Chapter 12: Olga’s Diary: September 25, 2016
Today, I finally received the email from Quantico.
If I remember correctly, it had been at least a month since I wrote to them, asking whether I could include a few cases I handled back when I was still working at the BAU in my new book.
Knowing how busy these people are, I didn’t really expect any of them to find the time to reply. During the last bar night, I mentioned this to Al, and he responded: “But why don’t you just call and ask them? They used to be your colleagues, didn’t they?”
That was a typical Albanino-style answer, because he gets along well with everyone (perhaps except Hestal)—even most of his ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends are willing to stay on friendly terms with him. The man simply has a beautiful face that makes it impossible for anyone to stay mad at him.
So, I guess he simply couldn’t imagine the terrible situation of someone who had parted on such bad terms when leaving their job.
The person who replied to the email was Lavasa McCade. Apparently, even after I’d been gone for three years, this guy was still the head of the BAU. And he was, as always, insufferable—a feeling that could no longer be explained merely by the few arguments we’d had before I resigned and the punch I’d landed on his face.
The moment I saw the sender was him, I could pretty much guess what misfortune was about to befall me. Sure enough, not only did he fail to acknowledge any of my suggestions in the email—and all I wanted was to add two more cases to my new book, I wasn’t even planning to cite the victims’ names—but he also attached a passionate lecture.
This scene was exactly like the fight we’d had before I resigned. He started his lecture with social influence, warning me that publishing certain cases would cause public panic—as if the law-abiding citizens he spoke of weren’t eagerly devouring bizarre murder cases in the newspapers. Then he brought up the need to be wary of copycats, saying that if those cases were made public, copycats would inevitably emerge. Finally, he would steer the conversation back to the part we both hated most.
“Olga,” he would say—even if it was just an email, I could picture that dramatic, emotive tone of his—”when I learned you’d moved to Westland, I was very worried. Before you left your job, I told you: of all the countless options, the worst choice was Westland. I suggested you move to the West Coast. Your income could afford the cost of living there, and the climate would be better for your health.”
That was just how he was—McCade had a peculiar paternal affection for everything within his sight, for all people and things. Which is exactly why we eventually fell out. Because not everyone needs an old-father figure imposing endless, unwanted concern on them.
In McCade’s world, humanity was divided into two starkly distinct categories: pure, flawless innocents, and psychologically unhealthy types who might commit crimes and inevitably would. There was no buffer zone between them whatsoever. So this esteemed head of the BAU showed boundless care for all the pure and innocent, while harboring a natural contempt for all potential wrongdoers.
There’s no need to discuss the drawbacks of this religious dualism. In any case, when he inevitably began to suspect that I was sliding from the side of good toward the side of evil—and he tried to stop that slide, even though I had no idea any such slide was even happening—that’s when our conflict erupted.
To be honest, he doesn’t understand why I write those books. Perhaps just seeing these readers about murderers’ stories and psychological analysis placed on the shelves of popular reading materials is enough to make his heart uncomfortable. Perhaps going back to the Middle Ages, McCard would have become the kind of old priest who tightly gripped the Latin interpretation rights of the *Bible*. Holding such a voice made him feel at ease, because he was forever worried that those “cruel” things would be exploited by ill-intentioned people to tempt his innocent lambs.
I want to show these stories, this knowledge, and the world as I see it to others. It’s not that I hope to achieve immortal fame through this (though the royalties from these stories have indeed allowed me to live a comfortable life). And now Lavassa, obviously, imagines that I am, in the strictest sense, colluding with those tabloid reporters.
So, when he said “it’s good for your health,” I’m certain he meant my mental health. I remember the conversation between him and the then-administrative director before I resigned. He accused me of “being indifferent to the victims, and even holding an attitude of appreciation toward the murderers’ actions.”
I don’t think I ever “appreciated” them, though I have no intention of concealing my interest in them—they are indeed as fascinating as puzzles. And the most important thing is, if you want to judge the spiritual world of these serial killers with complete objectivity, how can you carry a preconceived attitude of condemnation?
So of course I would come to Westland. This place has serial killers famous throughout the entire country. I’m counting on the day when I can actually cut open their hearts, counting on these puzzles being laid bare before ordinary people like us—and meanwhile, McCard thinks I’m colluding with the tabloids. Ha.
Having taken that blow (though I can’t say I was very surprised—it’s McCard, after all), I had originally planned to drag Albanino out tonight to drink until we were good and wasted. If he was willing, we could even bring along his sweetheart lawyer, though the lawyer probably wouldn’t be willing.
The above plan also fell through.
But perhaps some god in the heavens—whose existence I’m not sure of (I don’t think it exists)—finally began weeping for the unlucky ways I start each new day. The Sunday Gardener had struck again.
When describing this incident, I absolutely cannot say “finally something good has happened,” because a dead person is obviously not a good thing. The gardener placing a bouquet of flowers on Hestal’s desk is also obviously not a good thing—at least, if you put yourself in Hestal’s shoes, that is certainly the case.
But this is indeed the most important development in recent years. In the Sunday Gardener’s method of committing murder, something entirely new and not yet fully formed has emerged, and I have reason to believe that it was triggered by Hestal. The Gardener is still a young, highly malleable serial killer. I do not know where his style will go after today, but the more he changes, the more he reveals his inner self to us.
I tried to comfort Bart with this theory, but he clearly did not see it that way. For poor Bart, everything he faced today was bad news: the Sunday Gardener had indeed invaded Hestal’s office, but before entering, he had clearly completely destroyed the surveillance system inside the office, and the surveillance cameras on the street outside also yielded nothing.
He was of course shrouded in gloom, while Al had almost nothing to do—the skull had been cleaned so thoroughly it looked fake.
Before the end of the workday, word came from Bates’s side. By then, Hestal had finally found the time to go to the WLPD to give what must have been his umpteenth statement of the past two weeks. Honestly, I think Bart doesn’t need to send him a visitor pass every single time—he might as well just give him one to keep.
It was Bart who took that phone call. When he answered it, he and I were sitting on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. Al wasn’t at the station. When Bart put down the phone, the look on his face was truly pitiable. Ever since that bomber went on a rampage in the city the year before last, I had never seen him wear such a tortured expression again.
He said, “The owner of the Gardener’s skull was Richard Norman’s deputy—you knew him too, Mr. Armalite.”
So this was the fact of the matter: within two weeks, the Westland Pianist had killed one person, and the Sunday Gardener had killed two. We might be witnessing some kind of peak season for killer inspiration; and all three of the dead—Hestal knew every single one of them.
At that moment, I understood the expression on Bart’s face: it was the look of a man who wanted to go apply for the FBI Witness Protection Program for Hestal.
Hestal himself wore a small, surprised expression—possibly the most his poker face would allow him to show. And in that moment I said something rather thoughtless—not that I had any intention of reflecting on it—I said, “That’s a real shame.”
Hestal said politely, “I’m sorry?”
And then I had to explain to him, because I had originally planned to question Richard Norman’s second-in-command about whether Richard had ever had plans to murder his own brother. I always felt that the Westland Pianist wouldn’t casually set up a “Cain” theme—given his track record, he probably did prefer to punish his victims with sins they had already committed.
When I said this, a somewhat regretful expression appeared on Bart’s face—perhaps he had just remembered this too. It wasn’t his fault; recently we had all been drawn to the Gardener’s “Abel” case, and going to question a witness based on a mere speculation about criminal style was a bit of an overreaction—at the very least, the procedure would be difficult to navigate.
To put it plainly, this was just a guess.
While the two of us faced each other exchanging unnecessary sighs, Hestal was observing us—that lawyerly scrutinizing gaze of his, quite unnerving.
“This is indeed a viable line of thinking,” he then said slowly. His tone of speech always made me feel as though he were chewing on the physical substance of those words. “But unfortunately, I’ve never heard Richard mention anything of the sort, and I suspect his deputy probably wouldn’t know the details in this regard either.”
But now it was too late to say anything—his deputy’s head was still lying on Hestal’s desk this morning.
“If Richard really did try to murder his brother, and his deputy knew about it, that would be interesting,” I said. Later, Bart told me privately that I sounded at the time as if I genuinely expected things to become that interesting—perhaps I’d been too obvious.
And Hestal just looked at me with that probing expression, giving one the illusion that I was standing at a blackboard answering a question.
So I continued: “In that case, I’d have to suspect that the Sunday Gardener is helping the Pianist destroy evidence, which would mean the two of them know each other. Or at least, after that whole Cain and Abel business, they’ve come to know each other.”
Bart let out a genuine groan, then warned me not to plant such a terrible speculation in his head.
“If two serial killers like them met, would they really choose to help each other? I suspect that even if they knew each other, they’d only want to kill one another,” Hestal remarked.
“And why not?” I asked him. “Is there any contradiction between wanting to kill each other and wanting to make sure the other doesn’t get caught by someone else?”
And he said, “The Sunday Gardener even decorated parts of his victims’ corpses with flowers and gave them to others as gifts. Isn’t that a contradiction that already exists?”
“Most people would say that there is no contradiction between the words ‘death’ and ‘love.’ I believe that the Sunday Gardener thinks the same way about the meaning represented by that gift. And as you know: ‘The reason why all living things are distinguished from dead things is that they inherently contain the origin of contradiction.'” I answered.
Herstal then narrowed his eyes at me, revealing the expression an animal shows before it bites into something. In a tone that would make one feel uncomfortable, he said: “Faust. Miss Encyclopedia.”
I didn’t feel uncomfortable, but I really hated being called “Miss Encyclopedia.” He must have heard this nickname from Alna—in this regard, Albanino’s mouth was just that loose.
“So you’d better beware of Mephistopheles’ call from hell, Mr. Amarette,” I warned him—as a counterattack, of course.
And Hestal was just such an annoying guy. He retorted in that sarcastic tone that never failed: “You think I need to be careful of classical music?”
I really wanted to roll my eyes at him. To this day, I still don’t know whether I managed to hold back that impulse in the end.
“Unless you’re hoping that the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist will tear each other apart, and in the process the Gardener will forget all about you,” I told him. “Otherwise, he will definitely come again.”
I don’t know if he’ll take that advice. My intuition tells me it’s a long shot. All in all, he just wore a smile that looked rather meaningful.
In the end, the interview naturally yielded nothing useful. Bart might have been hoping Hestal would recall whether he had actually encountered the Sunday Gardener himself recently, but Hestal certainly didn’t think anyone he knew was the Sunday Gardener.
I guess Bart himself didn’t really expect the case to be solved just like that.
Anyway, the facts were what they were: for some unknown reason, the Sunday Gardener had toyed with Hestal, but the evidence wasn’t solid enough for Bart to openly assign officers to protect him. If Bart had to explain to his superiors that “based on the Gardener’s intent in staging the crime scene, he metaphorically spanked Mr. Amaretto’s ass,” then one of us would definitely end up in a mental institution.
In any case, that was everything that happened today.
Because of the time delayed by processing the crime scene, Al had no choice but to go back to the Forensics Bureau to work overtime, and Hestal turned down my dinner invitation, because perhaps when a变态 serial killer has left a bouquet of flowers on your desk, you would not have much of an appetite for dinner. And I really did not want to go out with Bates alone; although he is a very nice person, he is really not a good conversation partner.
This is why I am miserably drinking whiskey while miserably writing in my diary. I may have written a bit too much, and some of the content in the middle goes beyond the scope of the confidentiality agreement I signed with WLPT. Maybe when I get up tomorrow, I will cross out part of it.
Or maybe tomorrow I will die of a hangover. I may really have drunk a bit too much.
Note:
All that lives, by the very fact that it exists, contains within itself the primal contradiction that distinguishes it from the dead.
— Goethe, *Faust*
*Mephistopheles’ Call from Hell* is also the name of a waltz by Johann Strauss II.