Wine and Gun

Albari Nord paused for a moment, then smiled to himself as if thinking of something: "But it doesn't matter, gardeners sometimes kill victims by covering their mouths and noses; as long as there is nothing they can think of The deceased was something strangled, and signs of suffocation on the dead body are not surprising."

Herstal has also studied some gardeners' cases before, and he quickly recalled one of them: "Like your first 'Ophelia' case, she died of suffocation, didn't she?"

That case was important because the Sunday Gardener's first case was actually a bit scribbled on the spot, and he hadn't left the dead in the car since then. It can be said that the gardener's style was gradually formed from the "Ophelia case".

The WLPD constables - Olga hadn't come to Westland at the time, and even Bart Hardy hadn't started the series of cases - only then began to discover that the gardener liked to include in his work. The imagery of "water".

That's a point of interest to Herstal: why water? And why is it on Sunday? Does this have anything to do with his drowning mother? He didn't know if he could get the answer from Albarino in the end.

"Because cutting someone's throat would more or less spoil the beauty of that image in my head," Albarino explained to Herstal with a shrug, his voice sounding regretful, "but Or... I was really too young at that time, you understand? I completely misestimated the significance of the corpse spots that formed, and it took a lot of effort to cover those corpse spots and bruises."

There was a fishy smell in the air, and Albarino dragged Sharp's head to his lap without hesitation, then drew another knife from the leather bag. The scene made him look like a twisted version of Salome, except that the head lying in his hands was not the head of his beloved.

——The metaphor passed through Herstal's mind like lightning, and then he suddenly realized that, first, he was not sure whether there was a concept of "beloved" in Albarino's concept, and second, He could not guarantee that he would not fall into this situation.

This realization made him want to laugh.

But he still didn't make any sound, just watching Albarino deftly use the knife to scalp the dead man—a creepy agility, at least for ordinary people. Because just by watching, one can easily imagine how many times he has tried to achieve this kind of proficiency, and what kind of practice makes perfect for him.

And Herstal recalled the pure white skull once on his desk, adorned with daffodils and some chemically bleached ears of wheat, so pure to the point of being distorted, that The color matching is almost cheerful.

Maybe Albarino did that work here, and the blood of that gangster who knew the secret of a Westerland pianist was also on the ground. A steady silver light flashed between Albarino's fingers, like a ruthless sentence, like death.

And this is only part of his work for him, not life nor living people - they have no "life" themselves, their life is only given by the Sunday gardener through the knife in his hand, which again What kind of arrogance.

Hestal would never admit it, but watching Sunday gardeners work is an amazing experience, and these serial killers never show their work to the outside world because it's too private.

——This seems to be some kind of opportunity to retake a city.

Although his sanity told him that it would be catastrophic for his shoulders and neck if he slept in this broken chair all night. But in the end, at an unknown moment, Herstal fell asleep in the uncomfortable chair.

Because the position was so miserable that he slept for two or three hours at most, then woke up with a violent protest from his shoulders. Herstal felt half numb, and it was barely four o'clock—the ceiling light in the wooden house was off, but two or three floor-standing lamps were lit in the farthest corner of the house, metal The lampshade was baked hot, and the light was like a follow spot on the stage, drawing Albarino into the corner of the house.

There was hardly any change in Albarino's sitting posture. There were a lot of bones scattered around him, half of his body, which was wiped by a few rags, but couldn't wipe off the blood. There was another piece of plastic in the corner of the wall. The cloth, the plastic sheet was covered with the inexplicable parts of Sharp's leftovers: it was estimated that it was meat and offal. They are piled up in a pile that looks especially like a spooky Azkot altar.

The smell of blood in the air was so strong that it made one suspect that this place was a lively slaughterhouse. Herstal reflected for two seconds, how on earth could he have such a strong smell and there was a serial killer with a knife in the room. Falling asleep in a frenzy. Normally, he would blame it on the night trains he'd driven in preparation for the trial these days, but he knew it wasn't a good reason.

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