Olga’s Diary: 29 October 2016

Item description: A page from the personal diary of criminal psychologist Olga Molozer. The truths that were confirmed to be correct included this: Olga is, more often than not, right.

I'll have to remember this: as long as Lavazza Mercader is in Westland, don't open the door no matter who's knocking – otherwise, you won't be able to sleep well.

This guy has been in Westland for three days with his Behavior Analysis Unit. So far, he has rushed over to my home twice without former notice. When he knocked, it was just slightly over 11 pm and the rain still hadn't stopped. He was wearing a raincoat he got from somewhere (Actually Bart might have given him one, I didn't actually ask), standing at the doorway and looking like a psychopathic serial killer.

I asked him, "Shouldn't you be back at Quantico by now?"

"The rain is too heavy and the flight is canceled. We may have to stay here for one more night." Mercader said, but I didn't think he sounded too disappointed. "And I wasn't planning on going back to Quantico with them anyway – I want to talk to you first before I go back."

"You choose to talk with me now when you had so many opportunities during the day?"

"In private." He emphasized, as if it was only natural to occupy my personal time.

That's the way Mercader has been since I was in the FBI: hurtling through the hallways every day, barely taking days off. Not only did he not take days off, he would always stop me from doing so. Because everyone should understand this: people must get some rest, but cases will never stop coming in – but I suspect our beloved agent Mercader doesn't understand this. He seems to think that if he forces himself forever, he can save everyone.

I think that's a very dangerous tendency.

I'll never forget the sunny afternoon, when I wanted to go to Italy on vacation. Mercader stopped me at the airport; what did he say?

– He said, "Every minute we waste, someone's going to die."

He spoke with such certainty that it was as if I had killed them.

So, when he had sent an email to me before, talking about "bad for your health" that sort of crap, I knew he had to be referring to mental health. He didn't care about anyone's physical health, and the whole department is deeply entangled with gastric ulcers anyway.

Since I, unfortunately, knew him too well, I really wanted to slam the door on his face. Mercader, as a man of action, immediately used his shoe to stop the door from being shut. The expression on his face was his commonly used expression number 5, meaning "I know why you are doing this, but I'm very disappointed in you".

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Then he said, "I want to discuss with you about the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist."

I didn't know how to describe this; I didn't want to talk to him about these two serial killers any more than the average person would want to talk to their parents about their nightlife, which you knew they can't possibly appreciate anyway. There were millions upon millions of people in the world, and the last person I wanted to talk to about these two serial killers is Mercader.

I would expect one's viewpoint on the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist to at least be – "Ah, I don't like Jackson Pollock, yes, but he's a master in modern art". Yet, if you put Mercader into this metaphor, not only would he loudly curse Jackson Pollock, but he would also jump to his feet to splash paint onto this artist's grave.

However, Mercader was still blocking the doorway as if he had done nothing wrong, like a heartbroken lover in a rainstorm. So, in the end I had no choice but to let him in. He immediately strutted into my living room, lining multiple files onto the table, most of which I should have no permission to view.

"As you must have realized," he said, straight to the point, "Something strange has been happening these past few months."

"Are you referring to the abnormal weather caused by global warming? It definitely has been too rainy this past fall," I asked him. Unsurprisingly, he glared at me.

Using a reporting tone, Mercader stated: "On September 14, the Westland Pianist killed a gangster boss named Richard Norman. Then, on the following Sunday, September 18, the Sunday Gardener killed his brother Thomas Norman – notice how both were Armalight's clients. Next, on September 25, a skull adorned with flowers appeared on Armalight's desk, which the WLPD believes was done by the Sunday Gardener, and the victim was confirmed to be one of Richard Norman's men. Finally, on October 17, Dr. Bacchus was falsely detained. The real killer was murdered by the Westland Pianist, and Armalight was acting as counsel for Dr. Bacchus."

"I'm glad you can help me summarize so clearly and concisely what's been going on around me these past two months," I said. I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to sound so sarcastic. "Then what?"

Mercader stared at me with the expression of a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat; I really wasn't exaggerating at all. He said, extremely seriously, "I suspect that Albarino Bacchus is a serial killer."

I stared at him, "... You've skipped over some steps before coming to that conclusion, did you?'

If you ask me, the average person would not say this in such a direct way to a friend of Albarino's.

"You know that the Gardener and the Pianist each commit a murder once every three months \. The Gardener's speed has slightly increased in the past few years, but the current situation is too abnormal," Mercader said, "In little over a month, the two of them have killed four people!"

"We think that they are feeling each other out, like some kind of minuet: dignified, graceful, strictly symmetrical –" At the time, I really thought that I wouldn't be able to smooth out my brows that night. "Given that they've coexisted in the same city for so long, I think this actually had to happen sooner or later."

"All four of these victims were related to Herstal Armalight to some extent or another – and I suspect that you know this too," he said with emphasis.

"Yeah, maybe two serial killers are starting a murder competition towards one of this city's most famous mob lawyer. This is quite fitting for the Pianist's standards; and, as you know, the Gardener isn't picky about his victims at all." I could only spread my hands at him, although this gesture probably didn't help calm him down. "That's why Bart really wanted to apply for a protection program for Herstal before. If you care about this, why don't you go ahead and make it happen –"

"No, that's not all. I found something else today." Mercader said stiffly, then he grabbed the file closest to his left hand and dumped its contents on top of my desk. Luckily, I was quick to snatch the coffee cup off the table, or else Mercader would definitely dump all the dust from the file inside the cup.

He pushed a photo in front of me. It showed the ends of a rough rope, the exterior of which was most frayed, only leaving some strands behind which were cut cleanly by a sharp object.

"This is what the CSI found in Johnny the Killer's basement: the rope Elliot Evans used to tie up Armalight's hands." Mercader said with a taut expression, using his finger to point at where the rope was broken off. "According to Armalight's testimony, he stole the knife from the jacket Evans left on the mattress, and cut the rope with said knife."

"But the ends of the rope were mostly grinded apart by something rougher, I see what you mean. This means a possibility that before Herstal got the knife, he may have tried to use an object which isn't that sharp to cut apart this rope." I nodded, following his line of thought. Then I paused for a moment; I guessed that he probably didn't want to listen to what was coming next.

Yet, I said it anyway. "But that's not without another possibility: the rope was originally like that. Since clearly Evans was mentally ill, we can't expect him to necessarily tie his victim up with a perfect rope. And even if part of the rope had been broken off through grinding, the remaining strands would still have been strong enough to tie the victim – whatever you're trying to prove with this seemingly irrational minor thing, this discovery can't be counted as a particularly peculiar piece of evidence."

Mercader sighed, clearly understanding this as well. But he still continued on, into what he thought was the most crucial part: "I went with Dr. Bacchus to question Evans, and then he brought back that bloody piece of porcelain. I always wondered how Armalight, who was tied up so tightly, managed to get his blood onto the porcelain tile."

"Herstal made a statement. Did you ask him about that?" I asked. Later that day, when the witness statements were made, I had been accompanying Albarino.

"I did. He said when he wanted to drink water, he pushed the cup onto the floor, and Elliot Evans cleaned up the porcelain shards later on," said Mercader. "My current guess with the highest probability is: he intentionally shattered the cup to cut the rope, and then he wounded his hand on the porcelain piece."

I shook my head. "But it could also be that he stepped on the porcelain tile when he broke the cup. Do you remember? Johnny the Killer took his shoes and socks away."

Clearly, Mercader realized this as well. He was silent for two seconds, then said, "I was there when the doctor treated his wounds. There were none on his feet, but for his hands –"

"Wounds were all over his hands, so there's no point in distinguishing from there. But from your point, you're using the process of elimination to deduce that the blood came from his hands," I said. Mercader nodded very reluctantly.

I ran his argument through my head. Evidently, the course of events was obvious from his standpoint: there was Herstal's blood on the broken porcelain piece, but there was essentially no way for Herstal to have cut his skin on the porcelain unless he had actually hidden the shard in his hand to wear the rope down. In which case, there was a reasonable explanation for both the state of the rope and the blood on the porcelain shard.

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– Yet, there would be one thing that didn't make sense at all: the porcelain piece would have been left in the locked basement with Herstal, but Albarino said he couldn't enter the door which led to the basement.

"There's no way that Al could have gotten that shard of porcelain; is that what you're trying to say?" I was silent for a moment, then said slowly. Seriously, this was a very attractive deduction. "But even along these lines of thinking, there are still a few points which don't make sense: Firstly, do you mean that Al entered the basement but didn't save Herstal, only to take away his tool for survival? It is difficult to explain this clearly under the logic of a normal person. Secondly, why didn't Herstal point this out in his statement? – An experienced attorney would have been very persistent in pushing this point; you know this as well."

At this point, I felt a little sympathy for him: his face actually showed a hint of embarrassment that only a man can show when he is pushed to desperacy.

"Maybe Dr. Bacchus wants to let this happen; he wants Armalight dead." He said dryly. He had clearly put some thought into this, and felt like this was the most likely situation. "The only ones I can think of who are targeting Armalight right now are the Pianist and the Gardener."

"I find that argument very problematic – in fact, around tens of thousands of the helpless, desperate families of the victims in Westland City are targeting Herstal because the culprit got off scot free, right?" I couldn't help but complain.

"You're right, but – currently, Armalight is apparently being targeted by the Pianist and the Gardener, as exemplified by the deaths of those associated with the cases he was in charge of, and the bouquet of flowers on his desk." Mercader raised his voice a little. "It can't be such a coincidence that the dust on those things haven't been settled yet, and then immediately afterwards he's kidnapped by Johnny the Killer!"

"The prosecutor definitely won't believe this." I pointed out dryly, and I thought he would agree.

Mercader shook his head and continued to put something else on the table, apparently not done with showing his evidence yet: a call record which showed that Elliot Eacns received a call, around a dozen seconds long.

"It was a burner phone that couldn't be traced. Armalight mentioned it in his statement, saying that Evans suddenly went into a frenzy after receiving a call," Mercader mused. "That's unusual, isn't it? Evans didn't have many friends at all, and his contacts have pitifully few phone numbers. So who on earth called him on a burner phone, and then he suddenly lost his temper? – Let me remind you that this call was just minutes after you called Dr. Bacchus to inform him of the progress, which happened right after Officer Hardy went to apply for a search warrant.

"So you're suspecting that after Al received my call and learned that the police were about to go and start their arrest, he called Johnny the Killer to alert him." I understood his obvious implication. "This caused Johnny the Killer to suddenly go berserk and almost accidentally killed Herstal, who had been careful not to provoke him."

"I think there's this possibility. Then, Dr. Bacchus chose to enter the crime scene alone – although the reason he gave was that he went to knock on the door as a friend, but no one answered; he broke in because he was worried." Mercader directly admitted, "But I don't believe it, Molozer. As I said, there are far too many coincidences: the bloodstained piece of broken porcelain, the rope, the phone call, even the fact that Dr. Bacchus had known Elliot Evans long ago – It's impossible to have such coincidence in this world."

"... Sounds like it is full of coincidence, but maybe it makes sense." I thought for a moment, then said as pertinently as I could, but that probably didn't console him. "However, let me just ask you this: if Albarino is really as insistent on Herstal's death as you said, why didn't Herstal say so when he took the statement? He was the one whom Albarino took the piece of sharp object from."

This was it: the loophole in the logic which Mercader couldn't avoid.

He was stuck like a wind-up toy for quite a while, then lowered his voice when he spoke again, "... I don't understand."

"But that's a crucial point." I shrugged, "You'll be asked about it in court."

"... That's where the problem lies." Mercader said in the same low voice as earlier.

I continued, "And if, as you guessed, the Pianist and Gardener were engaged in a murder contest regarding Herstal, it would seem odd to kill him by the hand of another serial killer. For serial killers who relished in this 'competition', it's comparable to running off the racetrack."

Mercader paused again for a long, long moment, then admitted, "That really doesn't make sense."

"Not only that; then you have to use this theory to explain the Bob Landon case: according to this theory, the truth behind this case is that one serial killer killed the ex-girlfriend of another serial killer," I said. "Moreover, Albarino joined a serial killer competition which is related to Herstal, and then asked him to become his defense lawyer. This probably won't be convincing to the audience."

Mercader shook his head, then didn't continue the subject. He said, "Speaking of which, even now I still really doubt it – was Sarah Adelman really killed by Landon? Why would that knife have Dr. Bacchus' fingerprints on it?"

I couldn't help but blink in surprise: "Are you really trying to say that Al killed his ex-girlfriend and left his fingerprints, but soon after the CSI found a memento of the victim at Landon's house?"

"That really can't be explained. Do you think it's possible he had an accomplice?" Mercader asked.

"That's a bit absurd, Mercader." I couldn't help but laugh. "If Al really were a killer, he wouldn't have left his fingerprints on the knife so easily. That aside, let's just talk about another point: Was dumping another victim in front of the police station's door done by his accomplice?"

"I don't know. There's still a lot about this which can't be explained, but assuming – just assuming – that the speculation holds, it would at least explain that sprig of mint, wouldn't it?" Mercader frowned, "That's not Landon's style. He hasn't had such a special criminal signature for his previous crimes before."

Nevertheless, I had to agree with him on that one: that mint really wasn't Landon's style.

"If you're saying that, then it's quite likely that Landon's death was done by the same person. In your theory, this person is Al: Al killed his ex-girlfriend with the intent of making Landon take the blame, and then killed Landon to silence him. As deduced from this theory, this is the only possibility. In that case, the mint could be seen as a mockery of the WLPD." I spoke while I pondered over it. "But the biggest problem in this deduction is that – ignoring whether or not he had accomplices who could have put the girl's hair under the floorboard of Landon's house – at the time the Pianist killed Landon, Al was still in prison, wasn't he? Could he really have been the Pianist?"

"I checked the documents and he was released a few hours before it happened," he said. "If he had an accomplice –"

"It's too tight of a time frame. You know that's not possible." I countered.

Mercader insisted, "He fits the criminal profile from before: highly intelligent, with a police-related background; you can see that he cannot have long-lasting relationships with a partner, just like most serial killers of the similar type –"

"That makes it seem like you're completely putting the blame on him," I sighed. "This is very unprofessional."

The two of us were awkwardly silent for a while, and even drinking coffee didn't help ease the awkwardness. Mercader slowly put away those files, his head lowered so that I couldn't see his expression clearly.

Suddenly, out of the blue, he said, "You're right."

Then he paused slightly, letting out a sound that was almost a laugh. Slowly, he said, "Of course, you're always right."

"It's also unprofessional to blindly worship someone. But since your argument is 'Olga Molozer is always right,' I think it's ok to listen to this point." I blinked my eyes at him. Perhaps I sounded too sarcastic when I said that; I wasn't sure whether he noticed it. "Let's go back to the subject you wanted to say today – I think that if you were saying 'Albarino wants Herstal dead', I could still listen to it, but if you're directly jumping to 'Albarino is the Westland Pianist', that's the complete opposite – even syllogism[1] doesn't even work that way."

[1] A syllogism is a kind of logical argument that applies deductive reasoning to arrive at a conclusion based on two propositions that are asserted or assumed to be true. (Source: Wikipedia)

"It's a hunch, Olga. I know it's not professional. I can't help it." He said, a bit more crestfallen then when he had entered, as if the ends of his well-groomed hair had wilted. He looked down at the files intently, like they would stand up and speak out answers, but we both knew that wasn't possible. "Aren't you ever guided by your intuition?"

"I'm guided by my intuition. I've always been guided by my intuition, just like the criminal profile of Johnny the Killer." I said honestly, "However, the problem lies in that out of the both of us, you are the one who emphasizes the most on following the rules."

Mercader sighed. "Since I want to follow the rules, that's why I know my current speculation should not be told to anyone other than you. No matter how much truth is contained in my theory, I can't possibly verify it: they must both be lying to the police, and I believe the truth the evidence points to is that Dr. Bacchus must have been in Armalight's place of imprisonment. Yet the police's investigation is only focused on Johnny the Killer, and if neither of them admits that it ever happened – then no one can confirm what really happened there."

"What you said to me, verbatim, was 'Albarino Bacchus is a serial killer'." I thought for a moment, then pointed out, "The way you worded it was quite interesting. You sounded very certain."

"I've seen too many serial killers, Molozer. I can even sniff them out." His expression didn't look too good.

That was a statement I didn't like. I couldn't resist retorting, "There are also men who claim they can tell which woman is a virgin at a glance."

Mercader gave me a strange look. He was probably very dissatisfied with my analogy, but he said nothing in the end.

He was silent for a while longer, as if caught up in his memories. Then, with deliberation, he said, "I was among the first to enter the crime scene with the SWAT... There was blood all over the floor, and in the middle of that was Johnny the Killer's body. It was the most horrible thing that a man provoked by horror could do, Olga. And I saw Dr. Bacchus embracing Armalight, kneeling in a pool of blood. When he looked at me –"

Mercader swallowed with difficulty.

"That's definitely not an expression a forensic pathologist would show, believe me."

I slightly understood what he was trying to say: he actually felt that something was wrong at that moment. And then, with this preconceived view, he went back and examined the case of Johnny the Killer and the previous murders of the Gardener and the Pianist, and finally came to this conclusion.

This is why he kept pointing the finger at Al, because obviously, anyone who didn't not see problems from his perspective, even if they look at all the evidence, would have a difficulty in getting the same conclusion as he did right now.

In that sense, it's really too instinctual.

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"You do have a lot of good points in your argument, especially the deductive parts about the porcelain shard and the rope," I chose to say what was on my mind, "But it's too instinctual – you know what I mean."

Mercader reached out to rub his temple; headaches were one of the common problems of BAU agents. "I understand. That's why I can only explain what I said with a 'hunch'... But, Molozer, you've always been the best among us. Have you ever seen anything wrong with him before this?"

I didn't know how I should answer him; "anything wrong" was a very debatable statement. I knew that even Bart could see something different in Albarino than the average person. I pondered for a moment, considering how to give him an appropriate answer.

"... If you do believe that I have once been one of the best in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, then at least believe me when I say this." In the end, that was all I could say. That did sound arrogant and rude, but we both knew that I was, indeed, right.

"If your suspicions are correct, then I will definitely have seen some clues before you do. If you are convinced that you have seen something which I have never seen before, then I beg you not to be impetuous and to think about it; you may be making a mistake."

I paused, then continued, "Agent Mercader, remember that and continue thinking."

Author's Notes

1. Jackson Pollock (1912-1956): American painter, a master of abstract expressionism painting. Is also recognized as the first contributor to American modern painting to break away from European standards and establish a leading position in the international art world.

Lavender Mist No. 1

(PS: Olga does not like Jackson Pollock, while personally from an aesthetic perspective, I feel like Pollock is pretty good – I personally really don't like Marc Chagall.)