the orphanage. But that day I went back by myself, Fred and the others had already gone ahead to decorate the Christmas tree... so I went to the bookshop in town. By the time I left the bookshop, it was late so I decided to take a short cut back to the orphanage. Then, while walking near Wright Street, two men stopped me. They both had knives in their hands, and one of them had a large tattoo on his face.

HARDY: Was one of them the man in this picture?

(Shows an autopsy photo of a man with a large tattoo on his face lying on an autopsy cart)

WITNESS 1: (Carefully identifying) Yes.

HARDY: Before this incident, had you ever seen these two men anywhere?

WITNESS 1: Never, but in the two weeks leading up to this, I often felt like someone was following me on my way to and from school... You know that feeling, you feel like someone is following you, but when you turn around, you don't see anyone suspicious. But I can't be sure that I was followed by these two men... I'm not even sure that someone was really following me. I mean, the tattoo on the man's face is very obvious, and if I had seen him before, I would definitely recognize him.

HARDY: I understand, what happened next?

WITNESS 1: They cornered me with their knives, grabbed me, and forced me to the ground. Then they put a cloth bag over my head, tied me up, and threw me into the boot of a car.

HARDY: During this process, besides the two men, was there anyone else present?

WITNESS 1: (Hesitantly) ...... I'm not quite sure, it was already late by that time and it was dark all around. However, after they'd pinned me down, I saw a man standing under the streetlamp at the end of the street.

HARDY: Can you describe the man's appearance?

WITNESS 1: I would estimate that he was about 1.8 meters tall, with blond hair, and slightly overweight. I remember that under the street light, I could see that his hair was thinning. But because he was standing against the light, his face was full of shadows, and I didn't see his specific appearance clearly.

HARDY: That is to say, this man, who appeared at the scene of the abduction, was in fact very similar in build to the defendant of this case?

ARMALIGHT: Objection. Your Honour, this question is leading; there has been no evidence presented that Mr. Stryder was in Somerville on that day.

JUDGE: Sustained. Ms. Hardy, please rephrase your question.

HARDY: Midalen, (Pauses) can you identify whether the person you saw that night is the one sitting in the defendant's chair?

WITNESS 1: ... (Hesitantly) I'm not sure. Their builds look very similar, but I couldn't see that person's face clearly. I'm not sure.

HARDY: Alright. Now, what happened on March 31st of this year?

WITNESS 1: That day, I was locked in my room as usual -- those people locked the children they captured in the basem*nt of the building, in compartments separated by wooden boards, with very bad soundproofing, so I could hear the noises from outside. By mid-afternoon, one of the men who was usually in charge of guarding us took me and the other children out of our separate compartments, and locked us in another room ...That was the first time I saw the other children who had suffered the same fate as I had.

HARDY: Besides the guards, did you see anyone else?

WITNESS 1: Mr. Rowan. He seemed to be the boss of these guards, and would visit once a week to walk around the basem*nt and inspect the condition of the children. I never actually saw his face, but I would hear him standing in the corridor loudly reprimanding the other children, so I was pretty sure the man who came was Mr. Rowan.

HARDY: Did he stay in the room with the other guards the whole time?

WITNESS 1: No, he just walked around the room, checking his watch frequently. Then he told the guards, 'Everything is almost ready. I'll bring Mr. Stryder to take a look. If there are no problems, we'll leave at dawn.' ...After saying this, he left the room, leaving the guards to watch us.

HARDY: Did he return?

WITNESS 1: No. The other guards took turns watching us until nightfall, when suddenly another man rushed in and shouted to the guard who was then in charge of watching us, 'The cops are coming! The boss said to take these kids first!' -- Then they took us out of the room and tried to herd us into the van.

HARDY: Do you think that the 'boss' the man mentioned refers to Rowan?

WITNESS 1: I don't think so. The guards never called him anything other than 'Mr. Rowan'. They often talked about him around us, and I've never heard them call him 'boss'.

HARDY: So do you think that there was someone else whom the guards referred to as 'boss'?

WITNESS 1: I think so.

HARDY: Okay. Your Honour, I have no further questions.

JUDGE: Mr. Armalight, it's your turn to ask questions.

MR ARMALIGHT: Mr Pullman, while you and the other children were being held at the abandoned church orphanage on the outskirts of the city, who were the people that you encountered most frequently?

WITNESS 1: There was a small window on each door of the cubicle where we were kept, and the guards pushed food in through there, so we couldn't really see their faces. About once a week, we could hear Mr. Rowan coming around to do his rounds.

ARMALIGHT: You said earlier that Rowan spoke in a loud voice, but you didn't actually see his face. How can you be sure it was him?

WITNESS 1: The guards would call him by his name. I heard them call him 'Mr Rowan'. And later on, after his arrest, the officers at the police station played his interrogation recording for me, and I'm sure that that was the same voice I heard every week outside the rooms.

ARMALIGHT: When Rowen was outside the room with the guards, what was the nature of their conversations?

WITNESS 1: The guards reported the weekly situation to him, and Mr. Rowen assigned tasks -- (Inhales) like which child to take to the next 'dinner party,' or who to 'give a good beating if they resist again,' or whatever. Although, of course, I was usually the one who got 'a good beating'.

(Scattered, hesitant laughter from the jury box)

ARMALIGHT: Did Rowen relay orders from someone else to the guards? Or were all his instructions phrased with 'I'? Did the guards' conversations with him ever imply they had another leader?

WITNESS 1: ...No, Mr. Rowan arranged everything himself and the guards never mentioned any other names. Except for the night we were rescued, they ...

ARMALIGHT: But in fact, you can't objectively confirm that the 'boss' mentioned by the guards that night wasn't Rowan, can you?

WITNESS 1: But--

ARMALIGHT: In an emergency situation, they could have referred to Rowan as 'Boss', couldn't they?

HARDY: Objection. Mr. Armalight, this play on words doesn't make sense --

JUDGE: Order. Mr. Armalight, proceed.

Mr. Amalerte: So, Mr. Pullman, although you subjectively inferred that because 'the guards never called Rowan "Boss"', that they were referring to another person who was not present at the time, when in fact, you can't actually judge who they meant, correct?

(Long pause)

WITNESS 1: ... Yes.

ARMALIGHT: So, let's talk about what happened next. Were you ever taken to Sequoia Manor?

WITNESS 1: Yes. Twice.

ARMALIGHT: Did you have any contact with the members of Sequoia Manor? -- or did they ever assault you?

(Whispers ring out in the gallery.)

WITNESS 1: (Long silence) No, never. (Pause) I think it may have been because I was on the older side, and nobody chose me either time. I just stayed in a small room on the ground floor of the manor and waited, then they took me back without seeing any of the club members.

ARMALIGHT: ...Alright. (Pause) I understand. (Pause.) So, during your two visits to Sequoia Manor, you didn't encounter Kaba Stryder, did you?

WITNESS 1: No.

ARMALIGHT: And what about Rowan?

WITNESS 1: On both occasions, the guards took me to Sequoia Manor blindfolded, and stuffed me into the boot of a car. Mr. Rowan waited for us at the Manor; I could hear his voice when I was being brought up the manor steps.

ARMALIGHT: Meaning, you can't testify that anyone other than Rowan, including Mr. Stryder, was present at the scene of the crime when the club members at Sequoia Manor were assaulting the child, correct?

WITNESS 1: ...Yes.

ARMALIGHT: Your Honour, I have no further questions.

Excerpt from: 'A Brief Insight on the Conviction of the Stryder Case'

Author: Oscar Solmia

Publication Date: 2017-05-01

The difficulty in this case lies in the fact that the police have no direct evidence proving that Kaba Stryder was involved in the crimes at Sequoia Manor -- either he was an exceptionally cautious criminal, or he is indeed innocent.

Before the prosecutor's office charged Stryder on multiple counts of kidnapping, child sexual abuse, forcible prostitution, and unlawful confinement, the WLPD and the local forensics lab conducted an extensive investigation. So far, the established fact is that no witness can definitively place Stryder at the scene of the crimes involving children. He might have organized certain illegal activities at Sequoia Manor; but according to his own testimony, all crimes involving the child victims were committed by his secretary, Rowen, 'without his knowledge'.

A casual observer of the case might find this accusation implausible, but that would be because they overlooked many details of the case: all expenses incurred during the confinement of the children was covered by Rowen personally; the lease for the building used to imprison the children was under Rowen's name; and all the henchmen arrested at the scene unanimously testified that Rowen was their employer.

Given that the only evidence the prosecution could produce so far has been the ambiguous testimonies of a few witnesses suggesting that someone other than Rowen might have been behind the crimes at Sequoia Manor, but they were only testimonies, not decisive evidence -- the prosecution continues to pursue this angle, but so far, it seems like a futile effort.

Because on the other hand, even Rowan himself had confessed to his crimes. Before the Stryder trial, he had already reached a plea agreement with the prosecutor's office. In his testimony, he admitted that he had been 'blinded by desire', and was the sole orchestrator of the horrifying events at Sequoia Manor. He confessed to colluding with certain club members at the manor (although he refused to name these members) to secretly provide them with children for 'entertainment', unbeknownst to Stryder.

According to the rights granted to Rowan by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution, he was not obliged to testify in the Stryder case. However, we have been told that Rowan will appear as a witness for the defence in order to prove Stryder's innocence.

The prevailing view is that Rowen is taking the fall for his boss, suggesting that there are many untold deals between them that cannot be discussed on the table. But there is no doubt that if Rowan makes such a confession, the degree of influence on the jury's decision will be absolutely huge. Perhaps, even despite the efforts of the prosecutor's office, Stryder himself will at most, be convicted of crimes such as harbouring criminals.

Many people may feel very disappointed with the result that we can all foresee in this case, which is also the fundamental reason for the frequent demonstrations that have taken place in Westland City in recent days. No reasonable person would think that Kaba Stryder was innocent in the aftermath of this case, but with the current evidence, it cannot be 'conclusively' proven that he is guilty. And in the absence of 100% certainty, the jury cannot easily deprive a person of their life and freedom.

At this point, there is no need to further discuss 'innocent until proven guilty', or 'procedural justice'. The verdict of the Stryder case will be the inevitable result of a flawed legal process, a consequence of the law in order to be able to protect the rights and interests of the majority.

HARDY: Please state your name.

WITNESS 2: Natalie Mirkov.

HARDY: Ms. Mirkov, what is your occupation?

WITNESS 2: I run a nightclub in the East District, or rather a bar, there's not much difference -- (Pause, nervous tone) a perfectly legal one.

HARDY: Do you recognise this man in the photograph?

(Wallis Hardy shows the witness the photograph of the man with the facial tattoo)

WITNESS 2: Yes, I do. His name is Michael, he's a security guard at my bar. (Pauses) You see, everyone knows that the law and order in the East District is quite poor, so I had to hire some people to maintain order in the bar.

HARDY: Is that his only job?

WITNESS 2: No, it's not. He seems to be quite fond of gambling in his private life, which has put him in a particularly tight spot ... Since we have a rotating shift system at my bar, he's not required to work every day --sometimes he swaps shifts on weekends with others. I once asked him about it, and he said he was going to Sequoia Manor in the countryside to 'look after the place'.

HARDY: Did he describe his work there in detail?

WITNESS 2: Well, we all know that Sequoia Manor is a club for the wealthy; this has always been quite well known in our circles...So I didn't ask in detail, he just said that he needed to 'focus on the gatherings organized by Sequoia Manor, so as to prevent things from getting out of hand'.

HARDY: Ms. Mirkov, we need to be more specific. What do you mean by 'quite well known in our circles'?

WITNESS 2: Well, I mean, a lot of people actually knew about the club at Sequoia Manor ... they often held 'parties', right? Well, they definitely weren't proper parties, but rather gatherings for those wealthy people and ... 'high-class socialites', uh, including both male and female sex worker, to have fun. I guessed that Michael's role was to maintain order at these parties. It makes sense, doesn't it? After all, would those wealthy people really build a club just to host ballroom dances?

(Laughter)

HARDY: I understand. So, did he mention his boss? Specifically, Mr. Stryder?

WITNESS 2: He did a couple of times, he said that Mr. Stryder was 'as imposing as the newspaper photos', 'good at giving orders and shouting', but also that he was 'paid very well'.

HARDY: So, can you say for sure that Michael meant that his employer was Kaba Stryder himself? And not someone else at Sequoia Manor, such as Rowan?

WITNESS 2: Yes, I'm quite sure. He mentioned Mr. Rowan to me on one occasion as 'Stryder's secretary'.

HARDY: Alright, that's the end of my questions.

JUDGE: Mr. Armalight.

JUDGE: Ms. Mirkov, what exactly was your relationship with Michael?

WITNESS 2: Huh? I'm sorry?

ARMALIGHT: I mean, were you close friends, or lovers? Or a relative?

WITNESS 2: What? No! I was merely his employer.

ARMALIGHT: So, would Michael tell you everything that happens to him?

HARDY: Objection! This question is irrelevant to the case.

JUDGE: Overruled, I'd like to hear what she has to say.

WITNESS 2: Of course he's not going to tell me everything, I'm his employer, not his mother.

(Laughter)

ARMALIGHT: When our legal team questioned the staff at your bar, they told us that you had a heated argument with Michael late last year, and threatened to fire him. Do you remember this incident?

WITNESS 2: Yes. Uh ...(Pause) We had an argument because I found out that he was working privately for the 'One Eyed' Gang in the West End, fighting and so on. I didn't want him to get involved in that kind of trouble, which could also put my business at risk...

ARMALIGHT: He did this behind your back?

WITNESS 2: Yes.

ARMALIGHT: When you argued with him, did he deny it? Given that your relationship was purely professional, and he had a history of deceiving you, did he deny it?

WITNESS 2: ...Yes.

ARMALIGHT: That is to say, this person, Michael, has a history of taking other illegal jobs behind your back, is that right? Even if he told you that he worked for Sequoia Manor and referred to Stryder as 'boss', that doesn't mean it was necessarily true; he could have actually been employed by someone else, but chose a more plausible story to cover his tracks and deceive you; after all, he has a history of deceiving you about his own offences, correct?

WITNESS 2: ...Yes. But I don't think he did that this time--!

ARMALIGHT: Your Honour, I have no further questions.

(Outside the courthouse, the crowd has not dispersed; instead, it seems to be growing larger and larger. As time continues to pass, more and more reporters are pointing the equipment in their hands at the main entrance of the courthouse, as if waiting for something. Talia Stoker is standing in front of the camera, with a professional smile on her face)

TALIA: The noon recess is just around the corner. Since filming and photography are prohibited in the courtroom, we will know nothing about the status of this trial until the few journalists who were in attendance release their reports. Right now, we can see the crowd of reporters and protesters waiting for the judge, prosecutors, and defence attorneys to leave the scene; there were some minor witnesses present in this morning's trial, and in order to protect their privacy, they will undoubtedly be leaving the courthouse through other, more private exits...

(A sudden commotion erupts among the crowd; and as the camera zooms in, a number of people can be seen emerging from the main entrance of the courthouse, none other than the members of the defence team.)

TALIA: We can see the defence attorneys have left the courthouse. The gentleman in the lead is Mr. Holmes, one of the founders of the A&H Law Firm, he appears to be smiling and looks very relaxed. Could this be because this morning's trial was very favourable for Stryder? Next to him is the lead defence attorney in the case, Herstal Armalight...

(The crowd attempts to breach the police line and move closer to the group exiting the courthouse. The flashes of cameras create a silver-white ocean. Reporters scramble to shout questions in that direction, seeking a response from the defence lawyers.)

MALE VOICE: -- Why do you choose to defend a case like this, ethically --

(As the camera continues to zoom in, Holmes can be seen facing the reporters with a big smile on his face, answering their questions leisurely despite the police's efforts to stop him)

HOLMES: ...It has always been the purpose of our firm to take on the most challenging and typical cases. I want all the members of our firm to be 'real lawyers', to be able to put aside their prejudices and resist the pressures put on them by the Bar Association, and engage in the most challenging of defence work... My old friend Armalight thinks so too, right?

(Armalight glances at Holmes and pauses strangely)

ARMALIGHT: Yes, I think so too.

FEMALE VOICE: (Shouting) So, you gain a sense of accomplishment by defending the side that is not righteous, winning victories for them --!

ARMALIGHT: (Coldly) The pursuit of legal justice is not about the end result, but the whole process, ma'am.

(Commotion)

SHARP VOICE OF A PROTESTER: I'm ashamed of you! Those children are innocent! If this happened to your children, if this happened to someone close to you, how could you stand here so cold-blooded --!

(The crowd grows chaotic as police struggle to maintain order. Herstal Armalight and his colleagues stand on a slightly higher step, and the crowd gathers at the bottom. Countless open hands and protest signs with bright red letters are being waved in the air like rugged, dry forests, or an undulating sea. Armalight stands high above them, looking down at them with an expressionless face)

TALIA: (Stumbling in the crowd) Dear audience, we can see--

(Suddenly, there is a loud bang: a police officer is forced to fire a warning shot by the charging crowd. The crowd erupts into a tsunami of chaos)

TALIA: Oh my god! Was that a gunshot?

(The camera shakes wildly, possibly due to someone colliding with the cameraman)

(Screen goes black)

Chapter 52: 88. State of Westland v. Kaba Stryder (2)

Chapter Text

Excerpt from: The Westland Daily News

Author: Leohard Scheiber

Publication Date: 2017-05-04

On April 27th, the protests of Westland residents against the Stryder case escalated into violent confrontations, resulting in six police officers being injured and thirty-one people being arrested so far.

Following the conclusion of yesterday morning's hearing, agitated protestors attempted to storm the courthouse steps as the defendant and the defence team were leaving court, forcing the police who were maintaining order to fire warning shots. In the ensuing chaos that followed, some protestors threw stones at the defence team, injuring two people, including the lead defence attorney of the case, Mr. Herstal Armalight.

Mr. Holmes, the principal partner of the A&H Law Firm, told our reporter that Mr. Armalight was not seriously injured and would only need stitches before continuing to attend the upcoming court sessions. However, the other lawyer who was attacked is currently hospitaltalised with a severe concussion. Mr. Holmes stated that the attack on the lawyers will not affect the subsequent progression of the trial, and the law firm will reserve the right to pursue legal actions against the protestors who have caused physical harm to the lawyers.

City Council member, and the eldest son of the late Mr. Thompson, Stanley Thompson, said at a press conference yesterday afternoon that the residents of Westland need to look at the contents of this trial rationally, and not escalate the situation any further. He pointed out that the protests related to this case have already exceeded what is necessary, causing significant disruption to public order and posing a serious threat to public safety. If this continues, the WLPD will have to take coercive measures against some of the overly aggressive demonstrators ...

(Attached below this report is a live photo from the scene: showing the lead defence attorney, Herstal Armalight, standing amidst a crowd of police officers, with his head slightly tilted to one side and his brow furrowed, seemingly speaking to someone; the background and foreground are blurred, only showing his figure clearly. In the pouring rain, Armalight's blonde hair clung to his forehead in strands, and there was a bloody wound at the tail of his left eyebrow. Blood snaked downwards from the wound, diluted by the rain. The pale red blood slowly dripped down the sharp contours of his face.)

(In the brightly lit studio, Talia Stoker sats on a long couch in the centre of the studio wearing a blue dress. Beside her sat a serious man in a suit and gold-rimmed glasses)

TALIA: The highly anticipated Kaba Stryder trial has entered its second day. According to the evidence submitted by the prosecution and defence, the jury is likely to reach a final verdict this afternoon. Today, our special interview program invited Mr. Oscar Solmia, a professor at the Westland State University School of Law, to give us some of his insights on the case.

Oscar: Hello everyone.

TALIA: Mr. Solmia, what doyouthink will be the focus of the confrontation between the prosecution and the defence today?

Oscar: Actually, not much evidence has been presented to the court by both sides in general. A great deal of the evidence found at Sequoia Manor and in the building where the victims were imprisoned can only be used to convict Rowan, although the man has already entered into a plea agreement. To my knowledge, the police have found very little evidence that can be used to convict Stryder. Both parties have already examined most of their witnesses at yesterday's trial, and today the trial is expected to progress to the examination of technical witnesses and the presentation of physical evidence to the jury.

TALIA: Andyoudon't think the prosecution is going to put up any strong physical evidence, doyou?

OSCAR: At least that's what the information that has emerged from the pre-trial hearing suggests, however, it's also possible that the prosecution will introduce new evidence at the last minute. In fact, the same is true for the defence in this regard: we all know that the most disadvantageous thing for Stryder is that even if there is no direct evidence proving that he was at Sequoia Manor at the time of those rapes, there is equally no evidence that would serve as a strong alibi -- he lives alone and he doesn't like to socialise with others. There is no one who can prove that he wasn't at the scene when Rowan committed the forced prostitution offences. It could be argued that this is by far the most favourable point for the prosecution: that Stryder has no alibi, and he was present in the building where the victims were detained when he was arrested. It is self-evident what the jury's inclination will be in the face of such facts.

TALIA: So who doyouthink will be the technical witness who will play the most significant role today, aside from the physical evidence? -- In many ofyourrecent articles, you have expressed that technical witnesses will play a crucial role in this case.

OSCAR: The defence team reportedly denied the legitimacy of some evidence on the grounds of improper evidence collection procedures during the pre-trial hearing. And while there are no specific rumours circulating at the moment as to what that evidence actually was, it's safe to assume that this evidence is very important to the prosecution. We can boldly guess that the technical witnesses from the CSI team are no longer a concern for Stryder's legal team. In fact, I think the technical witness who will play the most crucial role in this trial will be the forensic pathologist.

TALIA: The forensic pathologist?

Oscar: Yes. The prosecutor's office has indicted Stryder on multiple charges. In addition to accusing him of participating in the kidnappings and forced prostitution, he was also accused of raping a minor. And since the prosecution dared to make such an accusation, it means that they must have some sort of evidence in their hands. All the minor witnesses have already testified in yesterday's trial, and no one testified against Stryder for rape, therefore, the most probable possibility is that they found traces of it on the bodies from previous case.

TALIA: So in that case, as long as the prosecution can prove that Stryder did rape one of the children, he will be found guilty.

OSCAR: Indeed. Because as long as he raped one of the victims, it's hard to say that he was completely unaware of the whole thing. I believe that if this part of the accusation holds up, the rest of his accusations may be found valid by the jury.

TALIA: I understand whatyoumean. So the key point lies in the autopsy report and the technical witnesses from the Bureau of Forensic Medicine.

OSCAR: That's exactly right -- the key point lies with the Chief Medical Examiner, Albarino Bacchus, who is going to appear in court today.

(Prosecution presents evidence to the jury: two surveillance videos)

HARDY: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Your Honour, these are some street surveillance footage from Somerville ten days before Midalen Pullman was abducted -- that is, on the first of December last year.

(FIRST VIDEO: Midalen walking down the street with his backpack, the timestamp showed that it was the early morning of December first. A person nonchalantly followed ten metres behind him)

HARDY: This is the video left by the surveillance camera two streets away from Midalen's school as he went to school that morning. You can see that there was someone following him -- we can provide the court with the full footage, which is fifteen minutes long, showing that this man started following Midalen from Forbes Street all the way to the school. Through technical processing, we can clearly see the face of this stalker --

(The prosecution presented the jury with a clearly processed screenshot of the footage: following Midalen was a middle-aged man in a trench coat and woolly hat, slightly overweight, with a profile that looked very familiar)

Hardy: It's evident that the person following Midalen was Mr. Kaba Stryder. Ten days before Midalen was kidnapped, Mr. Stryder suddenly appeared in the town of Somerville, far away from Sequoia Manor, and followed Midalen for fifteen minutes? Clearly this cannot be a coincidence.

(The jury erupts into a murmur of discussion.)

JUDGE: Order! Order!

HARDY: Now, look at this photo.

(Prosecution presents another video to the jury: Midalen eating in a family restaurant, surrounded by several of his friends. Behind him, sitting at an angle, was an overweight blonde man with thinning hair)

HARDY: This was on December 3rd, Midalen was having lunch in a restaurant near the orphanage where he lived. This was video footage recorded by the restaurant's cameras. And as we can see from these video shots, (Pause) sitting behind Midalen is evidently Mr. Stryder.

JUDGE: Mr. Armalight, doyouhave anything to say about these videos?

ARMALIGHT: Yes, Your Honour. Mr. Stryder's presence in Somerville was due to the fact he was donating a number of books to the Somerville library at that time. A matter which can be confirmed by the local newspaper, and there are records of these financial transactions in the accounts of Sequoia Manor.

(Defence presents the jury with evidence of account books, newspaper reports, and invoices from Stryder's trip.)

ARMALIGHT: As we can see, according to this invoice, the hotel where Mr. Stryder stayed was close to the orphanage where Midalen Pullman lived. On the morning of December first, Mr. Stryder was attending a book donation ceremony at Midalen's school, so it's no surprise that he coincidentally travelled the same route as Midalen. The family restaurant shown in the second surveillance video was also one of the restaurants closest to Mr. Stryder's hotel. As long as he did not choose the hotel's room service, and opted to eat out instead, the possibility of choosing this restaurant was extremely high.

(Pause)

ARMALIGHT: So, all of this was just a regrettable coincidence.

ARMALIGHT: Please state your name for the jury.

WITNESS 7: Leslie Rowan.

ARMALIGHT: Mr. Rowan, tell us about how you started working at Sequoia Manor.

WITNESS 7: I started working at Sequoia Manor about fifteen or sixteen years ago. At that time Mr. Thompson had passed away, and the entire Sequoia Manor was run under the support of the Foundation. As soon as I joined Sequoia Manor I worked under Mr. Stryder -- it was a very simple job, organising endless parties and doing some inappropriate small jobs... As you know, it's against the law to solicit prostitutes in Westland, but there were always some club members who wanted to have some fun, and my job initially was to handle those arrangements.

ARMALIGHT: Contacting 'high-class socialites' for parties at Sequoia Manor?

WITNESS 7: Yes.

ARMALIGHT: And later on? Did your work expand?

WITNESS 7: ... You could say that. Because we became more and more proficient in our co-operation, Mr. Stryder trusted me more and more, so he became less involved in the affairs of Sequoia Manor. The parties remained more or less the same, and I had many people at my disposal so I was able to organise everything on my own. As you know, he was a great philanthropist; he spent too much of his time at those charity dinners, and you could almost say that for the next ten years, I was the only one who took care of the activities at Sequoia Manor.

ARMALIGHT: What happened next?

WITNESS 7: Uh... at first, I was contacted by one or two members -- I'm afraid I cannot provide their names in court -- who told me that they were 'tired' of the escorts that Sequoia Manor had to offer, and that they wanted to try something newer and younger.

ARMALIGHT: Did they promise you anything?

WITNESS 7: (Pause, dry swallow) A sum of money, a large sum of money. Not for the Sequoia Manor account, they assured me that Mr. Stryder wouldn't find out.

ARMALIGHT: So what did you do?

WITNESS 7: I swear I was hesitant at first... But the money was really too tempting. Stryder's salary was indeed not low, but there's only so much I can say about it -- I was a butler at best! The money they promised me was more than I'd make working at Sequoia Manor for a year or two, and God knows the risk I took pimping for Stryder! ...In the beginning, I helped them find a street kid. There are so many of them on the streets of Westland that the orphanages can't house them all, and the shelters can't accommodate for so many people... So, I found a trustworthy subordinate, and we grabbed a street kid for them.

ARMALIGHT: When did this happen?

WITNESS 7: Around 2008.

ARMALIGHT: And then you continued doing this?

WITNESS 7: Of course I continued, it was so easy to get a taste of the good life from this kind of thing ... Stryder didn't notice anything, so what did I have to fear? But one child wasn't enough, they soon became unsatisfied, and ... they secretly contacted more members from within Sequoia Manor's club to join in. One child couldn't satisfy them all, I had to keep doing it. On one hand, the price they gave me each time was very attractive, on the other hand, they were all very influential people. Once I did it once, it meant they had a handle on me, and I couldn't just stop there. So later, I continued to 'find' different children for them. Adopting children from an orphanage as a foster parent was too conspicuous, finding street children each time caused dissatisfaction among my clients, so I finally had to let my people kidnap a child.

ARMALIGHT: When was this?

WITNESS 7: It was around March 2010.

ARMALIGHT: How many children have you kidnapped between 2010 and now?

WITNESS 7: A dozen, plus the street children, that's twenty in total, and six of them have died during those years.

(The defence presented a series of evidence to the jury to prove that Rowan's testimony was true)

ARMALIGHT: Who were the people who helped you do these things?

WITNESS 7: A few thugs I trained after joining Sequoia Manor. They were responsible for catching those kids, locking them up, and guarding them. There was also Aurelie Delphine, who was responsible for staying at Sequoia Manor and entertaining the guests when they came.

ARMALIGHT: The members and you still held these parties at Sequoia Manor, is that correct?

WITNESS 7: Yes, because Stryder wasn't actually at Sequoia Manor much, so we didn't have much to worry about in that regard. We would pick a time for the gathering and secretly communicate the news to the corresponding members so that they would come on time. The day before the party, I would find a reason to dismiss the rest of the manor's staff, leaving only Aurelie and my thugs at the manor. Then at the time of the party, the thugs just needed to bring the children in, and Aurelie would organise everything that followed. She was very experienced in these matters and was my right hand.

(Defence presents to the jury the testimony of the cleaners who worked at Sequoia Manor)

ARMALIGHT: What happened on March 31st this year, the day you were arrested?

WITNESS 7: This year, a child died. He was thrown into the river by my people and the police discovered his body. I heard from some sources that the police and the FBI were investigating the matter, so I wanted to move the children as soon as possible from the estate to the outskirts of the country. But it takes a lot of money to move them from one place to the other. My funds ... were tight, so I set my sights on the Thompson Foundation. There was a fixed amount of money in the foundation that was allocated to Sequoia Manor, but with the donations from the members of the Manor, there was always a surplus of funds, and Stryder would use that money for charitable projects. In fact, I was the one who screened those charity projects for him, so I thought, why not deceive him by saying an orphanage needed donations to rent a new school building, and then scam a sum of money from him.

Amalright: So you took him to that old orphanage site?

WITNESS 7: Yes, because the place where we kept the children was originally used as an orphanage, so it was easy to fool him. Anyway, as long as he saw that the 'orphanage' building was indeed in disrepair, he would wave it off and let me handle the funds myself; he was never too concerned about how much money was donated to those project, so I was confident that I could fool him in this matter. But I didn't expect that the police would rush in as soon as I took him into the yard. This was all that happened.

ARMALIGHT: So Stryder didn't actually know about all the things you were doing?

WITNESS 7: No, he was unaware.

ARMALIGHT: I see. (Pause, looking in the direction of the judge) I have no further questions.

HARDY: Please state your name and occupation.

TECHNICAL WITNESS: Albarino Bacchus, Chief Medical Examiner of the Bureau of Forensic Medicine in Westland.

HARDY: You conducted the autopsy on the body of the sixth case of the river dumpings, correct?

TECHNICAL WITNESS: Yes, ma'am.

HARDY: What is your opinion on this injury found during the autopsy?

(Prosecution shows the jury an autopsy photograph: the body's back was marred with numerous marks left after a beating. The wound was pale in the middle due to blood loss, with strips of black and purple bruising forming on either side)

TECHNICAL WITNESS: This is a typical bruise pattern from being struck by a relatively round, blunt, stick-like object -- the heavy impact to the skin causes the blood in the very centre of the wound to be pushed out to either sides, leaving a pale, bloodless mark in the middle, and long strips of bruising forming on the sides. Notably, upon enlarging this photo, we can see two very small horizontal strips of indentation at the top of this long pale mark in the centre, which suggests that the murder weapon used to beat the victim had two prominent protruding horizontal ridges on it, leaving additional indentations on the victim's skin.

HARDY: And this is the evidence that the police found in Stryder's office at Sequoia Mano. The crime lab was unable to extract any fingerprints or DNA from this evidence, but--

(Prosecution presents the evidence to the jury: a stainless steel stick-like sculptural object with a large, heavy wooden base, on which stands a tasteless, shiny metal sculpture that mimics the shape of male genitalia, with two raised ribbed decorative stripes at the top, making the whole ornament look even more tasteless and inexplicable)

HARDY: Dr. Bacchus, what do you think of this ornament?

TECHNICAL WITNESS: (Sincerely) I would rather not look at this ugly thing a second time.

(Jury laughter)

TECHNICAL WITNESS: However -- well, from a professional perspective, I'd say this thing looks quite like the object that was used to beat our poor deceased victim's back.

Chapter 53: 89. State of Westland v. Kaba Stryder (3)

Chapter Text

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Talia Stocker, and I'm here now in front of the Westland State Court to bring you live coverage of the final verdict of the Stryder case. After three hours of deliberation, the jury has finally returned to the courtroom once again! Although video recording of the trial is prohibited, we have a reporter from the Westland Local TV Station in the gallery who will be conveying the latest updates from the trial to us!

'Well, I've just received the information from our frontline reporter -- the verdict is not guilty! Kaba Stryder has been acquitted of all thirteen counts he was charged with, including rape, assault, kidnapping, false imprisonment, and forced prostitution!

'Of course, he still faces charges of running an illegal prostitution ring, given that Rowan has already pointed out that Sequoia Manor was offering sexual services to its club members ... But we all know that such a charge is of little consequence for a man of Kaba Stryder's financial power. Previously, Ms. Wallis Hardy also said that since Stryder appeared to have stalked a minor victim, that minor victim would be seeking a restraining order against him ... But overall, these penalties are absolutely insignificant for Stryder.

'Ladies and gentlemen, this is truly an unexpected outcome! Although various legal experts have analysed this case many times before and didn't think Stryder could be convicted, no one truly expected Stryder to walk free so easily after the prosecution released such strong evidence! What happened during the trial this afternoon? After our reporter leaves the courtroom, he will share today's proceedings with us!'

Excerpt from: Westland Criminal Secrets Network

Publication Date: 2017-05-04

On the morning of May 4th, explosive new information broke in the courtroom of the Stryder case! The prosecution submitted new, previously undisclosed, evidence to the court, revealing that the murder weapon used to kill the victim in the sixth river dumping case was found in Stryder's office in Sequoia Manor.

The evidence submitted by the prosecution to the court also included a forensic lab report and the professional opinion of the Chief Medical Examiner of the Bureau of Forensic Medicine. This sudden turn of events has flipped the trial on its head, which was previously clearly in favour of the defence. Now, if the defence team cannot provide a reasonable explanation for the new evidence, it would mean that Stryder was at least involved in the brutal murder of the sixth victim.

It was now time for the midday recess, and there was chaos both inside, and outside the courtroom due to the sudden submission of new evidence by the prosecution. The author is now standing right in front of the main entrance of the court. Standing here, you can see countless reporters eagerly waiting for the defences legal team to appear. However, following yesterday's unfortunate attack, it is clear that the WLPD has heightened their security at the scene, and the defence lawyers have already exited early through a side door.

If everything proceeds smoothly, the trial could be successfully concluded by this afternoon, and the outside world will soon know the final verdict of the case. As events have progressed to this point, most people believe that the Stryder case has become less and less of a trial, and more of a game of debate that exploits legal loopholes. What conclusion will the jury reach in the face of such ambiguous evidence? Let's wait and see.

May 4th, 2017

Thursday, overcast

Today, I had lunch with my latest new date at a restaurant three blocks away from the hospital. In order to make time for this lunch, I had to entrust my patient -- I've started calling her 'Poor Olga' in my mind, really, after all these months no one has visited her except for a few friends, or did she actually have no family at all? -- with my friend Alice for a few hours. I believe that a vegetative patient will not suddenly wake up during these hours.

My date's name is Fester [1], he had to go to the hospital last time because of pharyngitis, and that's how we met. It was like a dream; I've never seen such a gentle and handsome man in real life, with a head of dreamy golden hair and looks like a living Apollo... Maybe poor Olga's boyfriend also fits this description, but unfortunately, he's not single now.

[1] TL Notes: I'm not sure what to translate his name to, it can be Fester, Fister, or Pfister.

Anyway, we exchanged phone numbers after chatting for just five minutes in the hospital hallway; it was like magic! I was so nervous when he was speaking to me, I wasn't even sure what I was saying, but he came back this morning and asked if I wanted to go out for a casual lunch with him at noon!

Fester says he runs a small internet company, and I'm not surprised by that fact; he seems like the creative type who would go out and start a business at a young age: gentle, smart, and very insightful.

The only downside was that I did find today's lunch order a bit small, but you shouldn't point that out on a first date, right?... Anyway, I had to awkwardly scrape my dessert plate until it was as clean as if I'd licked it, while he sat across from me talking about the social news that had garnered quite a bit of attention lately.

'... A very cruel case, and there is no doubt that those poor children have suffered at his hands,' he said, 'Annie, don't you think this situation reflects the inadequacy of the laws of our country? In order to protect the interests of a few, we've allowed such people to have loopholes to exploit.'

I was too embarrassed to tell him I hadn't followed such horrific news at all, so I just stared at him and smiled politely. But no matter what, his focused look while saying these things was charming, and his lips looked quite plump ...

I had to admit that I was a little distracted, and it was at this moment that a little commotion from the next table caught my attention.

Sitting at the next table were two men in suits, who looked like poor fellows who had finally escaped from their office cubicle to have a quick midday lunch. One of them was a slightly obese, kindly-looking middle-aged man, and the other was a handsome, but cold-looking guy -- the word 'handsome' was an objective description, not my subjective feeling; because this man's looks were what the fashion world would call 'high-end, but it wasn't really my cup of tea.

When I noticed them, they were in the midst of a furious dialogue, unable to suppress their voices very well.

'-- the lawyers handling the case should be fired!' The fatter, older man spoke angrily, 'How the hell do they do their jobs? Hardy and her team obtained such crucial evidence and they didn't even know about it, for God's sake, look at that report the CSI provided! If we fail here ...'

'Calm down, Holmes. Everyone's looking at you.' The other man said, frowning, but his voice was steady.

'How can I be calm now?' The man known as Holmes lamented, 'Armalight, this could be the biggest Waterloo of our lives!'

'My Waterloo isn't in such a place.' His colleague shook his head disapprovingly, 'Anyway, I've sent Emma to get that hospital diagnostic report, and we'll get his attending physician on the witness stand.'

Holmes still had a bitter face, 'I don't think that's enough. The jury won't acquit him on the basis of 'he can't lift the murder weapon' alone, that murder weapon was found in his f*cking office --'

'What if the evidence itself is inadmissible?' The man known as Armalight said suddenly.

At that moment, a warm touch landed on the back of my hand.

I raised my head suddenly and saw Fester smiling gently, touching the back of my hand with his fingers. He asked in confusion, 'Annie?'

... This was truly embarrassing, I'd wandered off so far that even he had noticed. I quickly put aside the matter of the men sitting at the next table, and looked at my prospective boyfriend with the most attentive and guilty gaze, 'Sorry?'

'I mean, are you interested? In the project I just mentioned?' Fester said gently, his smile was so bright that it made people's eyes glaze over, 'Right now we're doing a round of investment, even if you only put in a little bit of money, you can still get a significant share ... Annie, you know my dream is to take my company public one day.'

-- Then he said something else that I didn't hear because he grabbed my fingers and gently raised his hand, then kissed the back of it gently.

I shamefully gasped, and by the time I came back to my senses, the two men sitting at the next table had already disappeared.

ARMALIGHT: Please state your name and occupation.

WITNESS 8: My name is Catherine Jensen. I am an orthopaedic surgeon.

ARMALIGHT: Ms. Jensen, canyouexplain to us the contents of this medical report?

(Defence shows the jury a copy of Kaba Stryder's medical report)

WITNESS 8: Well ... this is the report I issued to Mr. Stryder when he visited my department in January of this year. In short, Mr. Stryder was diagnosed with severe tendinitis in his right hand, and I recommended localized corticosteroid injections. However, Mr. Stryder wanted to try medication first, so I prescribed painkillers and anti-tuberculosis drugs.

ARMALIGHT: Doyouthink the medication was effective?

WITNESS 8: I still believe that corticosteroid injections are necessary, the pain in his right hand will never improve with just medication alone. Therefore, we performed a localized injection in early March, which proved very effective.

ARMALIGHT: So,youcan confirm that between January and early March, before Mr. Stryder received the injection, he was suffering from severe tendinitis?

WITNESS 8: Yes.

ARMALIGHT: And according to the autopsy report provided by the prosecution, the sixth victim died between February 25th and 27th -- so, Ms. Jensen, canyoujudge from a professional perspective whether Mr. Stryder, who suffered from tendinitis, (Pause, with a little sneer in his voice) would be able to pick up a 1.2-meter-tall, nearly 4-kilogram stainless steel sculpture with a heavy wooden base and used it to strike the victim's back? Given that, according to the autopsy report's examination of the injuries, it was determined that the person wielding the weapon used their right hand.

WITNESS 8: That is impossible. Before Mr. Stryder underwent treatment, his tendinitis was so severe that he couldn't even use utensils properly, let alone make the large, forceful movements required to wield a heavy object as a weapon.

ARMALIGHT: Thank you for your testimony.

Extract from: Westland Criminal Secrets Network

Publication Date: 2017-05-05

As one of the operators of the Criminal Secrets Network, I've attended many criminal trials out of interest in the various criminal cases that have taken place in this city, but none of them have taken such a dramatic twist nor concluded in such a shocking way as the Stryder trial -- this high-profile trial concluded yesterday, and many of our readers have likely already learned the verdict through various channels. Nonetheless, I still want to provide a full account of the events on the last afternoon of the trial, as it would be a shame to miss out on the details of what happened.

By now, everyone should know that the prosecution presented decisive evidence on the morning of the second day of the trial: through the autopsy report and the forensic laboratory's analysis, the prosecution revealed that the murder weapon used in the sixth river dumping case was found in Stryder's office. This seemed to be indisputable evidence. The shock among jury members was palpable, with some of the victims' parents sitting in the gallery, including the mother of the poor little boy who died in the sixth case, burst into tears in court.

I, like the other bystanders, thought for a moment that Stryder was finished, but apparently the defence team hadn't given up yet -- during the afternoon hearing, they presented several intriguing points, one of which was that many people, including Rowan and Aurelie Delfine, had access to the key to Stryder's office. This suggested that others could have accessed the murder weapon, although it seemed a bit far-fetched to conclude that Stryder was not involved at all.

The defence then presented Stryder's medical report, which was aimed to prove that Stryder had suffered from tendinitis during the period of the sixth case, and was incapable of lifting the heavy murder weapon. As someone who believes that Stryder is guilty, I was skeptical about this report's authenticity. Moreover, even if he was indeed unable to lift the murder weapon, it is possible that he instructed someone else to do it for him, and in any case, it was highly likely that his office was the primary crime scene.

However, the scene of Stryder standing before the jury, struggling to lift up the murder weapon with strenuous effort undoubtedly left a deep impression on the jury. It can be said that since the year of the O.J Simpson murder case, defence lawyers have been fond of playing this trick -- who doesn't remember Simpson's awkward, laborious attempts at putting on the gloves that belonged to the murderer? This scene certainly left a similar shocking impact on the jury.

I have to admit that based on my observation, Stryder did appear to be recovering from tendinitis; his clumsy movements didn't seem to be faked. But the point is, how severe was his condition when the victim was killed? Was he truly unable to pick up the murder weapon? As things stand, with his symptoms now improving, we're left to rely on the testimony of the doctor who took the stand.

I always find it funny when these witnesses put their hands on the Bible and solemnly swear: I approach everything with scepticism, which is one of the reasons I founded this site. Consequently, I always presume they're lying, and what happened next only reinforced my usual view.

The two pieces of evidence presented by the defence that afternoon were reasonable, but relying on them alone to acquit Stryder seemed like a gamble. At that point, I believed the likelihood of his conviction was fifty-fifty, until the defence called another witness to the stand.

This witness was the kind of person you could tell had a criminal record: bald, with intimidating tattoos and bulging muscles. According to the defence attorney Armalight, this gentleman's name was Blake, and he had been brought out of prison to testify in this case.

The appearance of such a peculiar character obviously caught the jury's attention, and I had more or less seen this scene a few times before: a convict from prison testifies in a case, and the lawyer secures a sentence reduction on the grounds that he cooperated with an investigation. While such occurrences weren't uncommon, I was curious as to how this man could effectively exonerate Stryder.

Despite attending many trials, I still didn't expect the defence team's clever opening point this time.

'Mr. Blake,' Armalight asked, 'Do you know Albarino Bacchus?'

I admit I was confused by this strange opening and couldn't help but sit up straight.

'Yes.' The prisoner said, his voice low and hoarse.

The lawyer continued, 'Tell us what happened.'

'I was a thug for a gang, the Norman Brothers -- ah, at least before I went to prison, it was still the Norman Brothers' gang.' The man said candidly, causing a stir among the audience: we all know that the Norman Brothers were killed by two serial killers who treated it like a game, and the gang was quickly devoured by disloyal subordinates and eager enemies.

Blake continued his testimony, 'It was about seven or eight years ago, I got into a fight with another thug after a drunken night out. To put it bluntly, I beat him severely and then forgot about the incident. The next day, I learned that the gangster had collapsed on the side of the road due to excessive blood loss. It was winter at that time, and of course, he died overnight. I was worried that the police would hold me responsible, and indeed, it would have been easy for them to find me -- I had been wearing brass knuckles when I beat the guy, and I believe that the brass knuckle left unique scars on the deceased.'

Suddenly, I began to realize the defence's line of argument, but -- no, it couldn't be, right?

'I was very worried that the police would catch me, so I couldn't help but ask what stage the investigation had reached.' Blake said, 'Eventually, I found out the autopsy was being handled by Dr. Bacchus, and ...'

'Objection!' Ms. Wallis Hardy suddenly exclaimed loudly, she too obviously knew what was about to happen, and this development was definitely something she had never expected. 'This narrative is completely irrelevant to the case --'

'Objection overruled, Ms. Hardy.' The judge made the decision seriously, which was to be expected, 'We need to hear what he has to say.'

Blake said in a flat tone, 'I paid him a hundred thousand dollars, and he helped me conceal the appropriate findings from the autopsy report.'

I could hear a collective gasp from the jury. It was no wonder; the witness was accusing none other than Albarino Bacchus of taking bribe and obstructing justice! Even without mentioning the fact that he was the victim of the Westland Pianist, his own experience was legendary enough. He was the youngest ever Chief Medical Examiner of the Westland Forensic Bureau, and had significantly contributed to the Sunday Gardener and Pianist cases. And now, someone was alleging in front of us that he had altered autopsy reports for money!

How could the authenticity of all his previous autopsies be assured? And what about the credibility of the autopsy report in the current Stryder case?

'Now,' Herstal Armalight then addressed the judge and the shocked jury, his voice calm and deliberate, as if he were the only one unaffected in the entire courtroom, 'I have a few more questions for Dr. Bacchus.'

The judge, of course, obliged, and it was clear that things had progressed to the point where even he was caught off guard by the developments. And once again, Albarino Bacchus was back in court. We've written quite a few analysis's about Dr. Bacchus after the shocking rape by the Westland Pianist, but now, it seemed that those events might have a new explanation -- did the Pianist know the truth? Had he chosen Dr. Bacchus as his target because he knew that the forensic pathologist wasn't entirely innocent?

Finally, Dr. Bacchus was once again on the witness stand, and how ridiculous, he even had a polite, strange smile on his face. The defence attorney looked at him, looking like a knight delivering the fatal blow to a defeated opponent.

Mr. Armalight asked, 'Is there anything you would like to add to Mr. Blake's testimony?'

Though the gesture was highly ironic -- they'd both sworn on the Bible, and if their testimonies weren't consistent, it would mean that at least one of the two men lied. And perjury in court was a federal felony.

But Dr. Bacchus just shook his head gently.

'I have nothing to refute,' he said simply, 'Mr. Blake is telling the truth.'

Then Armalight asked -- his voice strangely taut, as hard as steel, perhaps he was repressing the ecstasy of the approaching moment of triumph? -- 'In that case, is it true that you accepted bribes and unlawfully altered autopsy reports to exonerate suspects'

'Yes.'

-- Dr. Bacchus' tone of voice was so calm that it was unclear if he had realized that with this single, simple word, his career was effectively over.

Then there was an eruption of unsuppressed whispers in the courtroom, and Dr. Bacchus still wore that strange, joyless smile on his face. Armalight, on the other hand, turned to the jury and the judge, his expression unreadable, and nodded slightly, as if he was taking a bow.

'Your Honour,' he said, 'I have no further questions.'

Chapter 54: 90. The Lotus Eater (1)

Chapter Text

During the two days of the trial, Albarino only encountered Herstal three times.

This was more or less to be expected; Herstal had been so busy with the case that he was practically living in his office -- an ironic detail. This person would not miss any opportunity to kill Stryder, but he also wouldn't deliberately sabotage a case in court.

Despite his bad reputation for his choice of murder cases, he was in fact the best lawyer a defendant could hope for.

Their first encounter was in court. When Albarino presented the autopsy report to the jury, proving that the murder weapon in the sixth dumping case was found in Stryder's office. He could see Herstal's cold, blue eyes gazing over from the defendant's side.

Albarino knew exactly what he was doing; this was the trump card that Wallis Hardy had prepared, and one of the best pieces of evidence that Bates and the others could come up with after their countless sleepless nights. There was a reason why Albarino hadn't told Herstal about this -- he'd only received that incriminating lab test report from Wallis twenty minutes before he was set to appear in court as a technical witness, and there was no way that he could walk over to the defence's table in full view of the public.

That, he thought, told him one thing; it meant that Wallis must have heard bits and pieces from Bart Hardy about his relationship with Herstal, and this capable prosecutor chose not to trust him at such a moment.

Bart Hardy must have been aware, but did not intervene... this was quite an interesting stance.

And Albarino knew what this meant.

It meant that, in the face of such a mountain of hard evidence, Stryder was likely to go to jail, and assuming that he went to jail, Herstal would lose his last opportunity to kill him. The Westland Pianist was an extraordinary serial killer, but not extraordinary enough toget past the heavy security of a federal prison.

-- He stood before the judge, the clerk, and the jury, calmly placing his hand on the Bible and swearing his oath, then began his testimony.

With bread dipped in stew in hand, Orion Hunter began to reflect on how he had ended up in this current situation.

He'd seen a little boy who looked a lot like Herstal Armalight in a thick, old church album, which led him on a desperate quest to 'find Will'. Even in a small town like this, there were dozens, if not hundreds of boys named Will. And to make matters worse, the old lady at the church couldn't remember Will's last name, but only vaguely remembered that his father was an electrician.

...But the main economic source of this town was the production of hardwoods, and this industry supported a number of factories in the neighbourhood, meaning that even if you only counted the current residents of the town, there were still many electricians among them.

In any case, Mr. Hunter was an excellent bounty hunter who had deduced the existence of an Angel of Death by looking at hospital medical reports. After a long search, Hunter found himself at the dinner table of a hospitable middle-aged town resident's house, enjoying stewed meat soup and bread with him.

And this hospitable -- and somewhat brown bear-looking -- resident in front of him was the most important clue he'd found since he began his search for 'Will.'

'...To be honest, I don't think that electrician is the old comrade you're looking for. My father was also an electrician at the time, and he worked with the guy you're looking for. I'm sure that electrician didn't look like the type who would go back to join the army. Wasn't your friend a soldier?' 'Brown Bear' mumbled between bites of food to Hunter.

In the eyes of these townspeople, the story went like this: an admirable veteran had come to the town searching for his old friend's past, and the boy in the photo named Will looked so much like his old friend, that by rounding up, the boy was likely his old friend's son.

See, this was the biggest discovery Hunter had made after all his effort: the father of the 'Brown Bear' and Will's father knew each other, but the two children didn't know each other very well, and weren't friends back in the day. With the untimely death of 'Brown Bear's' father, Hunter found himself at an impasse: 'Brown Bear' couldn't remember what Will's last name was, nor did he have any recollection of anyone matching Stryder's description.

Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, 'Do you have any other clues? Even if I can't find them, I'd like to try and investigate as much as I can ... It would be nice to hear more about what life was like for them back then.'

He lied so smoothly that it even sounded reasonable from a certain perspective.

'I really don't remember much about the electrician who might be your friend, but I can tell you about his son. When I was in school, I was only one grade younger than him.' The townsman smiled, which made Hunter almost cheer inwardly, he'd gone in such a big circle just to gather information about Armalight's past.

'I remember the boy's name was William, but everyone called him 'Will',' 'Brown Bear' slowly recalled. 'He was a pretty withdrawn kid, one of those 'weird kids' ... he didn't like hanging out with us, didn't go out to play, and didn't talk much at school. Of course, I remember that his father was drunk more often than sober, so perhaps when his father wasn't working, he'd have to find odd jobs to support the two of them, so this was inevitable ...'

Hunter managed to keep a neutral expression, though he found it difficult to connect this description to Herstal Armalight. Many people who were familiar with Armalight felt he always wore that perpetually displeased look.

'I remember him getting exceptionally good grades though, and he played the piano in the church choir ... It's a shame that the town's high school closed ten years ago because it couldn't recruit enough students. Now all the children have to go out of town to go to high school, otherwise you might have been able to check the school's enrolment records from back in the day.'

Hunter really wanted to sigh too, how could he not have already thought of something as good as checking the school records? But the school in White Oak had been closed for many years, and he couldn't find a scrap of information now.

'Brown Bear' smacked his lips and said: 'But he didn't even go to high school in White Oak, he and his father left the town and moved somewhere else... Let me think about what year it was... Ah, it must have been the year after the St. Anthony's Church murders in 1988.'

'Murder?' Hunter couldn't help but ask, as a bounty hunter, he was always sensitive to the word 'murder'.

'Yeah, don't be fooled by our small town; we had our fair share of shocking crimes. Back then it was no less serious than the Zodiac Killer or something like that in our eyes.' 'Brown Bear' said with great interest, it was obvious that so many years had passed that the fear from that year had dissipated, leaving only a sense of horror and mystery, 'I was just in middle school at that time.'

Hunter did some quick mental maths; Herstal had left White Oak a year after the murders, and the year was 1988 -- which meant that the murders took place in 1987. That was exactly thirty years ago, which subtly coincided with Stryder's arrival in Westland... could it be that Stryder had something to do with that old case?

Hunter didn't think he could ignore this coincidental timing, so he feigned interest and asked, 'What happened?'

'Two people were killed,' described 'Brown Bear', 'I remember my father talking about it; one was a deacon from the church, and the other a devout parishioner who was a very warm-hearted, good man. It was a Sunday night, as I recall, and despite the church having more than one priest living there, none of them nor the other deacons heard anything. The next morning, they woke up to find the two bodies hanging in the church hall, right in front of the crucifix -- I was still young at that time and didn't see the scene, but just think about it, you could imagine how terrifying it must have been!

'And then? Was the murderer caught?' Hunter asked, swallowing dryly.

'No, the police were probably as baffled as anyone.' The townsman smiled, tossing his spoon back onto the plate in front of him, stretching comfortably. 'But I heard that after the incident, a priest from the church disappeared -- the morning they found the bodies, that priest's room was empty. The police couldn't figure out if he'd met some misfortune end or if he was the culprit. The town's police department even issued a warrant for the priest for a while, but they never caught him either.'

There was nothing more to be learned from the 'Brown Bear', and Hunter, with his half-eaten loaf of bread, couldn't help but fall deeper in thought, there seemed to be a secret connection between these coincidences: the cross in Stryder's drawer, the alarmingly large number of photographs of the choir children in the priest's office, the death of the deacon and the parishioner thirty years ago... Speaking of which, Father Johnson had said that those old photos were taken by a deacon who loved photography, and had since died. Could the deacon who died in the murder be the one who took those photos?

The priest who disappeared thirty years ago. Stryder who appeared in Westland thirty years ago.

-- There couldn't be no connection between these coincidences.

Hunter swallowed dryly, the bread sliding down his throat like gravel.

He had a direction for this investigation in mind, but his intuition told him that the final result of this investigation would not be to his liking.

Albarino encountered Herstal for the second time -- strictly speaking, it couldn't even be called an 'encounter'.

It was noon on the second day of the trial. After the morning's session, he had been dragged out for a bite to eat by Hardy and Bates, who had been sitting in the gallery. Wallis was still busy, so she was unable to join them.

As they sat in the restaurant, Bates was chattering away excitedly, '...This will definitely nail Stryder. The test report shows that the murder weapon used to hurt the child was that sculpture in Stryder's office. I don't think he can explain why it appeared there --'

There was cautious optimism on Hardy's behalf, who had obviously dealt with Herstal many times on different occasions as a police officer in charge of investigating homicides. He had witnessed a number of unbelievable scenarios in which Herstal had flipped the script for his clients.

It was at this moment that Albarino's phone rang.

The restaurant was too noisy, so Albarino stepped outside the glass door before answering the call. It wasn't raining anymore, but thick lead-grey clouds loomed overhead like a canopy. Albarino gazed at the faint light peeking out from underneath the edges of the broken clouds as he listened to Herstal's voice ringing out from his phone.

Herstal's first -- and only statement -- was:'When the court reconvenesthis afternoon, I will be accusing you of having a prior history of falsifying evidence.'

Albarino was actually momentarily stunned when he heard him say this.

But he quickly remembered where the source of this subject had come from: he had been hospitalised after the Westland Pianist broke into his home in the middle of the night; and when Herstal had visited him in the hospital, he'd asked him, ' So, do you accept any bribes, Dr. Bacchus? ?'

How had he answered at that time?

'H ypothetically...if I can easily do it, and avoid punishment, why shouldn't I?'

Of course, the man he was dealing with was Herstal, and Herstal would never give up the opportunity to investigate every detail Albarino revealed clearly.While Albarino hadn't engaged in such activities during major cases, a deeper investigation might reveal some indiscretions ... After all, he was living in Westland, and he needed to extend favours to many people in order to ensure that his 'life' was smooth sailing.

Otherwise, how could he have known how to smuggle them into Mexico if he was just a forensic pathologist for the Forensic Bureau? How could the Sunday Gardener get access to all those fake licence plates? And how could there be an officer in the police department helping him look up information he didn't have access to?

At that moment, Herstal had returned to silence,and only the sound of regular breathing could be heard.

Albarino remained silent for a couple of seconds, then broke into a smile that could even be described as quite happy.

He said, 'Okay.'

Herstal paused for a second or two, then simply hung up. Albarino listened to the dial tone for several seconds before slowly putting his phone away.

As far as Stryder knew, A&H Law Firm had thrown a celebratory party soon after the court pronounced him not guilty. This was not surprising; such fantastic results would boost the firm's reputation significantly, and would undoubtedly be considered a remarkable victory. Holmes had invited Stryder to attend the celebrations as well, but he had politely declined -- the alcohol and food were far from appealing to him, and he had other matters to attend to.

Strictly speaking, the lawsuit was not over. Although Rowan took the blame for the major charges, Stryder would still be convicted for the organisation of prostitution, a charge that was almost undeniable. No fool would believe that he wasn't involved; thus, he was still faced with a suspended sentence, a large amount of fines, and hundreds of hours of community service, which meant that he couldn't leave Westland freely, otherwise he'd be found guilty of absconding... But this was only a minor setback, Stryder didn't believe his lawyers would be hindered by such a trivial obstacle.

Then there was that Wallis Hardy woman, who Stryder suspected was just dying to make his life difficult. That woman had actually encouraged Midalen Pullman to apply for a restraining order against him, did she really think that Stryder would do anything to the child now?

But -- Midalen, Midalen, that child really did have a pretty face, fitting for Stryder's tastes. He hadn't seen someone look so much to his liking in years, and he felt a little sorry when he thought about it.

As he mulled over these things, he sat in an armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, whiskey in hand, gazing out at the twinkling lights outside his window. This wasn't the house he'd lived in previously, which was no longer on lockdown, but was likely covered in fingerprinting powder in the interior, making Stryder reluctant to go back. Besides, he had more than one property in the city.

He sipped his drink slowly, musing over the blonde boy -- and other, more illegal images -- in his mind. When the drink was only a finger deep, one of his subordinates came in to report that the Warden had arrived.

Of course the Warden had come back, they were in a precarious relationship of mutual benefit and mutual loss. The Warden and the other 'regular customers' were still worried that he'd get scared and betray them in court. After hearing that he was released, of course they would put forward someone to sympathise with him, and the Warden was the one to do it.

In fact, Stryder didn't want to see these people. He was still worried about something else: someone had broken into Sequoia Manor that night, and while nothing incriminating was there at the time, his office computer had been restored to its factory settings. Was this just a coincidence, or had the intruder done something? Did the intruder take anything? Had he put something on that computer?

That was what worried him the most, even more than his upcoming trial. He expected that because he held so many secrets, those big shots who had visited Sequoia Manor wouldn't dare to make it easy for him to be convicted, but the information on that computer was another matter entirely... The Warden and the other members didn't know that he had secretly taken photos and recorded videos as insurance; and if they found out, he wouldn't be so lucky.

Before he was arrested, Stryder had tried to investigate the intruder, but hadn't been able to make much headway, but now with half of his men convicted, including the most capable of them all, Rowan, there was no telling how long the investigation would be delayed. But the cheerful Warden striding in was completely unaware of Stryder's thoughts, assuming that everything was under control.

'Mr. Stryder, what a scare that was.' The warden smiled and exchanged pleasantries with him, 'Some old friends and I were worried about you, so I came as soon as I heard you were aquited.'

-- Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say 'We are all worried that you would say something you shouldn't have'. Stryder just gave an equally fake smile and said, 'It's just that I'm lucky, I've got some good lawyers.'

'Right, speaking of lawyers.' The Warden said suddenly, pulling a folder out of his pretentious briefcase and handing it to Stryder, 'I've asked someone to look into the matter of that Herstal Armalight, and it doesn't look like anything out of the ordinary, but take a look at it -- honestly, I thought that he was someone who had a grudge against you, and would drag you down, but it seems he's very reliable. Maybe we were just overthinking things.'

Stryder nodded casually and took the folder from the other party's hand and opened it. It contained pretty standard personal information: Herstal Armalight's resume, his experience working at the A&H Law Firm, his previous work experience and internships at major law firms in other states, and photos from his university and law school days...

Stryder's page-turning motion suddenly stopped.

His finger was on the footer of the last page, which contained a cursory account of the high school he attended, accompanied by a printout of the website page: he had won a scholarship his freshman year of high school, and the school had posted pictures of him and the other winners on the school's official website. The person who'd collected the information had meticulously printed out the entire page.

Stryder stared at the young face: the still childish face, the face that looked radically different from what it was now due to the lack of fat and the sallow skin, the sharper and more prominent angles of the cheekbones and brow ridges, the overly thin and slightly hunched body hidden beneath the baggy clothes, the sombre and camera-avoiding gaze --

His jaw tensed, the muscles quivering.

This was impossible. It shouldn't be this person.

'...William.'

This was the third time in two days thatAlbarino encountered Herstal, the other man stood next to the defendant; he and Stryder shouldn't be standing together, it looked so odd and incongruous.

Herstal asked, ' Is there anything you would like to add to Mr. Blake's testimony ?'

It took Albarino some effort to recall the name 'Blake' out of his memory. It had been many years and Albarino wasn't one to remember things he didn't care about very well.

He remembered the Blake incident from early on in his career as a forensic pathologist, years before he became the Sunday Gardener -- this was a very important prerequisite; back then, he hadn't yet found his place, much like how his first work dedicated to the public was terrible. At that time, he still harboured little fantasies about ordinary people.

Perhaps some of his experiences during his travels in Europe during those years had given him some false impressions. In his first few years back in Westland, there was still some kind of foreign, European, romantic madness flowing through his blood, which made him believe that he could find 'beauty' in ordinary people -- in 'living' ordinary people . After all, deep in his memory, there was still his mother , the lake, and the tender, white petals of the hemp-leaved hydrangea floating on the water.

So when Blake came to him seeking help, he was overtaken by a straightforward curiosity. He was curious about the lost and maddened souls; he was curious about everything that goes on in the minds of other sinners; and the man before him was dominated by great fear, and he wanted to know what could be metamorphosed out of this violent and vast emotion.

So he agreed, concealing one or two pieces of crucial evidence, and delaying the other man's imprisonment -- but unfortunately, this person failed to surprise him, and the other partycontinued to live a muddled life until another stupid crime finally landed him in prison.

Albarino admitted to feeling disappointed; 'Beauty is hard,' he'd once heard someone say. Indeed it was. That pure, insane, and dedicated beauty that erupts forth from a human's soul was so rare that he'd only seen it once in his mother.

And so Albarino was disappointed, and once again turned his eyes to the dead.

-- Until several years later, he encountered Herstal Armalight and the Westland Pianist.

At this moment, he looked directly at the man standing in the defendant's box , this brutal killer stood next to his enemy, the source of all his sins, his voice cold and hard, beautiful and unshakable.

Albarino almost wanted to smile.

'I have nothing to refute ,' so he replied quite happily ; ' Mr. Blake is telling the truth .'

Lavazza Mercader sat before Olga's bed.

According to the doctors, her condition had recently improved, and a slight reaction could be seen in her upper limbs. If all goes well, she could wake up soon.

'If all goes well,' Mercader wanted to sneer at such optimistic words; things never went the direction of going well, just like how Kaba Stryder was now a free man ... when they had arrested that man at the scene where the children were being held, who could have imagined they would see this day?

Would things have been different if this silent person had woken up before the trial?

Or, if she had woken up earlier, would the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist have already been caught?

Mercader knew that it was meaningless to dwell on such things; the day would soon dawn, and when the day dawned, he would have to take a plane back to Quantico. There was no way a person as sharp as Albarino Bacchus wouldn't have anticipated that they were already being watched. Although it was still unclear why Armalight had infiltrated Sequoia Manor. It was possible that by the time he got his next opportunity, the two men would have already fled to Mexico.

For a moment, Mercader considered whether it would be the best option to go to Albarino Bacchus's door right now, and fire a couple of shots inside after ringing the doorbell and letting the other man answer the door -- but what was the best option? Did the best option even exist?

Many disturbing thoughts flashed through his mind, and at the same time, the ringing of his mobile phone suddenly pierced straight through the silence.

'Hello?'

The call was from someone he never expected.

When Herstal had declined Holmes' enthusiastic proposal for a celebratory dinner and returned home, Albarino was already sitting on the couch.

This wasn't particularly surprising. Albarino had left the courtroom after his afternoon testimony, and hadn't needed to wait for the verdict -- if Herstal's head hadn't hurt so much, he'd realize that Albarino had likely been summoned for a talk with the head of the forensic department. What he'd said on the witness stand that afternoon was no joke. Perhaps he'd already been suspended, or perhaps he'd soon be prosecuted by the Bureau of Forensic Medicine.

But Herstal wasn't thinking about any of that right now.

He felt pain from his temples to his eye sockets and his cervical spine, and there was a strange blockage in his throat, as if something was weighing heavily on his stomach. But given that he'd hardly eaten anything all day, that seemed highly unlikely.

Herstal didn't even have time to spare Albarino a glance before he stumbled to the bathroom. There was a bitter acid rising in his throat -- that feeling had always been there, as he stood beside Stryder uttering every word, and as the jury foreman finally announced the verdict, this nauseating feeling lay dormant underneath his throat -- and all he could do was to try and not throw up on the bathroom floor.

His knees hit the cold tiles hard.

But Herstal's empty stomach had nothing to expel; the dry heaving only made the process worse. The flood of bitter stomach acid rose to his oesophagus, forcing a few tears to seep out of the corners of his eyes.

He felt a pain in his chest, and although the feeling of nausea had subsided a little, the headache seemed to be even worse. As Herstal stood up from the tiles and flushed the toilet with shaking fingers, he heard a series of footsteps behind him.

He heard the crisp clinking of cups colliding together, and by the time Herstal managed to stand up, Albarino slipped a cup of mouthwash into his hand fluently and naturally as if he'd been waiting for it. While Herstal struggled to wash away the sour and bitter taste in his mouth, the other party just stood there quietly and motionlessly.

It wasn't until Herstal finally spat out the mouthwash, rinsed the glass, and put it back on the shelf, that Albarino approached him silently.

Under the bright light of the bathroom, this man looked like a pale ghost, but the warmth of his fingers was warmer than that of a ghost. Albarino wrapped one arm around his shoulder, and the other gently brushed over the corner of his mouth and his Adam's apple, brushing over the white scar on the nape of Herstal's neck -- the shape of a tooth mark, where someone had once bitten into the flesh and blood as if biting into a prey that was helpless to struggle.

Herstal closed his eyes, one hand clutching onto the fabric on the back of Albarino's shirt.

Then he felt the other kiss his eyelids, and Albarino's voice was as solid as an anchor, as heavy as a fountain, and sweeter than the lotus flower held in the hands of a Lotus Eater.

Albarino asked in a low voice, 'Herstal, what do you want?'

Herstal remained silent until the third breath of the other man brushed against his cheekbone warmly.

'f*ck me.' He whispered in the Sunday Gardener's ear. [1]

[1] TL Notes: '上我' – literally 'Top me'

But those who ate this honeyed plant, the Lotus, never cared to report, nor to return: they longed to stay forever, browsing on that native bloom, forgetful of their homeland. [2]

[2] The Odyssey, Homer.

Chapter 55: 91. The Lotus Eater (2)

Chapter Text

After hearing what Herstal said, Albarino paused for a moment, blinking as if he hadn't expected the other party to say that -- even though he was the one who had suggested 'I can squeeze those bad thoughts out of your head'.

For a second or two, he just stared at Herstal, whose irises appeared an unreal blue under the overly bright bathroom light, with blood vessels creeping into those eyes, and an unhealthy blue-black colour spreading across the skin beneath them.

If Albarino had been a considerate lover, he might have suggested, 'You should get some sleep' -- as he often did with his past lovers, but obviously not at this moment, nor when facing Herstal. So he maintained his usual smile and gently leaned forward to kiss the corner of Herstal's mouth.

'Okay.' He answered simply, just as he had answered Herstal when he called him before.

The next moment, Albarino grabbed Herstal's shoulder with one hand, and slammed him heavily against the wall. The back of Herstal's head hit the cold, white tiles with a low, muffled thud.

Again, the old topic arose, 'If Albarino had been a considerate lover,' but he didn't need to be, because Herstal didn't need such a thing. At moments like this, it seemed as if a clear line of words was written in the void, spelling out what the other man needed: the other man needed pain, he needed roughness, he needed a stronger wave to drown out everything that had happened before. All of this was in vain, a pointless delay before the inevitable end, but ...

Albarino remained silent, and reached out to unbutton Herstal's suit. Herstal placed a hand on his shoulder and cooperated in freeing himself from the garment. The fabric rustled and fell down, piling up at their feet while Albarino tilted his head slightly to nip the side of the other's neck, teeth sinking into the pale skin hidden from the light. Herstal gasped softly and tilted his head to accommodate the action. The gesture looked almost submissive.

But Albarino knew deep down that Herstal didn't actually like this behaviour; as the unfadeable scar on his neck starkly illustrated. When Albarino bit down harder on the skin, he could feel Herstal's body tense up slightly, but still, the other man did nothing.

So Albarino continued to unbutton Herstal's vest, he understood the professional necessities of being a lawyer and the aesthetic pursuit of this person's obsessive-compulsive disorder, but did Herstal really not find it terribly troublesome? His fingers landed on the other man's collar, and with a rough, hard tug, the shirt buttons crackled and fell apart.

Albarino heard him draw a sharp breath, the sound triggering a vibration in his throat, and the flesh trembling slightly under his teeth.

'Do you like it rougher?' Albarino asked, without suppressing the cheerful and rising tone in his voice. If he really appeared compassionate and gentle at such a moment, he would not be the Sunday Gardener. His lips were pressed against the nape of Herstal's neck, and he could feel the warmth and the pulsation of blood. Even though the skin hidden beneath the fabric of clothes appeared bloodless in the sunlight, it was strangely full of vitality.

'...Shut up.' Herstal replied softly in a low voice. [1]

[1] TL Notes: In Chinese there is a lot of onomatopoeia/expression sounds that are often added to the ends of sentences. They work to soften the sentence, make it cheerful, leave implications, make the sentence into a question etc. Albarino uses this far more often because he's always trying to play innocent or cheerful. What Herstal says here is '闭嘴吧' -- the '吧' actually softens what he's trying to say (here is an article on the different ways '吧' can change a sentence: the way Herstal is using it is the first way.) Another example is in Chapter 85 when Al says '跟我回家吧' -- 'Come home with me'. He isn't tellingHerstal to come home with him, he's saying it in a nicer, more suggestful tone, almost like 'Come home with me?'

Lavazza Mercader met his unexpected visitor at a twenty-four hour cafe across the street from the hospital.

'I didn't expect you to choose this place for a meeting,' the other party said in a relaxed tone as he sat down, 'is it because of Ms. Molozer? -- I've heard that she used to be a colleague of yours at the BAU. It's a pity not to have seen her in court, if she had been there, the scene might look quite different now.'

The corners of Mercader's mouth twitched coldly and stiffly as he said, 'That has nothing to do with you, Mr. Stryder.'

Kaba Stryder smiled, unsurprised. He leaned back in his chair, lazily beckoning with a finger, and a bodyguard beside him handed him a café menu. Mercader noticed that the cafe waiter standing there couldn't help but to glance in their direction frequently; if it hadn't been so late in the day when the café was almost empty, they might have ended up on the next day's morning news, given the recent stir surrounding Stryder had yet to pass.

He waited patiently for a couple of seconds, yet the person sitting across from him was still concentrating on the menu, showing no intention of speaking first. Mercader felt a headache at this greasy expression on the other's face, he couldn't think of any purpose for this person to come to him at all, so he had to take the initiative to speak first, 'I think we'd better get down to business, Mr. Stryder.'

Stryder swept Mercader a glance absently from over the top of the menu, and asked, 'In fact, you also think that I am the mastermind behind the Sequoia Manor case, don't you?'

This was a really good question. Mercader reckoned that the number of people who believed that Stryder was guilty might be more than the number of people who had voted for the Republican Party at the end of last year. [2] He snorted without much emotion and said, 'Indeed, many indications point to this, it's just that some of them cannot be recognised as legitimate evidence.'

[2] TL Notes: This novel was written in 2017 after Donald Trump was elected as President of the United States in 2016.

'That's true for many things, Mr. Mercader. You've been a federal agent for enough years to have seen plenty of such scenarios, haven't you?' Stryder spoke without concern, as if he was oblivious to the disgust in Mercader's voice. After he finished speaking, he ordered himself a cup of coffee that would guarantee a sleepless night, then he neatly placed the menu back onto the table, finally looking up at Mercader again.

This time, a slightly unpleasant smile played across his lips.

'Perhaps it's the same with the Westland Pianist, isn't it? Maybe you've some ideas in your mind, but you can't convict these murderers?' Strider said meaningfully, 'I've heard that you've been following these cases in Westland for a long time.'

'And what does that have to do with you?' Mercader retorted -- it was true that his actions were indeed at a standstill, as he had discussed with Bart Hardy once before -- undoubtedly, they lacked evidence to convict those two murderers. And lately, the two hadn't committed any new crimes, this was truly cunning, it was as if the other party could read his inner thoughts.

This reality only heightened Mercader's sense of urgency. Any rational killer -- though some might argue there was no such thing as a rational killer in the world -- would definitely know that such a delicate balance, as it was now, couldn't possibly last long. As long as they stayed in one place and kept on committing crimes, sooner or later, the day would come when the net would fall. And what were Herstal Armalight and Bacchus planning? Would they suddenly wash their hands of the business and leave this place?

In any case, Mercader's intuition told him he didn't have much time left.

Yet, even so, he wasn't keen on sharing his thoughts with the man in front of him.

'This matter does relate to me, to some extent.'

Stryder replied ambiguously, smiling as he met Mercader's puzzled expression.

'Suppose I told you I could provide a way to catch the Westland Pianist?'

The fabrics lay in a disordered heap on the floor. Normally, an obsessive-compulsive person like Herstal would never be able to tolerate anything outside of them hanging neatly on a hanger, but there didn't seem to be any room for concern tonight.

Now, his naked torso was pressed against the tiles that were gradually being warmed by his body's heat. Albarino remained fully clothed, except for his shirt collar, which had been loosened by two buttons. The man was overly patient, grinding his sharp canines against the skin on the side of his neck, one hand holding his shoulder, and the other sliding down his abdomen.

The fingers of that hand were slightly calloused -- were they from scalpels and other knives? When Albarino's fingers brushed against Herstal's penis, he wasn't hard at all.

To be fair, after all that had happened that night, he had no physical desire to make love, but his sharp mental craving was a different story. Herstal Armalight craved something that was akin to death, for he couldn't just let himself die yet.

-- And the closest thing to that was Albarino Bacchus.

He knew Albarino understood.

The other man probably understood, so he roughly played with the fragile organ with his hands, ignoring Herstal's slight writhing. Human instincts were so vulgar, so intuitive and uncontrollable, that even if he didn't want to, he could indeed gradually harden due to the direct stimulation of his senses. It couldn't be called pleasure; the demon clamping down on him used his fingertips to spread the prostate fluid across his delicate skin, making sticky and slippery sounds. All of these noises seemed like naked and blatant mockeries of what was happening to him and his reaction to it.

Herstal ejacul*ted for the first time between the other's fingers, without much pleasure, only tingling pain and an itching deep in his bones. He was still trying to calm his breathing when Albarino lowered his head to spread the sticky bodily fluids on his sweaty lower abdomen.

'Here's what I have planned for tonight, Mr. Armalight.' Albarino narrated in a calm voice, phrasing it in a way that was extremely reminiscent to the first time they had met. Even in the very beginning -- before Herstal knew that the other man was the Sunday Gardener -- he had never imagined that he would one day choose the other person as his destination.

'I'll make you cum three or four times tonight, or five if you can manage it.' Albarino said lightly, leaving a bright red, wet sucking mark on his collarbone, 'I'll be f*cking you after your knees are too weak to stand, and while I'm still inside you, you'll fall asleep from uncontrollable exhaustion.'

The hand he rested on the other man's shoulder slid downward as if unintentionally, then pinched Herstal's nipple quickly and harshly, eliciting a low hiss from the other person.

'You will briefly experience silence, darkness, and sleep.'

Albarino's voice was as light as the wind as he released the patch of skin that was reddened to the point of almost breaking, and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of Herstal's lips.

'That is the only thing I can give you besides death, Mr. Armalight.'

Hunter had just gotten out of the shower when his phone rang. His hair was still damp and his legs were already beginning to ache from standing for so long.

With that, he moved stiffly and collapsed with a thud onto the bed of the motel, which was surprisingly comfortable, despite the fact that the economy of White Oak was declining every year: the beds were soft, the floors were clean, and the room was soundproof. It was the luckiest situation Hunter could think of, if he had to stay in an uncomfortable lodging after all these busy days, it would be a bit too miserable.

The call was from that kid Midalen, who was the only person who knew where he was, what he was up to, and what the hotel's landline number was.

Hunter lay on the bed, not wanting to move, but he struggled a little and rolled over to yank the phone receiver from the bedside table. The boy's voice sounded slightly distorted through the phone, and his first words were:

'Stryder was acquitted.'

'I know, kid. Even though I'm in the middle of nowhere, there's still internet here.' Hunter told Midalen, his laptop still lying on the motel's desk.

In fact, less than three minutes after the trial ended that afternoon, news of the verdict had already spread across the internet. It seemed that in addition to Westland, many people were paying attention to this horrific case. Even Hunter hadn't been able to escape the thirty-second speed-reading of the news that was broadcasted on the local television station in White Oak as he ate his supper: he was currently in Kentucky.

Midalen's response was silence, and Hunter thought for a moment, then spoke up and asked, 'Having a hard time accepting this reality?'

'I've heard Ms. Hardy say that our chances of winning were slim, but when it actually happened...' Midalen paused, and for the first time, Hunter heard a hint of uncertainty in the impatient child's voice. '... It's still hard to accept this reality, I'd hoped that the jury would make the right decision before this.'

'Though it might not be what you wanted to hear, my life experience has taught me not to rely on anyone. The only person you can rely on is yourself.' Hunter told him, stretching his stiff and sore shoulders as he spoke.

'I still need to rely on you right now, I'm not a bounty hunter after all.' The kid let out a light, humorless laugh before quickly shifting the conversation back to the main topic, as if to pretend that the previous demoralising conversation hadn't happened, 'So, any new developments, Mr. Bounty Hunter?'

Hunter hesitated, his speculations and progress weren't exactly appropriate to tell a child, especially one who had just been rescued from the bad guys and still seeing a psychiatrist regularly. Though Midalen never said it out loud, Hunter had no doubt that the boy would still wake up from nightmares in the middle of the night. But he quickly realized that, in some ways, this child wasn't a child anymore in a sense.

'I have some theories.' Hunter answered carefully.

Midalen asked back with great interest, 'What are they?'

'...I suspect that this small town is where Herstal Armalight grew up.' Hunter said slowly, 'I also suspect that Kaba Stryder used to live here back in the day. They may have known each other thirty years ago.'

--- And what kind of person Stryder was, the two who were talking on the phone knew very well.

After the third time, Herstal had to admit that he'd pretty much lost the ability to support his body. Only then did Albarino half-assist him to the bedroom, standing barefoot on the floor as he began to slowly undress. It had to be said that Albarino's patience and endurance was astounding, considering the impression the Sunday Gardener left behind of being utterly unplanned.

Herstal lay on his back on the bed, his headache had subsided a little -- most likely from the secretion of endorphins -- before Albarino's heat-emitting body pressed down on him, the warmth of his skin was unusually human-like, despite Herstal thinking that it was merely an illusion on the human skin mask.

Then Albarino held his waist and flipped him over, pinning him to the edge of the bed and f*cking into him directly.

Herstal grunted intermittently through clenched teeth, his fingers twisting tightly in the sheets. Though he was reluctant to admit it, he didn't actually like being in this position where he couldn't see the other person's face. It was as if in those one or two moments of confusion, he still couldn't be sure who the person behind him was.

So he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows on the mattress, trying to turn over, only to have Albarino hold his wrists down. The other man pressed most of his weight against him -- thus embedding himself deeper into his body, making Herstal let out a muffled groan -- Albarino maintained his grip on his wrists, while his other hand braced against the mattress, leaning down to kiss the sweat-dampened nape of Herstal's neck.

The action even held a strange mist of tenderness, but the next moment, the other man's rough movements completely erased that thought from his mind. After several org*sms, Herstal's body was still very sensitive. Such rough movements during the refractory period almost became completely uncomfortable. He struggled a little, though not very seriously, before being pushed into the depths of pleasure by Albarino's movements.

In a sense, the man's movements were too skilful, bearing in mind that he'd only f*cked Herstal once after the Billy incident. So either he was incredibly naturally talented, or he had accumulated a wealth of experience from many, many, many former lovers. Herstal didn't particularly want to know the answer, focusing instead on not passing out from the intensity between gasps

Albarino kissed his spine in small bites, the hand that wasn't supporting his own body let go of his wrist, not forgetting to play with his nipples. Herstal rested his forehead against the sheets, swallowing down a fragmented moan, and it was at this moment--

Albarino stopped his movements without any warning.

The abrupt halt nearly made Herstal curse aloud. He could hear the other man breathing heavily as well, he could feel the skin of Albarino's body burning as the other man leaned back down and bit the skin on the back of his neck with his teeth. He slowly and insistently penetrated Herstal with unquestioning strokes. Herstal couldn't help but tremble, and in that moment, Albarino spoke almost quietly.

'Herstal, you have sailed to the land where time is always the afternoon [3].' He said almost gently, 'Why do you not share the magic lotus with me?'

[3] 'The Lotos-Eaters', Alfred Tennyson. 'In the afternoon they came unto a land/In which it seemed always afternoon.'

Odysseus and his sailors came to an island during their voyage. The residents of the island lived on lotus fruits, which made people forget their sorrows. Three of Odysseus' sailors ate the fruit and lost the desire to return home.

Herstal, of course, knew what Albarino was really asking. Things had already reached a point where he was nearly defeated. It seemed too easy to just abandon everything and leave the country with Albarino, to forget all about Stryder, but ...

'...No.' He groaned, forcing the broken sentence out from between his gritted teeth, and just at that moment, Albarino thrust in deeply, almost squeezing a sob from his lips.

Herstal heard Albarino sigh softly.

Hunter briefly described his theory; after all, he had almost nothing to go on except for the child named 'William', who bore a striking resemblance to Herstal Armalight, and the mysterious 1987 church murders. He could only speculate that Armalight had been a member of the church choir and had had an unpleasant experience with Stryder while he was in White Oak. However, he had yet to find a proper place for Stryder and the murder case in his theory.

'Actually, there could be a possibility', said Midalen, after listening to his theory and thinking for a long time, '... that Stryder was a clergyman in St. Anthony's church back then? After all, that cross was found in his drawer, and Mr. Armalight was also a member of the church choir in those days. Besides --'

He paused, taking a deep breath.

Hunter knew what he meant by the 'besides'; although there was no evidence, they had always suspected that Stryder himself was a paedophile. Looking at those choir photographs from thirty years ago, the church's choir was full of young boys between the ages of eight and fourteen, whose secondary sexual characteristics had not yet developed! Placing Stryder in such an environment practically spelled out what might have happened!

If that was the case, then the unsolved church case thirty years ago would be easier to explain. Perhaps someone in the church found out what Stryder had done, and was silenced by him as a result? Was the clergyman who disappeared from the church overnight back then Stryder?

Given this context, it wouldn't be particularly surprising that Armalight mysteriously snuck into Sequoia Manor and gave Midalen a knife to defend himself.

But if that were the case, how could Armalight's defence of Stryder be explained?

'This is just a possible hypothesis; don't get your hopes up.' Hunter warned Midalen, 'Sometimes, even logical reasoning can go wrong, let alone deductions based on just a few clues. I will try to find a way to check the file of that case back then, if I can find photos of the relevant suspects at that time, things will become clearer ... during this period of time, you stay obediently in Westland. The WLPD should still have officers protecting you, right? As a recent witness in court, you need to be vigilant about your safety, whether it's Stryder's people or those of the media, you must be wary --'

'I know, I know, you're just like an old mother.' Midalen complained in a small voice, 'Actually, considering you're about to use some illegal means to get those police files, aren't you in more danger?'

'Kid, I'm the best bounty hunter in Westland, don't think that just because the trial is over means you can ignore the advice of someone with experience.' If it weren't for the phone line, Hunter would have wanted to ruffle the top of the brat's fluffy head a few times.

'I'd actually like to hear from someone who's experienced, I want to be a bounty hunter too. Can you teach me when you get back to Westland? I could work part time to pay back the money I hired you for.' Midalen chuckled and replied with a smile.

The suddenness of this request left Hunter unsure if Midalen was serious or joking. He sternly scolded him half-heartedly, 'Come on, a fourteen year old brat like you should be asleep by now! If you have anything to say, wait until I get back!'

And with that, Hunter lay exhausted on his bed after hanging up the phone. His hair, which he hadn't even blow-dried, soaked the fabric of his pillow, but he was too lazy to get up. He rubbed his temples, thinking about how he could enter the White Oak Police Station legitimately and get his hands on the file of the mysterious case from many years ago. It would not be a particularly easy thing to do...

Then he thought of the nonsense of that Midalen kid. This kid didn't know how hard this road was. Some people became bounty hunters for the thrill, while others were drawn simply for the huge profits behind it. Although Hunter was not optimistic about Midalen's idea, he had to admit that he wasn't getting any younger. He was over fifty and no longer suitable to be a bounty hunter. He had no wife and no children. If --

Then Hunter chuckled, dismissing the jumbled thoughts out of his mind.

Albarino placed one hand on Herstal's waist, one of the rare moments when the other party wouldn't shrug it off in disgust. Even in his sleep, Herstal continued to frown, as if he was still pondering over some unsolvable puzzle.

By the last time, he'd succeeded in squeezing a little sob out of the other man's mouth, but even then, the other person still would not beg for mercy. Albarino had done what he could -- he was like Mephistopheles summoned by Faust, like Hades who'd robbed Persephone -- eat the fruit, he would whisper and persuade, the lotus fruit was lying between his fingers, and they both knew it.

No. Herstal would reply, an expected answer.

The corners of the other man's eyes were dyed red by lust and more complex emotions, his voice was broken and fragmented, tears soaked Herstal's lashes, giving them a shallow, golden, damp sheen, though he would never admit they were tears. Then, a heavy sleep would capture him, like death, drawing him down towards the depths of his dreams.

Albarino's fingers rested on his waist, as if holding onto the last string that had yet to break.

When the long night was over, they would return to normal.

Chapter 56: 92. The Lotus Eater (3)

Chapter Text

When Albarino opened his eyes, it was already dusk.

He was lying in an unfamiliar room, with a mouldy ceiling and peeling wallpaper as far as the eye could see. The nearby glass window was covered with a thick layer of dust, obscuring much of the outside view; only the shadowy outlines of some tall trees could be vaguely seen through the glass.

Outside the window, the blood-coloured sunlight was streaming in through the thin mottled glass, staining everything inside with a heavy layer of blood, so red that it made one feel unsettled. Albarino twisted on the thin bed, and found that his wrists were tied to the metal guardrails on either side of the bed with nylon straps -- the bed resembled those used in hospitals, with low guardrails on either side, and a dusty IV stand erected beside the bed.

Albarino felt a pain in the back of his head, where there was a wound, no worse than the one that had left stitches from the time the Pianist invaded his home. It was still bleeding a little, causing his hair to stick painfully and itchily to his scalp, creating an unpleasant, stiff sensation -- on top of that, there was a needle mark on the back of his hand, surrounded by a small bruise.

Albarino took a slow breath.

'Herstal.' He said.

He knew that the man was standing somewhere in his blind spot, inevitably so. This guy relied on darkness or something else for a sense of security at times, a trait Albarino had discerned the day they went to see Aurelie Delphine.

So Albarino wasn't surprised when he heard footsteps, and Herstal Armalight stepped out from somewhere hidden in the blood-like shadows of the dusk, still looking impeccably dressed and meticulous. This person had an obsessive-compulsive need to ensure that everything around him was in order.

But he looked pale, and the deep shadows under his eyes had still not faded. Herstal's gaze fell upon Albarino, and he wore a sort of thoughtful, measuring look, as if he had never seen Albarino lying so defencelessly before him.

With a gentle nod, he responded, 'Mhm.' [1]

[1] TL Notes: '嗯' – a sound of acknowledgement.

Seven hours ago.

It was just before nine-thirty when Albarino entered the house. The weather was clear, with a hint of lingering moisture left in the air from the previous night's rain. As soon as he entered, he saw Herstal sitting on the couch with an open bottle of white wine in front of him. He held a barely-touchedhalf-glass of wine in his hand -- it was still early in the morning, even if Herstal didn't appear to be inebriated by any stretch of the imagination, it was still very rare of him.

Albarino's steps into the room paused. He sniffed the scent of wine in the air and asked with a smile, 'Bacchus grapes? Produced in England?'

'Is that so surprising?' Herstal asked rhetorically, his voice still sounded calm and indifferent.

'You never seemed to stock wine in your home before you met me.' Albarino remarked casually, as if unaware of the implications of his words.Buying wine wasn't strange; all rich people liked to have a few bottles in their mansions.The type of wine and the metaphorical significance of its name was the really peculiar part.

Albarino paused and added, 'Besides, today is Friday.'

-- The implication was clear: Don't you have work?

And Herstal perfectly ignored his roundabout hint. Herstal still looked tired when he looked over at him, but his eyes were surprisingly bright. His voice was steady, with no discernible joy or anger, as he asked, 'How's the situation on your side? '

The situation was obviously not good. Yesterday, as the Chief Medical Examiner, Albarino had stood in front of the jury and confessed that he had accepted bribes and tampered with evidence, essentially admitting to committing perjury.Such a serious crime could not be easily dismissed.

Albarino hadn't told Herstal where he was going this morning , but even a fool could have guessed that he must have gone to the Forensic Bureau.After such a major incident, it would be strange if the chief didn't speak with him. In fact, it was odd that this conversation hadn't taken place immediately after yesterday's afternoon court session . Herstal couldn't fathom what excuse Albarino must have used to be able to leave promptly and return home after the trial.

Albarino shrugged nonchalantly , 'I'm temporarily suspended, but I think they'll probably prosecute me .'

'Your career is over, Dr. Bacchus.' Herstal said with an uninterested tone, swirling his glass.

'You say that as if I'd planned to stay in the country .' Albarino let out a chuckle as he took a few steps forward, easily removing his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. His movements were familiar as if this were his own home. In fact, maybethe dusty house on the outskirts of the city felt less like 'home' now. Looking back , he'd lived in Herstal's house for a long time.

But everything had its own ending, and they were both well aware: the end had come.

'So you're planning on leaving the United States now ? Where's the first stop?' Herstal asked, seemingly unsurprised.He leaned over the rim of the glass and took a shallow sip of his drink, then set the glass back down onto the table, creating a crisp clink as glass met glass . 'Still Mexico?'

'Mexico, and then a trip around the Caribbean, at least that was the original plan.' Albarino snorted lightly : Herstal didn't actually know what the 'original plan' was, he'd never asked Albarino about his escape plan, and as far as Herstal was concerned, he'd only agreed to leave with Albarino after things with Stryder were settled.

For Herstal, what happened next didn't matter . He had no goal beyond killingStryder, and didn't care about anything that would happened afterwards -- Albarino had smelled this in him long ago, just like how a small animal could smell the impending disaster before a volcanic eruption. He too could see the huge shadow of destruction looming behind Herstal.

Now, Albarino still wore that familiar smile on his face, but his voice had turned cold, 'But now I've changed my mind.'

Herstal quietly observed the man standing before him -- a forensic pathologist, a killer, an honest witness in a court of law. These fragmented identities cametogether to form the face of a monster in the darkness. He seemed unsurprised by what Albarino said, and merely repeated in a calm voice: 'Changed your mind?'

'Yes,' Albarino snorted, 'Herstal, at this point, you can't leave theUnited States with me when it comes down to it, can you?'

He said this as a matter-of-fact statement, not even as a question.

Herstal nodded slowly and said, 'I'm going to find Stryder -- he's planning to leave Westland, but a friend of mine found the address of the hotel he's currently staying at. I intend to act before he disappearsinto the sea of people again...this will be the last opportunity.'

'Okay, then I'll go with you.' Albarino said in the exact same tone as before, 'I'll sit in the front row of the audience and watch you kill Kaba Stryder.'

As his words fell, an abrupt silence settled between the two of them, and Herstal looked at Albalino as if he was truly getting to know him for the first time.

Then, Herstal frowned slowly and said, 'Since I met you, I've often suspected that you act before you even realised what the consequences of what you're about to do are going to lead to, and that certainly seems to be the case now.'

'So you also know that Lavazza Mercader might already suspect that you're the Pianist, and has been watching your every move? And since your initiative to defendStryder conflicts with his profiling of the Pianist, he must be very concerned about why you'd do such a thing.' Albarino sneered, a cold glint flashing in his eyes -- a look those familiar with him would call murderous intent. 'Going to kill Stryder under these circ*mstances -- you're walking into a trap, Pianist .'

'Because I don't have a choice,' Herstal's voice remained calm, starkly contrasting the aggressive impression he usually left on people in the past. 'Molozer is right, the Westland Pianist doesn't have the ability to stop, but you do.'

He paused.

Then, softly, he said, 'Albarino, stop.'

Herstal knew Albarino well enough to understand what he meant by , 'sit in the front row of the audience' - - not in the common sense of standing aside and watching passively, temporarily delaying his departure from the United States , but that he would stand at the scene of the crime and watch Herstal kill the other man firsthand.

And they both knew that Lavazza Mercader had been paying too much unnecessary attention to Westland lately. After the Billy case, the other party might have gradually become suspicious. If Mercader was indeed watching them , there was no way they could escape unscathed.

Perhaps,Albarino Bacchus intended to destroy more than just his forensic career.

'The most important thing is to choose the right time, isn't it?' Albarino replied calmly, 'I think now is the right time.'

Herstal stared at the other man, he probably had an expression on his face that was completely incomprehensible to Albarino . Every rational psychopathic killer knew that they would be caught eventually if they didn't stop committing crimes. Most actively tried to circumvent this tragic ending, but clearly, Albarino did not .

'I want to go with you.' Albarino explained good-naturedly -- as if such nonsense could explain anything -- he was still almost smiling; he paused and added: 'I should be with you.'

Today he didn't add, 'This is in accordance with the guidance of the Muse ,' otherwise Herstal might've been tempted to personally shoot him in the head.

Herstal lowered his voice slightly out of anger, 'So now you're like a reckless performance artist who doesn't care about their life, lying on stage letting any audience member hurt you at will, and you're gambling on whetheror not someone will shoot you in the head?" '

'Why is it that you get to choose how you want to die, but I can't?' Albarino asked bluntly in return, 'What's the reason, where's the meaning ?'

Herstal stared intently at Albarino, as if an answer had already automatically formed on his lips, but his lips moved a little, yet they did not utter the answer that consisted of three simple words.

He just sighed and said, 'I won't agree to your request .'

'Pretty much expected ,' Albarino nodded, the corners of his mouth quirked upwards in an almost provocative manner, 'So, how do you plan to stop me?'

What happened in the next moment was quite unexpected. Herstal suddenly rose to his feet without any warning -- with this abrupt movement, the sound of breaking glass suddenly rang out, as the wine bottle fell and shattered, the wine spilling everywhere-- the next second, Herstal strode over the floor of broken glass, and pressed down on Albarino's shoulders, slamming him hard against the wall. His torso collided against the hard wall with a dull thud, and a painting hanging on the wall was knocked off its nail, crashing to the floor with a thunderous noise.

When your lover was a psychopathic murderer, it's hard to tell if they're trying to kiss you or kill you when they do something like this. Having said that, the direction of the previous conversation was too obvious.Albarino twisted and struggled deftly, sweeping his leg towards Herstal's ankle. He succeeded, and Herstal staggered; they both fell to the side together, seemingly knocking over something heavy.

Albarino suddenly realised how similar this scene was to that rainy night almost six months earlier, the night Herstal had killed Johnny the Killer, and when the other party had appeared in his house through the rain.

That same night, Herstal had also smashed a bottle of wine named after him on the floor, and they had smelled the rich, fruity aroma of white wine spreading through the room-- because it was necessary and logical, the other would say.

On that night, Albarino had been at ease because he knew what Herstal was thinking, and what he would doin the end. But this night was the exact opposite, Albarino could sense the burning anger and despair in Herstal, and he knew where those feelings came from, but he had no idea what such feelings would result in.

In the midst of the struggle, his exposed skin was cut by the broken glass on the floor. The wounds on his wrists and fingers were small and deep, bringing pain that was bearable, but impossible to ignore . Herstal pressed down on his waist and abdomen, his fingers slowly tightening around his throat.

'Is this the solution you came up with?' Albarino struggled to squeeze these words from his teeth as his breathing gradually became more difficult. He was still trying to smile, because smiling was such a perfect disguise, enough to cover up his helplessness.'Rushing to kill me before Mercader does because you can't control my actions?'

Herstal looked at him with an expression that seemed like he wanted to sigh in exasperation , but in the end, no sound came out. His fingers tightened slowly like a judgment, but without hesitation, and he said, 'I'm not going to kill you .'

-- Those were the last words Albarino heard before his eyes plunged into darkness from the lack of oxygen.

'This doesn't prove anything.' Bart Hardy said dryly, sitting behind his desk at the WLPD, his hands twisting together.

'In my opinion, this proves everything.' Mercader shook his head in disagreement, his voice as hard as steel.

The only reason he was still in Officer Hardy's office at this hour was because he'd refunded his flight back to Quantico, and after John Garcia had learned what he was seeking to do, he had likewise volunteered to stay behind...although, judging by the expression of the officer's face in front of him, perhaps he couldn't wait for them to be gone, or for the whole world to not exist.

Hardy waved his hand irritably, 'Alright, let me summarise, you now know the following facts: Stryder has admitted to you that he suddenly recognised his lawyer, Herstal Armalight, as a young man named 'William' from thirty years ago, and that they both used to live in White Oak, Kentucky -- and, Stryder took that fact to mean that Mr. Armalight wants to murder him, so he tried to seek the protection of the FBI.'

It was plainly written on Hardy's face: this proves nothing. He was well aware that this process did not comply with regulations, and that the evidence was definitely not sufficient.

'Stryder said that they had 'some conflicts' back then, so Armalight must hold a grudge against him. Although Stryder refuses to disclose the details of what happened to me, he does have the Constitutional protections to maintain that behaviour.' Mercader raised his voice slightly, 'We all know that although he escaped punishment, he is in fact a rapist. You also understand, Officer Hardy, that thirty years ago, Armalight was a teenager. I have no doubt that this 'conflict' he refers to is that he actually raped-'

Hardy shook his head, 'And based on such pure speculation, you believe...'

'I believe that Herstal Armalight is the Westland Pianist, yes, that's my speculation, just as I've told you before. The difference is that now I have more facts to go on after Stryder told me these unknown secrets.' Mercader said in a deep voice.

He suddenly stretched out his hand and threw a folder to Hardy, who caught it reflexively and looked at Mercader with a questioning gaze.

'This is my evidence: an old case that happened in White Oak thirty years ago.' Mercader said, enunciating each word.

Hardy reached out and flipped open the folder, which contained old, handwritten documents accompanied by numerous yellowed photographs due to the passage of time. Hardy looked at the last few pages of the document for a long time, his lips moved as if he was about to say something, but no words came out from between his lips until he finally slowly, and deliberately closed the folder in his hand.

'This is just a guess.' He said in a low voice.

Mercader simply wanted to sigh in pity; the man in front of him was like any other person in the world who was unwilling to accept the reality -- accept the reality that 'my friend is a serial killer.' -- Mercader said calmly: 'This is just a guess, but this is the most likely guess so far, we can use this guess to solve all the current doubts: think of Olga's deduction, think of my deduction, Officer Hardy. 'Entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity'-- our guess has been confirmed.'

Hardy was silent for a long time, then admitted in a dry voice, 'I think you're right.'

In fact, Mercader suspected that Bart Hardy had already began to suspect the identities of Bacchus and Armalight as early as the murder of Anthony Sharp, however, it was too cruel for him to face that reality. And Mercader heard Hardy say, in a tone that was no different from the previous sentence, 'But I still question your approach.'

'What?' Mercader asked back calmly.

'Using Stryder as a bait to lure the Westland Pianist -- assuming that your deduction is correct, and Herstal Armalight is indeed the Westland Pianist, and that his current purpose is really to kill Stryder.' Hardy took a deep breath, 'Stryder came to you seeking protection from the FBI, and ... if I'm not mistaken, the existing evidence is insufficient for him to apply for the witness protection programme, right? Because Armalight being the Pianist is merely a speculation.'

'So what?'

'That means you deceived Stryder,' Hardy said, 'He wants you to protect him, but your real intention is to kill him -- to kill him using the Pianist's hands, and then you can arrest the Pianist. Kill two birds with one stone, right? The evil people will all receive the punishment they deserve.'

'Most people would consider that a win-win situation.' Mercader shook his head.

'Then I guess I'm not part of 'most people',' Hardy insisted. 'Your way of dealing with things is based on deception and violation of the law. If you insist that the end justifies the means, then the act of making laws is utterly meaningless. Criminals should indeed be punished, but the premise is that you must also abide by the original rules.'

'Even though Stryder has already used these rules to escape punishment,' Mercader said aggressively, staring into Hardy's eyes, 'And if he continues to go unpunished, more children could be victimised.'

Hardy's lips trembled slightly, but he still said, '... Yes. Many things in this world will never be the best of both worlds.'

As he said this, he thought back to a case he'd worked on with Olga Molozer a few years earlier: it was a brutal massacre case, where almost everyone suspected that the family's youngest daughter, who was away at college, had killed her family of seven. At the time, Olga's testimony in court was favourable to the defendant. And after the girl was released due to insufficient evidence, Olga herself faced a lot of pressure.

'People in the media are saying that she escaped punishment because of flaws in the law,' Hardy tried to reassure her at the time. 'But I think you did the right thing. There are times when the lack of evidence lets some truly guilty people go, but there are also times when it saves the wrongly accused, innocent people. I believe this case falls into the latter category.'

'I know I'm right.' Olga winked at him and replied happily, 'Besides, you're thinking about this from the perspective of 'rules,' whereas I am not interested in either punishing, nor saving them. I consider things from the perspective of 'truth'.'

--A few years later, the real murderer was finally caught, and the newspapers extensively covered the truth of the case. While Bart Hardy was secretly glad that they hadn't wrongfully imprisoned an innocent person, as for Olga herself, she made no comment on the matter. Hardy suspected that she had long since put the whole case and the innocent girl behind her.

And now, Mercader quoted in a flat voice --

'Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.' [2]

[2] Macbeth, Shakespeare. (TL Notes: Specifically Act 3, Scene 2. The direct translation is something like 'What begins with injustice must be maintained by sin', so you could just imagine how difficult it was to find the original... Thank you to this article for finding it for me.)

Hardy gazed at him, 'You didn't come here to discuss with me what you intend to do next at all, did you?'

'No.' Lavazza Mercader replied calmly, 'I'm just here to inform you of what's coming next.'

The blood like sunset bathed the long streets of White Oak. At this hour, there was no one in front of the town's police station, everything was quiet and silent. Orion Hunter stood across the street from the station, leaning against a brick wall warmed by the sunlight.

He was waiting for someone -- the superintendent of the police station's archive room, a middle-aged man with a private gambling habit, whom Hunter had slipped a handful of banknotes earlier, enough to convince the other man to take the risk of entering the archive room and help him retrieve an old file from thirty years ago.

Those files were so old that they hadn't even been entered into the system, and wouldn't be remembered or cared about. So naturally, the superintendent was willing to take such a small risk for a sum of money.

Hunter had arrived a little early, and they had arranged to meet after the superintendent's shift was over. Right now, the other party hadn't arrived yet.

Albarino co*cked his head, his voice light and airy, 'Did you draw my blood, or did you inject me with some drug?'

'Blood,' Herstal said in a calm voice, the tone was no different from what he'd heard before he fell unconscious ... Albarino knew that this man had made up his mind a long time ago. 'Around eight hundred millilitres. You have a good physique, but it's normal to have reactions like dizziness and cold hands and feet.'

'This is the final solution you came up with?' Albarino snorted softly, without any humour.

'Yes, I believe it's the best solution.' Herstal said calmly, 'Assuming that this is a trap set by Mercader, I'll be arrested after I kill Stryder. Then, they will find a large amount of your blood in my house.'

Albarino looked directly at him, 'And then?'

'I will confess that I killed you.' Herstal answered in a casual tone, as if he was discussing an everyday issue like who was in charge of washing the dishes. 'Or, at the very least, I'm going to make them believe that I killed you.'

Because as long as he was believed to be the Westland Pianist, Albarino would inevitably be suspected of being the Sunday Gardener; otherwise, many things that had happened could not be explained. Not to mention that Lavassa Mercader was probably already suspicious -- they couldn't expect the authorities to be that clueless.

'Obviously, you never considered asking for my opinion.' Albarino said flatly.

'That's the mistake you've been making all along,' Herstal pointed out. 'You've always thought that as long as I'm willing to dance to your tune, nothing would go wrong -- but they will, and even I'm not always on the same side as you at all times.'

Albarino had been struggling slightly as he listened to him, and they both knew it was futile, the nylon straps couldn't possibly be broken so easily. Albarino looked directly at Herstal, the smile that usually lingered in his eyes was completely gone, it was exceptionally rare for him to show such an expression: 'It's still the same question -- what's the point of all this?'

He had no doubt that, during the Norman Brother's case, Herstal definitely wouldn't have minded another person insisting on stepping into the trap with him.

Herstal looked at Albarino and let out a slow, soft sigh.

Then he stepped forward and wrapped one hand around Albarino's bound wrists -- the skin on his wrists had been chafed raw by the hard straps during his struggle, and now looked extraordinarily tender and reddened -- Herstal's fingers pressed down against the red, swollen, and painful skin, leaning down to meticulously kiss Albarino's lips.

'I love you.' He whispered slowly and lightly into the other's ear, 'I care. I've lost.'

Chapter 57: 93. The Lotus Eater (4)

Chapter Text

Herstal slowly straightened up, the residual warmth of the other's skin still lingering on his fingers. The sentence he had uttered had been circling in his mind for a long time, and he thought he would feel a sense of relief when he finally said it -- but he didn't. For in that moment, he felt a sense of serenity, and serenity hung over him as quietly as death.

And Albarino was as still as a statue, maintaining the same posture he'd been in a moment before, looking up at Herstal. Herstal saw a wonder in his eyes that could almost be called 'shock', an emotion so visceral and bewildering that it made his wonder seem both confused and comical.

'There are a lot of things you haven't thought about, Albarino.' Herstal told him calmly, 'You've always believed that you were in control of the game, but it's never occurred to you that the key to your ability to control the game was the essential willingness of others to co-operate with your actions. It's true that flipping the board is not a very elegant way to play the game, but when others are no longer willing to match your pace, this kind of thing will inevitably happen.'

Albarino stared at him and spoke in a tense tone, 'Herstal ...'

'So,' Herstal declared, his voice sounding as measured as ever, as if he'd thought it over thoroughly, though the words he uttered made him sound insane. 'I'm going to leave you here, and then go kill Stryder.'

'You can't do that!' Albarino couldn't help but raise his voice. For the first time since Herstal had known him, his voice sounded like a roar, like real anger, like a real human being. 'I choose to be with you, you can't take the liberty of deciding for me without my permission-'

He suddenly jerked up, the nylon restraints that bound his wrists snapped taut, striking against the railing with a dull thud. The metal bedframe creaked harshly, but remained immovable.

'Of course you'd think that when you're not calm.' Herstal said flatly.

'Oh, so you think I'm not calm enough now?' Albarino replied sharply, he rarely spoke in such a tone. Herstal looked at his flushed cheeks and actually wanted to smile.

'Yes, you are not calm enough now. But I believe you are capable of calming down, because as I've said before, you understand neither the hesitation, nor the pain of love.' Herstal replied, showing a forced, pale smile. 'Of course you will find it difficult to accept this now, but once the dust settles -- which I doubt will be more than a few months at most -- you'll be able to walk away from all this. You have room for choice, and your hobbies can change.'

Albarino stared at Herstal for a long time, then slowly said, '... I can't help but feel a sense of familiarity with what you're saying. Have you been spending too much time with Olga?'

'I think she's right.' Herstal said, reaching out once again to needlessly straighten his cuffs, even though they were already neat and there was no need to adjust them again. He had always had this compulsive mentality of keeping everything in order according to his wishes, but Albarino wasn't a button.

Herstal said, 'In three hours, someone will come to untie you. That person is an unlicensed doctor, he usually takes on jobs treating those injured during gang fights, and this house is his ... I suggest you don't kill him; he keeps his mouth shut about many things.'

Albarino blinked at Herstal, the blood on his face had yet to dissipate. Under the illumination of the crimson sunset, he looked as though he'd just waded through a river of blood. 'And I'm guessing that by then, I'll be presumed dead in people's eyes?'

'Yes.' Herstal replied.

'And then I'll have to secretly leave the United States, otherwise I won't be able to explain my faked death. And by that time, you'll already be arrested, and if I'm still alive, people will easily associate me with being your accomplice.' Albarino continued, 'How can you be so sure that I won't storm into the police station with a gun looking for you as soon as I'm untied?'

Herstal looked at Albarino for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

'You won't.' He whispered, 'You'll still have new hobbies, and you'll still be able to stop.'

-- They could all read between the lines: But I can't.

'I have grown weary of the wandering fields of barren foam [1],' Herstal said calmly, his gaze sweeping over Albarino's brow like a bird without a nest; 'but know that my native land, is not on an island.'

[1] 'The Lotos-Eaters', Alfred Tennyson. 'Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. /Then some one said, 'We will return no more'; /And all at once they sang, 'Our island home/ Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam'.

He paused, and his voice softened again.

'Goodbye, Albarino.'

Herstal got into his car, which was parked below the small, grey, unassuming clinic: the unlicensed doctor owed him a huge favour, and was therefore willing to help him do things like 'untying someone's nylon restraints in three hours'.

That happened a long time ago, back when he first came to Westland, a curious event that happened while he was in the process of opening his own law firm. If Albarino had been a normal person -- or even if he'd been a normal serial killer -- then Herstal might have shared with him bits and pieces of what had happened.

But that wasn't the case, and there was little need for regret.

He sat in the car for a while, in no hurry to start the engine. It wasn't his Rolls-Royce, but a Beetle with fake plates. His own car was too conspicuous, and after dealing with Stryder, the police could easily track the surveillance to find out where the car had gone. He didn't want to risk the WLPD discovering that Albarino was still alive.

His plan was to switch cars one more time before heading to the hotel where Stryder was staying, and then Albarino should have the freedom to leave the country without incident.

At this moment, he merely gazed at the blood-red sunset, then reached out and dragged a box from the passenger seat. The box had been lying there all along, looking out of place in the shabby Beetle.

It was an exquisitely crafted black box, made from some kind of leather, large and heavy. There were several lines of slight indentations on the surface of the box. At first glance, they were not very noticeable. Only upon closer, careful observation could one discover that these fine indentations were the result of a few lines of sentences printed on the surface of the box:

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell:

And by and by my Soul return'd to me,

And answer'd 'I Myself am Heav'n and Hell':[2]

[2] 'Rubaiyat', Omar Khayyam.

Herstal couldn't help but smile.

-- This really was Albarino's style. He himself was heaven and hell.

A few hours ago.

Herstal Armalight stood in front of the door to Albarino's house located on the outskirts of the city. Since Albarino had moved into Herstal's home, the house had not been visited for a long time. The windows were covered in a layer of dust, giving the place a forlorn appearance.

Herstal's fingers were still stained with blood that hadn't been cleaned off.

From the morning until now, he'd successfully managed to craft his house into a crime scene that was almost impossible to clean up. His knowledge was enough to allow him to fabricate the unmistakable signs of a fight, and the bloodstains that were hastily wiped off after splattering . He already knew that he would never return to the house -- it was no longer a 'home' -- and he felt no pity for the things he had destroyed; which would eventually be covered with luminol and fingerprint powder anyway.

And there was a reason why he was standing in front of Albarino's house.

Before he'd left his house for the last time, he'd impulsively felt the need to take this thing with him by an unknown force: the thing that had been sitting in his bedside table, the light, square box wrapped in blue delphinium patterned paper. It was the gift that Albarino had given him the previous Christmas.

-- He had received a total of two gifts from Albarino last Christmas. One was a silver bell plucked from the WLPD's Christmas tree, which was now probably lying in an evidence bag somewhere in the police station as evidence in the Arreola case; and the other was this blue box, which had remained unopened for a variety of reasons.

And Herstal didn't know what had possessed him to bring this box with him to the car. He just sat there , parked outside Albarino's house, with Albarino's blood staining his hands -- which he had drawn from the back of the other's hand with a needle.

He stared at the box for a while, finally frowning as he tore off the wrapping paper.

The sound of the wrapping paper being torn away was still too quiet for this small space, and he frowned even more deeply at the contents of the light box amidst the subtle rustling sound -- the box held only one thing: it was a key, brass-coloured and metallic. It looked worn enough to have been carried around by someone at one time or another, and the handle of the key had been polished rounded.

He'd imagined many times what might be in Albarino's box, but had felt that nothing quite fit Albarino's style. And now ... well, it was now like a treasure hunt, like something the adventurers in a story who find a mysterious key in a shipwreck would do, or something someone like Albarino would do.

So, he finally stood in front of Albarino's house once more, holding a key without knowing which door it would unlock , feeling both lonely and foolish. The sun had not yet set, and it had begun to glow slightly orange under the clear sky, shining softly down on him, casting a wave of golden light over the lawn in front of the door.

He didn't bother picking the lock of the door -- Herstal finally did what he wanted to do, smashing the glass with his elbow and sticking his hand through the hole to twist open the door handle from the inside. The house no longer needed to be repaired, its owner would never come back, and no one would care about the intruder anymore.

The interior was covered in dust, with furniture draped in white sheets, like an unvisited grave. Herstal still remembered the night he had staged this place as a crime scene. At that time, he could never have anticipated today's scenario.

He quickly searched the house, but couldn't find any door that could be opened with the key , until he entered Albarino's study.

Albarino's study was the most comfortably furnished corner of the entire house , and at a glance, it was obvious that this room was often used by its owner to kill time. The study wasn't big, and the shelves were crammed with books. Albarino seemed to organize them according to a logic only he could understand ; at least, Herstal didn't see where the logic was in putting 'Brave New World' next to 'Alice in Wonderland'.

He scanned the room: the floor was covered with a carpet soft enough to swallow a person, the armchair was piled with various cushions, and the mantelpiece held various sizes of wine glasses that needed to be washed and dusted again.

Then Herstal noticed a safe in the corner of the room, above which hung a replica of 'The Raft of Medusa'.

This didn't quite fitAlbarino's style, or at least, Herstal didn't think Albarino had any need for a safe in his house. Anything he was truly afraid of being discovered by others was kept in that cabin in the woods, and wealth could be stored in banks. Herstal hadn't ever noticed the other wearing precious watches and valuable jewellery.

So Herstal stepped forward, knelt on the dusty floor, and took out the key --

Click.

The key fit perfectly into the lock.

For some reason, Herstal's heartbeat suddenly accelerated . His fingers grasped the cold handle of the safe and slowly, slowly pushed the heavy door open. This action stirred up layers of dust, choking him to the point where he almost coughed: clearly, Albarino hadn't opened this safe for many years.

The safe was basically empty, except for a solitary, black leather box lyingalone at the very bottom.

-- Now, this box rested on Herstal's lap, shrouded in the bloody sunset, the dust on it having been carefully wiped off.

Herstal hadn't opened the box immediately after obtaining it. On one hand, he estimated that Albarino would wake up soon, and there wasn't much time left for him; on the other hand, he really didn't understand why Albarino -- the heartless little madman Albarino of last Christmas -- had chosen a key as a Christmas present.

Was this a strange metaphor for Bluebeard, or something simpler? For example, in the field of psychology, there was research on the clear directionality between keys and sex. [3] When his fingers fell on the box, he always felt that he was going to be disappointed, but then again, maybe he would never be disappointed with Albarino.

[3] TL Notes: Go to Endnotes for an in depth explanation.

At this moment, he sat in the blood-soaked sunset, in the grey, dilapidated clinic, having once again, left Albarino behind him. His fingers slowly traced over the lines of poetry on the surface of the box, and then he opened it.

The box was lined with thick, dark red velvet that looked almost like a cascade of blood, and in the midst of all that fabric, lay a revolver.

Herstal frowned slowly. He didn't think Albarino had a penchant for revolvers, nor did he quite understand the significance of choosing this gun as a Christmas present. In confusion, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the gun, and slowly lifted it out of the box -- then he suddenly noticed that this too was an old firearm. There were tiny specks of dirt on the barrel and the grip where his fingers couldn't reach: the liquid, which had already dried up to a brownish-black colour, was splattered around the muzzle, staining the metal surface.

Herstal suddenly understood.

-- On July 25th, 2001, on a clear summer night, Dr. Charles Bacchus had committed suicide in the study of his family's then residence.

This was a revolver; Albarino himself preferred semi-automatic pistols, but his father was evidently the type to use a revolver.

Herstal felt his thoughts get a little confused ... Of course, this was Albarino's Christmas present to him, the weapon that had taken the life of his last living relative in the world, this was certainly something Albarino would do. But what was the significance? What was the meaning of all these intricate twists and turns that the Gardener so loved? Why did Albarino give him a key first when his ultimate goal was to give him a gun?

So, did he still care about his relatives? Or did he actually 'care'? Albarino's house in the countryside contained no traces of his parents, but did he actually still keep their belongings?

Or did it signify 'power', that with this gun, Albarino was leaving Herstal the power to sever the last bloodline of Charles Bacchus left in this world?

Then Herstal suddenly realised that if he had opened this present on Christmas Day, he could have asked these questions.

And Albarino would have answered. Although he liked to express himself in all sorts of extraordinarily convoluted ways, Albarino would most likely answer if Herstal had asked.

...But from the current perspective, this gun may not be used in any way Albarino had ever envisioned before.

Kaba Stryder stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the presidential suite, admiring the view of the sunset. There was still a glimmer of the sun's rich golden light at the end of the horizon, but the sky had already darkened, and the clouds piled up in the sky were reflected by the twilight into a bruise-like dark purple, resembling the lifeless skin of a corpse.

This was Stryder's last night in Westland, and he was reasonably satisfied with the protection plan provided by the FBI. By dawn tomorrow, he would be flying to a place more suitable for living than the wet and cold Westland -- perhaps one of those lovely seaside cities on the West Coast, where his assets would allow him to live any life he wanted.

... Any life he wanted, excluding the ones involving little boys and girls. Well, one must always make some concessions when living in this world.

Imagine his surprise when he first discovered that Herstal Armalight was the little Will of the past, and that little Will might be the Westland Pianist.

-- He would never forget the heart-wrenching night when he'd gone downstairs to retrieve something he'd left in the church hall, only to find two bodies hanging before the crucifix. One of the two dead was a deacon who knew what he had done, and the other was a parishioner who'd enjoyed the delicate voices and skin of the children with him. And there was still a vacant seat between them. Who was it reserved for?

No, they were not dead yet at that time. One of them was still twisting and struggling in mid-air, his lips were purple, and his bulging eyes were looking straight at him, as if pleading for his help. While the other was struggling, he saw a thin piano wire strung around his neck. The full weight of the man was hung on the metal wire, which was undoubtedly cutting into his skin, causing blood to trickle down.

Then he heard a sound: the sound came from the wooden stairs, someone was making their way up those stairs towards the attic where the priests lived.

Each one of those steps seemed to pound on Stryder's heart, and he made the only and best choice: he took the road and fled, fled far away from that church, that town, and that night with the piano wire.

Who was that mysterious killer? He had thought about it many times. He recalled the people who might have known what he'd done, and recalled the faces that were becoming increasingly blurred -- until the night when he had sat across from the warden, who'd handed him the file on Herstal Armalight.

He saw a familiar face that he had long forgotten.

Piano wire, William, Herstal Armalight, the unexpected visitor to Sequoia Manor, the mysterious intruder and the silent death of the guard outside the manor, the Westland Pianist.

There was a thread that connected everything together.

Later, he sat in front of FBI Special Agent Lavazza Mercader, stuttering to describe what he was thinking. He said, 'It may be crazy, but I think Armalight is the Westland Pianist.'

In fact, this was just a hunch, but what were the odds of two murderers in different cities hanging people from the ceiling using piano wire?

What he didn't expect was for Mercader to slowly smile.

'I'm well aware that Armalight is the Westland Pianist.' Mercader replied this courteously.

Just like that, Stryder's pounding heart finally fell back into place.

At that moment, he heard a soft click behind him. When Stryder turned around, he saw Herstal Armalight pushing open the door, without a trace of blood on his body, and he was still well-dressed and meticulous. Stryder didn't know how he'd managed to get past the guards at the door, but that didn't matter now.

Stryder knew there were FBI agents lying in ambush in the adjacent room, giving him the confidence to smile and say, 'William, you're here.'

Stryder saw a fleeting glint of malice flash across the other person's eyes before they returned to their calm, azure blue. Herstal's hand reached into the pocket of his coat, and from the outline, it was clearly a gun; it seemed that even he knew that he wouldn't have enough time to use the piano wire now.

Stryder wasn't worried, he knew that he wouldn't have to wait for the other man to pull out a gun. The FBI agents who had been lying in ambush for a long time would swarm over and catch him red-handed. Therefore, he even had the leisure to taunt, 'Your skin is as white as it was back then.'

Still, Herstal did not answer -- and in the next instant, he drew out the gun. It was a revolver, with the inherent advantage of never jamming. Under the illumination of the setting sun, the metal surface gleamed as if it had been soaked in blood.

Stryder took a step back, sensing that something wasn't quite right. The adjacent room, where agents lay in wait, was too quiet. There was no sound of an impending raid, and the blackened muzzle of that gun was already aimed at him, and next --

'You're much more stupid than Lavazza Mercader.' Herstal said coldly.

A new fear suddenly surged in Stryder's heart. He wanted to scream, to flee, but it was too late. He watched as Herstal pulled the trigger, the bullet and gunpowder gas bursting from the muzzle together. The bright fire flashed in the dimly lit room.

'Bang!'

The first shot hit him in the chest, and Stryder staggered back under the tremendous impact. Herstal expressionlessly fired the second and third shot. The second shot also struck him in the chest, and the third shot hit somewhere in the man's head. Blood splattered and sprayed onto the clean white curtains, and Stryder stumbled back two steps, crashing into the floor-to-ceiling window behind him hard.

The floor-to-ceiling window was already covered in spiderweb-like cracks from a previous bullet, and as he collided with it, the glass shattered with a crash, glittering blindingly bright under the purple sky. Stryder's figure looked like a huge black shadow against the backlight. He smashed the window and tumbled out just like that, his blood-drenched body seemingly lingering in the air for a second before toppling backward and his entire body plummeted down with a muffled sound.

The next moment --

'FBI! Don't move! Hands up!'

Several other doors on the side of the living room were suddenly slammed open with a sharp sound. Herstal, holding the gun in his hand that had once belonged to Albarino's father, turned calmly to meet the cold, determined eyes of Lavazza Mercader.

Chapter 58: 94. The Lotus Eater (5)

Chapter Text

Albarino lay on the not-so-soft bed, staring at the clock hanging on the opposite wall.

Herstal had been gone for nearly an hour, and in that time Albarino had proved a few things: firstly, that the unlicensed doctor was indeed not in the house, as there wasn't the slightest bit of movement within the home; secondly, there was nothing he could do about the plastic restraints tethered to his wrists, there seemed to be no feasible way of breaking the nylon restraints; and thirdly, although he didn't know where he was at the moment, either this house was very well insulated, or there wasn't anyone living next door, in any case, it was obvious that no one would come to his rescue even if he screamed.

Albarino silently gritted his back teeth: it was almost five-thirty now, and as far as he knew, Herstal was not a procrastinating character.

...Which I doubt will be more than a few months at most -- you'll be able to walk away from all this. You have room for choice, and your hobbies can change.

Was that so?

Albarino frowned, bracing his left thumb against the cold metal railing, searching for a suitable angle to apply force, and then pressed his palm down sharply. With a bone-chilling snap, his thumb joint dislocated. Albarino drew in a slow breath, his eyelashes trembling slightly, and slowly, slowly pulled his left hand out of the nylon straps.

Orion Hunter stood at the entrance of the White Oak police station, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, the filter was already chewed crooked from his bite. He waited for the police officer to change shifts, finally handing him the documents he wanted while winking at him unnecessarily.

Hunter could only slip a few more notes into the other party's hand before the matter was settled. Leaning against the wall, Hunter smoothly turned over the first page of the thirty-year-old unsolved case.

His face immediately sank.

He had imagined many times what case he might see in this file, but he had never expected the details to be like this: Police found a deacon and a parishioner of St. Anthony's Church hanging in the nave of the church, right in front of the cross. They were hung with two piano wires, which had previously been kept in a small shed on the edge of the church's cemetery, along with other repair tools, used for maintaining the church's piano.

The prime suspect was a priest, who was nowhere to be found when the police discovered the bodies. None of his belongings had been taken from his room, leading the police to suspect he fled to escape guilt. After all, this case had taken place a long time ago, when surveillance cameras and the internet weren't as advanced. A copy of the suspect's only photo was attached to the file.

--Thirty years younger, Stryder's appearance was almost unrecognisable compared to now, but Hunter still recognised those repulsive eyes in the photo.

He trembled as he turned to the next page. The way the unknown murderer tied the ends of the piano string looked very familiar. A Fisherman's knot, he had seen similar pictures of knotted piano wire in many criminal psychologists' papers.

This explained a lot.

Hunter's hand couldn't help but tremble as he gripped the pages, and the lead characters in front of him seemed to be gradually engulfed by a bloody glow -- at this moment, he recalled all the past events, as if there was a vivid red thread stringing together all the scattered beads.

The first case he had noticed had been of Albarino Bacchus, where the suspect of that case had been strangled with a piano wire, but had had a delicate ball of mint stuffed into his chest; Alan Tod, who had been tricked by the Pianist posing as a professional, into arresting Bob Landon, but he'd also said that there were two people on the other end of the phone, both males; Albarino's mother's dangerous criminal record as a murderous maniac, and the strange look in Dr. Bacchus' eyes himself; and, of course, there was Herstal Armalight, who appeared in Sequoia Manor for no apparent reason, Albarino's keen interest in Stryder's case, and Armalight, who completely contradicted himself by agreeing to be Stryder's defence attorney...

There was always an explanation that could reveal the truth about everything.

For example, if Kaba Stryder had indeed been a paedophile for thirty years; God knows what he'd done to those children in the choir of St. Anthony's Church.

For example, Herstal Armalight could very likely be the Westland Pianist. This could explain the particularly brutal methods used by the Pianist against rapists, and why Herstal had infiltrated Sequoia Manor, yet went to great lengths to exonerate Stryder.

... Based on this premise, what Albarino Bacchus did and where he stood became very interesting.

Could it really be possible that he knew nothing? Could he really just have been a simple murderer who used sophisticated means to kill his ex-girlfriend?

'My God,' Hunter heard himself muttering under his breath as he clutched those pages tighter, 'Bacchus might be the Sunday Gardener.'

He stood there dumbfounded for a few minutes, and then suddenly seemed to spring into action. Fumbling, Hunter pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled a number -- this was all just a hypothesis, of course; but if his guess was correct, then Armalight would definitely kill Stryder!

That Pianist and the Gardener should undoubtedly be arrested and brought to justice, there was no doubt about it. Regardless of how justifiable or sympathetic the Pianist's intentions might be, the devil himself must still be imprisoned in a cell ... Of course, it would be a pity for a bastard like Stryder to escape punishment like he did before. If they could gather enough evidence this time, they could directly send that bastard to a maximum-security prison.

With this thought in mind, Hunter dialled Bart Hardy's number, but to his surprise, even though Officer Hardy should have already been off duty by this time, the other end of the phone was still in chaos.

'Officer Hardy!' Hunter had to raise his voice in the midst of all the noise, 'Do you remember me? I'm Hunter, the bounty hunter, and I've made a very important discovery to report-'

'Sorry, Mr Hunter!' Hardy replied with a similarly raised voice. The sound of sirens blared on his end, clearly indicating he was at a crime scene or something similar. 'If it's not particularly urgent, let's talk about it tomorrow. I've got an emergency situation on my end ...'

His voice was drowned out by the chaos, and Hunter's ears were sharp enough to vaguely hear someone at the other side mentioning 'Stryder' or something similar.

'Did something happen to Stryder?' Hunter blurted out, and as soon as those words left his mouth, he realised that it wasn't an appropriate question; Hardy, as a police officer during a case investigation, wasn't allowed to disclose any information to anyone else.

There was a pause on Hardy's end, and just as Hunter was about to apologise, he heard Hardy sigh wearily and say, '... Never mind, there are reporters everywhere here, and you'll be able to read about it online in less than an hour anyway. Mr. Hunter, Stryder was shot by Mr. Armalight, Al is missing, and we're in chaos over here. I really don't have time to talk to you now, so if you have something to report, wait until tomorrow and then contact me, okay?'

In fact, Hunter barely caught the last part of Hardy's words, he didn't even realise when the other party hung up. He stood frozen, phone against his ear in a daze, listening to the busy tone. There was only one thought running through his mind:

He was still one step too late.

Bart Hardy felt a breath catch in his throat.

He knew a thing or two about Mercader's plan, but the other party hadn't shared any of the details, and given Mercader's character, it was unlikely that he would have disclosed much anyway. Therefore, he was more or less mentally prepared for Herstal to kill Stryder, but he had never imagined that it would be carried out in such a direct manner: Herstal did not take any detours, single-handedly storming the hotel where Stryder was staying, taking down the guards at the entrance with a stun gun, and then without saying a word, shot Stryder three times.

Stryder, by some stroke of luck or misfortune, had crashed through the floor-to-ceiling window of the presidential suite and fell out. However, there was a terrace on the next floor below the presidential suite, so he didn't fall directly from the high building and smash into pieces, but instead fell heavily onto the terrace on the next floor.

When Hardy arrived at the crime scene, Stryder was being wheeled out on a gurney by the paramedics -- he was still alive despite taking a bullet to the head, and although he appeared to be struggling to breathe in and out, his overall vitality was still impressive.

The inquest had just ended recently, and some reporters were still waiting outside Stryder's hotel. Now they swarmed in, the flashing cameras became a dazzling sea of light. Exhausted fficers stood by the cordon, and Hardy turned to see two federal agents wearing their distinctive 'FBI' marked uniform escorting another person out of the hotel.

-- It was Herstal Armalight.

Not far behind him, standing on the steps of the hotel, were Lavazza Mercader and the other BAU member whose last name seemed to be Garcia. Garcia had just joined the BAU recently, and couldn't hide the excitement of having just caught an important criminal; while Mercader looked much calmer, his gaze watching Armalight's back like a hawk, as if he were a king inspecting his territory.

Armalight's hair looked slightly messy, the blonde hair swayed loosely over his forehead. It didn't make him appear dishevelled, but rather strangely softened his usually cold outline. Herstal's pale skin was splattered with a few drops of blood, which had been gradually solidifying into a darker colour. Although this scene should look cold and cruel, Hardy felt that Herstal had never looked more like an emotional human being than at this moment.

Moreover, if he really appeared here and tried to kill Stryder, then it would mean that Stryder really had once...

Hardy swallowed dryly, unable to continue that line of thought. He'd heard his wife, Wallis, recount the story of her unexpected encounter with Herstal in the corridor of the police station. At the time, she'd said some pretty sharp things, but back then, neither of them knew what this man had gone through, or what was really going on in his heart.

Of course, they shouldn't sympathise with a murderer, should they? But one size didn't fit all, and Hardy still felt like he had a ball of cotton stuffed in his chest. For a second, he thought that this time, when Clara asked about Uncle Armalight, he really wouldn't know what to say.

Why had things turned out this way?

He watched Armalight's back until the other man was roughly shoved inside a police vehicle by an FBI agent. An officer hurriedly approaching him from the side distracted Hardy's attention, he'd barely snapped back to his senses to find Alexander holding up a mobile phone and looking at him with an anxious expression on his face.

Alexander said, 'Mr. Schwander and his team have arrived at the suspect's residence.'

'Did Bates find anything?' Hardy couldn't help but frown as he asked. For such a small matter, Bates typically wouldn't have called him.

Alexander inhaled deeply and said in one breath, 'They found blood all over Armalight's apatment, some of it had been partially cleaned up, but looking at the range of luminol reagent ... the amount of blood seems to be very large, and there are traces of a struggle in the room.'

Hardy stiffened: if he remembered correctly, Albarino was living with Herstal, right?

'The blood hasn't been sent to the crime lab for DNA testing yet,' Alexander swallowed, his voice faltering slightly, 'But the Forensic Bureau also called and said that they couldn't get a hold of Dr. Bacchus.'

-- And at that moment, neither Alexander nor Bart Hardy noticed that at the far end of the police cordon, behind the clamouring reporters, a man stood at the corner of the street. Dressed in a pullover and a cap, he stood under the gradually lowering grey-blue twilight as if he were just an ordinary person waiting to return home, seemingly uninterested by the commotion across the street.

His hat was pulled down so low that only a sliver of his chin, and a bit of chestnut-coloured hair peeked out from beneath his baseball cap; one of the man's hands was stuck in his trouser pocket, and the other dangled naturally by his side, the joint of his thumb was frightening red and swollen, with a hint of bruising underneath.

It was completely dark, and Annie Brooke stood in the corridor of the private hospital room, facing her date -- now he could be called her 'boyfriend' -- Fester.

This time, Fester wasn't quite the same as he had been on their previous date, or at least, he wasn't as well dressed as he had been. He was still wearing his suit jacket and shirt, but he wasn't wearing a tie, and the collar of his shirt was crooked and loose; his Apollo-like blonde hair didn't seem to be well-groomed, and it was a little dry and fluffy, piled on top of his forehead.

His hand rested on Annie's shoulder, and his voice was pained as he said, '... suddenly withdrew its funding, and if this gap can't be filled, we'll be in big trouble. The risk of software research and development is that if the final product isn't complete, all the expenses invested before are counted as a waste of money. If I stop here now, I can't recover anything back, and how do I explain that to the friends who started this venture with me?'

'Oh my God, Fester, oh God.' Annie stroked Fester's shoulder helplessly, unsure what she could say to comfort him -- she'd been born into an ordinary working-class family, and gone to an ordinary nursing school. It was safe to say that she couldn't even begin to comprehend what running a company entailed, let alone offer comforting words.

She bit her lip anxiously and asked uneasily, 'Fester, how much more money do you need?'

'Maybe a few hundred thousand?' Fester smiled miserably, 'Tomorrow morning, I'll see if I can pawn my car for a loan. My house is already mortgaged from the last investment round, so I'll have to ask my friends to chip in the rest. I think I can pull it together...'

'Don't worry,' Annie's voice suddenly rose slightly as she tightened her grip on Fester's sleeve, comforting him by gently rubbing his wrist, 'I still have some savings. It was meant for buying a riverside apartment I've always wanted... But if you need money urgently, we can put that on hold. I can probably contribute around thirty thousand --'

Just as she said that, they were suddenly interrupted: the alarm in the room of the patient she was responsible for looking after suddenly went off.

Annie suddenly released Fester's hand and turned her head towards the direction of the sound: the sleeping beauty, Ms. Olga Molozer, whom the WLPD had hired Annie for her around-the-clock care, had opened her eyes. Her fingers were weakly pressing the button on her bed sheet to call the medical staff.

Anne froze for a moment, and within a few dozen seconds, two doctors rushed into Ms. Molozer's hospital room as swiftly as they could, professionally and systematically checking the state of the various machines connected to her and her condition. Only then did Annie belatedly move, stepping into the room with Fester two steps behind her, peering curiously inside over her shoulder.

Annie realised that Ms. Molozer was ignoring the medical staff who were bustling around her, and was instead focusing intently on her.

In such a situation, what could this lady be thinking? Waking up to find herself missing a leg, with no familiar faces around, she must be feeling frightened and disoriented, right? Annie opened her mouth, intending to say something comforting, and naturally thought to start with an introduction

So she started by saying, 'Ms. Molozer, I'm-'

'... Ms. Brooke.' Olga Molozer interrupted unexpectedly. Her voice was low, sounding soft and hoarse, obviously in dire need of a little water to moisten her throat.

Out of professional habit, Annie almost wanted to reflexively get a glass and a straw, but Olga coughed softly, clearing her throat, and the next sentence she said made her completely forget what she was going to do next.

Olga said softly and slowly, 'Do you know that your boyfriend's a fraud?'

Chapter 59: 95. The Lotus Eater (6)

Chapter Text

'...One of the most shocking and unexpected developments in this case since the investigation began. On the afternoon of May 5th, the day after the trial ended, defence lawyer Herstal Armalight entered the hotel where Stryder was staying with a revolver and shot Stryder three times. Now ...'

Change channel.

'... shocking. Within two hours of the incident, the WLPD and federal agents involved in the case held a joint press conference. At the press conference, Westland Police Chief Benjamin Everton said ...'

Change channel.

'... There were numerous bloodstains and signs of struggle inside the room. According to the DNA test results from the forensic lab, the blood belonged to Albarino Bacchus, the Chief Medical Examiner of the Westland Bureau of Forensic Medicine, who disappeared around the time of Armalight's arrest. He was on suspension for false testimonies during the Stryder case. Dr. Bacchus was last seen on ...'

Change channel.

'Mr. Holmes, a senior partner at the A&H Law Firm, declined to comment on the matter. The prosecution has yet to ...'

Change channel.

'... remains in intensive care and is reportedly still in critical condition. Experts on the matter say that Stryder's survival will be key to the case. If Stryder unfortunately dies, the prosecutor's office may charge him with first-degree murder ...'

The power button was pressed, and the television, with its screen covered in a layer of grey dust, went back to black.

Albarino Bacchus lay on an old, faded beanbag, his feet propped carelessly on the table in front of him, which was piled with empty pizza boxes. The house he was in now was poorly lit, dark, and cramped, with a layer of dust on the floor and tabletop. The furniture was worn and the wallpaper was peeling. This was the typical interior of a building in Westland's slums; and it was also one of the safety nets that Albarino had put in place for himself.

Despite many people thinking that the Sunday Gardener acted recklessly, Albarino had indeed stockpiled cash that would be difficult to trace, a house, a car that wouldn't be investigated by the police, and a full set of formalities for leaving the country under a false identity. Although the path that Herstal had chosen for him had been unforeseen, he wasn't entirely caught off guard.

But he didn't have the slightest intention of fleeing the country as Herstal had expected. Albarino switched off the TV, sighed lightly, and reached out to pinch the bridge of his nose -- his thumb joint had turned into a rotten-purple bruise, but judging by the pain, it didn't seem like he had broken a bone during the dislocation process, so he simply left it alone.

The focus now was on Herstal.

As much as Albarino didn't want to admit it, Herstal had really put him in a very awkward position. He couldn't appear in front of the public now, otherwise he wouldn't be able to explain the whole situation: why had Herstal faked his death before going to commit the murder? What was the necessity of such a move?

Now was not the time to bring the Sunday Gardener into the spotlight yet, so he had to remain hidden.

Albarino still wanted to sigh, but he didn't in the end. He reached for the sketchbook on the table in front of the beanbag -- the one that was well-worn with dried bloodstains on the edges of the pages, one of the few things he had taken with him when he moved -- and flipped it open to a blank page, slowly propping his hand on his chin.

He trusted that Herstal had a plan of his own.

And he needed a plan too.

Annie Brooke sat across from Ms. Olga Molozer's hospital bed with weeping red eyes, looking like a swollen-eyed goldfish. Olga might have been watching the television, 'might' because she had switched it on to a news channel and muted the sound, so all that could be seen were the lips of the serious-looking reporters and the line of subtitles at the bottom of the screen. Who knew if she was actually watching.

Annie had always thought that the first glimpse she got when she met Fester was the most impressive encounter she had ever had with someone in her life, but now it seemed that that was not the case. The most impressive encounter she had ever had with someone in her life was with Molozer.

Just yesterday afternoon, the vegetative patient who had just woken up miraculously said to her: 'Do you know that your boyfriend's a fraud?'

-- To be fair, let alone a vegetative patient who had just woken up, any normal person would not usually say this when meeting someone for the first time.

'Sorry, what?' Annie had stuttered at the time, and Fester stiffened like a wooden plank behind her.

Olga co*cked her head as a group of doctors poked and prodded at her, but she didn't even condescend to look at them for a second.

Her voice was still soft, even sounding a little broken, '...Handmade leather shoes that don't fit quite right, a designer suit with the tags still on -- judging by the creases on the suit's shoulders, they're rented -- some of the designer items your boyfriend wears are rented, and the others are actually bought with money, but he will likely return them immediately after a few wears. This suggests he's not as wealthy as he claims, or he's having financial difficulties but insists on keeping up appearances. However, the tan line visible through his loosened shirt collar looks like it was caused by wearing a crew-neck shirt... presumably from wearing such garments while working profusely outside and sweating under the sun. The tan doesn't seem to be from just one day and I have never heard of anyone tanning in a round neck shirt. Also, there's a small stain of what appears to be motor oil on the edge of the palm of his left hand, and the calluses on his left is indicative of manual labour. In summary --'

Olga paused, leaving a weak smile.

'You're not a mechanic or anything, are you?'

Flustered and red-faced, Fester stammered, 'You, you ...!'

'My eyesight's quite good.' Olga remarked lazily.

-- That was the story of Ms. Annie Brooke's lost love.

Now, Annie sniffled, eager to pull herself away from the sad and embarrassing memory. She forced herself to shift her attention to the profiler, whose image was becoming increasingly enigmatic and imposing in her eyes, asking, 'What are you watching?'

'A gruesome murder case,' Olga replied, looking perfectly calm and showing no concern for her irreparably damaged left leg; in fact, Annie had the impression that Olga seemed to be looking at something with relish, 'A lawyer tried to murder his client the day after winning the case. Isn't that interesting?'

Annie thought for a moment before asking, 'Do you always describe cases as 'interesting'?'

'Not always. For example, your ex-boyfriend's case wasn't much fun,' Olga replied thoughtfully and seriously, 'He's your typical con-artist, too typical to warrant a study'.'

... Annie wasn't sure if this was an insult or not, but Fester would definitely have thought it was. He was probably still detained at the police station.

"Too typical to warrant a study?" She repeated in confusion.

'Yes, so when you encounter such cases, it's best to expose them immediately, there's no need to expend too much effort on them.' Olga said, still staring at the silent television. At that moment, a clip shot during the previous court conflict was being broadcasted, with Herstal Armalight standing on the courthouse steps, under the heavy pouring rain with blood streaming down his eyebrows.

Olga reached out and pointed at the television screen weakly, her arm like a limp noodle.

'Some cases are like that,' she whispered, sounding like a mumble, 'In a sense ... too typical.'

Annie glanced curiously at Olga; she didn't understand a word of what came out of the former FBI agent's mouth, who was only a little older than she was. Just as she was about to ask a question, there was a knock on the door of the private ward, prompting her to quickly walk over.

Olga didn't pay much attention to the commotion at the door -- since she'd woken up yesterday afternoon, she'd had several visitors, most of them colleagues and students from the Westland State University. In addition, the police department sent Officer Bull to pass on their best wishes. No one else showed up, it was obvious that the Stryder case and the series of events that had ensued kept them too busy to take care of themselves.

Officer Bull had seemed particularly embarrassed when he arrived. This was because he had been the one to call Mercader and inform him that Olga was in the police station during the Family Butcher case. Otherwise, Mercader wouldn't have been able to block Olga's path in the halls of the WLPD, forcing her to jump out of a window to rush to find Wallis.

So he could only fidget awkwardly while saying a few nice remarks before quickly excusing himself -- on the grounds that he'd taken on a case involving an unidentified woman's body that had been found disembowelled in an alleyway; with even this kind of case being handed over to Officer Bull, one could only imagine the extent to which the WLPD was lacking in police force and resources.

... As for Lavazza Mercader, according to Annie, the gentleman had visited many times during Olga's coma, but since she had woken up, he was nowhere to be seen.

To be fair, Olga herself didn't really mind missing the Stryder case. The culprit in that case was a textbook scumbag, nothing more. The interrogation process, made more convoluted by the other party, had never piqued her interest.

Taking advantage of Annie's departure, Olga reached out and dragged the TV remote from the bedside table over -- the location of the remote control was a bit too far for someone who had just woken up and hadn't yet undergone physical therapy. If Annie were watching, Olga wouldn't have dared to attempt something that might end with her falling off the bed -- She changed two channels in passing, not even glancing at the news with its sensationalised headlines.

Then she found a channel broadcasting 'The Lone Ranger' [1], so she turned up the volume with great interest -- it was at this time that Annie came back.

[1] A 1980 animation by the American company 'Filmation'.

Annie's expression looked slightly confused. She was holding a box wrapped in pink wrapping paper, 'Someone sent you a package ... It was delivered by the courier, I signed for it for you.'

She refrained from asking if it was a gift from Olga's boyfriend, because since Olga had woken up, Annie had quickly realised that: firstly, the rather good-looking man she'd seen at the hospital before wasn't Olga's boyfriend; and secondly, if she'd seen the news correctly, it appeared that the man was currently missing, his life or death was unknown -- and judging by the WLPD's press conference, all parties felt that it was more likely that he was dead.

As a result, Annie had begun treating Olga with increasing caution since then.

Olga, oblivious to how rich in mental activity her caregiver was, placed the box on her lap and carefully untied the white ribbon tied around it. Annie curiously leaned in to see what was inside. Almost immediately, she raised her voice and exclaimed, 'What is this? It's beautiful!'

Inside the box was something that appeared to be an artefact, resembling a white tray made up of white, flat, curved columns. The edges of the columns were curved upwards, sharp and jagged, like rib bones. It was hard to tell what material the 'tray' was made from, it was as white as plaster, with a somewhat rough and grainy texture. And on top of this 'tray' lay a handful of tiny white flowers with pale red stamens.

Olga reached out and touched it; the petals were delicate and soft, they were real flowers.

Her fingers deftly felt their way around the edge of the box, but she didn't touch any cardboard greeting cards that were supposed to appear with similar floral arrangements. Instead, Annie reached out and touched the white artefact underneath the small handful of flowers and asked curiously, 'It feels quite strange to the touch, what is it made of?'

'It feels like bone,' Olga commented casually, 'Didn't you notice that the tray's shape resembles interlocking ribs?'

'An artefact made from animal bones? Deer bones?' Annie speculated, the forests surrounding Westland were teeming with deer, and she'd seen more than her fair share of various crafts made from antlers.

'The flowers placed on it are orchids.' Olga concluded.

Annie looked up at her, looking a little confused.

'I've heard of the legend about orchids,' Olga said flatly, fiddling with the orchids in her fingers, 'In ancient Greece, there was a God named Orchis. After getting drunk, he attempted to rape a priestess of Bacchus, the God of Wine. As a result, he was punished by the Fates by being whipped and torn to pieces, similar to the shape of an orchid.'

Annie shuddered exaggeratedly, 'I don't think it's a good story as far as content goes.'

'Indeed, it's not a pleasant story.' Olga agreed, still staring at the flowers in her hand. 'But it's a gift from a friend.'

Once again, Lavazza Mercader stood in front of the door to the ICU. This time, lying within the chamber was a man whose life had become utterly worthless, his head was thoroughly bandaged, many tubes extended from his body, and all the instruments around him were dripping.

The day before, when Stryder had fallen through the window, Mercader had thought that he would certainly be dead, only to find that he'd landed on the terrace of the next floor. On his way to the hospital, he'd suffered two cardiac arrests, but was somehow still clinging on to life.

John Garcia stood beside him, unable to empathise with him, but excited by the possibility of catching the Westland Pianist. He reported, '... The doctor said that although he was protected by the bulletproof vest, his ribs punctured his organs and they had to remove a part of his stomach during the operation. Additionally, he'd landed in a bad position during the fall, resulting in a spinal fracture that will likely lead to paralysis; moreover, the bullet that went through his head pierced the left side of his brain. Surviving it at all was a miracle, but the bullet may have damaged the areas that control his speech functions ...'

Mercader listened quietly, still staring intently at the unconscious man: in such a state, was there essentially any difference between a human being and a gradually rotting piece of meat? Why wasn't he dead yet?

'We can't determine the extent of his brain damage, everything will have to wait until he wakes up.' Garcia continued, 'It's likely that he may never be able to speak again. In fact, we should be thankful if he can still respond to questions.'

'So,' Mercader said dryly, 'he may not be able to testify in court'.

Garcia paused, obviously not having thought in this direction until now: 'Yes, that's right.'

-- So he wasn't even worth the last bit of value. Mercader thought.

The worst outcome that could have happen was that Stryder was alive, but unable to testify in court. In this way, the prosecutor's office could only charge Herstal Armalight for attempted first-degree murder resulting in grievous bodily harm, and they all knew that the difference between attempted and completed was a world of difference.

Mind you, Mercader wasn't interested in a sentence that would see a man released from prison after a couple of decades, he needed the Westland Pianist to stay in prison forever, and honestly, never to step foot out of the steel cage again.

'There's no evidence that directly proves he's the Westland Pianist. He didn't use his usual piano wires as a weapon during his attack on Stryder.' Mercader said slowly. He originally thought that with the obsessive-compulsive nature a man like Armalight had, he would never be able to resist the compulsive temptation to kill Stryder with piano wires.

Had he pushed the desperate killer too hard?

Garcia hesitantly asked, 'But what about the Kentucky case back then...?'

'It's useless. There's no evidence proving that it was the work of the childhood Pianist,' Mercader shook his head and sneered, 'That case was only strong enough for us to determine if Herstal was the Pianist or not, but it would work against us with the jury. My worry is that Armalight will use the 'Stryder raped him in the past' as a defence for himself.'

He paused for a moment, sorting through his thoughts: The Pianist was just too cautious. He never committed crimes where he lived, never used his own car as a means of transportation, and never returned to the scene of the crime -- their evidence was far from sufficient.

Knowing what he did about Armalight, he had no doubt that Armalight would enter a plea of not guilty. The man he had attacked was Stryder, and there was no way he would plead guilty before a case like this.

... What mattered was the trial, and the Pianist had to stay in prison for life. That was the best outcome.

'We need to put some pressure on the prosecutor's side and the jury.' Mercader muttered.

Cold metal handcuffs were fastened to his wrists, the chain between them was threaded through a welded ring on the table, making it absolutely impossible to break free. The chair scrapped harshly across the floor as it was pulled out, and one of the interrogators took their seat --

Bart Hardy sat across the table in the interrogation room, gazing wearily into Herstal's eyes.

'Time: Saturday, May 6th, 2017, 10:30 a.m. Interrogator: Officer Bart Hardy.' Hardy's voice began calmly, signalling to Herstal that they had begun recording, 'Mr. Armalight, you understand your rights, correct? You have the right to have a lawyer present before we proceed with this interrogation, and anything you say can be used as evidence against you in a court of law.'

'I understand.' Herstal's voice sounded very, very calm, like stagnant water without ripples, 'I waive that right.'

Hardy paused for a moment, then spoke gently, 'Herstal, I'm sorry.'

-- It wasn't immediately clear what was on his mind when he said this, whether it was a police tactic to align with the prisoner that he was also on their side, or whether it was genuine remorse.

Herstal sneered in response: 'Why do you feel sorry? Is there that much of a difference between killing someone out of joy and killing someone out of supreme hatred? Or does it depend on the choice of victim? That killing an innocent person and killing a criminal aren't the same, just like how the public views the Pianist and the Gardener differently?'

Hardy's lips trembled, 'Herstal-'

'If I wanted to kill Stryder for the sake of so-called justice, then am I considered a hero?' Herstal continued to ask, his voice sounding slightly aggressive, 'But if I killed him for the sake of my own selfish desires, then am I considered a heinous criminal?'

'So,' Hardy asked softly, 'did you want to kill him because of a moment of anger, or had you planned it all along?'

After all, there was a world of difference between premeditated murder and murder in the heat of passion. The average lawyer would advise their clients to twist their response in their favour, but it was obvious that Herstal didn't care much for such details.

He flashed a grim and bitter smile, and said, 'I've wanted to kill him every day for the past thirty years.'

'And what about Albarino?' Hardy asked, swallowing from nervousness, 'The CSI technicians found a large amount of Albarino's blood in your residence. Did you kill Al too?'

'Does that surprise you?' Herstal asked rhetorically.

'But,' Hardy asked softly, 'Why?'

Leohard Scheiber sat in a booth against the wall of the café.

This was his usual position: with his back against the wall, no unwanted visitors could approach him from behind, he could see all the windows and doors of the room at a glance, and had the ability to leave the scene at any time. With his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a recorder in his pocket, he considered himself to be fully armed.

A moment later, Lavazza Mercader sat across from him.

-- Mercader, one of the current leaders of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit, legendary for his missions, and rarely accepted interviews on TV or in the newspapers. Many journalists dreamed of getting the opportunity to exclusively interview this man, and this opportunity was now right in front of Scheiber.

And Mercader was even willing to make a polite remark after taking his seat: 'I'm glad you could make it.'

'I'd like to know why you chose me.' Scheiber asked cautiously, although right now, he wanted nothing more than to extract every bit of information out of the other man's head.

'Because I've been following your work -- even when you were in Europe' Mercader responded, unflinching. 'I've read your report on the religious terrorist attack case in Hoxton back then, and I respect your professional ability very much.'

Hoxton, ha. Scheiber secretly tugged the corners of his mouth, it was not a nice smile. Because everyone who took the time to exchange pleasantries with him would mentioned the coverage of that terrorist attack two years ago as if it were his crown, although the aftermath of that incident had cost him dearly -- the missing knuckles on his fingers were a testament to the existence of those dark past events.

'Let's get to the point.' Scheiber said bluntly, 'What do you want me to report on? Are you going to reveal something about the Stryder case or Mr. Armalight who was recently arrested?'

In fact, Scheiber had no idea why this FBI agent who had never dealt with him before, suddenly asked to meet with him, or what he wanted to tell him, and for what purpose. But Scheiber didn't care, he didn't care about anything other than the fact that he could write eye-catching news, and didn't want to spend time thinking about those calculations that these people had in mind; if they wanted to use him, then use him, the story he would write would end up at the top of the page anyways.

'Before I disclose anything, I have a question,' said Mercader, fingers interlaced in a composed manner, 'On a weekend in late February this year, I went to the hospital to visit Ms. Olga Molozer and had a conversation with Officer Hardy, who also happened to be there. At the time, someone was eavesdropping us. Was that person you?'

Scheiber was not particularly good at hiding his emotions. Mercader saw his whole body stiffen, his eyes widening in a way that made him look a little ridiculous.

'I checked the surveillance after I realised someone was eavesdropping, of course.' Mercader added slowly.

'Uh -- yeah, , I would say that I heard that conversation by accident,' Scheiber stammered, obviously fully aware that what he did more or less violated some laws, 'but I didn't report what you said ...'

'That's exactly what I want to ask,' Mercader interrupted, 'Why didn't you report what we said? Normally you wouldn't hesitate to publish eavesdropped information.'

Scheiber was silent for a moment, then said in a dry voice, 'Because I bumped into Herstal Armalight immediately after leaving that corridor. He noticed that I had a recorder in my hand and realised that I was eavesdropping, he warned me about the illegality of what I was doing... because he's a lawyer, I didn't want to get in any legal trouble ...'

That wasn't exactly what had happened: the truth was that Herstal Armalight had listened to the recording in his recorder, that was, the conversation between Officer Hardy and Mercader. After listening to the recording, Armalight had a strange, thoughtful look on his face, which somehow reminded him of the man who had cut off his finger, the man who called himself 'Hélène'. The old memories and the strong sense of crisis mixed together to frighten Schreiber so much that he didn't say a word.

At this moment, Mercader frowned slightly and asked, 'So Armalight knew what Hardy and I were talking about at the time?'

'He knew,' Scheiber recounted truthfully, 'He listened to the recording I made and realised that you were discussing something about 'entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity'.'

-- Oh.

Mercader had a sudden epiphany.

That was why Herstal Armalight hadn't been surprised to see him appear with a gun in the presidential suite. Perhaps Armalight had long known that Mercader had been closing in on the truth since he heard the recording; Armalight knew that the Pianist's and Gardener's secrets had been exposed. He had been prepared for this moment.

Still lost in his own thoughts, Mercader's fingers clenched involuntarily. Scheiber, on the other hand, looked at him and boldly asked, 'So, what insider information do you want to tell me?'

... That's right, this was the most important thing now.

Mercader raised his head to look at the reporter, his expression was stern and he said word by word, 'Herstal Armalight is the Westland Pianist.'

He saw the journalist's face freeze in shock.

After several seconds, Scheiber slowly found his tongue, and he almost choked himself when he opened his mouth for the first time. He asked in a voice of awe and haste: 'But why are you telling me this truth?'

'Because I love him,' Herstal answered softly, as if this answer had been brewing in his heart for a long time, and it was spoken with little thought, 'and thus his destination only lies with me or death.'

'For the benefit,' said Mercader in a level voice, 'For the benefit of all those who live in Westland and the City.'

Chapter 60: 96. Diary of hospital attendant, Annie Brooke: May 13th, 2017

Chapter Text

Saturday -- Cloudy.

This is the tenth day since Ms. Molozer has woken up.

... For some reason, I feel that I should reflect on the opening of my diary, this opening is filled with a strange sense of pride, much like saying: 'My daughter can talk today'. But then again, Olga is indeed the most peculiar patient I've ever seen. I imagine very few people in the world have experienced opening their eyes to find that months have passed, let alone opening their eyes and finding that they've lost a part of their limb.

Olga, however, has been astonishingly calm and accepting of her situation. To her, the concept of 'amputation' seemed to be solved by bookmarkg a few web links of customized prostheses to the web pages of her computer.

'The human body is just a collection of parts,' Olga told me one day, expressing an opinion that sounded unnervingly like that of a cyborg. 'I think the mind is the most important and only irreplaceable thing.'

While Olga may want nothing more than to be a super brain housed in a hospital bed, she unfortunately still has to eat and drink, rehabilitate, and socialise on her own. Today, after I took care of her lunch, a guest came to visit.

The visitor was a man in his fifties, with deeply defined features. He was probably very handsome when he was young, but unfortunately his legs seemed to have some problems. He appeared to be limping, and smelled strongly of cigarettes smoke. Behind this man was a boy, quite tall, probably fifteen or sixteen years old -- I really want to spend some ink to praise him, although everyone knows that I don't have much of a talent for writing – this boy looked like an ancient Greek youth from a museum painting, like a young and vibrant Hermes.

The first thought that came to my mind when I saw this strange combination was, 'My God, this couldn't be Olga's ex-husband and son, could it?

...But evidently, they were not.

The gentleman, who wasn't the ex-husband -- introduced himself to me as 'Orion Hunter' -- he ignored the doctors' advice that 'the patient needs to be quiet and rest, don't talk to her', and brought the boy to Olga's bedside, saying: 'This is Midalen, you've probably read about him in the papers'.

I didn't understand what 'read about him in the papers' meant. Was this boy a famous child actor? Impossible, how could there be a famous child star I didn't know?

Olga, on the other hand, merely nodded, while the boy cheerfully winked at her and rapidly began talking, 'Ms Molozer! When I heard you were awake, I've been wanting to meet you every day! You should know Mr. Hunter has told me many of your stories, but he's only allowing me to visit the hospital on weekends because I have to attend school during the week, though I think as a victim, I shouldn't have to go to school so soon --'

Hunter frowned and patted the boy on the shoulder, and interrupted his tirade. He seemed to have a headache as he said, 'All right, all right, young man, you sit down.'

So the young man who looked like an angel, but was unexpectedly rather talkative, sat down on a visitor's chair. Hunter himself also sat down unceremoniously on a soft chair, his first words coming out dryly, 'Finally decided to wake up, huh?'

Olga grinned, 'It must have been hard for you to investigate Herstal's past on your own without me, right?'

I couldn't help but look at the two of them for a long time. I really couldn't figure out if this was their usual mode of interaction, or if there was some sort of grudge between them. The man named Hunter was stunned for a moment and asked, 'How did you know I investigated Herstal's past?'

'Just a guess.' Olga gave a smug smile, 'Although I obviously missed many episodes, I know that you rescued little Clara along with Herstal after all. With your tastes, you should be impressed with a guy like him who is willing to give a helping hand to a little girl. So surely you must have felt puzzled when such a person suddenly agreed to defend a paedophile? Could you have suppressed your curiosity enough to not investigate him?'

Hunter pursed his lips tightly and didn't say anything, obviously spoken for by Olga.

'So, what did you investigate?' Olga asked.

Hunter did not answer immediately, but instead turned his head inexplicably to look at me. I was frightened by his gloomy gaze and couldn't help but involuntarily take a step back.

'Don't worry about her. When the WLPD hired her to take care of me, they took into account that I might have to deal with police work, so they asked her to sign a non-disclosure agreement.' Olga said easily, 'There's no safer place than here.'

I did sign a non-disclosure agreement with the WLPD. At the time, I thought it was included in the contract because the police were still hopeful. With my experience as a caregiver, I didn't believe Olga would wake up again. And in some way, Olga was right: this private ward on this floor required visitors to be escorted in by nurses with permission. Since Olga woke up, some journalists had wanted to interview her about a recent high-profile case -- I don't follow the news too closely, but I think it was regarding the disappearance of her suspected boyfriend -- but without exception, they were all stopped outside the hospital.

'And I doubt our Annie knows anything about what we're talking about.' Olga said in a lively tone, and she turned to me suddenly. 'Annie, do you know who Stryder is?'

'Huh?' I replied confused, not expecting her to suddenly ask me. After all, after spending the last few days together, she already knew that I did't follow current affairs.

'-- You see.' Olga said to Hunter.

Hunter glanced suspiciously around the room and then said abruptly, 'He used to be one of Stryder's victims -- when he was a boy.'

I didn't quite understand, but Olga clearly did. She nodded subtly, her voice sounding as calm as it had been a moment before, 'That would explain a lot.'

'What does it explain?' The boy named Midalen asked, his voice sounded a little hurried, as if there was a string in his heart that was held taut.

'Like why he would defend Stryder first before going off to shoot him, or why Albarino's life or death is unknown now.' Olga shrugged her shoulders as she propped herself up on the bed with her hands, shifting with difficulty to get into a more comfortable position. In fact, she could have asked me to deal with something so trivial, but she seemed to enjoy taking matters into her own hands when it was within her power to do so.

'Do you think Dr. Bacchus is dead?' Midalen asked suddenly.

'Do you care whether he was murdered?' Olga asked in a thoughtful, light voice, 'I see you seem to be interested in this.'

'... Because Mr. Armalight helped me. I don't want him to-' Midalen swallowed hesitantly.

'It is possible for a person to be a murderer while helping others, just like how Herstal undoubtedly saved Bart's little daughter, but at the same time fired three shots at Stryder. People themselves are very multi-faceted and contradictory. Judging someone's humanity based on a single perspective often leads to disappointment.' Olga said in a very calm voice.

Midalen pursed his lips slightly but didn't comment any further. I, on the other hand, began to consider the possibility that Fester could be a fraud and still be in love with me at the same time -- though I know it was impossible, but it was just a fleeting thought.

'... And, while I was investigating Herstal's past, I found something else.' Hunter said slowly. He opened the backpack he was carrying and pulled out a folder before handing it to Olga: I was a little curious as to what was in that folder, but to put it blunt, they seemed to be discussing their friend's character, so I didn't rush to look at it.

Olga leaned forward slightly to take the folder, placing it on her lap and flipping to the first page; she was very quick at reading things, a page could be read in no more than a few dozen seconds with a cursory glance from top to bottom.

She flipped back through the pages one by one quickly, the corners of her mouth quirking up slightly, 'Interesting ...the murder case in St. Anthony's Church, and the timeline would fit ... hung by piano wires from the church beams. Although I have some doubts about how he could have done this at that age, but it wouldn't be impossible with the help of tools ...'

Her eyes moved away from the pictures on the pages to look at Hunter. And Hunter glanced at me again, as if he was concerned about something -- it seemed that Olga's explanation of the non-disclosure agreement earlier had only half reassured him -- then he reached out and mimed a strangling gesture near his neck: 'He once killed someone with such a method. Don't you think it's too coincidental? So, I believe he is...'

He didn't finish his words, but left a meaningful pause. Olga nodded briefly, as if to indicate that she understood the other party's meaning. And Hunter, changing his sitting posture uneasily, continued in a somewhat agitated tone: 'If you bring in that identity and re-consider everything that has gone on before from this perspective, I think it is unlikely that Bacchus was completely blind to this... No, I have dealt with Bacchus several times, and I am sure that he could never have not known about it. The greatest likelihood is that Bacchus not only knows who the other party is, but he himself-'

His lips twisted as if he wanted to spit out a word, but he seemed afraid to actually say the word in public, so he could only remain silent.

'Have you told Bart your suspicions?' Olga interrupted bluntly.

'No, by the time I realized, he'd already been arrested.' Hunter admitted. The more I listened, the more confused I became. If I had been able to understand that they were talking about those few recent cases at the beginning of this conversation, now I had no idea what either of them were talking about. Hunter sighed and continued, 'After all, what's the point in telling Officer Hardy now? He's already been arrested, and first degree murder is a very serious crime ... my discovery holds no sway over the situation, and I find it hard to believe... that he's the one.'

'Let me sort out your thoughts,' said Olga calmly, 'You are more interested in the process of chasing and pursuing those criminals, and you are less concerned about what happens to them after they are caught. As for Herstal, your feelings are more complicated; after all, that incident with the Family Butcher stopped you from admiring him, right? In this case, if you are sure that he can't hurt others again, you are willing to bury his painful secret deep in your heart.'

As Olga said this, her fingers brushed the cover of the folder intentionally or unintentionally, and I wondered if that folder held what she called the 'painful secret.'

'Do you think this is wrong?' Hunter asked after a sigh.

'I don't judge people's behaviour because the longer I study criminal psychology, the more I find that judging people's behaviour with preconceived notions will always lead to trouble.' Olga snorted. I think she was insinuating to something more specific, though I don't know exactly what she was referring to. 'All I can say, Hunter, is that everyone has their own opinion about propositions such as 'justice' and 'morality'. Since they only operate according to societal rules and are not explicitly stipulated by the law, it means that everyone's understanding is bound to be different -- and in my experience, this deviation often leads to tragedies.'

After a slight pause, she continued, 'Besides, it actually won't make a difference if you tell Bart or not. I bet that that old friend of mine, Lavazza Mercader, has long had plenty of his own ideas about those high-profile serial killers in Westland. While you've been debating whether or not to tell Bart, he's probably already recited his speculations in Bart's ear more than two hundred times by now.

Perhaps Olga was trying to create some sort of light-hearted atmosphere with this hyperbolic statement, but whatever she was trying to do, it didn't work in the end. Her words were followed by an awkward silence, while her two guests just stared at her with heavy eyes.

'Oh well,' she seemed to give up and suddenly laughed again, 'Don't look so glum, no more innocent people will die during this period of time.'

As Olga said this, she seemed to consciously or unconsciously glance at the artefact tray with orchids on her bedside table: it had been sitting there for some time now, and the orchids had already lost their previous white colour due to the continuous lack of water. Now they were completely flat and dried, but Olga didn't seem to have the slightest intention of discarding them either.

'You knew this a long time ago, didn't you?' It was at this point that the teenager named Midalen suddenly spoke up, his voice was unusually sharp from nervousness, as if he couldn't suppress the words that were coming out of his mouth. This caused both Olga's and Hunter's gazes to fall on him, and I couldn't help but look in that direction as well.

Midalen swallowed dryly and asked, 'That is, about Mr. Armalight's identity, and Dr .Bacchus's identity, did you already...?'

Olga smiled slightly at him, looking very calm, 'What is it?'

Midalen bit his lip and shook his head silently.

'Good,' Olga smiled, 'It's a good habit not to state your deductions right away, because the less you think about it before speaking, the more likely you are to make a mistake. It's a virtue to remain cautious and wait until you're absolutely certain before speaking.'

'Then how do we determine how much damage our actions will cause?' Midalen asked. 'There are many choices we could make, but what would be the best choice? -- Stryder was found not guilty, and Mr. Armalight was arrested for shooting him. Would Stryder have been acquitted if Mr. Armalight hadn't been his defence attorney? Or would he have harmed more children if Mr. Armalight hadn't shot him? All of the Westland Pianist targets are unconvicted suspects, so will the city be better or worse off without the Westland Pianist?'

Midalen stopped. I didn't understand how the conversation had shifted from their friends to the Westland Pianist, but I noticed that the young man's lips were trembling.

'When exactly did you learn the truth about everything?' He asked, swallowing dryly. 'If you really did know the truth long ago -- if you had chosen to stop them -- what would have happened? Would Stryder have gone to jail, or would he have never been arrested at all, or worse? Or maybe I wouldn't have asked this question at all, because I would have died in Sequoia Manor before then?'

Hunter shifted uneasily, 'Midalen ...'

'I can't answer any of those questions because I am neither God nor a psychic.' Olga blinked, her tone sounded surprisingly gentle, a far cry from the impression she often left -- or at least the impression she left on me. 'That is something you need to explore yourself in the future. As I said, justice and morality lies on a delicate field.'

Midalen might have wanted to say something else, but he didn't. For it was at that moment that Olga's phone rang. I jumped at the sudden appearance of the ringtone, while Olga turned to me and said calmly, 'Annie, would you mind passing me the phone please?'

I did as I was told. As Olga answered the phone, her visitors remained absolutely silent. I could only stare at Olga curiously, trying to digest everything they had discussed today. Olga leaned back comfortably into a large pile of pillows, speaking lazily, 'Yes... that's not surprising. It sounds like something he'd do. Don't worry, I won't say a word to the press.'

The rest of the call seemed to be about her physical condition, and after some polite conversation, Olga hung up. Her two visitors were still staring at her expectantly.

Olga smiled, 'The call was from Bart. You should be a little prepared for what is going to happen-'

She paused dramatically, and Hunter seemed to realise something and muttered something along the lines of 'No way' to himself.

Olga said slowly, 'Bart told me that the Westland Daily News ran a story today, and the article stated outright that Herstal Armalight was the Westland Pianist.'

Postscript:

A newspaper clipping is attached to the end of this diary entry, written by Leohard Scheiber. The excerpt is as follows:

'From a broad perspective, re-observing all the previous cases related to the Westland Pianist with a link to Herstal Armalight reveals many previously unnoticed clues -- Armalight was named by the police as one of the suspects at the time of Richard Norman's murder. At the same time, he was also the first witness to Thomas Norman's death. After Bob Landon committed the crime and framed Armalight's client, Landon was soon killed in the hands of the Westland Pianist.

'Herstal Armalight was too close to these cases. If a coincidence happens once, it can be called a coincidence, but if the coincidence happens again and again, we have to re-examine them. Consider Mr. Armalight's identity again: he was a notorious gang lawyer who naturally had plenty of access to insider police information. He has no alibi for the time of those crimes, and according to the recollections of his partner, Mr. Holmes, who vividly remembers several occasions when Armalight was on a leave of absence from his law firm when the Westland Pianist was committing his crimes.

'He fits the profile made by the WLPD's profilers: age, occupation, and even his meticulous obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Based on this, we can boldly say the conclusion that has been brewing in our hearts for a long time --

'Herstal Armalight is most likely the Westland Pianist.'

Chapter 61: 97. The Secret Rose (1)

Chapter Text

Ms. Rose Neal, the front desk receptionist of the police station was twenty-eight years old. She found the package on the morning of June 5th.

This was the most peaceful day she'd had in almost a month since Herstal Armalight had been arrested. Today, she didn't have to deal with reporters who were sneaking around trying to get into the police station. Ever since the Westland Daily News had published that bombshell story listing from beginning to end the many reasons as to why Armalight was most likely the Westland Pianist, she'd have to turn away almost a hundred reporters every day. But because today was the day of the pre-trial hearing, the reporters had all gathered around the courthouse.

When the incident occurred, she'd been chatting with Alexander, one of the people who worked under Officer Hardy. The other person had been gossiping to her about Officer Bart Hardy's increasingly haggard complexion and worsening temper as of late. To be honest, Rose understood. If one of your friends turned out to be a murderer and another friend died unexpectedly, most people wouldn't handle it any better than Officer Hardy did.

As she chatted with Alexander, she sorted through the mail that had come in that day: most of the official mails sent to various departments were sorted and put away, waiting for people from those departments to pick them up. She pulled out a package addressed to her, with no sender's name on the delivery slip.

If Rose Neal had been a seasoned and experienced police officer, she might have suspected that the package of unknown origin contained bacteria with a deadly viruse or explosives whose countdown was about to go to zero, but alas, she had neither the extensive experience on the job nor a flair for the dramatics.

So, while chatting with Alexander, she opened the small package.

-- And then the strong smell of blood hit her.

The shock-absorbing material in the package was not the common plastic foam; the cardboard box was stuffed full with dried wheat grains, and lying among these grains lay half an apple that had been split down the middle -- the cut surface had probably been carefully coated with lemon juice to prevent it from oxidising into a rusty-red colour. While the fruit had been intact, it might have been a very tempting apple. Its skin was a uniform red, red enough to be a prop in a production of Snow White, but now a hole had been dug out in the centre of the apple.

Nestled in the centre of the hole was a bloody eyeball, a fresh, human eyeball.

Ms. Rose Neal stood frozen in front of this bloody package, she froze for several seconds before an inhuman scream escaped from her throat.

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,

Enfold me in my hour of hours;[1]

[1] 'The Secret Rose' by William Butler Yeats

Sunday, June 4th.

Derek Cronin -- a staunch Republican supporter who decorated his home with Donald Trump posters and made a living running a convenience store in town -- was stumbling and fleeing down a forest path. He'd never regretted living on the edge of town as much as he did today; after all, Westland was affected by the abundant moisture of the Great Lakes, and the city was surrounded by f*cking forests.

Having grown up surrounded by the forest, he'd seen his fair share of horror films where the victims ran screaming through the woods. Until today, he had always scoffed at such scenes. The forest was closely tied to his warm childhood memories, and he had never found anythingscary about the trees.

But tonight, for the first time, he realised that there were in fact inexplicable dark shadows between those towering trees, and each shadow seemed capable of concealing a knife-wielding maniac. The night was so silent that his laboured pants and the crunching of dead leaves under his feet echoed like thunder in the night. The occasional unknown bird flew from between the trees, their cries piercing the night like mournful wails.

Cronin was no longer sure of the bearings of his escape anymore; every fork in the trail looked exactly the same, damaged by the tree roots that were encroaching the path day by day, and they were extremely bumpy and difficult to navigate. Which road would take him to town? He needed to get to the police station, he needed to find the sheriff, who was usually quite annoying, and he --

-- He tripped over a tree root protruding from the ground and fell hard.

Cronin fell into a pile of dead leaves, his hands and face was covered in dust. His panting was still as loud as a bellow, echoing harshly in his ears. And what were those faint sounds of soles crunching over leaves?

By the hazy moonlight filtering between the branches, he saw a tall shadow looming over him.

Cronin shuddered violently, his entire back tensing, and then he realised that a hot stream was running down between his legs, slowly soaking through his trousers.

He wanted to curse, wanted to get up and continue running , but he failed at both. He was frozen in place like a terrified quail, and then a foot inserted itselfunder his body and roughly rolled him over.

In the darkness of the night, Cronin could not see the young man's face, only his curly hair tossing restlessly in the night wind. The knife in his hand occasionally glinted a blinding flash. The young man's voice was pleasant and gentle when he spoke, asking, 'How much did Stryder pay you?'

And Cronin could only stammer through chattering teeth, 'I... I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I mean,' the man repeated good-humouredly, 'how much did Kaba Stryder pay you to make you willing to vote not guilty when you were a member of the jury? After all, if I'm not mistaken, this isn't the first time you've been chosen as a juror. In previous cases where such upper-class people were accused, you seemed to be quite inclined to find them guilty. '

The man looked down at his prey while Derek Cronin's teeth chattered so hard that he couldn't utter a complete sentence. After a moment, the knife-wielding man sighed softly and quickly.

'Forget it ,' he said lightly, 'I don't really care about the answer.'

The police lobby had been cordoned off with crime scene tape, a treatment it hadn't seen since the Blanca Areola case on Christmas Eve.

Rose Neal had been taken aside by the considerate Alexander. When Hardy arrived on the scene, she was sitting on a high stool in the corner of the lobby, clutching a steaming cup of tea and sobbing softly.

At this moment, Hardy was really thankful that most of the reporters were already ready near the courtroom or were still trying their luck over at the prosecutor's office. Otherwise, if they found out that there had been another murder at the police station, the situation would really be uncontrollable:

What charges the prosecutors were going to bring against Herstal Armalight had been a hot topic lately. After all, the speculations related to the Westland Pianist was just that -- speculations. Without any evidence, it would be impossible to file a lawsuit. The charges brought on by the prosecutor's side would most likely only amount to attempted first-degree murder, but this evidently didn't stop the journalists from eagerly chasing after any leads related to the Pianist.

When the Kaba Stryder case went down, they'd thought that it would become the most high-profile trial of the year, but now they realised that they were wrong.

As a police officer and one of the primary investigators in the attempted murder case against Herstal Armalight, and as the husband of the prosecutor Wallis Hardy, Bart Hardy certainly knew many inside details. For example, Wallis had been barred from participating in the trial due to her involvement with Armalight in the Family Butcher case, and that the prosecutor in charge of the prosecution was named Ingrid Musk. For example, Hardy also knew that Herstal had readily confessed to the murder of Albarino, but when asked about Stryder during the interrogation, he became very uncooperative -- even though it was clear that the former was the one whose body they hadn't even found, while numerous witnesses could testify to how Herstal had shot Stryder.

If nothing unexpected had happened today, by this time, Officer Hardy would have been ready to head to the courthouse to observe the trial, and as an officer who had known Herstal for a long time, he would have been present as a witness to the trial as well. But now, his earlier plans had obviously been disrupted. Hardy looked at the box filled with the apple and wheat grains and felt an unavoidable headache.

'Do you think that's the Pianist's copycat?' A familiar voice sounded behind him.

Hardy jerked back, turning around so quickly that it produced a wave of vertigo: 'Olga?!'

Indeed, their consultant, Olga Molozer, was sitting in a wheelchair, smiling at him as if nothing had changed, as if there wasn't a heart-breaking void underneath the blanket covering her legs. She still looked pale and thin, and the teenager behind her pushing the wheelchair looked very, very familiar.

So Hardy's next sentence directly shattered the warm atmosphere of the long-awaited reunion. He stared at Midalen Pullman, who was pushing Olga's wheelchair, and couldn't hold back his own exclamation of surprise as he blurted out, 'You're letting a minor come to the crime scene with you?!'

'While you were trying to drown yourself in cases, Chief Everton and I revised my consultant agreement. Given the current situation --', Olga lazily pointed to her legs, looking unusually confident, 'I can bring a relevant person to come with me to the crime scene to look after me, mainly just to push my wheelchair; after all, it's going to be a long, long time before I can complete my rehab.'

She paused, then concluded, 'The agreement only says the person I bring must sign a confidentiality agreement; it doesn't specify that they must be an adult.'

... Hardy had a curse on the tip of his tongue, unsure if he should say it or not.

He was pretty sure that the reason the Chief had someone draft such an agreement was, of course, because it simply didn't occur to him that Olga could actually bring a minor to the scene. But the two people across from him probably had no idea of the turmoil in his mind. Midalen still wore the same young and stubborn expression, and he even looked a little taller. He nodded his head seriously, taking the initiative to greet him and said, 'Officer Hardy.'

Hardy could only move aside silently, helping them both lift up the police cordon so they could get through.

'Let me know if you feel like throwing up,' Hardy heard Olga say to Midalen. 'Even though there's no foul smell here, some people get sick just seeing all the blood.'

'I once stuck a knife into a man's neck.' Midalen reminded Olga dryly.

By this time, they had stopped in front of the package. Several crime scene investigators were taking pictures of the half-cut apple and the scale ruler placed next to it. Hardy walked over to Olga, feeling exhausted as he resumed their earlier conversation, 'What did you say? The Pianist's copycat?'

'There's a slight possibility. Look at the main elements of this scene: wheat and apples. Isn't it exactly like the scene of Richard Norman's murder?' Olga's voice was light and cheerful, as if the uncertainty of Albarino's life or death had not affected her in the slightest -- whereas anyone who had seen that bloody scene at Herstal's house, such as Bart Hardy, already believed in the corner of his heart that Albarino was dead.

Hardy, of course, remembered that case -- a gang leader had been impaled on a stake and displayed in the form of a scarecrow in an apple orchard, his slashed abdomen was stuffed with grains and his heart had been replaced by an apple.

It was in that case that Albarino met Herstal.

'Today is the day of Mr. Armalight's pre-trial hearing,' Midalen said hesitantly. It was surprising that this young man, who could swear at and beat up a rapist, appeared so timid in front of Olga. 'Is that why the copycat committed the crime? To... commemorate? Does this criminal also believe that Mr. Armalight is the Pianist?'

'Think deeper, Midalen. Some people find it overwhelming to have too many choices laid out in front of them, but I don't think that's a bad thing.' Olga said in a very gentle tone. 'There's another possibility, let's say it was the Sunday Gardener who committed the crime.'

Hardy instinctively responded, 'Al can't possibly-'

Then he immediately realized what he was saying, so he abruptly stopped.

'Oh,' said Olga, grinning, 'So, do all of you here think that Al is the Sunday Gardener?'

Hardy didn't know what to say to that; Ever since the bodies of Billy Brown and Anthony Sharp were displayed in front of the state courthouse, he had vaguely entertained this idea. The old Kentucky case file that Mercader had given him revealed muh more: if Herstal had indeed suffered those traumas in his childhood, and thus became the Westland Pianist, it would explain why Sharp, who was suspected of having a history of sexual harassment, suffered misfortunes after the two of them had attended the Anonymous Mutual Aid Society. It even answered the question that had lingered in Olga's mind at the time.

There was only bone left on Sharp's neck, all the skin and muscle had been removed. Perhaps this wasn't really for the final effect, but because he was strangled with piano wire...

Hardy's lips opened and closed twice, but in the end no words came out.

He was now caught between extremely conflicting feelings: on one hand, he knew that the Gardener and the Pianist should indeed be apprehended, and on the other, he sympathised with Herstal's past experiences. As for Albarino... Albarino's image in his eyes was always that strange young man crouching next to the rotting corpse and muttering to himself. He just couldn't combine this image with the Sunday Gardener.

He took a deep breath and rephrased, '... What I mean is, this doesn't seem like the Sunday Gardener's work. It doesn't match his usual criminal signature. '

'How so?' Olga asked, not pressing him about his earlier silence.

'Firstly, of course, the floral element is missing; secondly, today is Monday, and he never displays his work on Mondays; and moreover, he didn't display this work to the public; he sent it directly to the police station.' Hardy spoke quickly, he was indeed too familiar with the Sunday Gardener.

'Correct, but there's actually one more thing.' Olga noted. She suddenly turned to ask, 'Midalen, do you know what the final point is?'

'Huh?!' Midalen suddenly stood up straight like a student being called on in class, obviously not knowing the answer to the question.

Olga gazed at the eye in the apple and said, 'In the past, the Gardener's works have sometimes only included a part of the victim's body. But he's favours parts like the heart, the head, and so on, parts that hold metaphorical significance, so when his work appears, we can basically assume that the victim is dead -- but this time, it's different. The murderer only sent us one of the victim's eyes.'

She paused, and Hardy knew what she was about to say.

'But with just one eye, how can we really be sure that the victim is dead?'

Before the trial began, the suspect was kept in a separate room at the back of the courtroom, with prison guards watching nearby to prevent the suspect from escaping before the trial.

Herstal sat behind the table, having slowly grown accustomed to the feeling of handcuffs restraining his wrists over the past few days. Today was the pre-trial hearing, where the judge would ask him if he pleaded guilty to the crimes he had committed. Based on his understanding of the prosecutor's office, the prosecution would be charging him with two counts of first-degree murder, one of which was attempted.

It would all be over soon.

The door of the little room was pushed open, and Herstal looked up with some surprise at the sight of an unexpected visitor -- he saw Olga Molozer struggling to push her wheelchair in from the outside.

'They wouldn't allow anyone to push my wheelchair for me. They said that if I wanted to see you, I'd have to push myself in.' Olga complained as she wheeled in. 'Don't the guards at New Tucker Federal Prison know how to be flexible? '

Herstal looked at Olga twice, before calmly saying, 'I'm glad to see you're safe and sound.'

'I wouldn't call this 'safe and sound'. You know, after waking up this time, I hit my lowest weight since adulthood.' Olga nonchalantly shrugged. 'Alright, Herstal, let's get to the point. After all, I shouldn't stay here for too long before the trial -- so here's the deal: on a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to die right now?'

Herstal said cautiously, 'What?'

But despite this, his voice remained calm, as if he hadn't realised how strange Olga's question was.

'Let me make a bold guess, in a few moments, the judge is going to ask you in court how you want to plead to the two counts of first-degree murder, blah blah blah, and then you're going to answer 'guilty', aren't you?' Olga stared sharply straight at him until the piercing knife-like gaze of those eyes made even Herstal feel uncomfortable.

'Do you think I'll plead guilty at the pre-trial hearing?' Herstal deflected the answer with a rhetorical question, cunningly avoiding having to answer directly.

'Why not? As long as you plead guilty, everything will be over: Will's mission is over, and so is the Pianist's.' Olga replied, leaning back comfortably in her wheelchair. ''Guilty' -- such an easy word. Westland even has the death penalty, and we don't use the electric chair for death row inmates anymore. '

'Are you accusing me of escaping?' Herstal asked sharply, 'As you said, Will's mission is over.'

Olga snorted, 'I'm not, I don't accuse people of choosing to die, especially when it's their own life they end up wasting -- besides, I'm guessing you've already made up your mind a long time ago. Either from the moment you decided to murder Stryder knowing it was a trap, or when you faked the scene of Al's death?'

Herstal scrutinized her carefully, 'I'm starting to suspect you're carrying some kind of listening device on you, ready to illegally obtain a suspect's testimony.'

'You and I both know that the testimony you're really going to make will only be beneficial to the charges of attempted first degree murder, and that defendant is currently without an attorney. Since you've already decided not to hire another lawyer and defend yourself...,' Olga paused. 'And I'm not a witness for the defence, in case you didn't know: I'm a witness for the prosecution.'

'Then what exactly are you here for?' Herstal asked bluntly.

'To deliver the truth.' Olga chuckled as she raised her hand and tossed a photograph onto the table in front of Herstal. As Herstal lowered his head to look down at the photo, she said, 'Theoretically, you never saw the photo, and I never said the following words. But anyway --'

Herstal lowered his head: the photograph before him showed half an apple lying among dry grains of wheat, with a bloody eyeball embedded in the centre of the apple.

'You should remember that I once told you that the Gardener's hobbies have room for change; he has the power to make himself stop.' Olga narrated calmly, 'And now, his pattern of offences has changed.'

'We will now begin reading the charges. The State of Westland charges Herstal Armalight with the following offences: first degree murder, solicitation to commit perjury, unlawful possession of a firearm, assault on a police officer...'

'... How do you intend to plead to the above offences?'

On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to die right now?

Herstal Armalight stood at the defendant's stand, feeling a thousand eyes falling on his face. Photographs and videos were prohibited at this pre-trial hearing, but there were still countless reporters sitting below, ready at all times to spread any breaking news to the four corners of the internet, including the gleeful face of Leohard Scheiber.

Will's mission is over, and so is the Pianist's.

After a moment, Herstal spoke slowly.

He has the power to make himself stop. Albarino, stop.

'I plead guilty to the murder of Albarino Bacchus,' he said slowly, sweeping his gaze steadily over the judge, the clerk, and the jury. 'But as to any charges relating to Kaba Stryder, I think...'

Countless eyes stared at him, waiting for the word to come out of his lips. Olga Molozer remained smiling, as if watching a play.

And now, his pattern of offences has changed.

'Not guilty.'

Chapter 62: 98. The Secret Rose (2)

Chapter Text

Excerpt from:Westland Criminal Secrets Network

Publication Date: 2017-06-24.

Things are developing in a way I didn't expect -- in a way many people didn't expect -- before Herstal Armalight's pre-trial hearing began, we all thought he would enter a plea deal, that is, plead guilty to two counts of premeditated murder in exchange for a chance to escape the death penalty.

But he didn't do that. Despite the WLPD's excellent confidentiality measures, some rumours still circulated during Armalight's detention. These sources pointed out that Armalight was not cooperating with the interrogation. He had not admitted to anything related to Stryder's murder, nor had he admitted to the location of Dr. Bacchus' body. So again, we all assumed that he would plead not guilty: that is, neither admitting that his injuries to Stryder was first-degree murder, nor admit that he killed Albarino Bacchus.

In fact, the latter charge seemed particularly feasible. During the WLPD press conference, the police admitted that they hadn't found the body or the murder weapon, merely a large amount of blood in Armalight's home. I guess it's easier to say that Armalight is an innocent man than it is to say that Stryder is an innocent man -- and Herstal Armalight could even exonerate Stryder.

But Armalight didn't do that either.

The prosecutor's office charged Herstal with first-degree murder of Stryder, second-degree murder of Albarino Bacchus, and manslaughter. Clearly, they themselves were also sceptical of whether the charge of second-degree murder would hold, so they also included a manslaughter charge as a fallback in the event that the second-degree murder charge cannot be sustained.

This series of choices by the prosecution was very much in line with what the major media outlets had predicted early on. There was little reaction from the audience when the charges were read in court, until Armalight entered his own plea.

I thought it was extremely dramatic, because everyone's predictions were partially right, but also partially wrong: Armalight's defence was that he admitted to killing Dr. Bacchus, but claimed it was manslaughter; and that he pleads not guilty to the charge of first-degree murder against Stryder.

Every aspect of this defence is incomprehensible: why on earth would Armalight admit to manslaughter? The police couldn't even find the murder weapon nor the body. He could deny any knowledge of the murder, and the case would probably be closed due to insufficient evidence, so why must he admit to the murder of Dr. Bacchus?

Furthermore, even if he was going to admit it, why didn't he enter a plea deal before the indictment? That way, he wouldn't have to go to court for the charges related to Dr. Bacchus. His behaviour is increasingly strange, as if he'd intended to plead guilty, only to suddenly decided to plead not guilty out of the blue.

And I can't imagine how he plans to defend against the murder of Stryder. He clearly entered the hotel where the victim was staying at with a gun, and then very methodically took down the guards at the door with a taser -- this behaviour is indisputable first-degree attempted murder from any angle, and since Stryder was under FBI protection at the time, this behaviour was nothing short of egregious.

By the time Armalight had finished presenting his defence, the courtroom was in an uproar. The judge had to bang his gavel twice to restore order in the crowd.

As Armalight was being escorted out of the courtroom by the police, every journalist was frantically pushing forward, trying to pry a useful word or two out of the enigmatic suspect, but they were ruthlessly separated by the police.

It was also at this time that Armalight suddenly looked at a specific spot in the gallery -- Professor Olga Molozer, who had just recently awoken from a deep coma, was sitting there. Honestly, I was surprised to see her in court too.

Armalight obviously had something to say, so the tumultuous crowd quieted down in anticipation. I saw the bailiffs pushing him roughly on the shoulders, trying to get him to leave the courtroom quickly, but Armalight raised his voice slightly and said something I didn't understand --

'Nine.' He said to Olga Molozer, 'Now it's a nine.'

I had heard that these two were old friends, and this was probably some sort of code word between them, so Ms. Molozer gave him a knowing smile.

'Thank you for being willing to make an effort for that 'one'.' She replied.

That was the last public appearance of Herstal Armalight before he was detained in the New Tucker Federal Prison to await his upcoming trial.

The trial is scheduled for next Wednesday -- the 28th -- and at that point, we'll find out exactly how Armalight intends to defend himself, and whether he'll be able to walk free from a first-degree murder charge. I find this case highly ironic; everyone knows that Stryder deserves his fate, yet he is miraculously still alive (sources say he's out of life-threatening danger and has been moved from the ICU to a private room. Although the hospital has not disclosed the extent of his brain damage, he has undoubtedly survived) while the man who tried to kill this devil may end up in the electric chair.

Was Herstal Armalight really the Westland Pianist? If Armalight is indeed convicted, he may not escape the death penalty. In that case, the truth may be buried six feet under, and ultimately known to no one.

It was nearing ten o'clock on Saturday night, and Father Anderson was still sitting in his cubicle on one side of the confessional booth. Soon his work for the day would be over, and by this time, the church was almost empty. The soft light from the crystal chandeliers cast a delicate, veil of light over the entire nave of the church.

Father Anderson was not getting any younger, and sitting in the confessional for an hour or two was enough to make his back ache. Just as he was about to get up and leave, the door on the other side of the confessional opened. Through the latticework of wooden screens, a chestnut-coloured-haired man opened the door and sat down. So the priest could only suppress a sigh in his heart and straighten his back slightly.

'Father, I have sinned.' The other man began his confession with the standard opening.

So the priest asked, 'My child, what sin have you committed?'

Through the wooden partition, in the faint light, the priest saw the man gently raise the corners of his mouth, as if it were a smile. But when he opened his mouth, he didn't give the usual reason for confessions, like -- 'I haven't come to pray for many days', 'I haven't cared about my family enough', or 'I've been unfaithful to my wife' -- for these confessions, Father Anderson could have given advice in his sleep.

On the contrary, this person opened his mouth and began with a vague and unrelated topic, saying, 'I believe this sin is called 'Wrath' --you'refamiliar, Father, with the biblical story of Hagar, I presume? '

Father Anderson was confused by the direction of the conversation and responded hesitantly, '...Yes?'

'Abraham cast Hagar and her son away, giving them only some water and dry food,' the other party's voice sounded very calm, and the cadence was very suitable for storytelling. 'They got lost in the vast desert of Beersheba, and the water in their water skins ran out, and Ishmael fell into a coma from thirst. At that time, the mighty power of God brightened Hagar's eyes, allowing her to discover a well in the desert, and Hagar revived Ishmael with the water from this well.'

There was a slight pause on the other side, and Father Anderson didn't say a word; based on his understanding of these people who came to confess, there was something more behind this inexplicable statement, and that would be this person's main point.

'Assuming there is a God in this world, then He guided me to discover a well.' The confessor continued, as if narrating a plain fact. 'It's like the Fountain of Youth in fairy tales, the only thing thatyoucan think of that could be called a miracle.'

Father Anderson's lips parted noiselessly; after all, it was highly disrespectful to say, 'Assuming there is a God in this world' in a Catholic church.

But apparently, the silence brought about by his good manners did not change the dialogue, and the other party continued, 'But since there is no God in the world, I suppose I can only attribute all this to my own efforts.'

Father Anderson finally couldn't help but interject, 'Sir-'

Seriously, was this person not a Christian? Then what was he doing showing up here? Was he one of those troublemakers who had nothing better to do than to trouble an old priest?

'Unfortunately, someone has tainted my spring.' The other man continued, the smile on his face was seemingly still intact, but his voice had become cold and hard, 'I won't deny that I am outraged by this, although even a year ago, I probably wouldn't have believed that I would be in such a position. You might not be able to understand this feeling, but it's as if someone has destroyed your Tower of Babel. This may seem insignificant in the eyes of others, but not for you, not when you've worked so hard for it. You expected him to get closer and closer to the Kingdom of Heaven, but other's purpose was to simply have him destroyed in the dust --'

He drew in a slow breath, and for some reason, Father Anderson felt his heart tighten with this breath.

'So,' he asked politely, 'Why didyoudefile my spring, Father Anderson?'

Father Anderson's whole being was very, very tempted to call the police after hearing this; he didn't know whether the person sitting opposite him was serious, merely a drunkard, or a mentally ill lunatic, but in any case, it seemed better to leave it to the police. He was sure that the other party had no good intentions.

For the first time, he regretted not carrying a smartphone with him like all those young people, but the confessor was staring right at him at this time. Even in the dim light, he still noticed that the other man had a pair of green eyes that burned like ghostly fires.

So he could only swallow dryly and say, '...I don't understand what you mean.'

'Or let's not continue to speak in metaphors, I've heard it said that that's how your God does things.' This confessor said. 'Let's talk about somethingyouremember the name of -- do you remember William? The boy in the White Oak choir back in the day?'

Father Anderson's entire body froze, a cold chill slowly creeped up along his spine, and without thinking, he denied it, 'I don't know what you're talking about!'

The other man seemed to be very patient in explaining to him about this matter; 'Back in the day, whenyouwere the parish priest of St. Anthony's Church, there were other priests and parishioners who took advantage of their authority to molest the children in the church choir.Youknew this fact, didn'tyou? So many children were afraid to go to church, and they were particularly terrified to avoid that one priest in particular. Didyounot feel that something was wrong? Althoughyouknew it, you did nothing to stop it...'

Father Anderson opened his mouth feebly, feeling as if dry sand was burning in his throat.

'A lady in White Oak named Mary Talos told me that her son was one of the victims. She found many scars on her son's body and felt something was wrong. This terrified mother approachedyou, requesting foryouto uncover the perpetrator, butyoudidn't investigate deeply...this matter was left unresolved. I'm afraid it's becauseyoureceived some kind of benefit from that priest at the time, right?Yourlife had always been quite frugal, but around 1985yousuddenly came into a sum of money and were able to purchase a new house. Wasn't this becauseyouaccepted a bribe?' And the other person continued, as if oblivious to Father Anderson's intense reaction. 'Later, Ms. Talos' son committed suicide due to depression. Of course, according to doctrine, a child who commits suicide cannot ascend to heaven --'

He paused for a moment and continued, 'And this poor child of Ms. Talos' family was just one of the victims ... I suspectyouremember one of them, the child who played the piano, named William, or Will as he was generally known. He was a beautiful little boy with golden hair.'

This confessor looked up, his green eyes as bright as a wolf, and he smiled slightly, 'Youshould remember him, that was a very special child.'

At that moment, Father Anderson suddenly remembered fragments, that is, terrifying images that scared him to the core: the gloomy look in that child's eyes, and the two bodies hanging beneath the dome of St. Anthony's Church. There was no direct connection between the two events, but for some reason, they often alternated in his dreams.

'You--' He stammered, 'Are you--?!'

'No, of course I'm not him. Though I must admit, it would have been quite a dramatic scene for the person in question to come back for revenge after all these years.' The other party laughed lowly, as if he had derived some unfathomable amusem*nt from the words. The low laugh caused the last string in the priest's heart to snap violently.

Father Anderson stood up abruptly, he rose so rapidly that he almost knocked over his chair. But at this moment, he had no time to worry about such things. He hastily pushed open the door and strode forward -- before fleeing, he glanced back and saw that the tall man had appeared at the doorway of the confessional like a ghost, moving very swiftly and silently.

'Run, Mr. Priest. Run.' The man whispered, his voice sounded like a persuasion and a threat. 'Youdon't have much of a chance to run anymore.'

Olga Molozer insisted that Mercader was a very rude person, because every time he ran to knock on Olga's door, he never thought of asking the host whether it was convenient for him to visit in advance.

Because of this, what Mercader would see when the door was opened was completely unpredictable -- the fact was, Olga was not home alone, in fact, she wasn't even alone with her carer, Ms. Brooke.

Olga had been discharged from the hospital, but Annie's work was far from over: she still had long hours of working with those atrophied muscles until Olga's rehab was complete and she'd been fitted with a proper prosthetic. This part wasn't in the original contract signed by the WLPD, but given Olga's salary offer, Annie was more than happy to continue.

And right now, the carer was sitting on the sofa, licking her buttered fingers, holding a huge bucket of popcorn...in which another hand was buried in, and that hand belonged to Orion Hunter.

Let's put it this way: Mercader stood awkwardly at the door as Midalen, who'd opened the door for him, took a step back. The three on the sofa -- including Olga, who was comfortably settled in an armchair -- turned their heads together to look at him, mouths full of popcorn, like three hamsters with their cheek pouches stuffed with nuts.

The opening credits of 'Star Wars 5: The Empire Strikes Back' was gradually appearing on the television screen in front of them.

Mercader had imagined many times what scene he would see in Olga's living room, including but not limited to: a serial killer or a dead body appearing on the floor of her home, but in any case, he definitely wasn't prepared for the scene in front of him.

'Hey,' Olga waved her sticky fingers at him, 'We're having a Star Wars movie marathon, would you like to join?'

The bastard probably only condescend to ask this question because she knew there was certainly no way Mercader would join.

'I need to talk to you, there was a case in Kentucky today.' Mercader said. It was a case that had brought him all the way from Quantico to Kentucky, and then from Kentucky to Westland, but clearly, Olga didn't care about the details.

'You're going to interrupt us before we play one of Midalen's favourite episodes just to give a lecture on the case to a college professor who's home on leave?' Olga retorted.

In the background, Mercader could hear Midalen excitedly yelling, 'I AM YOUR FATHER!!!'. The sound of his voice was ample proof that the boy, no matter how calm he appeared to be in the courtroom, was still only fourteen years old ... though Mercader couldn't quite tell if Midalen was mocking him.

'The kid's favourite character is Darth Vader. Quite troubling, right?' Olga swept a glance at Midalen, giving Mercader a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

'-- Olga!' Mercader emphasised her name, as if he was grinding his teeth.

'Fine, you guys continue then.' Olga sighed as if in compromise and waved her hand at the others. 'I need to discuss with Special Agent Mercader about a certain case that's got him all worked up.'

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were finally settled comfortably outside on Olga's porch. The June temperature was warm enough for Olga to sit in a wheelchair under the porch like a granny, holding a cup of hot cocoa in her hands, with Mercader standing at her side.

Olga's house had a very large yard, but she hated housework and was not good at gardening. So every year, she spent a considerable amount of money to hire someone to take care of the yard for her, just so she could open the door to see a lush garden of rose plants.

Olga gazed at the pink and white clusters of flowers blooming on the woody plants climbing along the walls and asked, 'Did the Sunday Gardener strike again? I noticed it's Sunday.'

Mercader, not in the best mood, pulled out a photo from his pocket and tossed it onto her lap. Olga lowered her head to look at it: the photograph showed a golden sceptre-like object, seemingly made of some kind of gilded metal. The long handle of the object ended in a small, round glass case, surrounded by numerous radiating decorative lines to represent the all-pervasive divine, Eucharistic light radiating from this glass case.

This was a monstrance, a sacrificial vessel used to display the Eucharist during Catholic religious ceremonies. However, the glass case at the top of the Eucharistic Light, which should have held a small piece of white wafer, was now stuffed with a bloody chunk of meat.

The monstrance sat against the wall in front of a church mural -- the mural depicted what appeared to be King David herding his flock -- and the monstrance stood in front of his outstretched arm, making it look like he was holding a shepherd's staff.

'This thing came from a Cathedral in Kentucky,' Mercader said, 'And the Bishop of the Diocese, Father Anderson, disappeared last night. The deacon initially wasn't too concerned when they couldn't contact him at first, until today, when they found this monstrance while they were preparing for Sunday Mass. The meat stuffed inside is clearly...a human tongue.'

'What, they didn't think it was one of those old-fashioned miracles where the Eucharist turns into the flesh and blood of Christ, and then report the incident to the Vatican? The Pope might even canonise one of them.' Olga sneered.

'That's because the local crime lab compared the piece of meat to Father Anderson's hair, and it was clearly the priest's tongue.' Mercader frowned as he replied, 'And this priest was the parish priest at St. Anthony's Church in White Oak, Kentucky, thirty years ago. You know what that means -- I'm assuming that Officer Hardy has already shown you the file on the unsolved White Oak case.'

Olga didn't bother to correct Mercader that it wasn't Hardy who'd shown her the documents, but Hunter. Better to let it go, she didn't need to involve Hunter in this, and Olga was pretty sure that Hunter's way of obtaining that police document was illegal.

'So, this priest may have witnessed Stryder's assault against Herstal back then, and that Derek Cronin, the one with his eyes shoved in the apple, was the strongest advocate for Stryder's acquittal in the jury.' Olga said, her voice always carried a mix of impatience and sarcasm, which was exactly why so many people disliked her, 'So?'

Mercader, suppressing his anger, responded, 'So, firstly, Albarino Bacchus is the Sunday Gardener; secondly, these cases are imitations of the Pianist's cases -- the apple in the first case corresponds to the one that was used to substitute Richard Norman's heart, and the second case corresponds to the symbolism of 'Abel the Shepherd' in the Thomas Norman case; and thirdly, the Sunday Gardener is hunting down a series of people connected to Stryder and Armalight.'

'I think you make a pretty good point,' Olga said simply, 'But if your theory is so complete, why come all this way to ask me?'

Mercader stared straight into her eyes. This man of Italian descent had very deep set eyes, and an intense gaze that made many other agents feel uneasy, but obviously, Olga was fearless.

Mercader said, 'Because I've come to realise that you may have known that Armalight was the Westland Pianist earlier than any of us, but chose to remain silent -- so, Molozer, am I right in my assumptions about the last two cases? '

Olga was silent for a few seconds, then condescended to nod slightly, 'You are correct.'

Mercader nodded, then heard her continue, 'But it's useless, as you've often taught those rookie agents: profiling provides a direction for solving a case, it cannot be presented in court as evidence.'

They could now deduce that Albarino was not dead, and combined with the current set of circ*mstances, it would be simple enough to conclude that Herstal was the Pianist and Albarino was the Gardener -- but this could never be presented to the jury as evidence.

'We can resolve the Armalight case from other angles.' Mercader said smoothly.

'-- Mercader.' Olga said, and there was a clear implication of ending the conversation in her voice, so serious that Mercader had to look at her again. Olga narrowed her eyes slightly, not in thought, but to point out an obvious axiom: 'You know what kind of targets the Gardener has been looking for lately. This is my final warning: do not go any further, or you may be killed by him.'

Mercader looked at her for a while, then nodded slowly, 'Thanks for the warning.'

Then he turned around and slowly walked out of Olga's yard.

Olga watched Mercader's figure slowly disappear beyond the courtyard wall, lowered her head, and took a sip of her drink, which had become lukewarm, and spoke, '... This isn't the first time you've been caught eavesdropping on a federal agent, is it?'

The door behind her creaked open, and Hunter slipped out of the doorway, grinning sheepishly. 'Uh,' he said vaguely, 'It's really hard for a person to control their curiosity when you're discussing a case of this calibre.'

'Whatever you're thinking of doing now, don't.' Olga warned, 'As you heard, we're dealing with a killer.'

'-- and your friend.' Hunter muttered in a low voice.

'My friend,' Olga nodded in agreement, her voice sounding unusually sincere, 'and also a killer. So there's a seventy percent chance he'll kill you if you get in his way.'

'What about the remaining thirty percent?' Hunter reminded her.

'That's the Sunday Gardener,' Olga raised her eyebrow sharply, 'And I'm not a worm in his stomach.'

Herstal Armalight had a pile of letters in front of him.

Since his trial had not yet begun, and because of the series of sensationalised news stories broken by the reporter named Leohard Scheiber, the federal prison had arranged to place him in solitary confinement for the time being, until the trial was over and the verdict announced.

And even though the prosecution didn't intend to charge him with any crimes related to the Westland Pianist, that didn't stop a group of crazy admirers -- most of whom Herstal suspected were drug-addicted minors and the like -- from writing letters to him. The Federal Prison didn't have the manpower to meticulously screen each letter, so they simply used a metal detector to ensure that there were no contraband items, and then handed all the letters over to him.

Sometimes, Herstal felt like he was in one of those bizarre scenes from the musical 'Chicago'; although he was in prison, he was still at the centre of public opinion, a clown dancing on the stage. These letters spoke for themselves: the ones he initially opened contained nothing new, a whole lot of cursing, obscenities, a lot of strange fantasies about corpses and body parts, and a few girls who claimed in their letters that they wanted to climb him like a tree.

Originally, Herstal hadn't intended to look through the entire pile of letters that had been delivered, but one of them caught his attention -- it was a delicate, violet-coloured envelope that exuded a scent of perfume. It was obvious that the sender had taken care to carefully spray the envelope with perfume.

This letter looked like a love letter from a young girl to someone else, and it seemed completely out of place on the desk of a suspected murderer. The address on the envelope read: 45 Gemmell Street, White Oak, Kentucky, from Mary Talos.

It was this specific location that caught Herstal's attention, so he reached out and picked up the envelope and opened it -- the moment he opened the letter, he realised that his previous assumption had been wrong. The perfumed scent of the envelope wasn't a love token from an infatuated girl to her imaginary lover, but rather an attempt to mask the strong smell of blood inside the envelope.

The envelope contained many pages, and on the top was a letter in messy handwriting, obviously written by someone in a state of extreme terror. The letter briefly outlined how Stryder had molested the choirboys at St. Anthony's Church many years ago, and how he had used money to silence the parish priests and several of the parishioners who knew about what he was doing.

There were several extremely valuable names mentioned in the letter, which would be extremely beneficial to him if they could be produced as witnesses during the trial -- of course, the nominal sender also needed to be investigated. Herstal knew that the letter wasn't actually from a Mary of White Oak, but the fact that the envelope bore this name and address suggested that this person warranted more attention.

At the end of the trembling narration and the chaotic confessions, there was a name signed, with a fingerprint printed in blood above it. The wound from which the blood had flown out may have been a little too big, and the last page of the letter was covered with drops of blood.

That last signature read: David Anderson.

Herstal silently folded the bloodstained letter.

'...Albarino.' He murmured.

Chapter 63: 99. The Secret Rose (3)

Chapter Text

Olga was wheeled into the witness stand by a bailiff.

After such a long period of recovery, the cast on her leg had been removed, and her fracture had healed quite well. However, it would still take quite some time to complete the full rehabilitation training and to have a suitable prosthetic limb custom-made. At this point, sitting in a wheelchair was definitely more convenient.

This little incident before the witness's appearance drew many sympathetic glances from the gallery: Olga guessed that in the eyes of the spectators and journalists sitting in the courtroom, she was just a pitiable unlucky person. She had sacrificed her leg to save someone, only to wake up and find that one of her good friends was missing (most likely dead), and another was on trial for murder.

-- And she herself had to testify in court for this gentleman.

It was the first day of Herstal Armalight's trial. The gallery was packed with jurists, criminal psychologists, and newspaper reporters; it was quite possible that no one truly pitied the deceased or the severely injured in this case, and no one genuinely sympathized with the suspect, who faced imprisonment for attempted murder of a scum.

The vast majority of people who followed the trial were driven by their desire for curiosity, voyeurism and to pass judgement -- watching the trial was essentially no different than watching an Eskimo eat a seal alive. The term 'Westland Pianist' was enough to get their blood pumping, and they were desperate to squeeze into the courtroom.

Then, the news articles written from their fingertips would flow out into the internet after each testimony from the witnesses, and every word spoken would be served on the banquet table, carefully plated, and critiqued by people who didn't actually care about the truth. The news figures themselves were clowns dancing to the rhythm on stage, and the onlookers were nothing more than spectators clapping their hands and laughing.

The bailiff parked her wheelchair in front of the Bible so that she could press her hand on the cover and take the oath, reciting the words she had sworn hundreds of times in different courts. Frankly, Olga would have preferred swearing on Russell's Principia Mathematica than on the Bible. After all, mathematics and logic would not deceive her, but theology could.

'I swear to God,' she raised one hand, her voice still lazy, and there were probably hundreds of people in the crowd below staring at her intently, 'that everything I say is the truth.'

Herstal Armalight was, of course, also watching her. He stood at the defendant's table, looking as calm and collected as he usually did when standing in the place of the defence attorney. Everyone knew the importance of making a good impression on the jury and the judge, and Herstal himself was a master at it. Dressed in a charcoal grey, three-piece suit that looked more suitable for a men's business suit show than it did in a courtroom. Herstal nodded when Olga's gaze briefly fell on him, as if he didn't mind that Olga was testiying as a witness for the prosecution.

The prosecutor in this case was named Ingrid Musk, a black female prosecutor with striking facial features. She began the cross-examination in a routine manner, 'What is your name and occupation?'

'My name is Olga Molozer,' Olga replied, 'a visiting professor at Westland State University and a consultant for the WLPD in profiling.'

The other party continued, 'When did you and Herstal Armalight meet?'

'During the Norman brothers' murder,' Olga answered smoothly, unsurprised with the prosecutor's starting point. 'He was the Norman brothers' family attorney, and thus was included as a suspect by the WLPD at that time. There were several murders related to him, the Norman Brothers' case, the skull that was placed on his desk -- I believe you've already presented those case files to His Honour and the jury, Ms. Musk -- we were a little concerned about his personal safety, so we kept in contact with him regularly. That's how we gradually grew to know each other.'

'How did he react to those murders?' the prosecutor asked. Naturally, she would ask this, the prosecution wanted to create an image of a ruthless criminal in front of the jury. This tactic was quite effective for Herstal: he did look like the kind of guy who could calmly drink his coffee with a dead body under the table.

'He was very calm.' Olga replied simply.

'Not panicked at all? Despite the deaths of two of his clients, and a skull filled with pomegranate seeds placed on his desk by the Sunday Gardener?' Ms. Musk continued to ask.

Olga could hear some whispering among the jury. These jurors had been carefully selected to ensure they didn't have any extreme biases regarding the case. But just like someone telling you, 'Don't think about kangaroos for the next five minutes', no one can easily forget the word 'kangaroo' after such emphasis. Following Leohard Scheiber's vivid report, it was hard for the jury not to think of the Pianist after hearing such description.

And although there was no evidence that the defendant was the Pianist, it was difficult to ensure that each member of the jury's stance would remain unshaken in the face of such suspicion.

'Mr. Armalight is a lawyer who has handled many homicide prosecutions and has surely visited many crime scenes for his work.' Olga emphasised, speaking with complete sincerity. 'Like many people in such a profession -- myself included, and Officer Hardy, who is in charge of this case -- we all know that panicking won't solve any problems, and that remaining calm is the best approach. That's how I see it.'

...Besides, if he couldn't remain calm in the face of such blatant threats, the Sunday Gardener would likely tire of him quickly. And in that case, the story would inevitably end in a very bloody way.

Ms. Musk frowned inconspicuously and continued, 'Was this also the time when Dr. Bacchus met the defendant?'

'Yes.' Olga replied, 'During that period, I often invited them to join me for drinks at a bar I frequented, and our interactions became... very frequent.'

'And then Dr. Bacchus established a close relationship with him?'

Olga blinked and gave a subtle smile, 'That would depend on how you would define a 'close relationship'.'

'I'm sorry,' Ms. Musk said slowly, looking genuinely confused, 'I don't quite understand what you mean.'

'Because anyone who knows Al well knows that it's hard for him to maintain a close relationship with anyone for long periods of time, and none of his colleagues or friends believed he would ever get married or settle down.' Olga shrugged her shoulders, 'So, if by 'close relationship' you mean physical interaction, then I would say that they probably moved in together around Christmas of last year. But if you mean 'love' --'

She paused for a moment, and her eyes went straight to Herstal, who sat motionless in the defendant's chair, his gaze calm and cold.

'-- Was it love? That's the question.' Olga's voice was soft, and her tone was laced with a certain fascination. 'I suppose that would be something you'd have to ask Albarino himself to find out.'

After saying this, she paused meaningfully and swept a glance at Herstal. The other looked calmly back at her steadily, without any particularly obvious expression on his face.

'So,' Ms Musk continued, seemingly oblivious to the eye contact between Olga and the defendant, 'you believe their relationship was unstable, is that correct?'

Olga answered smoothly, 'All I can say is that given Al's numerous past experiences, it's impossible to expect a long-term, stable relationship from him. I've seen many of his former partners invest their time and affection on him, but the vast majority of them eventually realised that they couldn't get what they wanted back from Al -- the rest of them probably stayed for his physical prowess, and I guess they didn't care much for any emotional return.'

There was a soft chuckle from the gallery.

Ms. Musk continued, 'Did they ever express any dissatisfaction with the relationship to you?'

'I'm a criminal psychologist, not a relationship counsellor, so naturally, they didn't. A literary scholar once said that 'love is a greater crime than murder', but I don't really see how that's manifested in criminal law.' Olga said lightly. When she stood in the witness stand, she obviously knew very well how to make people laugh, which might be why legal professionals didn't particularly like her: they needed a cooperative witness, not a comedian. 'But in my experience, Al has maintained this relationship longer than any of his previous ones, and the form of expression has been much more consistent -- at least it has never been expressed in the form of office sex, which means that he doesn't take this relationship lightly -- so, considering his history, I think this relationship is quite stable, for both of them.'

Ms. Musk pursed her lips, evidently dissatisfied with the answer.

She'd obviously hoped to hear that the partner harboured a long-standing grudge. There was precedent for that in the cases she'd handled before: the husband had killed his wife, and had repeatedly expressed his desire to kill her to his friends in a drunken stupor, which made his manslaughter defence sound precarious.

'Why don't you just ask the question you truly want to ask instead of beating around the bush?' Olga said good-naturedly, 'The question you really want to ask is, 'Did Mr. Armalight ever show any intentions of plotting to murder his lover?'. Then I would answer, 'No, as the closest friend of both of them, I saw no such indication -- and that would conclude this part of the questioning without having to go around in circles in front of the jury, don't you think? '

Ms. Musk visibly faltered.

Olga's remarks were uncharacteristic for a prosecution's witness, prompting the judge to slightly frown and say, 'Ms. Molozer, it's the prosecution that is questioning you. Please refrain from interrupting the proceedings.'

But Ms. Musk had obviously realised that approaching the theory that Armalight had premeditated the murder of Dr. Bacchus through Olga wasn't going to work -- Herstal had admitted to killing Albarino, but insisted that it was a crime of passion. The prosecution charged him with two counts of 'second-degree murder' and 'manslaughter', and given the prosecutor's competitive nature, she would undoubtedly prefer a second-degree murder conviction to manslaughter.

Although the final conviction would likely be for manslaughter in the absence of proof of premeditation, she never gave up the opportunity to try.

She thought cautiously for a moment, then said, 'I have one last question.'

Olga Molosser nodded slightly, showing no sign of surprise when Ms. Musk asked her next question, as if she had anticipated it. Although the question asked by the other party was: 'Ms. Molozer, based on your professional opinion, do you believe that Mr. Armalight is the Westland Pianist?'

The courtroom erupted into commotion at this question. Countless journalists in the gallery craned their necks to look in Olga's direction, their heads stretching like a flock of ducks eager for breadcrumbs.

At the same time, Herstal suddenly spoke -- he had decided to represent himself, an extremely rare, but still legal situation in a court of law, not to mention the fact that he was an experienced lawyer himself -- 'Objection,' they heard him interrupt coldly. 'This question has no relevance to the charges being brought by the prosecution.'

The judge was silent for a moment, perhaps because he too, also wanted to hear the answer to that question, or perhaps it was simply because his voice was drowned out by the noise. Meanwhile, the courtroom's high ceiling was filled with the clamour of the excited crowd, and before the judge could bang his gavel with a tight frown --

'Yes.' Olga replied calmly, 'I think he is.'

Hunter sat in his battered but reliable car, complaining like a worried old father.

'... suddenly appearing in the backseat of the car without a word -- do you know how similar this scene is to a horror movie? Have some mercy on an old man's heart.' Hunter was saying, 'Also, isn't today a weekday? Shouldn't you be in class?'

Midalen sat in the backseat of the car, looking as innocent as any angel in the world.

'What?' He put on a deceptive 'I don't know anything, after all, I'm just a little cutie' expression. Hunter might have believed it if he didn't know that in his private life, this guy could actually point and curse at people without any pressure. 'I don't have to go to school, I've got PTSD and was advised to take a break from school.'

'Your stress disorder suddenly popped up last night, did it? I'm pretty sure you've been attending class for the past two months.' Hunter didn't hesitate to expose him.

Midalen scratched his face sheepishly, 'Hehe.'

Old Hunter looked at him with a face full of disappointment. Midalen paused and explained with a little embarrassment, 'It's almost the end of term anyway. There's not much new to learn, just exam prep... and bounty hunting is way more fun than studying!'

Hunter really wanted to point out that even without a college degree, he knew that approaching the end of term shouldn't mean slacking off like Midalen was now; he also wanted to tell Midalen that bounty hunting wasn't a game. But this fatherly lecture didn't leave his lips in the end, and he simply asked with a stern face, 'You know what I'm going to do now, don't you?'

'I know,' Midalen answered quickly, sensing that Hunter's voice was softening, he almost wanted to dance around a little. 'You suspect that the Sunday Gardener was responsible for the recent strange cases involving human organs -- in other words, Dr. Bacchus was responsible -- and you suspect that his next target may be a member of Sequoia Manor, so you're targeting this place...'

Hunter's car was parked in a luxurious, wealthy neighbourhood, with a rather nice villa with an extravagant rooftop swimming pool across the street.

Hunter gave a short nod, 'That house belongs to a Mr. Jason Friedman, a good-for-nothing playboy who squanders the money that his family saved up during the Cold War.'

'But how did you know he was a guest of Sequoia Manor? The club's membership list has never been leaked, right?' Midalen asked in confusion.

'-- Read the papers,' Hunter said, tapping the steering wheel with a satisfied tone. 'After the story of Sequoia Manor and their wealthy club came to light, Westland's media carefully sifted through anyone in the city who may have been a potential member...Kid, although the media may be annoying, it can always play an unexpected role in these situations. For instance, they found that Jason Friedman shared a close relationship with Stryder, and that there had been rumours of some not-so-appropriate fetishes for children ... In short, he was one of the most likely people to be a member of Sequoia Manor.'

'He does seem quite representative ... You think the Gardener would choose someone like that?' Midalen pondered before asking.

'If you were the Gardener, wouldn't you pick someone like that?' Hunter asked gruffly in return.

Midalen thought for a moment, then whispered, 'This assumption is based on the idea that 'Dr. Bacchus is the Gardener, and he loves Mr. Armalight'.'

'While I also have a hard time imagining that Bacchus would love someone, do you think the bases of our discussion is wrong?' Hunter asked.

Midalen shook his head, 'I don't think so.'

So they sat quietly for a while, watching the beautiful house and the clear sky outside the car window together -- this was going to be a big job; no one knew if this person was the chosen target, or when he would strike. Most of the time, the work of a bounty hunter consisted of such tedious explorations, and they needed to be very, very patient.

A short while later, a shiny, beautiful sports car drove out of the villa courtyard. Thanks to its convertible top, they could vaguely see their target -- a mediocre-looking man in his forties, with one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel, and the other arm resting on the shoulder of a woman in the passenger seat, who looked very much like a Victoria's Secret model.

Hunter muttered something vaguely under his breath and skillfully started up the car, ready to follow the sports car from a distance.

'I heard Jason Friedman's attending a friend's party today. He's been keeping a low profile since the Sequoia Manor scandal broke out, this is the first time he's been out in public at a party like this.' Hunter cleared his throat slightly, fumbling for a cigarette from his pocket as he said to Midalen, 'If I were the Sunday Gardener, I wouldn't miss an opportunity like this -- it's much harder to act after Friedman returns to his residence full of security systems and a house full of bodyguards, right?'

Midalen didn't ask what Hunter planned to do, assuming they did manage to find Dr. Bacchus.

Herstal had considered the possibility that Ms. Musk would ask questions about the Pianist during this trial.

After all, as far as he knew -- his information came from Mr. Holmes, a gentleman who had been instrumental in gathering information for the trial and interviewing witnesses during his incarceration, and that was the most ironic point of all -- Holmes was keen on defending criminals, but in a way, he was indeed a good man. At least, when he and the detained Herstal were meeting in prison, he had an expression of 'I know you're wrongly accused, and I'm really heartbroken' look on his face throughout the entire process -- the newspaper stories around him being the Pianist were centred around the idea that he fit the profile of the Pianist, how he had no alibi, and how he was inexplicably, closely connected to the Pianist in some of the cases.

All of this was factual, there was nothing to refute, yet there wasn't enough evidence for a conviction. So, as a rule, it shouldn't have been brought up in court. It was just that Olga hadn't actually given much favourable evidence for the prosecution as a witness: she could prove that there were no apparent conflicts between Albarino and Herstal, and that she had been in a coma throughout the time of the Stryder incident. So, since Ms. Musk had asked her to be a witness for the prosecution, she must have brought her in to touch on the Pianist case.

Such a strategy wouldn't affect the evidence but could sway the jury's perception, which was ethically dubious. However, Herstal had always heard that Musk was a very competitive lady, so her choice to pursue this angle wasn't surprising.

They all knew Olga's character -- namely, that she would definitely answer this question, and what attitude she held towards the Pianist's identity was well known to them. So as long as the judge didn't stop the prosecution from asking this question, Olga was bound to give an answer.

Now, as her words hung in the air, the courtroom fell silent for a few seconds before erupting into a noise so loud that it nearly blew off the roof of the hall. Jury members whispered among themselves, and Mr. Holmes, seated in the gallery, was waving his hands like a real defence lawyer, loudly protesting against what was going on.

The scene resembled more of a game or a play than ever before. From the defendant's seat, Herstal turned his gaze towards Olga Molozer, who was surveying everyone coldly. After noticing Herstal's gaze, she smiled slightly.

After the judge banged his gavel several times, the room finally quieted down, but it was clear that Olga's response had already spread across the internet, into the eyes of everyone following the case. The judge turned sternly to Ms. Musk and said, 'This question is irrelevant to the case. Please refrain from such questions.'

'My apologies, Your Honour.' Ms. Musk replied, sounding anything but sorry. 'I have no further questions.'

'Mr. Armalight?' The judge asked.

'I have no questions for this witness.' Herstal replied calmly.

Indeed, Olga had no relevant testimony for the Stryder case, and he didn't need her to share any more insights on Albarino. In fact, it was better for her to speak as little as possible precisely because she knew too much.

Instinct told Herstal that Olga was the kind of person who would really tell the complete truth on the witness stand, which was a far cry from Albarino. In fact, there was this impulse in his heart that drove him to ask Olga: Did you already know the truth a long time ago, but chose to hide it?

-- This was referring to the truth of everything. Considering things from the current perspective, Olga's consistent attitude became subtle. When exactly did she begin to suspect the identity of the Gardener and the Pianist? Why did she choose to let Mercader reveal the truth and kept silent herself? Why did she want Herstal to plead not guilty, and what was her next step?

Some of these questions could be answered if Herstal chose to ask them now; and only by asking at this time could they be answered. But of course, he couldn't possibly ask. Asking such questions now would just be him shooting himself in the foot.

The judge frowned and asked, 'Are you sure you have no questions?'

'Yes.' Herstal replied evenly. 'It's pointless to try to use her to prove that there were no issues between me and Albarino -- because I did kill Albarino. Of course, please forgive me for exercising my Fifth Amendment rights regarding any details beyond that.'

The audience naturally assumed he was referring to the details of how he'd killed and disposed of the body, because while he had confessed to killing Albarino in a fit of rage, he'd failed to disclose exactly where he'd disposed the body. Ms. Musk protested in a low voice, obviously very dissatisfied with his partial confession, while Olga looked over at Herstal and gave a subtle, knowing smile.

Herstal might actually have been referring to the 'other details' between him and the Sunday Gardener. The criminal psychologist exchanged tacit glances with the prisoner across the long distance between the witness stand and the defendant's table.

The main event of the trial had yet to begin.

Lavazza Mercader did not attend the trial.

If everything went smoothly, the trial would only last a few days, and it wasn't time for him to be summoned to court to testify just yet. If he appeared now, the only result would be getting mobbed and immobilised by reporters at the courthouse door.

Until then, he had done what he could to leak some information about the Pianist to that reporter of the Westland Daily News. Most of which was little more than profiling and speculations, he hadn't revealed anything about the church in Kentucky. It was enough for people to know that the Westland Pianist was a dangerous killer, and that Armalight fit the profile of that killer. The public didn't need to know who might have been sexually abused as a child, or whose murder was driven by vengeance.

That was meaningless. People are always easily blinded by these illusionary motives, and feel undue sympathy for those people with blood on their hands; only Mercader knew that a crime was a crime, and any starting point or motive was meaningless.

However, it was clear that Leohard Scheiber was still keen on getting more insider information from him after writing that article. Scheiber had contacted him several more times since the publication of that sensational story. Just to avoid being pestered by this reporter, he had to stay as far away from the courthouse as possible.

Therefore, Mercader had decided to visit the WLPD during the trial -- he intended to look over the files on Stryder's shooting again and rehearse his upcoming testimony for court. He didn't expect Olga to be of much help during the whole process, since she was likely unconvinced that Albarino Bacchus was dead, and certainly wouldn't cooperate with the prosecutor's leading questions.

In any case, whether as a technical witness or a long-time 'friend' of Armalight's, Mercader realised that the burden of testimony had fallen onto his shoulders.

While reading the file, Mercader borrowed Hardy's office, which the other party never had any objection to, and Olga's red marker was still in the office. When Mercader entered with the file in hand, the sunlight was at just the right angle: the sunlight fell in through Hardy's office window, a column of the light landed directly on top of Hardy's desk, where tiny golden dust particles could be seen slowly climbing along that light.

On Hardy's desk sat a black long-necked vase with a few colourful rainbow bird feathers, and a gnarled pomegranate branch that had dried into an ochre red colour inside the bottle. The lonely pomegranate branch held only two earth-coloured dead leaves and a fruit with wrinkled skin.

A pomegranate.

Albarino Bacchus had once said -- 'Persephone ate the six pomegranate seeds that Hades gave her, and so, she had to stay in the Underworld for six months each year.'

Mercader took a slow, slow breath. Were things as he thought? He could hear the faint hiss of air passing through his throat. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, but didn't put them on immediately. Instead, he used the gloves to carefully reach out and gently touch the pomegranate branch in the vase.

The dry branch trembled, and made a faint, burdened sound, as if it could not bear the weight. The branch tilted slightly to one side, and something gushed out of the dry, cracked fruit skin that had once been bursting with pulp -- some kind of dark-coloured liquid oozed out of the pomegranate's dry vermilion husk, like some sort of surreal scene that would appear in a bizarre nightmare, dripping down onto Hardy's spotless desk with a sickening splat.

Mercader stared at the pomegranate branch in front of him and the viscous, fishy-smelling liquid oozing from the inside of the pomegranate's peel, in a rare and somewhat stunned manner.

The fruit was bleeding semi-coagulated blood.

-- This was the Sunday Gardener's gift to him.