Wine and Gun

In the end, only the two of them were left standing awkwardly. Elliot didn't know how to thank each other. He used his poor social ability to stumble and say that he really didn't see each other.

"It's mainly my fault... Elliott." The other party replied, looking thoughtfully at the employee name tag hanging on his chest when he called his name, "By the way, my name is Albaly No Barks."

It's a familiar-sounding name that has frequently appeared in newspapers and news some time ago. Elliott hesitated for a moment, then asked rather rudely, "You're the one—?"

"I'm the one suspected of killing my ex-girlfriend," the forensic doctor replied with a smile, something in his voice telling Elliott that he wasn't as sincere as he appeared, at least to the dead Sarah · Aardman is like this. "Poor girl, may she rest in peace."

"I'm curious, as a forensic doctor, you seem to have put too much effort into this case. Don't you need a job?" asked Lavasa McCard, who was trying to find him on the side of the narrow street. A place where trying to park is not illegal. Although Albarino wanted to tell him that if he parked his car in a slum like this, the chances of the car having its tires unloaded were far greater than the chances of getting a ticket.

Albarino smiled at his question: "My leave is strictly until the 1st of the next month, and the forensic supervisor called me back to participate in this case, which is considered overtime, and this is the only thing I am responsible for now. "

McArd finally parked the car, Albarino pushed open the car door, and there was sour water dripping from an overturned trash can under the car, he raised his eyebrows inconspicuously: " I know that interviewing suspects has nothing to do with me, but to be honest, I'm still a little interested in the job of a profiler—and again, it's for Olga, and Herstal has a good relationship with her."

McArd gave him a skeptical look. "I thought you and Armalette were friends too, at least that's what Officer Hardy said. He was your lawyer in the Langdon case, wasn't he?"

"Our relationship is not as close as Bart thought," Albarino picked a not so unbearable place to stand, closed the car door, and watched the other side get out of the car. "We often disagree, and Mr. Armalette is not one to get along."

This sentence is not mixed with many lies, but at the same time, Herstal's "not easy to get along with" obviously did not prevent Albarino from putting the other party's yīnjīng into his own mouth.

The two of them made their way to their destination: the apartment where Elliott Evans was renting. Albarino only knew which convenience store Elliot worked in. After they visited the convenience store, they found that fortunately, he filled in his current address when he filled out the form, otherwise they would not have been able to find such a hidden place for a while. The place.

This neighborhood is the dark shadow of a bustling metropolis like Westland. Seventy to eighty percent of the population is black or Latino. Many people passing by will undoubtedly cover up the bulge on the holster on the back of the waist. , not to mention the guys who put their firearms on their belts in the open.

They ignored a few unfriendly glances and turned into a more secluded path. Then McCard gān said: "It's very conceivable that a person like you has a close relationship with Molozer. Seriously, she is not a very easy person to get along with."

"She really isn't," Albarino laughed, wondering if he could squeeze more information out of the other party's mouth. "Would you mind telling me what happened to you? You seem to be very worried about her."

McCard was silent for an embarrassing moment, before admitting: "I don't know if she ever brought it up, but I really don't want her to keep doing this job. profit."

"I guess you're talking about mental health," Albarino replied with a small smile.

"I said yes," admitted McArd, who sounded deeply distressed for a long time. "Like this case, her behavior worries me—you know what? She deduces the murderer. Cowardly, but most statistics actually show that cowardly murderers tend to mutilate weaker targets: If they are fragile? Then they choose to hurt little boys. That's it."

"Do you think she's wrong?" Albarino asked, knowingly asking, the other party's expression already revealed too much emotion.

McCard shook his head: "Here's the problem: She's hardly wrong. She worked on murders in the Chicago Police Department before joining the FBI, and after Quantico, we worked together at BAU for four years. Throughout her resume Among them, she hardly missed a beat."

"So, even if she came to a conclusion this time with no research data to back it up, and even if it sounds bizarre, you still know she's probably right -- or you're even worried that she's actually right. ." Albarino pointed out briskly, "She's right enough to seem to not only understand what these serial killers have in mind, but even appreciate or love their minds, does that frighten you?"

"I'm not very good at being the analyzed side of psychoanalysis, Dr. Bucks." McCard gave him a reluctant smile, "but—yes. BAU's job is very stressful, other than assisting in the detection of state incidents. We often go to visit killers who are already in prison. The cases we have dealt with are more insane than most of them think. Many of my colleagues can't bear such mental pressure, insomnia, ulcers, nightmares, psychological problems Illness... these things are commonplace at BAU."

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