Olga’s Diary: 25 September 2016

Item description: a page from the private diary of criminal psychologist Olga Molozer, telling the truth, but not everything is spoken.

Today, I finally received an email from Quantico.

If I remember correctly, it was at least a month ago since I wrote them an email, in order to ask if I could include a few cases I handled back when I was still at the BAU in my new book.

According to my understanding of all these busy people, I didn't really expect any of them to take the time to write back. When I told Al about this, during our previous night at the bar, he replied, "But why can't you just call and ask them? All of them previously were your colleagues, weren't they?"

This was a typical Albarino-style answer, because he has good relationships with everyone (except maybe Herstal), even most of his ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends are willing to be friends with him amiably – the man just has a pretty face that makes people lose their temper.

So, I guess he can't even imagine the awful situation for people who have left their jobs with a lot of unpleasantness.

The person who replied to the email was Lavazza Mercader, who apparently was still the head of BAU three years after I left. And he, like before, made me be in low spirits. This unpleasantness when dealing with him could not even be explained by the arguments I had with him before I resigned and the fist I used to punch him in the face.

As soon as I saw he was the sender, right away I could vaguely guess what bad luck would befall me. Sure enough, not only did he not agree with any of my meaningful proposals in the email – I was only trying to add two more cases to my new book, without even intending to cite the names of the victims – but he also included his expressive[1] preaching towards me.

[1]声情并茂, idiom, lit. good in both voice and expression, meaning a expressive, moving performance (obviously used sarcastically here)

This scene was exactly the same as the argument we had before I left my job. He started his preaching by talking about social influence, warning me of the resulting social panic if I published some of the cases, as if the law-abiding citizens he spoke about hadn't been reading about the bizarre murders in the newspapers with keen interest. Then, he suggested that I should be wary of copycat killers, who would inevitably emerge if the cases were made public. Finally, he would bring the conversation back to the part we hated most.

"Olga," he would say, and even if it was just an email, I still could imagine the expressive tone of his voice, "I was worried to learn that you had moved to Westland. I told you before you left your job; of the countless options, the most terrible choice would be Westland. I have suggested that you move to the West Coast, where your income would be able to afford the expense there, and the climate would be better for your health too."

Precisely like this. Mercader is like a mother hen[2] towards everything – everyone and everything within his sight – which was why we ended up falling out with each other; because no one needs a person who exerted concern (which you don't need) like an old father, rattling on and on.

[2]舐犊之情, idiom, lit. the emotion of (a mother cow) licking a small cow; to describe the love parents feel towards their children.

In Mercader's world, humanity is divided into two distinct[3] parts: the innocent people who are pure and unblemished; and the mentally ill guys who can and will commit crimes. There is no buffer zone in between. So, the respected head of the BAU will naturally look after all pure, innocent people, and has a natural disdain for all possible bad people.

[3]泾渭分明, idiom, lit. the Jing River and the Wei River are clearly differentiated, meaning two things that are entirely different.

We need not discuss the downside of this religious dualism. In any case, when he inevitably suspected that I was slipping from the side of good to the side of evil – a slippage he tried to prevent, though I had no idea it existed – our conflict erupted.

To be honest, he didn't understand why I was writing those books. Maybe just looking at these books with stories of murderers and psychoanalysis on the shelves for popular literature was enough to make his heart unwell. Perhaps if he returned back to the Middle Ages, Mercader would have been one of those old priests who held tightly onto the authority of interpreting the Latin version of the Bible, the authority making him at ease; because he was forever afraid that "cruel" things would be used by people with malicious thoughts to entice his innocent lambs.

I want to show these stories, these knowledge and the world as I see it to others, not that I hope to make a name for myself[4] (although the royalties from these stories do allow me to make a comfortable living). And Mercader now, apparently, imagines that I'm conspiring[5] with the tabloid journalists in the strictest definition.

[4]名垂青史, idiom, lit. reputation will go down in history, meaning gaining glory, fame etc.

[5]同流合污, idiom, lit. to wallow in the mire with someone, meaning to do bad things with bad people.

So when he said "better for your health", I was certain he meant my mental health. I remember the conversation he had with the administrative manager before I resigned; at the time, he accused me of being "indifferent to the victims and even admired the actions of the murderers".

I don't think I have ever "admired" them, although I have no interest of hiding my interest in them – they are fascinating, like riddles. And most importantly, if you want to judge the mental world of these serial killers with complete objectivity, how can you do so with a preconceived critical attitude?

So of course I would come to Westland, where there are serial killers known across the States. I hope that I will one day be able to cut open their hearts, hoping for these mysteries to be undoubtedly revealed to us ordinary people – in the meantime, Mercader will think I'm conspiring with the tabloids, ha.

Devastated by this (though I can't say I'm surprised, because it's Mercader after all), I had planned to drag Albarino out to get plastered. If he wanted to, we could also bring his sweetheart the lawyer, although the lawyer was likely to be unwilling.

The above plan also fell through.

But perhaps the god of the heavens, whether he exists or not (I don't think he exists), had finally begun to weep over the way I started a new day with bad luck. The Sunday Gardener committed another crime.

When describing this incident, I could never say "something good happened after all", because a dead person was obviously not a good thing. The Gardener placing the skull of flowers onto Herstal's desk was obviously not a good thing either; at least, that was true if you put yourself in Herstal's shoes.

But this was indeed the most important development in years. A new, tentative thing has been formed in the Gardener's modus operandi, which I have reason to believe was induced by Herstal. The Gardener is still a young, very malleable serial killer. I don't know where the direction of his style will go after today, but the more he changes, the more he reveals to us of his heart.

I tried to reassure Bart with this theory, but he clearly didn't think so. For poor Bart, today all he was faced with were bad news: the Sunday Gardener had invaded Herstal's office, but evidently he completely destroyed the surveillance system in the office before entering. The surveillance sensors in the street outside came up empty handed too.

Naturally, he was in a tough spot[6], and Al had almost nothing he could do. The skull was treated so cleanly, almost like it was a fake.

[6]阴云密布, idiom, lit. the sky is covered by thick clouds, meaning a dire situation.

In the afternoon, news came from Bates' side before I got off work, when Herstal finally found time to go to WLPD to take statements for who knows how many times it was in two weeks. Actually, I don't think Bart doesn't need to give him a visitor's pass every time; he can just directly give one to him.

It was Bart who answered the phone; when he did, I was sitting opposite of him at the other end of the interrogation room's table. Al was not at the station. Bart put the phone down with a truly pity-inducing look on his face; I hadn't seen him be at such a loss since the bomber had gone on a killing spree in the city the year before last.

He said, "The origin of the skull of the Sunday Gardener is Richard Norman's assistant – you know him too, Mr. Armalight."

So this was the truth: within two weeks, the Westland Pianist had killed a person, the Sunday Gardener had killed two, so we might be witnessing some kind of killer's peak inspiration period; and all three of the men who died were all people Herstal knew.

At the time I understood that expression on Bart's face: that was the expression of wanting to apply for the FBI Witness Protection Program for Herstal.

Herstal himself had a very small, surprised look on his face, which was probably the most emotion his poker face allowed him to show. And at the time, I said something without thinking – not that I intend to self-reflect – I said, "What a shame."

Herstal said politely, "Sorry?"

Then I had no choice but to explain to him, because I had planned to ask Richard Norman's assistant if Richard had ever planned to murder his brother or not. I always thought the Westland Pianist wouldn't arrange the theme of "Cain" randomly, and given his past crimes, he probably did prefer to punish his victims for their preexisting sins.

When I said that, Bart had a somewhat regretful look on his face, probably because he had just remembered that too. I didn't blame him; we had all been caught up in the Gardener's "Abel" case lately. It was a bit of a big fuss to question witnesses because of a speculation on the style of the crime, or at least, it was difficult to do so through normal procedures.

To be frank, this is just a guess.

As the two of us needlessly sighed facing each other, Herstal was watching us with that kind of lawyerly, scrutinizing gaze that was kind of frightening.

"This does seem like a viable line of thought," then, he said slowly, the intonation of his voice always makes me think that he was thinking over on the entity of those words, "but unfortunately I've never heard Richard mention anything similar like that. I suspect his assistant probably wouldn't know the particulars in that regard either. "

However, it was too late to say anything now; his assistant's head was just lying on Herstal's desk this morning.

"It would be interesting if Richard had actually tried to murder his brother and his assistant knew about it." I said. Later, Bart told me in private that my tone sounded as if I really expected things to get that interesting; perhaps I was too obvious.

And Herstal just looked at me with that inquisitive expression, giving the illusion that I was standing in front of a blackboard answering questions.

So I continued: "Then I would have to suspect that the Sunday Gardener was helping the Pianist to destroy the evidence, so that would mean that the two of them knew each other. Or at least, after that Cain and Abel incident, both of them had known each other."

Bart let out a genuine[7] groan, then warned me not to shove that dreadful speculation into his head.

[7]货真价实, idiom, lit. genuine goods at fair prices, meaning genuine, real.

"After two such serial killers encountered each other, would they even choose to help each other? I suspect that even if they knew each other, they would only want to kill the other." Herstal commented.

"Why wouldn't they?" I asked him, "Wanting to kill each other, and wanting to make sure the other person doesn't get caught by someone else; are there any contradictions between these two intentions?"

So he said, "The Sunday Gardener even decorates part of a person's body with flowers as a gift to someone else; isn't that a contradiction?"

"Most people would say that there is no contradiction between the words 'death' and 'love', and I believe that the Sunday Gardener thought the same thing about what that gift represented. And as you know: 'The distinction between all things alive and things which are dead, is that its own nature contains the essence of contradiction'." I replied.

Then Herstal narrowed his eyes toward me with the kind of expression that an animal would reveal before tearing its teeth into something. In a tone that would have made people feel unpleasant, he said, "Faust, Miss Encyclopedia."

I didn't feel unpleasant, but I really hate being called "Miss Encyclopedia". He must have heard my nickname from Al; in this aspect, Albarino has a loose mouth.

"So beware of Mephisto's summons from Hell, Mr. Armalight." I reminded him. Of course, as a counterattack.

Herstal was such an irritating guy; he asked a rhetorical question in a tried-and-true sarcastic tone, "Do you think I have to be careful with classical music?"

I really wanted to roll my eyes at him, and even now I don't know if I restrained that impulse or not.

"Unless you expect the Sunday Gardener and the Westland Pianist to be locked in battle against each other, so that the Gardener will forget about you in the process." I said to him, "Otherwise, he'll certainly come back again."

I don't know if he would follow that advice; my intuition tells me that this was up in the air. All in all, he just revealed a profound smile.

In the end, of course, the statement didn't uncover anything. Bart probably expected Herstal to recall whether he'd actually provoked the Sunday Gardener himself recently, and Herstal of course didn't think he knew anyone who was the Sunday Gardener.

I guess Bart himself didn't expect the case to be solved just like that too.

Anyway, here's the truth: somehow the Sunday Gardener had harassed Herstal, and the evidence wasn't conclusive enough for Bart to openly send police officers to protect him. If Bart had to explain to his superiors that "in terms of the Gardener's intention behind setting up the crime scene, he metaphysically patted Mr. Armalight's ass," one of us would definitely be sent to a mental institution.

Anyway, that's all on what happened today.

Al had to go back to the Forensic Bureau to work overtime because he got delayed investigating at the crime scene. As for Herstal, he declined my dinner invitation, because perhaps you won't have an appetite for dinner when you have a bouquet of flowers on your table by a psychopathic killer. And I really didn't want to go out with just Bates, who is a nice person but isn't really a good conversation partner.

That's why I'm miserably drinking whiskey while miserably writing in my diary. I may have written a little too much; some of the contents in the middle are outside the scope of the non-disclosure agreement I signed with WLPD, so maybe I'll blot out some of it when I wake up tomorrow.

Or maybe, I'll die due to my hangover tomorrow. I may have drank a bit too much.

Author's Notes

1. "The distinction between all things alive and things which are dead, is that its own nature contains the essence of contradiction."

– Faust by Goethe

(T/N: Took me over hours of searching and asking different people for help, but the original quote is actually not from Faust, but from a Russian named Belinsky. Thank you very much to all the people who helped me search for this quote!

The original, full quote in Russian: Толпа не понимает, что все живое тем и отличается от мертвого, что в самой сущности своей заключает начало противоречия.

Translated from Russian to English: The crowd does not understand, that every living thing is different from the dead in that its own essence is the start of a contradiction.

The quote used in the above text is from translated from Chinese to English, just because I feel like it fits the context better.)

2. Mephistos Höllenrufe (the summons of Mephistopheles from Hell), is also the name of a waltz by Johann Strauss II.

"The harmonious daily life mini theater for psycho serial killers"

Herstal: You all should remember the name Lavazza Mercader.

Al: Is that because he's going to die, or because his name resembles a brand of coffee beans?

Herstal: ...