A Confession For Persephone 03

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Olga said, "Why did that Jones specifically ask for you to go?"

They followed Herstal all the way to the parking lot, where the lawyer apparently planned to go to the police station to meet with Officer Hardy and the others first, and then – deliver a large sum of money to that Martin Jones; this really sounded like a job that could get you killed.

Herstal pulled the car door open vigorously: "Probably because he came to our office six months ago to make a fuss after his daughter went to jail; I was the one who stepped in to talk him out of it at that time: he wanted to appeal, and Davis and I made him give up on that."

"So he's apparently going to blame you for his daughter's death too. I had thought he shot you today at noon without meaning to. He can kill you, you know?" Albarino pointed out.

"And what can be done about that? He still has a hostage in his possession; the only daughter of my employee who is still lying in intensive care." Herstal countered with a frown, "What other options do I have?"

They were in a stand off for two seconds, and finally Albarino took a step back as if to compromise. "Okay, okay, remember to tell Bart for me that I tried to stop you."

Apart from that – most importantly, he really didn't want his freshly picked source material to be shot dead by a tasteless kidnapped for ransom – Albarino really hated having to change his to-do list over and over again; the Westland Pianist's clashing of victims with him was enough for him.

Herstal stared at him fixedly. The man's blue irises always made him look mean because they were so light, and now they were a gentle greenish-brown under the lights of the dim street lamps. He seemed to pause profoundly, then said to Albarino, "Do you really think I can't feel anything at all?"

"You don't feel anything at all about what you've done, do you?" – they finally circled back to this subject.

Mr. Albarino Bacchus, the psychotic serial killer, was unmoved and even kind of wanted to applaud the superb acting skills of the man in front of him. He just didn't know if Olga would buy that, but that was a different issue.

He and Olga stood by the edge of the parking lot and watched the man drive off in the direction of the Westland Police Department. This person would then work with Officer Hardy to formulate a plan, uncertain if it would work, but would probably lead him to his demise of being shot once and killed.

They listened to the sound of the car driving away, and finally blending into the river of red and white lights on the street. Olga coughed and asked, "... So, are we both going back for another drink?"

"Forget it," Albarino smiled, distressed, "It's almost nine o'clock. I have to get back; I have an early shift every morning."

Olga examined him harshly, tilting her head slightly to one side. Those soft black hairs flowed like a luxuriant river around her neck and shoulders. Abruptly, she asked, "Al, do you genuinely want to pick him up?"

"How did you even put the words 'genuinely' and 'pick him up' together in the same sentence?" Albarino raised his eyebrows in exaggerated condemnation.

"Because I'm guessing you have no intention of developing an intimate romantic relationship with anyone, so there's still a difference in degree between either you're genuinely picking him up or you're thoughtlessly picking him up." Olga shrugged. "If you're so worried, just go to the police station with him; it's not like Bart is going to kick you out."

"I'm not worried; you don't want to use that profiling thing on me." Albarino lied. In actuality, he was quite worried that his white paint had been scooped up once again by that unsuspecting criminal. He would have a little more confidence in Herstal if he really was the Westland Pianist — He really hoped he was — but what if he isn't?

He had to confirm this, the sooner the better; it was tied to the next part of his plan.

"I'm a criminal psychologist, not a mind-reader." Olga wagged a finger at him and smiled, "Okay, Al, if you insist that you're not worried, then we'll both go back to our respective homes now and we'll hear the aftermath of what happened from Bart's tomorrow — if he got shot at by that Jones, we won't have to worry about whether the Sunday Gardener would still kill him or not."

... That was really not comforting at all, but that was the nature of Olga.

As Olga waved goodbye to him and prepared to leave, Albarino couldn't resist calling out to her.

"What if you're right?" He asked, "What if the Sunday Gardener is really someone near him?"

He guessed that the question would be taken as a normal concern by Olga, since he had seemed to — again, briefly — fallen in love. His "friends" had witnessed him having brief affairs with different women and men; a little deeper than a one-night stand, yet a little shallower than a relationship.

He would be a considerate lover for a few weeks to a few months — less than three months — then he would break up and start over with someone else.

He knew that the girls at the Forensic Bureau liked him, or even going out of their way to use him as a sexual fantasy in the dead of night, but they had seen enough of him to clearly know not to have a real relationship with him; or it would just end unexpectedly[1].

[1]无疾而终, lit. to die peacefully without death; idiom meaning: it failed suddenly without much outside interference.

That was a little heartless, but a necessity. Because an outcast avoiding socializing was more likely to attract police attention; three months was as long as he could last. He knew his situation well enough that three months won't be enough for his lover to discover his lack of empathy for them, but that would be enough for him to tire of perfecting his disguise in front of the same person. At which point, he would need to start from scratch, just for the sake of the boring fresh experience.

So Albarino could mostly understand the incorrect thoughts of the girl at the reception desk of the Forensic Bureau. When she saw Herstal go to him, she would think: what a poor man, another victim of romantic relationships that Dr. Bacchus could not hold on to; this person would also be heartbroken.

He wondered how much of Olga's thoughts would overlap with the thoughts of others. Olga was a smart woman — but not smart enough, or she would have caught him long ago.

Now, the criminal profiler laughed.

"We all know how the Sunday Gardener is, Al." She said simply, "If that's the case, Herstal will be dead."

"It's very simple: here's three hundred thousand dollars, and here's the address." A drained Hardy said to Herstal, pointing at the backpack with the money and the slip of paper on the side, both on the table. Next to it, countless police officers were busy and very worried[2]. "You'll drive yourself to the location he specified, and he'll contact you on this phone."

[2]忧心忡忡, idiom, deeply worried that they are sick at heart

"I don't hear any part of this plan that could be called 'very simple'." Herstal said dryly.

"It will be," Officer Hardy assured, still sounding unsure of himself, "We'll send someone to follow you and send someone to ambush him at his intended location; we'll also put trackers on you — lots and lots of trackers. We'll catch him as soon as he shows himself."

He paused, then said, as if that was a promise, "We'll ensure your safety."

A certain expression on Herstal's face told Hardy that his primary concern might not be his own safety– in fact, Hardy didn't even know how things had come to this: Herstal Armalight, the notorious mob lawyer whose daily job was to help guys who were actually guilty get off scot-free. He wouldn't even take pity on the victim's families who pointed at him and cursed at him outside the courtroom, not even giving them a glance. Now, this guy was going to help them save the little daughter of one of his employees from a madman who would shoot randomly in an office building.

"Do you think she's still alive?" Herstal asked slowly.

"I hope that she's alive," Hardy didn't hold back his last sigh, "but that guy ... I don't know. He specified to see you; we have no other choice."

Hardy swallowed down the last sentence he wanted to say. He wanted to say: it is also possible that the other person wants to see you just to hurt you, like how he shot that employee of yours.

And Herstal looked at him, the corners of his mouth taut. The unsmiling man didn't say anything else, just dragged the heavy backpack off the table.

Albarino certainly did not "go back to their respective homes" as Olga had said.

He had followed Richard Norman for three months and clearly knew of the behavior patterns of the other's men and his closer subordinates, which was why he was standing in an alley downtown thirty minutes later.

The place had extremely terrible law and order – worse than the extremes of what the average person living in Westland who could be at risk of being shot at at any time could imagine. The narrow streets were filled with dirty sewage, rats squeaked along the corners. The air was filled with the sour smell of rotting garbage, and even the stragglers wouldn't hang around here except for the occasional homeless person who stopped by the nearby streets.

If there ever were cameras installed in this place, they would have been vandalized long ago. Even any possible parts would have been taken apart and sold.

And this was exactly the place Richard Norman's most trusted men had to pass by to go home.

What was more reassuring was that Norman's gang was not the ... hierarchical, based on old heritage kind of gang, but the kind that developed from the wave of immigrants centuries ago. The Norman brothers' gang is said to have grown from prison, with a collection of crude men with criminal records as their minions. Albarino liked the state of things now; at least against this kind of lineup, it often does not require him to use his brain much.

Three months of scouting around definitely paid off. Richard's assistant was forever passing by outside the alley at nine o'clock, a little tipsy, with the smell of booze and smoked weed. Albarino lurked in the darkness, listening to the man dragged past with heavy steps; he only had to grasp the right timing–

He scurried from his hiding place at the entrance of the alley, strangled the man's neck and dragged him back into the alley; a muffled cacophony of sounds emanated from between the other man's restricted throat. He dislocated one of his shoulders as he dragged him into the alley and threw him heavily against the wall.

Albarino's routine was much simpler than that: since the dead man on the autopsy table would not rise up and hurt anyone; and he preferred to slit his own prey's throat.

He used one hand to cover the man's mouth tightly, and the other to pull out the knife from the back of the waist, using his own body's strength to suppress the man; then, with a clean cut, he cut through the man's quadricep tendons.

The pain caused that man to let out a vague wail from his throat; the breath wetly puffed on his leather-gloved hand, which was really unpleasant to feel. Yet at least then the other man's leg, which he hadn't suppressed, wouldn't be kicking around all over the place; he heard the sound of blood dripping down the legs of his jeans and plopping into the souring pool of water on the floor.

Albarino slowly wiped the blood off the blade on the man's shoulder, then slowly pressed the blade into his throat, sinking it into the fragile skin. A low hiss came from the other man's throat, his eyes looking at him in horror under the light of the dim street lights of the main road far away.

Albarino showed him a smile, perhaps showing part of his teeth, a terrifying face. In any case, he removed the hand covering the other's mouth when the guy wailed in horror: "You're that guy who was at the police station that day–?"

Yes, he was standing outside the window of the interrogation room the whole time; a number of people should have seen him.

"I just want to ask you a few questions," he said with a smile at the guy who convulsed in fear. "You just have to answer yes or no, okay?"

Things certainly didn't run smoothly, even when you were just dealing with a coward who was putting the blame on someone else.

Herstal was almost at the designated location when he received the kidnapper's call to contact him. He was driving, so he had to answer the call with a Bluetooth headset; the kidnapper's voice was near, like he was talking next to his ear, and Martin Jones's voice trembled neurotically.

"The method of transaction has changed," said the father who had lost his beloved daughter. "I'll give you the new address. Follow my instructions."

– Ok, that showed the kidnapper still had some counter-surveillance skills; at least the team of officers Hardy had set up at the original agreed location were wasted. Herstal curved the corner of his mouth coldly in the darkness and felt the flaring itch in his fingertips holding the steering wheel.

"May I ask something?" He said calmly, "Is the girl still alive?"

"This is not the time for you to bargain with me!" The other yelled over the phone, emotions out of control, "Throw away the tracker the police department gave you and follow my instructions!"

"It sounds like you're pretty sure a tracker exists?" Herstal asked calmly.

"I know what those cops usually think about," Jones said hoarsely, "Do as I say, or every word of your bullshit will be reflected on that little girl."

"Okay, okay," Herstal replied indifferently, "I'm on it."

Although he didn't know if the other party's threat was real or not, it was better not to take any risks; in case he arrived and the other party insisted on doing a body search and finding the tracker on him, he wouldn't be able to do anything about that. Herstal held the steering wheel with one hand, fished a small device out of his suit pocket, raised his hand and threw it out the window.

He didn't hear the tiny metal object hit the ground; he wasn't worried.

The guy with the knife on his throat by Albarino, said very creatively, "Who the fuck sent you–?"

Albarino stabbed him cleanly between the ribs, which effectively shut the other up.

He really didn't enjoy torturing others, but if there was any way to shorten his working time, then he was happy to try. After all, the one in front of him was one of those rare people who could serve some purpose even before he died, and most of the people Albarino had seen were worth a lot more after death than when they were alive.

But he made sure he didn't cut any main arteries; the last thing he needed was to have some arterial blood spraying enthusiastically all over him. Thankfully, the fall suit on the other guy prevented blood from splashing around.

He repeated good-naturedly, "Got it?"

The other man nodded, his face white with pain, trembling like a leaf[3], the knife on his neck preventing him from turning his head.

[3]筛糠一样: lit. shaking like a sieve, metaphor meaning trembling

"Good," Albarino continued with a kind smile, "Your boss who just sadly passed away, Richard Norman. He was jealous of his brother, wasn't he?"

Although completely unaware of why he was asking this question, the ghastly-faced guy nodded.

The answer wasn't unexpected; after all, Herstal had said it himself at the time. Albarino nodded and continued, "I know you were with your boss almost every day when he was alive. Tell me, did he arrange for his brother's murder?"

The other's face nearly seemed very panicked: "How did you–"

Albarino pressed the blade a little deeper into the other man's neck, his voice as low as a breathy voice: "I just want answers. Try to make it as simple as possible."

"Yes! He arranged it!" The other party's voice was so sharp from being overly tense, it was a little ear-piercing. "A failed attempt. He paid a punk to stab Thomas in the back, but Thomas found out, and the punk died, and no one would ..."

"Okay, okay, that's enough." Albarino beamed. The other stopped trembling in fear; Albarino waited for him to finish panting that breath like it was his last, and continued to ask: "Who else knows about this?"

The man answered, shivering: "Almost no one! If somebody knew about this kind of thing, the gang would be infighting... I helped my boss arrange this, then the guy who was bribed to kill him was arrested. My boss didn't know if Thomas would go through the legal processes to screw him over, so he contacted his lawyer and no one else –"

Albarino heard the one answer he wanted to hear. So, the next step in the plan became clear.

"How many people on Thomas Norman's side know about this?" Albarino asked with interest.

"No one!" The man answered quickly, "He didn't have time to ask the truth about what happened. Anyway, Thomas' men beat up the punk, but didn't realize the guy had a heart attack. They beat him too hard and he died before the punk could reveal that it was my boss!"

Albarino can almost imagine the scene: Richard Norman hired someone to murder his brother, and after the incident was revealed, Herstal Armalight was hastily asked to discuss countermeasures in case his brother actually threw him in jail after the punk confessed; his younger brother Thomas was right, the man was indeed reckless and cowardly.

When that punk died of a sudden illness, would Richard Norman feel relieved? Would he feel that it was a blessing bestowed upon him, that he needed to face one less piece of trouble, so that he could still maintain the appearance of peace with his brother?

In any case, for the Westland Pianist, it could be considered as a blessing.

The Pianist had a hint of inspiration for this event. And most importantly, it was safe. There were only three people who knew about this: the Pianist himself, who remained silent; Richard Norman, who had breathed his last; and the moron in front of him, who would never have connected what the Pianist did with that murder between the blood-related brothers. and would never have confessed in front of the police that his boss had tried to murder his own brother.

There was not even any known evidence of that, and even if the police reacted with hindsight and re-interrogated them about it, no one would admit it; the Westland mob has long learned to utilize the charm of denial.

Of course, when you hold a knife to someone's neck they would admit it, but that's another story.

"So," Albarino laughed; his voice was almost soft when he spoke again, "you and Lawyer Armalight are the only ones who know anything about that murder case now, right?"

The other man tried to struggle to answer something, or maybe he anticipated something from his question; in any case, his face was horribly bleak. He gushed out hissing pleas from his throat; Albarino only smiled, smiled, and smiled so much that he could drown a living man.

He regained his forceful grip on the other man's throat, jammed him, and turned him to a position with his back facing himself, so as to not spill blood onto himself.

Then he slit the other man's throat with a cut, severing his windpipe and arteries; the pain was brief, and then it was over – surrendering to the inevitable, black, peaceful sleep. The blood seeped, like they cost nothing, onto the fabric of those cheap clothes, trickling stickily on the floor.

Then Albarino let go, let the man fall to the ground, and he stood still until he heard the strange sound of the blood gurgling from the other man's throat fade in the cold night air.

He would carry the man to his car, the trunk of which had already been lined with plastic sheets for the current situation; he also had to deal with blood-stained gloves, a sweatshirt stained with splattered blood and a bloody knife.

He would use bleach to clean the knife thoroughly, clothes and gloves burned to ashes, then burying the remains in the few acres of wilderness around his home in the suburbs. The body was disposed of in the same way, with unwanted flesh and organs dismembered, chopped up and sprinkled in the ground, where coyotes and birds roaming the wilderness could even eat the flesh clean in a single night. The charred bones were pounded into powder with a hard object and buried under the wildflowers and lettuce planted in his backyard. Most of the remains that he did not use in his work were disposed of in such a way; one could not even find an intact piece of bone in the dirt afterwards.

Currently, the clothes he was wearing weren't the same ones he'd worn to the bar. Olga and Herstal didn't need to know that his car was now parked in a dark alley, and that he had left the bar by driving: in comparison with killing a man in this damned place, drunk driving certainly was nothing.

– In other words, this was all just the daily work of a homicidal killer.

Albarino continued to plan out his daily work in his mind, filing that long, endless list. At the same time, he stood in front of the cold body, pulling out his cell phone and dialing a number.

"Bart," he said to the phone after it had connected, "Herstal should have told you that he was with me and Olga before he went to the police ... Yes, I know what happened. I'm still worried and I'd like to take a look if I can. Can you tell me the place where the ransom is going to be paid? If it's ok, I'd like to join you guys over there."

He listened to the other man's reply, slowly revealing an icy smile.

"The harmonious daily life mini theater for psycho serial killers"

Olga: I'm more intelligent than you think. You will know through experience in the future.

Al: Really?

Olga: Really; it can be proven just from me being able to appear in the harmonious mini theater for "psycho serial killers". (Points)

Al: ...?