The Mint’s Metaphor 03

The sky appeared to be perpetually on the verge of rain. Olga stood with her arms crossed in the cold wind, watching the group of CSIs plow the dirt around the house, inch by inch. She had no classes to teach on the weekend, so she was relaxed and just stood here calmly watching them squandering around.

"Do you guys really think that he's going to bury the bloody clothes where you can find them?" Olga asked curiously.

"Are we thinking from the perspective that 'Albarino is actually a killer?" Bates asked, staggering to his feet, his legs numb from crouching, a gray-black dirt somehow staining his face.

Olga cocked her head, looking at him.

"Fine: if he's the killer, I think he'd be one of those with very excellent anti-surveillance skills. A forensic pathologist shouldn't accidentally leave fingerprints on a murder weapon, and he wouldn't bring his bloody clothes back home either." Bates frowned, "He's the best among us."

Olga repeated, chant-like, "He's the best."

They certainly didn't find any bloody clothes, suspicious footprints or anything like that in the house. There was apparently no blood in Albarino's car. Bates began to think that coming here was a complete waste – which, of course, was as expected – then at that moment, an investigator somewhere in the backyard called out, "Schwandner, can you come take a look? "

Bates replied with an "eh". Olga followed behind him, walking there: behind Albarino's house was a small wooden shed, which, from the disorderly[1] coarseness, seemed to be built by Albarino himself. The small shed held some farming tools, because evidently Albarino would plant a hint of lettuce along the corners of the walls.

[1]放荡不羁, wanton, unrestrained, letting yourself go wild

The investigator was crouching inside the shed on a moist, ash-filled vacant land, carefully picking through the dirt with latex-gloved hands. On seeing Bates' arrival, the young man looked up apprehensively and said, "So, we found burnt marks here, and then..."

He extended his hand holding a pair of tweezers, where a small, charred thing was held in between.

Bates muttered, "Bones."

His voice was dry, like he was trying to come to terms with a truth he didn't want to accept. Olga looked at him and asked, "This is...?"

"I don't know; it's been burnt too badly. I have to bring it back to the crime lab for testing, to find out what kind of bone it is," Bates muttered, "In any event, we'll have to call Bart."

When Bart Hardy returned to the interrogation room, he only saw Herstal and Albarino sitting properly side by side in two chairs, appearing similar to any normal suspect and his lawyer.

Not really, even though they were very different in whichever aspect.

"Your bureau director just called me about the 'appalling' charges the police department has against you." Hardy said wearily, heavily sitting into his chair. "And the forensic pathology supervisor even came here by himself just now, and we had some ... quite difficult conversations."

"Sounds like he was very mad." Albarino commented.

"He was obviously very mad. I don't know who leaked the news, but there are already rumors on the internet that the chief forensic pathologist of the Westland Forensic Bureau is involved in a murder case." Hardy replied, a headache forming. "For your forensic pathology supervisor now, it has become a matter of public opinion. It'll bring no good to anyone if this continues."

"So?" Albarino asked lazily.

"We'll have to keep you in custody until we determine that all the evidence against you isn't valid, or until we find another suspect; I reckon that there are reporters watching. This is the procedure." Hardy said dryly, "Albarino, I'm going to ask you just once, just to be safe: you have never harmed that young woman, right?"

"Good Lord, Officer Hardy." Herstal said calmly and dryly, mocking overflowing in his voice.

"If you're so frivolous in your private life, this type of problem might arise. I thought you would have seen a lot of these in your line of work!" Hardy said, in the tone of an overly worried elderly father.

"I don't think this matter really has anything to do with my client's private life," Herstal said in that delicately packaged lawyerly tone, "although, yes, I, too, do admit that Mr. Bacchus does have quite a debaucherous private life indeed."

Albarino elbowed Herstal in the side while saying with a serious face, "I swear I didn't kill her, Bart."

– When he said this, his tone was indeed sincere, fingers resting well-behaved on the table, as if this hand had not been around Herstal's neck just a moment before, or as if this hand, holding a knife, had not cut open other girls' throats.

Around half of the Sunday Gardener's victims were female. He had no preference for the gender of the victims he picked, and there were no similarities between the victims' looks too. Some of the victims' exceptional hair color or glowing skin were worth displaying contrasted very extragevantly against colorful flowers[2], while most victims were left with only partial bones or broken limbs.

[2]花团锦簇, idiom, lit. beautiful flowers gathering together, meaning brightly colored beautiful decorations (not necessarily flowers, but since it's the Sunday Gardener, so it's flowers here)

Albarino sat on the chair quietly, reaffirming his timeline of last night with Hardy once more. Herstal would occasionally interrupt with a few words to supplement, considering that they were together for half the night. When Albarino turned his head slightly, he could see that under the bright lighting of the interrogation room, the other's blue eyes and blond hair seemed pale in color. In that moment, when his mind wandered, he repeatedly doodled and erased on his to-do list in his heart.

The Westland Pianist, he thought– what an unexpected reward, worthy of an extraordinarily extravagant and complicated design. But, for the time being, he could wait and see in which direction they would head next, and whether Herstal had any other repertoires in mind for him.

Defense attorneys also had permission to access all the evidence related to the case for his client. They piled the table with photos of the scene and the autopsy report, which showed even the smallest detail of the sinister, swollen face of the beauty in red, without any elegance to be said. Albarino imagined the scene of Herstal half-kneeling next to this corpse leaving fake fingerprints on the murder weapon, trapped in the tiny halo delineated by dim streetlights.

And now, Herstal was looking down at those photographs, looking at a part of his piece he made by himself, with an unperturbed gaze without any pity, as if this matter really had nothing to do with him.

The bright white light of the interrogation room fell from above their heads; in this kind of light, Herstal's eyelashes looked almost silvery.

Some white, tiny flowers from the composite family[3], he thought, mentally tracing the scene of those clusters of flowers dangling from between the other man's hair. Or maybe yarrow, "the medicine of Achilles"; Achilles killed Hector to avenge the death of his beloved friend Patroclus, in spite of dissuasions. Legend has it that when he was injured on the battlefield, he used yarrow to treat his wounds.

[3]菊科 in chinese, official name "asteraceae". meaning flowers belonging to the asteraceae family, e.g. daisies, chrysanthemums, sunflowers.

Herstal lifted his eyes to look at him.

Albarino lightly tapped his knuckles on the table. He saw Herstal's eyelashes and eyelids above his blue iris casting a dim shadow, the mottled dots of pigments and radial lines making the colors look particularly magnificent. On his to-do list, Albarino added new entries: delphinium and blue cornflower, of course, the most traditional choices could never go wrong; or blue forget-me-nots, the tiny balls of flowers paired with the white flowers of yarrow; or iris, which of course, was a challenge to harmonize flowers of larger size with other species…..

"Albarino?" Herstal raised his voice with a frown, "You're not listening to us, are you?"

"Hardly," Albarino returned with a provocative smile, "but aren't you here?"

Herstal stared at him darkly.

It was at this point that Officer Hardy's cell phone rang with an alert. He looked down at it, then froze.

"Bart?" Albarino asked sweetly.

Bart looked up at him with a somber gaze and some incredulity in his eyes. He whispered, "Message from Bates. He said he found traces of burn marks in the tool shed behind your house; he also found something which looked like the remains of bone there."

Herstal glanced again at Albarino. The other had no expression of surprise on his face at all, still smiling.

"What's going on, Al?" Hardy asked good-naturedly, although it sounded like he was grinding his teeth.

"For some reason, I'm finding it difficult to be believed no matter how I explain it now." Albarino mused with a smile, "At this rate, even I'm going to suspect that I really did kill the victim– so, how about you just go through the usual process for this case. Whatever the case, we'll talk about it later after the test reports come out."

Hardy glared at him, looking like he wanted to punch him in the face, very clearly angered by this lazy attitude. They had always worked well together, so he had long overlooked how annoying Albarino could be when he went toe-to-toe with someone[4].

[4]针锋相对, idiom, lit. the tips of a needle opposing each other, meaning both sides are strongly opposing each other.

He abruptly jerked to his feet, completely giving up on continuing this conversation. "Okay, I'll talk to you when the test reports are out. Until then, I'm willing to give you and your lawyer around ten more minutes to talk, then I'll have someone to take you to your cell."

Albarino raised an eyebrow: those temporary confinement cells of the Westland Police Department were not very comfortable.

But he didn't make any other requests, or otherwise he would have really pissed Bart off. Hardy went out with heavy footsteps, leaving only two people in the room. The small red lights of the security cameras were flickering, like the eyes of a ghost gazing at them.

Albarino calmly waited until the security camera lights went out once again, like a tiny candle flame being extinguished. Then he asked calmly, "Is this what you wanted to see?"

He believed that Herstal's ultimate goal was not to put him in jail through framing him botchedly– not even if he used the excuse that he had been drinking too much that night. As a lawyer, Herstal was pretty sure that there wasn't adequate evidence for this case, so as long as Albarino was willing to hire a good lawyer, he would most likely be found not guilty.

And most importantly: after all, he wasn't the one who killed the victim. So long as the real killer was caught, he could immediately prove his innocence. When the real killer was still at large, framing wouldn't be secure no matter what you do.

So framing him into jail was only done in passing; Herstal would probably be glad to see it happen, but if it didn't he wouldn't forcibly induce it.

Albarino guessed that, currently Herstal was still more interested in what the crime scene investigation team people could find in Albarino's house: most of the dead bodies the Sunday Gardener presented to the general public were not completely intact. He would remove some parts of the corpses as he saw fit, and the fragments were never found. What exactly did he do with the bodies? Did he bury the fragments deep underground, and could only sleep when he lay on top of them? This was a question many people had thought about.

Perhaps, the Westland Pianist was no exception. If through framing someone by such simple means, you could uncover the sinful masks of others; Herstal would probably like this kind of role.

Sure enough, this person looked at him with that completely unchanging disdainful mask, "Is that the best you can do with your level?"

Albarino stared at him. Somehow, he even heard a hint of indignation in his voice, like Albarino had actually disappointed him somehow.

Albarino was silent for a moment, then actually laughed because of some aspect in Herstal's tone, "If you're interested in things inside my house, you don't have to do this, you know? Just say the word, and I'll even be willing to reveal it for you to see myself."

"We're going to talk about this openly?" Herstal lowly tutted.

"... if you want to." Albarino replied, ambiguously and gently.

Herstal stared at him intensely, as if aiming at a deer[5] among pine trees in the middle of a snowfield in winter. "From start to finish, I don't know why you did this– because I can solve the problems I face without the help of others; if you know me well enough, you will know that I am not willing to be at a disadvantage. I think it wouldn't be rude to strike back to a suitable degree, correct?"

[5]麋鹿, milu, Pere David's deer

Obviously, "strike back to a suitable degree" meant that when he put a skull on Herstal's desk, the other framed a murder case on him. Obviously, the Pianist wasn't grateful to the Sunday Gardener for helping him kill a witness.

Albarino thought it best not to remind the other that Olga had once been extremely close to the truth.

"Maybe. Because, after all, I am a very lenient person, and I didn't feel too angry anyway. This has perhaps some difference from some of your... petty[6] behavior." Albarino replied, also standing up; he was slightly taller than Herstal, and it felt pretty good to not be looked down at by the other after all. "You said, you don't know why I'm doing this. In this respect, I can try explaining."

[6]睚眦必报, idiom, seek revenge for the smallest grievance.

Herstal looked at him, his figure tense, virtually like a leopard who would strike at his prey at any moment.

"As I said before, I follow the metaphysical guidance of my muse goddess, to explore the place where you should be." With his gaze, Albarino traced the other's taut lips and replied in a low voice, "So, on the one hand, I do want to decorate you to the best of my ability–"

"Decorate", what a restrained adjective. Herstal sneered, knowing that the other's "decorate" was basically equivalent to "slit your throat with a single cut and then planting flowers inside of your wounds", at most including some artistic treatment; but for that already dead person, it was still not any better.

"But on the other hand," Albarino spat out the latter words in a low voice. This was a scene his friends had never seen before; his pupils seemed like an immense whole which could devour the hearts of people, with its dark and sinful look. "I also want to restrain you on this table and fuck you until you cry– To be honest, I'm on the fence[7], Mr. Armalight."

[7]举棋不定, idiom, lit. hesitate on what move to make, meaning wavering, indecisive.

Herstal wanted to answer something, but his words, as malicious as a knife, were stuck inside of his throat. Because, in the next second the door was knocked twice, neither too heavily nor too lightly, and a police officer pushed his way in, with handcuffs undoubtedly in his hands. This sudden guest silently put an end to what Herstal was about to say. The officer had obviously heard of Albarino's name and identity, so now he looked very awkward.

Clearly, Albarino did not care, so he merely put his hand out and obediently let the other handcuffed his wrists. Herstal had seen that hand holding a scalpel, so he too had to admit that the scene now appeared oddly unharmonious.

"Also, I have to say one last thing, Herstal." Albarino said without raising his head. The cheerfulness in his voice was so excessive it was disgusting, almost as if he didn't realize he was going to be thrown into jail. "Although, obviously, I have no opportunity of being in charge of the autopsy of this current case, but I still did see some photos of the crime scene– objectively speaking, that sprig of mint was placed in such an ugly way, don't you think so?"

"Our exchanges might be more valuable if you didn't always say such nonsensical things, Mr. Bacchus." Herstal commented coldly.

The young officer was clearly baffled, but Albarino didn't care either. He walked slowly towards the door, adding unnecessarily before he left: "This is like the Richard Norman case to the Sunday Gardener. I'm sure that, in his heart, he felt the same towards that 'Cain' metaphor; otherwise, he wouldn't have painstakingly gone and killed Thomas Norman."

He heard Herstal's completely undisguised huff of resentment.

Albarino turned his hand and glimpsed at him, beaming at him with a brilliant smile.

"... brutally murdered this woman. Informed sources in the WLPD say that Albarino Bacchus, chief forensic pathologist of the Westland Forensic Bureau, is a prime suspect. As of now, Mr. Bacchus has now been summoned by the police..."

This news was being played in a fast food restaurant down the street, whose hygiene was definitely not up to standard. Barely anyone was listening to the reporter's stiff, completely flat voice. The dispirited staff was busy working behind the counter, air filled with the smell of deep-fried food and cheap meat.

A few customers were sitting behind the oily tables, swallowing their own definitely not delicious meal. A burly guy in a plaid shirt and gray pants sat by a table in front of the TV, picking sticky, wilted lettuce out of the burger in his hand.

At some point, he stopped the motions in his hand and instead looked up at the TV with poor resolution: it was showing mosaic-blurred pictures of the victim, the corner of the beautiful woman's mouth still upturned. The host was currently lamenting something about wounds after a breakup and manslaughter; not very professional, but this was a local channel few people watched anyway.

"Witnesses say they got into an argument at a bar that night ..."

The mediocre-looking man looked at the photograph of the chief forensic pathologist that was displayed on the screen, showing the young man smiling senselessly towards the audience.

This man didn't seem to realize that salad dressing was already dripping down his fingers. His frown kept deepening, as if he had seen something dirty.

Finally, he tightened his fingers in resentment, pushed back his chair strongly and stood up.

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

Herstal: Are you the sexual pervert or am I?

Al: That sprig of mint was placed in such an ugly way.

Herstal: Are you stupid enough to burn bones in the backyard of your own house?

Al: That sprig of mint was placed in such an ugly way.

Herstal: My intention wasn't to–

Al: "Cain" that case was done pretty ugly too.

Herstal:...