Wine and Gun

"You were twenty-four when you went back to Westerland," whispered Herstal.

"Yes." The smile on Albarino's face didn't change.

"Sunday gardeners have been in Westland ten years ago, and you are thirty-four this year," Herstal continued.

Albarino blinked, his voice sounding very brisk: "I'll be thirty-five soon, if you're counting my age."

But Herstal was obviously not counting his age. The other party just stared at him and traced Albarino's sideburns and eyebrows with his eyes, as if he could see the answer to any question. But they all knew no, and even the best profiler had yet to get an answer from him.

"I see," Herstal said.

"No," whispered Albarino, "you don't understand."

- Of course he didn't understand. This is a perennial subject of criminal psychologists, that is, what exactly turns a person into a murderer. Let Herstal ask himself: Would he be who he is if he hadn't had an alcoholic father and a mother who had left him in a baby early and ran away? Where would he have gone without that church in Kentucky?

Of course he didn't know the answer to that question.

Another question he will never have an answer to is how Albarino Bacchus came to be the person he is now. Olga Molozze insists that the Sunday gardener is the kind of person destined to be a serial killer from birth, the kind of guy with "he's a monster" written in his genes.

But even so, what effect did his family have on him?

It's like the "drowning" that Albarino himself doesn't want to talk about - did his mother really die in an accident?

Herstal didn't know whether to sigh at this moment, he sometimes felt that his life would be a lot easier if he didn't know Albarino Bacchus. But in other words...

"You've been hiding under the mask of perfect reason for far too long, and when you're living in the crowd, you can't tell others what you really think, and you can't demand their understanding; your madness is mostly bound by rules under your skin, so that I can peek into the crumbling place under your mask."

Albarino would like to call it - as Plato put it - "divine ecstasy".

"What are you thinking about?" Albarino asked, his voice was as low as a breath again, the deepness of his guttural voice was reminiscent of the sea cháo shaking in the dòngxué of the night, "You Why are you here today, Herstal?"

Herstal raised the corner of his mouth at him, almost a smile.

"Returning to the crime scene," said the Westland pianist, "I'm here to examine my work."

"A long day?" asked the forensic chief in the passenger seat.

"It's been too long, and we've barely had a break since the Richard Norman case." Hardy sighed heavily, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He still has to go back to work overtime now. The procedure for closing the case of the killer Qiáng Ni has not finished yet. Why are there so many reports to be written in the world? "God, my daughter almost doesn't know me, even if it's too much for the city of Westland."

The forensic chief smiled wearily, too. His chief forensic officer was in trouble twice every three days, like a doom magnet, and obviously made it difficult for him: "The active period of serial killers - recently Sunday gardeners and vigilantes The Stellan pianist has an unusually high number of cases."

"I suspect they're competing," Hardy shook his head, staring at the traffic light in front of him with sullen eyes, the damn red light was still on, "Olga told me that when the two of them noticed each other, I should Got it—what kind of a killing contest they're running, I'm afraid."

The forensic chief was silent for a moment, then asked in a hopeless tone, "How will this end?"

"Maybe the two of them will kill each other, which is better," Hardy speculated wildly, "or maybe they've teamed up to create some bloody massacre... No, I don't know how this will end. , I just want it to stop immediately."

Herstal's hand finally reached under Albarino's shirt.

This man never wears layers of clothing, and making him wear a tie would kill him. There was nothing under the shirt, only the bandage wrapped around the abdomen, and this was quite mind-blowing indeed.

Along the edge of the bandage, Herstal could feel the scabbed wound, and the depth of the knife's penetration went from shallow to deep according to the strength of the knife. Flaps—a form of stab wound that Albarino, a forensic doctor, should be familiar with—the deepest parts of these unbandaged wounds were sporadically stitched and exposed almost fearlessly.

Herstal's fingertips rubbed many scabs, and he still remembered how these wounds were like bright red nets surrounding each other's skin; but now they were just under the palm of his hand, rough and hard, making one a little qiáng People with obsessive-compulsive disorder especially want to use their fingertips to dig out a part of it, so that the bright red skin that has just healed underneath is exposed.

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