Bounty Hunter Allen Todd‘s Work Journal

Item description: part of a bounty hunter's work journal, the contents of which were never released to the police.

October 9, 2016

– I'm preparing to go to Westland.

Speaking of which, it was a bit rushed. In fact, that phone call was what woke me up from my dreams. I bet I had less than 2 hours of sleep, exhausted from head to toe with a splitting headache. I didn't recognise the number displayed on my phone screen; at the time, I swore if the person who called had nothing urgent, I would definitely scold him.

Yet it wasn't something trivial.

"Mr. Todd," the man on the phone said. "I'm a bail bondsman from Westland City. My name is William Smith."

I had to admit, I didn't like the way he spoke. His accent and the subtle way he paused between his words and sentences made him sound like and feel like an egotistical, arrogant bastard – Although judging people by the way they spoke was very irrational, this was the impression he first gave me.

I hadn't heard of his name; not to mention that I was very tired and had a headache, as doing these mentally straining jobs would usually result in. I answered him with a hoarse voice, "Hello, Mr. Smith."

"You were recommended to me by a fellow agent of mine who said you were outstanding among the bail enforcement agents he had worked with." The man said, sounding cold even as he said the compliment, "I was hoping you would accept a commission ..."

"Tell me about it?" I said, "If one of your fellow bail bondsmen referred you, you should know that I don't like going to Westland much."

Westland was the only place in the States where the residents were at risk of literally being devoured to the bone by psychopathic killers. They had a madman who would decorate bodies by arranging flowers, and a maniac who would use piano strings to kill the mafia boss.

The hellhole had terrible public security. Except for very few places, the streets were empty after 9 p.m. My dislike for Westland was completely out of my instinct for self-preservation; I really didn't want to spend my days chasing criminals night and day while facing the possibility of being sniped from the back by robbers.

The man slightly halted, then stated flatly, "I vouched for Mr. Bob Landon, whose trial is due to start at the end of this month: he's charged with an attempted second-degree murder."

My ears perked up: attempted second-degree murder was a serious charge; as everyone knew, the more serious the charge, the more expensive the bail. This Landon's bail must be very high, so it was no wonder this bail bondsman was calling me very late at night.

These sureties bail out criminals without having to pay the court first. He probably mortgaged his house and car to get Landon out on bail, poor guy. If Landon got away, all of the money would have to be paid by him; if that happens, he definitely can't keep his unperturbed and composed tone.

"And since Mr. Landon has some terrible criminal records," Smith's voice was very flat, just like how he was unaware of his own miserable future, "his bail has reached a staggering... one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. "

I swallowed dryly.

He continued, "If you can bring him back, I'll pay you fifteen percent of the bail."

– That was over twenty-two thousand dollars. It wasn't that I hadn't taken bigger commissions before, of course, but that previous one had almost cost me one of my hands permanently, so I really didn't miss those times.

As he said those few words, suddenly I actually felt parched. I squirmed uneasily in my bed and said, "You–"

"Reputation is very important in this line of work." Smith replied, his voice stern. "I have no other options. If you can do it, I hope you'll act soon."

There was something in his voice that made me harbor suspicions that when Landon was brought back, he'd be willing to put a bullet in the other man's leg himself. Not that this wasn't the authority the certificate of guarantee for bail he signed with the court gave him, of course. With that guarantee, he can kick open any door and drag Landon out from within.

He had that power, but these guys sitting in their offices had neither the perseverance nor the courage. Not to mention they weren't very good at tracking people, which was why they gave this job of catching criminals who had jumped bail to us bounty hunters.

"Okay," I said, fully awake now. I hated Westland, of course; the guy with attempted second-degree murder was probably very dangerous, really – but that was $22,500! Who wouldn't come to a quick conclusion under that prerequisite? "I understand, sir. I'll be as quick as I can."

The other man might have been very satisfied, but I couldn't hear it in his voice. "Very well, I've sent a scanned file of the bail bond and the information you need to know into your work email." A pause. "His court hearing is on the 23rd of this month. I hope we can all make it."

He hung up while I jerked out of bed, a hand grabbing for clothes, another reaching for my laptop.

– Smith was right; time is pressing.

I need to get to Westland.

October 10, 2016

Westland City is as terrible as I remembered.

If you asked about which seasons were the most terrible ones for visiting Westland, it must be fall and winter, which were probably the two longest seasons in the city. By October, nearly all the leaves in the city had fallen; everywhere in sight was gray and murky, accompanied by withered lawns revealing their bare yellow soil. During this season, rain fell on and on, making the air both wet and damp.

I'm staying in a terrible motel. Both the walls and the bed sheets smell wet and musty, but according to Smith's information, this motel is the closest to where Landon was staying while he was on bail.

I'm going to start with tracking his movements, or at least find out when he left. Smith's information said he'd lost contact with Landon yesterday. When I went to his house, he discovered that that guy had already made his getaway.

I had read the information detailedly, so I wasn't surprised that he'd run away: Landon was a woman-beating scumbag with a stocky and imposing figure[1] and a red face from excessive drinking. A guy like him would easily leave impressions on others, so hopefully this would bring me luck.

[1]虎背熊腰, lit. tiger's back and bear's waist, metaphorically describing someone with a tall, sturdy and stocky physique.

As I exited the motel, the TV at the front desk was still showing news of recent murders: two women had been brutally murdered (I looked closely and one of the deaths was quite close to the motel where I was staying). The police's suspect turned out to be the chief forensic pathologist of the Westland Forensic Bureau.

Seeing such a deduction, I was not even sure if I should feel surprised – I had to remind myself that the city I was in now was not only gang-ridden with frequent shootings, but also has the highest percentage of citizens dying from murder every year in the country. If that was the case, I wouldn't feel very surprised that their chief forensic pathologist were a serial killer.

Ha, Westland.

October 11, 2016

At least I've made some discoveries today: Landon was definitely prepared to leave the city by the 9th, though I'm not sure whether he left the city or not, or how he planned to do so. It was because while driving into Westland, I saw the police setting up a checkpoint to scan people getting out of the city, perhaps working on some cases. There are terrifying deaths in Westland everyday anyway, since they still have two serial killers at large.

It was very arduous at work today. Landon had a car, but he obviously didn't drive his own to leave; his plate number was registered, so surely someone with a brain wouldn't do so. I ran around, visiting every car rental agency and place selling used cars I could find nearby – the inexpensive ones, since he was unemployed and certainly didn't have much money after divorcing from his ex-wife.

At last, I found him. This was mostly because the owner of the rental agency was also furious himself; apparently Landon had rented a battered Ford sedan under a fake name, only paying the deposit and rent for a day.

But he never came back; my guess is that the owner will never see that car again.

I suspect he's already out of the city, which isn't a good sign. In any case, I'll have to start tracking him down and arrest him.

October 12, 2016

Things aren't going well.

I don't know Westland City particularly well. As I said, none of my previous experiences chasing absconders here have made a good impression on me – God, they really do have too many absconders; I'm wondering how Smith has managed to do this business in this city without going broke. There's too many shady people; every person who brushes by you might be someone like the second-in-command for a Latino gang, with connections to illegally sneak you out to Mexico or something.

Thankfully, Landon doesn't seem to have many connections. He has multiple criminal records related to violence before, but he just had a foul temper and didn't involve himself into mob business or something.

It's for the best that he's just a big, bad-tempered, slow-witted guy, not some gangster. If he had joined any of the gangs, those people would have had the power to keep me from ever finding him again.

I try to stay out of gang affairs as much as possible; it's too complicated and involves too many grudges. After all, I have a friend who got severely injured getting beat up by a gang, because he had helped with hunting down a fellow member of theirs.

I was going to see said friend, Old Hunter – hopefully the other could give me some ideas on how to get around the checkpoint and leave the city. The Westland Police Department, for all its nationwide reputation for bribery and shady cops, has surprisingly decent cops for such violent cases.

There was a theory: because of certain serial killers, some people who have made it their lifelong dream to solve bizarre murders have joined them voluntarily because of those serial killers. A bunch of psychopaths.

We met in a restaurant with bad food. Old Hunter was still leaning on his walking stick, the nails inside his leg bones probably never to be removed in his lifetime. He has been doing this for almost thirty years, so there was always something calm but crazy burning in his eyes.

We talked about how we were doing. Then, he suddenly said to me, "Alan, do you ever want another job, to do something more exciting, more fulfilling?"

I said, no, I've got enough excitement in my life now.

He gave me a look of disdain, as if he was scornful about the job I was doing now. I knew because I insisted on staying out of gang affairs, he thinks I'm a coward – but lo and behold, look at how his legs have fared.

"This Landon you're looking for is a coward who beats up women, then runs away," he grunted. "Westland is a city full of opportunity: it's home to two actual serial killers."

I didn't know what expression I gave him, but he bursted out laughing. He stopped talking about it and began to tell me about the secret route out of the city.

October 13, 2016

Dinner today was food from the convenience store next to the gas station. I had the worst sandwich I've ever had in my life; even now, the weird taste of that peanut butter still seems to be firmly stuck in my throat.

Yesterday, Old Hunter told me about a few routes out of town I'd never heard of before. If I were figuring out this stuff on a map alone, I probably wouldn't have been able to get much results even if I poured over it for a lifetime. He revealed his dry, smug smile to me again.

"It's the road the locals may choose to take, to avoid the cops checking the main roads – the roads on the outskirts of Westland are full of cops. You know, for smuggling guns and drugs, things like that." He said, "I also know some routes that only the mob knows about, but it's useless telling you. I don't think your Landon would know that sort of secret information."

He always spoke as if he felt extra proud of his choices (including his misshapen leg) like I was really doing a poor, boring job. No matter how cautious I am in selecting my work, I'm sure I'm still living a much more exciting life than someone like Smith, the kind who sits in their office and barks orders as us.

I've been checking these routes one by one as Hunter said, and so far there hasn't been any results yet. I believe Landon has gone out of town, so I'm no longer trying to find him in town: I know people like him, fleeing this place like a frightened rabbit before the looming disaster arrives.

Especially when you take a look at the date for the court session; there wasn't much time left for him.

In spite of this, I have found nothing today.

Before I wrote this down, I thought about Old Hunter's appearance: although his confidence in himself has always been overblown, he had to admit that he was getting old. He couldn't continue to do this kind of work alone. Before I left yesterday, he asked me if I wanted to stay and work with him. "Westland is a gold mine", as he put it.

Westland was a criminal's paradise, so there were a lot more work opportunities here as a bounty hunter — that's true, but my life is messy enough as it is. I didn't want to sink into complete madness just yet.

Old Hunter even showed me his notes; he was actually interested in collecting news about those serial killers, "Just catch one of them and you'll be lying on a beach in Malibu drinking cocktails in no time," He said.

That sounded like a wonderful dream. I immediately said, no thanks.

So he just tutted at me with a regretful expression. But I just wanted to get this commission done with and get out of this place; I'm so sick of the rainy days in Westland.

I'm staying in the motel now, and there's a couple next door having sex. I'm prepared to smash the wall if this keeps up.

In short, I should rest well. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.

October 14, 2016

I think I've found Landon's trail.

This was information from another gas station. They said that someone matching my description had refueled there three days ago, then continued driving north – not only is this station unremarkable, but it's very far from the main road. Seeing that Landon had found this place, I almost felt sorry for looking down upon him before.

I hope he's not planning to smuggle himself into Mexico or something now; if he gets on the interstate highway, I'll probably never find him in my lifetime. It's easy to run into police cars on those roads though, so I think he might be afraid to take that risk.

I'm currently searching through towns; he must have to stop somewhere and rest. There's a lot of unremarkable towns nearby, where not many people would notice his movements.

Today's log is short; I was either on the road or searching motels. This job is awfully exhausting, I gotta rest.

October 15, 2016

I know I'm getting close to him. Landon had been in town and the waitress at a fast food restaurant remembered him: because he was always "suspicious[2], watching the TV neurotically."

[2]遮遮掩掩, meaning to be secretive, trying to cover himself up.

That poor guy was probably afraid of his warrant for arrest showing up on TV. I'm not sure if he knows that the police have a lot of better things to do than to put a bail-absconding suspect on TV.

But he wasn't in this town. According to the waitress, he should have continued driving after lunch. Perhaps he was staying in the next town, or the one after that, but I had to stay: it had rained too much today and the temperature was alarmingly low. It was late when I found the waitress, and looking at the muddy roads outside, I should probably stay the night before leaving.

After I checked into the motel, Mr. Smith called to see how I was doing. I wondered if he was happy with the way things are going now. After all, he sounded like he wasn't satisfied with me, his life and the whole world.

But I understood him, because after all, he was the one with a $150,000 bail to pay.

"In any event, thank you for your effort," he said dryly and politely, "You're doing what I can't do and am too occupied to do."

It was only natural. He was only risking bailing suspects out of jail, and I was risking returning suspects to jail – not to say that I felt that I was more noble than him, but there has to be some people doing a few good things, right?

I know it does no one any good for a man like Landon to get away with it. In this moment, when I'm lying in my bed, his disgusting red face appears in my mind.

October 16, 2016

I'm in the ER of the hospital bandaging myself as I write this entry – Landon, that son of a bitch, really really likes stabbing people, just look at how he treated his ex-wife. This bastard made a hole in my shoulder, dammit.

– Well, I should start at the beginning: I found him after driving past two towns this morning, dragging him out of one of the crappiest motels I could imagine. And this guy was apparently on the run while drinking, the smell on him was unimaginable.

Despite this, the bastard still took the time to stab me in the shoulder. You can't really tell by looking at the photos, but he was so unbelievably strong. We had to fight in the motel, smashing mirrors and glass sliding doors before I finally smacked him down with the butt of my gun.

Currently, I'm in the emergency room waiting in line for stitches, and Landon is left in the car tied up by me. It's the middle of the night, the busiest time in the ER. I think I might not get a nurse to take a look at me even after I bleed dry.

I'm in a transitional phase between grimacing in pain and boredom, attempting to distract myself by reading Westland Daily News – Who would read the newspaper in the ER? – well, me.

It turns out to be from quite a lot of days before. The paper reported that the Westland Pianist had killed a gang leader. He had pierced the guy through a stake in an apple orchard, the picture of which appearing all over the internet, looking like a scene from a cult.

In the newspaper was an interview with that profiler from the WLPD. I read that for a bit. Because the nurse has yet to attend to me, I unavoidably stained the page with blood.

"The Westland Pianist is very dangerous," After Officer Hardy was interviewed, Ms. Olga Molozer, a professor of criminal psychology at Westland State University who was present, told us, " Many people would assume he's a vigilante, because his chosen murder targets often have criminal record – or at least think that he thinks of himself as a kind of righteous judge beyond law, but know that he is no such person.

"He doesn't slaughter them in the name of justice – he slaughters them for his own twisted pleasure. So don't think that you're safe from the Pianist just because you have no criminal record. The Pianist is the safest from himself; if he needs to, he can kill anyone."

He certainly can't be a vigilante – it's as clear as day that no vigilante would cut open a person's internal organs and smash his bones; no vigilante would cut a person into pieces and stack them into a pile, then put their head on top of that pile and put a crown on top of the corpse's bloody head. The first time I heard of the Westland Pianist was through the crime scene photos from that case; the photos were pixelated, of course, but that didn't hide the shocking nature of what happened.

God, just think about it; how in the world can there be people like him.

Obviously I'll never be able to come to terms with this, but perhaps to the local residents of Westland, this was all just trivial and normalized, since the Westland Pianist has been going on a killing spree for nearly a decade.

I really don't know how these citizens manage to live in the city permanently under these circumstances. No matter what, I'll hand Landon over to Mr. Smith tomorrow, then I'll be out of Westland.

October 17, 2016

When Mr. Smith heard that I'd arrested Landon this quickly, he seemed to be a bit surprised.

Nonetheless, he didn't say anything more; instead he had me take Landon to a small apartment on the edge of downtown which showed absolutely no signs of being lived in, even having very little furniture. He told me it would be fine to leave as long as I locked him in from the outside.

"Please leave the key under the doormat," Mr Smith said calmly over the phone, "I'll go and see him later. Before the trial starts, I can't risk having him leave this house."

I was used to dealing with people face to face, so this made me be at a complete loss. I said, "But–"

"You've done well, Mr. Todd. This will do, and I'll deposit into your account as soon as I'm certain of Landon's status." He interrupted directly, clearly unwilling to discuss too much on the matter, "I can never guarantee his timely appearance at the trial without you."

And Landon was making a fuss, insulting me with the most filthy words he could think of. I had long wanted to get out of this mess; no matter what, it'll be much better than stupidly staying here too and waiting to meet Mr Smith. Listening to that cold tone of Smith's voice, an image of a domineering person appeared before my eyes; to be honest, I wasn't sure if I really wanted to deal with him face to face.

So I did as I was told.

Anyway, that's the whole affair. I locked Landon in that room behind me, ignored the sounds of him violently smashing furniture inside, and put the key under the doormat.

Then I quickly drove up the highway, the music playing in the car making me quickly relax. I think I won't come back to this city in the near future, and won't ever see Bob Landon again.

October 18, 2016

Fuck, Mr. Smith is the Westland Pianist.

– After writing this line, I stared at it for half an hour, thinking I was crazy, or that Westland itself carried a contagious form of disease of madness which inevitably infected me the moment I set foot on its soil, becoming one of those madmen.

Ok, ok, no matter what I'll have to record this down... This is what happened:

Today was a beautiful day, or it should have been. My job was done once more, so I can finally sit down at the table properly like an actual human, and toast bread for myself to eat; no one actually misses gas station fast food. Better still, Mr. Smith had deposited my payment last night, twenty two thousand and five hundred US dollars, which would typically be transferred to my account tomorrow.

Perhaps my mistake was that I shouldn't have turned on the television, but one wouldn't have thought of that in any case – in any case, I had turned it on.

The morning news was playing on the television and I hadn't paid attention to it at the beginning. They were saying that the Westland Pianist had committed another crime, sending a letter to WLPD last night, the police finding a body under the guidance of that letter. I was drinking coffee with my head lowered, then spilled the whole thing on the front of my damn shirt when I lifted my head.

Even through the pixelated photo on the screen, I could still recognise the dead person as Bob Landon – I'd seen his picture so many times when I was tracking him. I could recall his face even with my eyes closed; I definitely wouldn't be mistaken.

And Bob Landon, was clearly hanging from the wall by piano strings, cut open by a sharp blade, his chest a mess from being stabbed by a knife, blood converging under his feet into a river. The TV said his heart was taken out by the Pianist – taken out with bare hands, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I faced my toast and suddenly felt a little like throwing up.

Then I realized, if the dead man was Bob Landon ...

"You're doing what I can't do and am too occupied to do."

The bail bondsman who I had never met and had no desire to meet me; on the night I handed him over to the other, Landon had died – my mind was a mess, I didn't know what I should do, I should call the WLPD, I should tell Hunter about it, that old madman living in Westland was probably more experienced in dealing in such things than I am, or I should drink a lot, a lot, a lot of alcohol, and then forget about this completely and never go to Westland for the rest of my life.

There was more on TV about Bob Landon... That "Smith" must have lied to me: it said that Bob Landon had killed four women after his attempted murder of his ex-wife, which was the case I saw at the front desk of the motel the other day. The TV said that the chief forensic pathologist in Westland had been wrongly accused and had been released the day before. The TV said that in order to lower the culprit's alertness, the police did not issue a public warrant for Landon, but merely issued a search warrant for the entire state's police departments, but the Westland Pianist found him before the police did and killed him.

The Westland Pianist killed him before the police found him – by using me.

"I can never guarantee his timely appearance at the trial without you."

The indistinct hint of irony in the man's cold voice when he said this echoed in my ears. I didn't notice it at the time, but I recalled it now.

I didn't know what I was doing, or what I should do. By the time I had returned to my senses, I had already dialed the number back – the number of the so-called "bail bondsman" – and with trembling hands, I brought the phone up to my ear.

The phone beeped with the ringing tone, but my ears were full of my pounding heartbeat: he couldn't probably pick up, could he? He must be using a burner phone, he couldn't put himself in –

"Hello?" The man on the other side of the phone said.

My whole body trembled in front of the table, stumbling over my words as I spoke, a few words squeezed so dryly out of my mouth, making me feel brainless when I said them: "I... I didn't expect you to answer."

"I expected you to have some questions for me." He replied calmly, his voice sounding no different from when I had called him before. But now, I knew that he had sadistically killed a man yesterday, hung him on the wall, opened his chest, broken off his ribs, and taken out his heart.

All that blood must have run through his hands, hot and sticky. I thought those pair of hands were owned by office-sitting bastards. God.

"Did you not think that I might possibly call the police?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking as I spoke.

"Would you?" He replied with a question pleasantly, his voice cold and sharp, making me flinch. "You are a hunter. You should have that instinct to know not to overestimate your capabilities to take on the unknown."

– He was right. I knew, and that's why my hands were shaking uncontrollably. But then I thought of old Hunter's fanatical eyes, and the words of that female profiler in the paper.

"But eventually, you're going to get caught." I said, unsure if I really had any confidence to say so.

"Perhaps," the Westland Pianist replied ambiguously, "but nonetheless, with the commission fee I paid you, I don't think we'll meet each other ever again after this to say the least."

The fact that we had never "met" made me want to preposterously refute him, but in the end I didn't speak out.

There was a sound coming from the Pianist's side; I heard a muffled male voice. I didn't hear what he said, but the Pianist paused and after a moment replied with a yes – his intonation was still stiff, cynicism and disdain seemingly a natural part of his voice, but it didn't really seem disgusted or scornful.

I nearly laughed out loud at the delusion in my mind: would the Westland Pianist even live with someone?

Or, in other words: are these devils really human? Could they live like normal people, allowing themselves to open up at least part of their hearts to others?

In the end – do they really have a heart?

"Goodbye, Mr. Todd," said the Pianist, unquestionably ending the conversation. "Looks like it's time for my breakfast."

There was a clicking sound and then the phone hung up.

I sat where I was for a moment, and then had to admit that he was right: we wouldn't have any opportunities to meet ever again.

Author's Notes

1. Bounty Hunting is an actual job, and it is legal in most states of the US.

As stated in the previous author's note, a suspect who is unable to pay bail can pay ten percent of the bail to a bail bondsman, who will then take care of the bail fee to bail the suspect out (usually with their property as mortgage). However, if the suspect runs away before the court hearing, the court will confiscate the entire bail.

To avoid this loss, bail bondsmen will hire a bounty hunter to bring the suspect back and pay a percentage of the bail.

The bounty hunter does not need a warrant to arrest the fugitive, as long as they carry a copy of the certificate of guarantee signed by the suspect and the bail bondsman. They do not even have to read aloud the Miranda rights before arresting the fugitive.

...

(T/N: Did you know why this novel is called wine and gun?

Albarino: a type of grape for making white wine

Bacchus: Roman god of wine

Herstal: FN Herstal is a famous brand for firearms

Armalight: Armalite is an American firearms company)