Wine and Gun

To be exact, it was eight forty-nine last night—the moment Albarino stabbed the knife into the chest of the new heir to the Normans. The eyes of the man who had behaved unpleasantly in the interrogation room widened in horror, and blood spurted from his chest, all hidden in the vague darkness of night.

There was a horrific, vague gurgling in his throat as he opened his mouth, and he gasped: "You—why do you—"

Ah, he must have recognized Albarino, after all Albarino had spoken to Thomas Norman about signing the papers.

"Don't worry, I definitely didn't murder you because you refused to go to the forensic office to sign the power of attorney." Albarino answered him quite kindly, but since these were probably the last words he heard in his life, This is not much appreciated.

He smiled happily, feeling his heart beating with joy.

"You are a gift," he said.

Officer Hardy made room for Albarino and Bates so that the two of them would be less uncomfortable on their knees to examine the body. He looked at Herstal, who was standing not far away, and asked, "Mr. Armalette, when did you receive the text message from Mr. Norman?"

Herstal took a few steps forward, and it was really impolite to call each other several meters apart. He didn't seem to be afraid of corpses, and he didn't get too close and destroy evidence, so Hardy didn't stop him. After standing still, the lawyer checked his cell phone and said, "It was 10:13 last night."

"Interesting," Olga pointed out, "the victim should be dead. Was it a text message from the murderer?"

Albarino pulled his phone out of Thomas Norman's pocket and unlocked the screen with the dead man's cold fingers. He generally likes to arrange these corpses in public places, and the exhibition is supposed to be seen by everyone.

But this time it was not very convenient. He followed the other party all the way to date his lover in this manor before finding the opportunity to kill him. It was too difficult to bring the body back to some lake in the city to settle down. This hunt was on a whim, a little hasty, and now I can only make do with it.

Well, it's not bad for a specific person to see the piece. When he successfully dug out the lawyer's phone number from the address book, he thought so. Let the next prey see the beautiful remains left by the previous prey, and at this time, he still has no idea of ​​his future fate - it seems to be enough, he can accept it.

It was a gift, for the Westland pianist, and for Herstal Armalette, killing two birds with one stone.

With a bloodthirsty smile on the corner of the gardener's mouth, he happily pressed the send button.

Herstal apparently calculated the time in his head and agreed with Olga. He frowned and said, "If Dr. Bacchus didn't deduce the wrong time of death, it should."

"I'm quite confident about this, but I think there's a little more." Albarino used his gloved fingers to fiddle with the wound on the deceased's foot. He paused, then also checked the scary empty space on the chest of the deceased, "—This time the murderer is probably not the Westland pianist."

Olga interjected quite assuredly: "It's the 'Sunday Gardener,' isn't it?"

Officer Hardy said, "What?!"

Because apparently, "the two most famous serial killers in Westland have chosen the same pair of brothers to be their victims" is even crazier than "the Westland pianist killed a pair of brothers."

"Look, all the wounds on the corpse have no life response. Obviously, the murderer cut open his stomach, sewed it up, and nailed him to the stake after killing the murderer. This doesn't seem like a pianist. And there are no strings on the neck of the dead man." Albarino said, "I'm going to take out the roses, Bethes, give me a hand?"

Bates gave a succinct hum, and the two dug out the wet flowers from the huge wound on the deceased's chest. When Bates took the red flowers away and bagged them, Albarino reached out and took a handful out of the bloody patch of the deceased's chest. When he stretched out his hand, there were wet marks on his fingertips: some dirt particles.

Albarino stuffed the dirt into the dead man's chest, almost close to the heart, and began to decorate it with flowers. This is a technical job, because then he has to hang the body upside down, and the bouquet must be strong enough to last until the colleagues at the police station pull the body out of the water and still not fall apart.

Those flowers that are not fully open are as bright red as blood, and are indeed used to represent blood in a metaphorical sense. The Westland pianist will see, he thought, and he'll understand what he's up to.

The pianist is someone who really likes to get blood all over the place, and that's the most intuitive expression of his cruel desire. But Albarino didn't like it.

The other person will know the sharp taunt he wants to express. Albarino smiled and fiddled with the delicate flowers with his fingers, and the soft and fragile buds brushed his fingertips.

I get what you mean, the guys in the police station don't get it, only me - I know what you're saying, but I honestly don't appreciate it. You paid for the deceased who should belong to me.

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