Wine and Gun

"Assuming the case really progresses," Albarino said, all the contents of the pianist's case are still gathering dust in the archives, and they really shouldn't expect anything from it.

Olga shrugged, then she balled up the Whopper's wrapping paper, threw it back into the takeout paper bag, wiped the sauce in her hand with a napkin, and took out her phone from her pocket.

"I'm Olga Molozze, a consultant to WLPD, and it's 8:27 a.m. on October 30." Olga said to the phone with the recording software turned on, "I'll ask Alba next. The testimony of Mr. Lino Bacchus in relation to the grievous injuries that occurred in the early hours of this morning was recorded with the knowledge and consent of both parties."

Albariño sat up straight with support, his abdomen was covered with bandages, so that he could not see the notch left by the pianist at all. Olga leaned over to help him adjust the pillow, making his sitting position more comfortable.

"Then let's start from the beginning," Olga said after sitting back in the chair. "Al, how did it happen?"

"Someone invaded my home," Albarino's voice sounded soft and slow, he blinked and pressed his fingers to the bandages on his abdomen, as if to concentrate his energy, "I was sitting Drinking in the living room - I didn't get much sleep because of what happened during the day. Then it seemed like all of a sudden...he came in."

"What time is that?" Olga asked.

Albarino was silent for a while, and then said after deliberation: "It may be after one o'clock in the morning, I didn't pay much attention."

"How did the murderer get in? Did you break the door?" Olga asked.

"I didn't hear the door opening... In fact, I don't even remember whether I closed the door or not." Albarino smiled wryly, his fingers twirling unconsciously on his abdomen, "But I think my spare key is on the It is also possible that he found the key under the footmat at the door."

Olga nodded, and then she leaned forward slightly, staring at Albarino's face in a trance.

She asked, "Did you see his face?"

In a drowsy state, Albarino felt that his hand was lifted a little by the other party. Herstal threw a towel where his stomach was bleeding most violently, then pressed Albarino's hand to the towel.

Because of the rough touch between the wound surfaces, Albarino couldn't help but let out a dizzy hiss.

"Hold tight," Herstal's voice was suspended somewhere above his head, sounding insubstantial, as if submerged, "you better not die of blood loss in the next few hours. "

Albarino was tempted to point out that he knew how to hold down the wound, since he was in medical school after all. In the end, he just opened his heavy eyelids and smiled dazedly: "Does it hurt?"

Herstal rolled his eyes at him: "Not in my plan."

"Yeah, it doesn't fit your profile, pianists don't kill guys other than criminals." Albarino smiled vaguely, but Herstal ignored him, he listened to the other party to the voice across the room, and—

There was a crisp sound of something falling to the ground, followed by a fruity aroma of wine.

"Fuck!" Albarino yelled hoarsely. "Did you drop my bottle of wine? I'm less than halfway through!"

"Do you really think two people wouldn't touch the bottle after a fight?" Herstal retorted. "Don't be naive."

Albarino thumped frantically on the ground twice, and then stopped when he found the pain to death and the blood still flowing out. There was an inexplicable grievance in his voice: "Did you just smash a bottle of wine with the same name as me? Do you have any taste?"

The Westland pianist has had so many victims, and this one is probably the most tangled thing about a bottle of wine.

"Isn't that a good metaphor?" Herstal sneered unmoved.

"Wait, I'll get my revenge on you," Albarino warned him, but the warning didn't seem convincing given the former's pale lips. "When it's time for the transcript, I'll say you're wearing an ugly ski mask."

"I don't see his face," Albarino said slowly, frowning, "he's wearing a ski mask, but he's about the same height as me—probably taller and stronger than me. ."

"What about the color of the eyes?" Olga asked.

Albarino was silent longer this time, and then he said: "It's very dim, I don't see it very well... Maybe some kind of light color, not black anyway."

Olga nodded and continued to ask, "Then what?"

"I didn't react very well, and then he attacked me and punched me a lot," Albarino said, nodding at the rip in his lips and the bruised scar on his cheekbone, which he didn't necessarily know he had. It turned into something hideous, but it must be very painful. "And then banged my head against the wall."

"The pianist must have grabbed his hair and banged his head against the wall," Hardy said, placing on the table a photo the forensic doctor had just brought in: during Albarino's surgery , Albarino has a four-centimeter-long hole on the back of his head and several stitches.

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