Chapter 29: Olga’s Diary: October 29, 2016
I have to write this down: as long as that bastard Lavasa McCade is still in Westland, don’t open the door for anyone at night.
This guy has been in Westland for three days with his behavioral analysis team members, and so far he’s shown up at my house twice without any warning. When he knocked, it was a little past eleven at night, the rain hadn’t stopped, and he was wearing a raincoat he’d gotten from somewhere (actually, it was very likely Bart found it for him—I didn’t actually ask), standing at the door looking like a deranged serial killer.
I asked him: “Aren’t you supposed to be back in Quantico by now?”
“The rain is too heavy, the flight’s been canceled. We might have to stay another night,” McCade said. He didn’t look particularly disappointed to me. “Besides, I wasn’t planning to go back to Quantico with them anyway—I wanted to talk to you before heading back.”
“There were plenty of chances during the day. You chose now?”
“In private.” He emphasized it, as if commandeering my personal time were the most natural thing in the world.
That was McCade, always had been, ever since I was still with the FBI: tearing through the hallways every day, almost never taking leave, and not only never taking leave himself but frequently blocking mine. Because everyone should understand this principle: people need rest, but cases never stop—though I suspect our esteemed Agent McCade doesn’t quite grasp that.
I will never forget that sunny afternoon when I wanted to go on vacation to Italy. McCade stopped me at the airport. What did he say again? He said, “Every minute we waste, someone dies.”
—The certainty in his tone was as if I were the one killing them.
So when he had written in his earlier email all that nonsense about “bad for your health” and whatever else, I knew he definitely meant mental health. He did not care about anyone’s physical health at all. Anyway, everyone in the entire department was mired in an ulcer-filled swamp.
It was precisely because I unfortunately knew him too well that I really wanted to slam the door in his face. And McCade, being a man of action, immediately jammed the door gap with his shoe. The expression on his face was his all-purpose Expression No. 5, which meant, “I know why you want to do this, but I am truly very disappointed in you.”
Then he said, “I want to talk to you about the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist.”
I don’t know how to describe it. I didn’t want to talk to him about these two serial killers any more than a normal person would want to talk to their parents about their sex life—you just know they’re not going to approve of your sex life. There are millions of people in this world, and the last person I wanted to talk to about these two serial killers was McCard.
I’d hope that a person’s stance on the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist would at least be—”Ah, I really don’t like Jackson Pollock, but he is a master of modern painting.” But if you put McCard into this analogy, not only would he loudly curse Jackson Pollock, he’d jump up and pour paint on the artist’s gravestone.
But McCard just stood blocking the doorway with complete brazenness, like a heartbroken lover in the middle of a torrential storm. In the end, I had no choice but to let him into my room, and he immediately swaggered into my living room, spreading out a row of document folders on the table, most of which I probably didn’t have the clearance to see.
“You must have realized,” he said, cutting straight to the point, “that some strange things have been happening these past few months.”
“You mean the abnormal weather caused by global warming? This autumn really has been excessively rainy.” I asked him, and as expected, he shot me a glare.
McCade stated in that report-delivering tone of his: “On September 14th, the Westland Pianist killed a mob boss named Richard Norman; then on the following Sunday, September 18th, the Sunday Gardener killed his younger brother Thomas Norman—note that both victims were Amaretto’s clients; next, on September 25th, a skull decorated with flowers appeared on Amaretto’s desk, which the WLPD believes was the work of the Sunday Gardener, and the deceased was confirmed to be one of Richard Norman’s men; finally, on October 17th, Dr. Bax was framed and imprisoned, while the real killer was murdered by the Westland Pianist—and Amaretto was also Dr. Bax’s defense attorney.”
“I’m glad you could summarize so concisely what has happened around me these past two months,” I said. “And then?”
McCade stared at me, his expression like that of a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a top hat—I’m really not exaggerating even a little. He said with the utmost seriousness: “I suspect Albanino Bacchus is a serial killer.”
I glared at him: “You skipped a few steps before arriving at that conclusion, didn’t you?”
“You know the Gardener and the Pianist both operate on a rhythm of about once every three months. The Gardener has picked up the pace slightly in recent years, but the current situation is way too abnormal,” McCade said. “In just over a month, the two of them have killed four people!”
“We think they’re testing each other, like some kind of minuet: dignified, graceful, strictly symmetrical—” At that moment I really felt like I wouldn’t be able to unknit my brow for the rest of the night. “Given that the two of them have coexisted in the same city for so long, I think this kind of situation was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“These four victims are all more or less connected to Hestal Amarette!” he emphasized.
“Yeah, maybe two serial killers are waging a murder competition targeting one of the most famous mob lawyers in this city. That would fit the Pianist’s criteria well enough; and as you know, the Gardener doesn’t pick victims at all.” I could only spread my hands at him, though the gesture probably wouldn’t smooth anything over. “That’s why Bart really wanted to apply for a protection program for Hestal before. If you’re really that concerned about it, why don’t you go push it through too—”
“No, that’s not the whole story. I found something else today.” McCard said stiffly, then grabbed the file bag closest to his left hand and dumped everything inside onto my desk. Luckily I was quick enough to snatch my coffee cup off the table, otherwise McCard would definitely have shaken all the dust from the bag into it.
He pushed a photo in front of me. On it was the end of a rough rope, most of which had been frayed, with only the remaining few strands cleanly cut through by a sharp tool.
“This is what CSI found in the killer Johnny’s basement. Elliot Evans used this rope to tie Amarette’s hands.” McCard said with a grim face. “According to Amarette’s testimony, he stole that knife from the jacket Evans left on the mattress and used it to cut through this rope.”
“But the end of the rope was mostly worn through by something coarser, is that what you’re trying to say?” I countered. “But there’s also a possibility: the rope was always like that, because obviously Evans has a mental illness, and we can’t expect him to necessarily use a perfect rope to tie up his victim. And even if part of the rope had been worn through before, the remaining strands would still have been strong enough to bind the victim securely.”
McCard sighed. “I went with Dr. Bax to question Evans, and then he brought back that bloodstained piece of porcelain for me. I’ve always been curious about how Amarette, tied up so tightly, managed to get blood onto that piece of porcelain.”
“Has Hestal given his statement? Did you ask him?” I asked. I had been with Al the whole time during the statement-taking as well.
“I asked. He said he knocked the cup to the floor when he was trying to drink water, and later Elliot Evans cleaned up the ceramic shards,” McCade said. “The most likely possibility I can think of right now is that he deliberately broke the cup to cut the rope, and then cut his hand on the shards.”
I retorted, “It’s also possible that he stepped on the shards when he broke the cup. Do you remember? The killer Johnny took his shoes and socks.”
McCade shook his head. “I was there when the doctor treated his wounds. There were no wounds on his feet, but on his hands—”
“His hands were covered in wounds, which destroyed their identifying value; but combining that with your perspective, you used the process of elimination to deduce that the blood flowed from his hands.” I said, and McCard nodded reluctantly.
I ran his argument through my mind. Clearly, from his standpoint, the sequence of events was now obvious: there was Hestal’s blood on the broken porcelain shard, but Hestal had essentially no way to cut his skin on the shard—unless he had actually hidden the shard in his hand to saw through the rope, which would provide a reasonable explanation for both the cut marks on the rope and the blood on the shard.
—But in that case, the shard should have remained in the locked basement together with Hestal.
“Are you trying to say that Al had no way to get that shard?” I asked. “But even following that line of reasoning, there are still several points: First, are you suggesting that Al entered the basement but didn’t save Hestal, and only took his survival tool? Second, why didn’t Hestal point this out when he was giving his statement?”
At this point in the questioning, I actually felt a bit of sympathy for him, because his face had genuinely shown a trace of the embarrassment that only appears when a person is backed into a corner.
“Perhaps Dr. Bax wants to let all of this happen. He wants Amarette dead.” He spoke dryly. “And right now, the only ones targeting Amarette—the only ones I can think of—are the Pianist and the Gardener.”
“What kind of argument is that supposed to be? I figure there are probably tens of thousands of victims’ family members in all of Westland who are living in misery because the killers got off, and they’re all targeting Hestal too, aren’t they?” I couldn’t help but retort.
“Amarette has clearly been targeted by the Pianist and the Gardener. The deaths of people connected to the cases he was responsible for, that bouquet of flowers on his desk—those are proof.” McCade raised his voice slightly. “Before any of this had even settled, he was immediately kidnapped by the hitman Johnny. None of this can be a coincidence!”
“The prosecutor would never believe that statement,” I said dryly.
McCade shook his head and continued placing the other items on the table. Clearly, his evidence was not yet fully presented: a call log showing that Elliot Evans had received a phone call tonight, lasting only a few dozen seconds.
“It was a burner phone with no traceable source, and Armalite also mentioned this in his statement—he said Evans suddenly went berserk after receiving a phone call.” McCade said thoughtfully. “That’s very unusual, isn’t it? Evans barely had any friends, and the contacts in his phone were pitifully few. Who on earth called him from a burner phone, and then his emotions suddenly spiraled out of control?—Let me remind you, the time of this phone call occurred within minutes after Officer Hardy went to apply for a search warrant, and after you called Dr. Bax to inform him of the progress.”
“So you’re suspecting that after Al received my call and learned the police were about to start the arrest, he called the hitman Johnny to warn him?” I read the obvious implication in his words. “Which caused Johnny to suddenly go berserk and nearly kill Hestal, who had been carefully avoiding provoking him all along?”
“I think it’s a possibility. Then Dr. Bax chose to act on his own and entered the crime scene alone—though his stated reason was that he went to knock on the door as a friend, but no one answered, and he broke in out of worry.” McCade admitted without hesitation. “But I don’t believe it, Moroze. Like I said, there are too many coincidences: that bloodstained shard of porcelain, that rope, that phone call, and even the fact that Dr. Barris had known Elliot Evans for a long time—there’s no way such coincidences exist in this world.”
“Although I’d love to remind you that there really are a lot of coincidences in this world…” I couldn’t help but laugh. This was probably the worst possible reaction under the circumstances—his expression visibly darkened. “But let me just ask you one thing: if Albanino really wanted Hestal dead like you say, why didn’t Hestal say so when he gave his statement? He was the one whose only sharp object was taken away by Al.”
And there it was: the logical flaw McCade couldn’t get around.
He froze up like a wind-up toy for a long while, and when he spoke again, his voice was lowered: “…I don’t understand.”
I continued, “And if, as you suspect, the Pianist and the Gardener are in a killing competition centered around Hestal, then what kind of competition rule is it to kill Hestal using another serial killer’s hand? That’s basically driving right off the track, isn’t it?”
McCade paused for a very, very long time again, then admitted, “That really doesn’t make sense.”
“Not only that, but then you’d also have to explain the Bob Landon case: the truth of the matter is that one serial killer killed another serial killer’s ex-girlfriend?” I asked. “Albanino got involved in a killer competition related to Hestal, and then hired this person to be his defense attorney?”
McCade shook his head. “Speaking of which, at this point I really have my doubts—was Sarah Adelman really killed by Landon? Why would Dr. Bax’s fingerprints be on that knife?”
I couldn’t help but blink. “Are you really trying to say that Al did kill his ex-girlfriend and left his fingerprints, but then CSI found souvenirs about the victim that he’d left in Landon’s home?”
“That part really can’t be explained. Do you think it’s possible he had an accomplice?” McCade asked.
“That’s a bit absurd, McCade.” I laughed. “Was it also his accomplice who dumped the next victim at the police station entrance?”
“I don’t know. There are still many things about this case that can’t be explained, but suppose—just suppose the theory holds up. At least it would explain the mint, wouldn’t it?” McCade frowned. “That’s not Landon’s style. He never had a signature like that before.”
Either way, I had to agree with him on that point: the mint really wasn’t Landon’s style.
“So if you put it that way, Landon’s death was probably done by the same person too? Al killed his ex-girlfriend, intending to frame Landon, and then killed Landon to silence him? That’s the only possible explanation from that angle, isn’t it? In that case, the mint could be seen as a mockery of the WLPD.” I couldn’t help but ask. “Never mind whether he had an accomplice who could plant the girl’s hair under Landon’s floorboards—let’s just discuss this: when the Pianist killed Landon, was Al still in prison? Could he really be the Pianist?”
“I checked the files. He was released several hours before the incident.” He said, “If he had an accomplice—”
“My God, McCard,” I could only exclaim. What else could I say?
McCade insisted, “He fits the previous profile: high intelligence, a background connected to the police; you can tell he’s unable to maintain long-term relationships with partners, just like most serial killers of this type—”
“You do realize you’ve completely set your sights on him, don’t you?” I shouted. “This is highly unprofessional, McCade!”
The two of us sat in awkward silence for a while, and even the coffee did nothing to ease the tension. McCard slowly gathered up the earlier file folders, and I figured I had to say something eventually.
“If you just came right out and said, ‘Al wants to kill Hestal,’ that proposition might be worth hearing. But if you jump straight to ‘Albanino is the Westland Pianist’—I really have to say, McCade, not even a syllogism is proven that way.”
“This is intuition, Morozer. I know it’s not professional. I can’t help it.” He spoke, looking a bit more dejected than when he’d first walked in, lowering his head and staring intently at those case file folders, as if they might stand up and announce the answers themselves. “Haven’t you ever been guided by your intuition?”
“I am guided by my intuition, just like the profile of the killer Johnny in this case.” I told him, “But you’re the one among us who emphasizes following the rules the most.”
McCade sighed: “It’s precisely because I want to follow the rules that I know my current speculation shouldn’t be spoken to anyone other than you. No matter how much truth my deductions contain, I have no way to verify it: the two of them must both be lying to the police. I believe the truth these pieces of evidence point to is that Dr. Bax must have gone to Amarette’s cell. But the police investigation is focused solely on the killer Johnny. If neither of them admits this ever happened—then no one can verify what actually happened in that cell.”
“The exact words you said to me were ‘Albanino Baks is a serial killer,'” I thought for a moment. “That phrasing is interesting. You sound very certain.”
“I’ve seen too many serial killers, Molozer.” His expression wasn’t good.
I couldn’t help but retort: “There are also men who claim they can tell at a glance which woman is a virgin.”
I think in that moment he really wanted to yell at me, but no matter what, he held it in—probably because it finally occurred to him that I was no longer his subordinate.
He was silent for a while longer, as if lost in memory. Then, he said, choosing his words carefully: “I entered the crime scene with the SWAT team in the first wave… There was blood everywhere. The killer Johnny’s body lay in the center of the pool of blood. It was the most horrifying thing a person could do under the influence of terror, Molozer. And I saw Dr. Baccus holding Armalite, kneeling in the blood. When he looked at me—”
McCade swallowed with difficulty.
“That was absolutely not a look a forensic examiner would have, trust me.”
I sort of understood what he was trying to say: he had actually sensed something was wrong in that moment, and then, clinging to that preconceived notion, he went back to examine the case of the killer Johnny, along with the earlier murders of the gardener and the pianist, and finally arrived at this conclusion.
This was also why he had always aimed his spearhead at Al. Because clearly, anyone who did not look at the problem from his angle, even if they saw all the evidence, would find it very difficult to arrive at the same conclusion he had now.
From this angle, it really was too emotional.
“I’d rather be able to believe you, if you could stop harassing me when it’s nearly dawn.” I told the truth. “But the assertions you raised tonight all sound extremely absurd.”
McCade reached out to rub his temples. Headaches were one of the troubles that plagued BAU agents as well: “I know this is extremely absurd, so I can only use ‘intuition’ to explain my words… But Molozer, you have always been the best among us. Before this, had you never seen anything wrong with him?”
I didn’t know how I should answer him. I did think for a moment, considering how to give him a suitable answer.
“If you truly believe I was once one of the best in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, then at least trust this one thing I’m telling you.”
In the end, I could only say that. It did sound arrogant and rude, but we both actually knew that I was right.
“If your suspicions are correct, then I would certainly have noticed something before you did. If you are certain you have seen something I have never seen, then I beg you not to be rash—think it over carefully. You may well be mistaken.”
Note:
[1] Jackson Pollock (1912–1956): American painter, a master of Abstract Expressionism, and widely recognized as the first to free American modern painting from European standards and establish its leadership on the international art stage.
Lavender Mist: Number 1
(PS: Olga doesn’t like Jackson Pollock, and as for me, purely from an aesthetic standpoint, I think Pollock is not bad—the one I really don’t like is Marc Chagall.)