Chapter 34: Snake 02
Hestal Amalite tried to squeeze through the crowd, a task that became especially difficult with a bouquet of flowers in his arms. A group of reporters and photographers still squatted at the hospital entrance, ready to rush forward at any moment and frantically snap photos of their targets, while the hospital security guards watched them with predatory vigilance, terrified of accidentally letting one slip through.
After the *Westland Daily News* published that article, it felt like the internet and the citizens had collectively gone insane: investigators, the Westland Pianist, a rape case—when these three terms were linked together, they were enough to construct an online carnival.
The WLPD of course had to hold a press conference. Olga Moroze was pushed up to answer reporters’ questions, spouting a bunch of nonsense about “the Pianist attacked a forensic pathologist because the pathologist destroyed his work” and the like, reading every word with a tone that screamed “I’m just a heartless script-reading machine.”
So, of course, everything that had happened over the past few days could explain exactly what kind of blood those reporters eyeing Hestal covetously from behind wanted to extract from this story to feed their readers. Hestal barely made it to the hospital reception desk. After stating who he had come to visit, he was checked twice over by a staff member with a look of surprise on their face, all while the reporters outside the glass doors stared at his back, making his skin crawl.
—In stark contrast to all the staff who were on high alert like they were facing a major enemy, there was Albanino Bacchus himself.
When Hestal walked into Albanino’s private hospital room, the other man was lying comfortably in bed watching TV, wearing an expression of deep suffering and bitter resentment that was probably faked.
To be fair, both of them had, one after the other, “grappled” with a serial killer, and both had a few stitched-up wounds on their bodies; Albanino had more injuries, but most of the knife wounds were negligible. The only reason he had been hospitalized for three days straight by now was entirely because the police were worried he’d be devoured alive by the reporters.
—And, obviously, a victim of a sexual assault case needs more emotional support in the eyes of the public, which was probably the main reason he was surrounded by a pile of fruit baskets and greeting cards.
With Hestal’s appearance, Albanino’s attention temporarily left the television. He looked at Hestal and revealed a smile that could almost be called radiant, saying:
“That bouquet in your hand is arranged really ugly.”
—Hestal very much wanted to smash the bouquet in his hand directly onto his skull.
The TV was replaying the police department’s press conference, and its content successfully suppressed Herstal’s desire to murder: Olga’s voice flowed through the room, calm and cautious.
“Like the Sunday Gardener, the Westland Pianist also treats his victims as works carefully presented to the public…”
Herstal silently tapped the door shut with the tip of his shoe. When the door closed, it made a faint click, enough to alert others that he had arrived. A police officer with a gun was stationed at the door, but this hospital room was expensive, so the soundproofing was probably quite good. Thus, Albanino looked at him and revealed a meaningful smile.
“…He does indeed derive a kind of pleasure from the process of torturing his victims, but violating them is not the direct means by which he obtains pleasure. In this case, what he did was not for the pursuit of pleasure, but for a certain metaphorical expression: he despises us, and is angered that we destroyed the work he presented. So, just as he punishes sinners, he inflicts the same ‘sin’ upon us…”
What he said made perfect sense. If it weren’t for the fact that Hestal was the one behind this, he would have almost believed it.
“Is this Olga’s profile?” Hestal asked.
“No, from what I know, it was done by that Agent Lavasa McCade.” Albanino answered with a lazy smile. “Olga attended the press conference in his place, so the media wouldn’t question the WLPD over some procedural issues.”
Agent McCade—Hestal, who had come to Westland for the case of the killer Johnny, had only seen him once before, a fleeting glimpse on the night he was “rescued” by the police from the killer Johnny. This profiler seemed to be very famous in the field, and his investigative abilities were strong as well. It was truly surprising that he hadn’t gotten involved in the investigation of Westland’s serial killers many years ago.
But then again, the profile he had drawn—
“Just as we dissect his work, he tortured this case’s victim, violating her in a way he himself would ordinarily disdain, and proudly displayed her before us in order to mock us—that is the only reason he did not kill the victim. Because only in this way will this work not rot, not turn to dust, not be destroyed by us; only in this way, on some day while the victim still lives, will all of us recall this day of shame.”
Now Albanino looked at Hestal with a smiling face, as if the television were mocking him.
“A matter of procedure…” Hestal murmured. “If the police department formally invited the FBI to intervene in this case, there wouldn’t be so many procedural issues.”
Albanino raised an exaggerated eyebrow at him, clearly wearing the expression of someone enjoying gossip: “You think Bart really doesn’t want to? He’s probably the one in the entire police department who wants to solve the case the most, but his boss won’t allow it—anyway, if the Pianist and Gardener cases pile up on Bart’s desk for a few more years, he’ll have no choice but to be transferred or demoted for poor performance. So why kick the ball to the FBI now?”
“From the way you put it, it sounds like a lot of people at the bureau have it out for Officer Hardy,” Hestal said slowly.
He watched as Albanino grabbed the remote from the nightstand and turned down the TV volume. The deputy chief of police was staring straight into the camera, delivering some solemn speech. When Albanino reached out, the cuff of his hospital gown slid down a few inches, revealing a horrifying bruise on his wrist where piano wire had sunk deep into the flesh.
“Very, very many. Bart doesn’t take bribes at all, and he can’t be bought off. Do you know how much money a homicide captain could normally skim in a city with this many gangs?” Albanino snorted through his nose. “—Ah, sorry. I’m sure you definitely know.”
He could deliver sarcastic remarks in a honey-sweet tone, making Herstal want to smash a bouquet over his head again. But considering that this poor bastard’s head had been shaved bald in a small patch for stitches, and no matter how he tried to press down the hair on the back of his head, it still looked like a missing corner—just for this comical sight alone, Herstal could reluctantly spare his life.
Herstal placed the bouquet on the bedside table, stood by the bed looking down at the forensic pathologist, and then suddenly asked, “So, do you take bribes, Dr. Baccus?”
Albanino looked up as if completely off guard, making a nasal “Hmm?”
“Forging injury assessment certificates for people? Lying on the witness stand as an expert witness?” Herstal’s voice was dark and soft like flowing water. “Concealing one or two tiny contributing factors during an autopsy? That’s not difficult for you, is it? The chief forensic pathologist is, after all, quite an authority in the forensics bureau.”
“It’s not a good idea to confess something like that in front of a cunning lawyer, is it? But I think, if I could… easily get away with it and escape punishment, then why wouldn’t I do it?” Albanino answered with a smile, throwing the other a knowing, flirtatious glance. “Would you be disappointed in that answer of mine? — Honestly, Hestal, when certain things happened, did you ever yearn for justice?”
Yes, of course they would circle back to this topic again. When Albanino Bakes had someone’s leverage in his hands, he was naturally happy to tear open another person’s scars. Beneath his eyelids and lips, in those dark places, there were of course still certain memories hidden — of the church’s rose window, the confessional, and the scent of frankincense drifting in the air; of that out-of-tune old piano, and his childhood in the small town.
“I suggest we’d best not talk about this topic,” Hestal said in a low voice, his intent to threaten silent yet unmistakable.
“All right, all right.” Albanino said, readily going along with it, leaning back comfortably into the stack of pillows behind him. “We can talk about something else — something light, something everyday: Bart is throwing himself wholeheartedly into this case. Though we both know it will probably end in failure, just like before. In any case, he wants me to move out of the house for the time being.”
“Because he’s worried you’re still being targeted?” Hestal asked.
“No one has ever survived the Pianist. I’m afraid we have no precedent to draw from.” Albanino said, sinking a little deeper into the pile of pillows. Because of his movement, his collar had opened a bit wider, revealing mottled strangulation marks beneath it, along with several knife wounds that had surfaced, all scabbed over into dark red lines. “I actually think there’s not much to worry about. Neither the Sunday Gardener nor the Westland Pianist ever returns to the crime scene—that’s quite rare among serial killers.”
Yes, most serial killers, driven by desire, find it very hard to resist returning to the crime scene, attending the victim’s funeral, or attempting in some form to insert themselves into the investigation. Hestal had long since learned how to carefully restrain his own desires. He didn’t need to stand at the primary crime scene savoring his urge to commit violence.
Honestly, how vulgar. Dead people were just lifeless objects slowly rotting away. Everything they had once carried—their vitality and the sins they had genuinely committed—had already detached from that empty shell. So of course the Pianist wouldn’t appear at the victim’s funeral, nor take anything from them as a memento.
The Sunday Gardener was clearly at the other extreme: take Albanino Bacchus, for example. He had worked with Officer Hardy on serial murder cases for many years, personally arranging the scene with lush flowers, then standing before the police just hours later to dismantle his own work with his own hands. Whether or not the Gardener himself had deliberately pursued that feeling, it was certainly an extreme thrill.
“They really are an exception among serial killers. So then, you’re moving out for now?” Hestal said slowly, looking at the smug smile on the other’s face—no one would believe a victim’s face could wear such an expression.
“Batestor found me an apartment in the city. I can rent it for a while—it’s close to both the police station and the forensics bureau. Assuming I can go back to work anytime soon.” Albanino blinked, his smile very cheerful. “Besides, I don’t think I really want to go home right away. Batest told me the Pianist turned my living room into some kind of evil altar… the kind covered in nude photos.”
Indeed: when Hestal was putting up most of those photos, Albanino hadn’t yet passed out from gradual blood loss. Hestal still remembered that by then the rain had gradually lessened, turning into an unending, fragmented pitter-patter.
Albanino lay in the center of the floor, like a bloody sacrifice on some eerie Aztec altar, his body so pale it resembled moonlight shattered across the ground. Even so, he still found the time to nitpick Hestal’s photo arrangement.
Hestal paused, then could only say, “The newspaper described this detail very clearly.”
“I told you, some of the cops in the WLPD will say anything if you pay them. Bart’s about ready to die of anger over this.” Albanino said, completely unbothered. “But I also read that article, the *Westland Daily News*—that reporter, whatshisname Schheib or whatever, the guy with the foreign name, described the scene of the victim being raped in a very… immersive way.”
He said this as if he weren’t the victim himself, though perhaps he really didn’t count as one.
Albarino continued narrating with great enthusiasm: “But he clearly bribed the peripheral officers. Some very private information never made it to the reporters. For instance, I heard from Olga that the Pianist left an apple in the center of my living room, and Agent McAdder believes that means the Pianist is displeased with my practice of dissecting corpses. You remember, don’t you? That case with Richard Norman—the Pianist stuffed an apple into the victim’s chest.”
“Since that kind of information was never disclosed even to the peripheral officers, I don’t think you should be telling me.” Hestal replied in a low voice.
He was certain that Albarino had indeed heard about the apple from Olga, because by the time Hestal placed the apple, the other man had already passed out. When this person lost consciousness, he was absolutely far more well-behaved than when awake. If Albarino were a vegetative patient, he would certainly be a pleasing one to look at—but not necessarily so when awake.
“I’m just very confused, Hestal.” Albarino said, tilting his head back, pretending to be genuinely confused. “Because, why an apple? And why ‘The Creation of Adam’? Is this some kind of religious metaphor?”
Of course it couldn’t be a real question, given that this annoying fellow certainly already knew the answer.
“You might as well take Detective McCade’s word for it.” Hestal pointed at the television, even though it was no longer broadcasting the press conference—instead, it was playing a commercial for some kind of alphabet-shaped breakfast cereal. “Perhaps that was an insult to you, because you trampled on the fruits of someone else’s work.”
Albanino looked at him with that expression he often wore—one that seemed like simple curiosity, yet also like deep contemplation. He struggled to lean forward, the sutures on his abdomen emitting a faint, pained hiss, and still managed to grab Hestal’s suit lapel with his hand.
With the fabric clutched in his hand, he imperiously yanked Hestal toward him. Hestal took two steps forward, bent slightly at the waist, and placed one hand on the headboard.
“Dr. Bax,” he said calmly.
Albanino’s fingers tightened on his collar. Deep shadows lay beneath those green eyes—clearly, he must have spent time disguising himself as a victim of mental breakdown, which was not particularly easy for any of them. In this regard, Hestal was grateful that Albanino had diverted the police’s attention; otherwise, he would have been the one forced to masquerade as a victim of the killer Johnny in front of everyone. Even so, the corners of Hestal’s mouth still curved into a smile.
“Is that the apple at the center of Eden, Mr. Amalite?” Albanino asked in a voice so low it was almost a breath. “Assuming we really are inside a biblical allusion, as you wish to convey to everyone? Is that my apple? Is that my original sin?”
In Michelangelo’s *The Creation of Adam*, Adam feebly reaches his hand toward God to receive wisdom and divine passion from His fingertips; within God’s arm is cradled the not-yet-born Eve.
—Not long after, these two ancestors of mankind would be driven out of the Garden of Eden.
Albanino’s breath brushed against the corner of Hestal’s mouth, almost ticklish.
Hestal heard him say in a breathy voice: “Could it be that you ate the fruit from the tree that must not be eaten?”
Hestal could see that look in Albanino’s eyes: most people would call it the joy of victory, or malice—either way, the two manifested in Albanino in ways that were indistinguishable from each other. This was enough to prove that everything that had happened that rainy night was within Albanino’s plans—he had been glad to see it happen, and had done everything possible to make it happen. That meaningless conversation about grapes, that bottle of white wine, the way he had exposed his own body—of course.
“Please stop for a moment. You are truly beautiful.”
“You can’t imagine how you look in others’ eyes, Pianist—that vibrant cruelty, that savage madness.”
“Have I fallen into your snare?”
“The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.”—Hestal answered him in a low voice, so low it was as if their conversation might truly be overheard by others, as if this answer might be carried away by the wind.
Hestal knew that this was the answer the other had been waiting for from the very beginning—the general’s chess piece. Of course, Hestal could refuse to admit it, but there seemed no need for them to tell so many lies about a fact they both knew perfectly well.
—And the fact was, he had been tempted. The fact was, although there were times when he was furious, he did indeed enjoy this game.
And he was indeed willing to sleep with Albanino Bacchus. Even if they could shift this fact onto that forbidden tree in the center of paradise, onto that fruit that taught the knowledge of good and evil, onto that cunning serpent—it was still a fact.
Albanino blinked, his smile almost smug, brimming with the certainty of victory. That expression had always annoyed Hestal, so he leaned in and kissed the other’s lips.
Or rather, he was not gently biting Albanino’s lower lip, his teeth sinking into the other’s full lips, tasting a hint of blood from the other’s chapped mouth. In their current position, Hestal could easily pin Albanino onto the pillow. He held the other’s arm, and beneath the fabric of the hospital gown was a body covered in scars.
Once he had the desire to explore, he did not suppress the urge to act on it. Hestal easily slipped his hand in from the hem of Albanino’s hospital gown, touching the bandages on the other’s abdomen, tracing through those rough surfaces the letters left on the other’s belly—he wanted to make sure the word he had carved there would definitely scar, and the stitches might guarantee that.
Albanino pressed his hand down through the fabric of the clothing.
Even so, he did not seem to particularly want Hestal to remove his hand right away. Hestal’s hand remained pressed against his abdomen, able to feel that extremely warm skin. Albanino pulled back the distance between them and licked his lips unnecessarily.
Then, Albanino asked with a smile, “You enjoy hurting me, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do,” Hestal admitted, gazing at the other as cautiously as if he were stepping into another carnivore’s territory for the first time. “The only question is: did I actually hurt you?”
Olga Moroze said: To him, we are not human beings—at least not creatures of his equal—but tools and objects available for his choosing.
“Apparently not,” Albanino replied in a low voice, blinking his eyes, putting on a coyly coquettish, seductive pose—perhaps he truly did derive pleasure from such behavior. “Perhaps we should instead discuss whether I actually have a ‘heart.'”