"The killer did this deliberately?" Inspector Duke asked, puzzled.
Yet deep down, what had truly struck him was another word Karen had used: *artwork*.
A young man,
actually referring to the victim's remains as a "work of art."
Duke knew that Karen had merely put himself in the killer's shoes, but the fact that he could adopt that perspective and formulate such a description so swiftly and effortlessly made it hard not to feel unnerved.
Still, Duke wanted to hear what the young man had to say next. He pressed, "How did you arrive at that conclusion?"
"It's obvious this wasn't a crime of passion."
"Mm," Inspector Duke nodded.
A crime of passion was the opposite of premeditated murder—having had no prior intent to kill, the perpetrator lost control under provocation or incitement from the victim and struck them dead.
With so much arrangement and staging done to this body, it had moved far beyond a crime of passion; the killer had carried out an extensive sequence of post-mortem preparations.
Duke twirled his pipe and continued, "And what led you to that conclusion? After all, we haven't conducted a thorough investigation of the scene yet, have we?"
Karen hesitated a moment before answering, "A feeling."
"A feeling?"
"Yes. The feeling I got when I saw the body."
"Investigating by feeling?" Inspector Duke raised a hand. "No, I'd like to hear about this feeling of yours. Could you be more specific?"
"The killer concealed the body beneath the stage..."
Duke interjected, "So the killer is intimately familiar with the layout of this ballroom. And paired with your earlier claim that this accident was deliberately engineered, that means the killer is either an employee here or, at the very least, a regular patron.
"Oh, forgive me, I interrupted you again. Please, go on."
"I can only follow my intuition, Inspector," Karen explained again.
"It's fine. Speak freely."
"A ballroom is a lively place—crowded, noisy, full of hustle and bustle. Normally, when a killer disposes of a body, the primary objective is to destroy the evidence. Here, it's completely different.
"The killer chose to place the body here and went through such elaborate, painstaking staging because his objective was to unveil it on some future day... specifically, today.
"It's like a painter covering a completed canvas with a red cloth, waiting until all the guests have gathered before drawing it back to reveal the work to everyone.
"Furthermore,
"I think placing it beneath the stage carries another layer of meaning."
"Another layer of meaning?"
"Even though it wasn't a crime of passion, the killer was clearly driven by an overwhelming sense of hatred."
"Don't worry about that. Once we identify the victim, we'll look into his social circle and focus on anyone who had conflicts or disputes with him."
"No, no, you misunderstand me. The hatred I'm referring to isn't the kind you're thinking of, Inspector."
"It isn't?"
"It doesn't seem like the resentment that builds from friction among coworkers, relatives, neighbors, or friends—the everyday sphere of life where grievances accumulate and turn into a motive for murder.
"The hatred I'm talking about is on a completely different level.
"Look at how the killer treated the corpse. There's far too much attention to detail. It carries not only heavy religious undertones, but also the emotional expression of an artist—like a sculptor."
"I understand each of those words individually, but when you string them together, I'm a bit..."
"Come with me."
By now, Uncle Mason and the others had carried the critically injured victim outside, leaving only Karen and Inspector Duke in the main hall.
Because neither Duke nor Karen had cried out when they discovered the body inside the hole in the center of the stage, no one else in the earlier chaos had even noticed there was a corpse here that had nothing to do with the "accident."
Karen stepped down from the stage and walked toward the seating area. The layout of the ballroom strongly resembled a theater. In fact, before it became a ballroom, it had indeed been one of Rojia City's theaters.
Thus, heading from the stage toward the "auditorium"—the booth area—meant climbing upward along tiered steps, growing higher toward the back, much like an amphitheater.
Karen continued upward, stopping when he reached the middle section.
Here stood high, round cocktail tables, so small they could hold only a few glasses of alcohol, and devoid of any chairs. If patrons wanted to sit comfortably, they had to spend extra to book the booths down front.
This area was meant for setting down a glass while chatting with friends. Of course, if you were a woman, you were free to wander down and share tables and drinks with whoever caught your fancy.
Unlike Uncle Mason, who had long since hung up his dancing shoes, Ron was a regular at this ballroom, and this section was his personal stomping ground because there was no minimum spend here.
A dance lasted only three minutes and cost five lubi. Even though Ron made a decent wage, he had plenty of expenses, so he couldn't indulge in dancing with the partners all night long.
Most of the time, he would clutch a single beer, occasionally wetting his lips as he looked left and right, ogling the scantily clad beauties.
He would wait until the most stunning, alluring one appeared before inviting her for a dance or two. As soon as the music stopped, he would pay her the fee, step off the stage, and return here. He would wet his lips with that same beer again, slowly savoring the afterglow while looking for his next partner.
Ron had shared all of this himself during the drive over. He had been quite proud of how he stretched his pleasure to its absolute limit on the smallest possible budget.
Karen looked back; Inspector Duke was standing right behind him.
"Inspector, please turn around."
"All right."
Inspector Duke turned. Standing halfway up the tiered hall, he faced the stage below.
Karen's voice came from behind him.
"Now, Inspector, use your imagination. This is no longer a ballroom that just suffered a stage collapse. Picture it during regular business hours.
"Listen. The music has already begun—it's the lively tempo of 'Elf of Rojia.'"
It was an upbeat tune, one Aunt Mary loved playing while working in her studio.
"Look. The lights have dimmed. The patrons have chosen their partners and stepped onto the stage.
"Look at the center of the stage. Hundreds of couples are swaying in each other's arms.
"Around the edges, a few pairs are dancing proper ballroom steps—not flawless, perhaps, but respectable.
"And inside the crowd? Male patrons are pressed flush against the dancers, their hands slipping toward places they shouldn't be, caressing them relentlessly.
"Listen. The hum of surging hormones crackles and swells across the floor.
"Look. Everything before your eyes is the concentrated manifestation of raw human desire. Clinging together under the cover of one another's bodies, they tear away their pretenses, perhaps even reveling in a public thrill.
"Now look up.
"On the glass stage overhead, another provocative spectacle unfolds.
"Morality, ethics, modesty—all of it cast aside below the stage. Money and primal lust bare their fangs and claws. What should be hidden away in shame becomes flaunted without restraint right before you, upon these two levels of stages."
Guided by Karen's narration,
a scene just like that seemed to materialize before Duke's eyes. Light and shadow shifted and intertwined.
"Now, cast your gaze back down to the stage. Toward the center, then slowly, slowly lower... until your eyes fall beneath the stage.
"Tell me.
"What do you see?"
Inspector Duke replied, "A corpse. A corpse with a Berry Bible on its chest, posed in a deliberate mockery."
"Then tell me, what posture is he in?"
"He's lying down."
"Oh, is he?"
"Isn't he?"
"From where you stand right now, look closely again. Is he... truly lying down?"
Duke's gaze hardened. From this vantage point, as his mental perspective shifted, he couldn't help but gasp:
"No... he isn't lying down. He is standing upright! And the people dancing on the stage—they are the ones lying down!"
Inspector Duke clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened.
He had suddenly realized something.
This spot was the position of an observer—no, of an admirer.
Slowly, Duke turned his head to the left.
In his mind's eye, a dark silhouette seemed to appear, standing right beside him with a faint smile, admiring this living, moving tableau before them.
He... was the killer!
Instinctively, Duke reached out to seize him.
Yet the moment his hand brushed against the dark figure, the silhouette dissipated. The shifting interplay of light and shadow dissolved with it, returning the surroundings to the ruined mess of reality.
No other sound remained except his own heavy breathing.
Duke turned back to Karen and said, "He's someone who kills for pleasure. He was appreciating his work."
The situation had just become grave.
An accident was unforeseen; the death and injury it caused brought grief to loved ones.
A psychopathic serial killer was different. His very existence could plunge all of Rojia City into terror.
"He doesn't even think he's killing," Karen said. "He is painting. In his mind, he is presenting a work of art."
"Then the Berry Bible, the flowerpot on the stomach, the middle fingers, the naked corpse... all of that..." Duke frowned slightly. "All of that seems... seems..."
"You want to say that all of it seems insignificant now, don't you, Inspector?"
"I... yes, that's what it feels like."
"Because the overall imagery is already complete. Or more accurately, those details are merely supporting elements meant to fill out the composition and elevate the artistic tone."
"So whether it's the pot, the fingers, or *Song of the Soul*, investigating them is essentially pointless? They weren't deliberate statements, just props the killer casually threw together?
"And it's even very likely that this corpse—whose identity I don't yet know—wasn't a Berry believer at all?"
Karen nodded, but offered a gentle reminder: "However, the Berry religion aspires to nature, and nature is base instinct."
"Right," Inspector Duke said. "Some Berry followers love hosting orgies, viewing such behavior as a way to commune with nature. And that element happens to echo the scene on the dance floor.
"So the killer isn't a Berry believer, nor does he harbor a grudge against the religion. His hatred stems from that attitude—or rather, what he hates is diametrically opposed to what the Berry religion promotes."
"You're right, Inspector," Karen said. "An artwork without emotional release is merely an empty, elaborate assemblage. It cannot bring joy to the creator. Hatred can also be a form of pleasure, and pleasure requires projection.
"The corpse wasn't placed here as punishment. He isn't the object of the killer's vengeance, but the vessel for the killer's projection.
"When the killer stood here watching all of this, he could project himself into that body standing there, while the men and women dancing vulgar dances across the two tiers of the stage became the targets of his malice and derision.
"He is standing, while they are lying down. Like a god looking down upon filthy, wretched mortals. That is a hatred far beyond ordinary comprehension."
Inspector Duke nodded, then shook his head. "I feel like I'm grasping something, yet I still don't have a clear thread. The killer... projection... That means the killer and the victim might not have had any enmity between them. In fact, they might have been close—very close—because only then could the killer..."
Karen smiled. "Project himself into the victim."
Inspector Duke tapped his pipe against his temple and let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle.
"Ha... ha..."
Then he let out a long breath. "I feel like everything you just said is completely unfounded, pure imagination and fabrication. Yet against all reason, it makes absolute sense."
"I'm merely fulfilling my duty as an upstanding citizen to preserve goodness and order in this city."
"When the investigation proceeds, I'll pay close attention to those close to the victim. The closer they were, the closer I'll look."
Karen remained silent.
"You're an Inmeles? What's your relation to Mason?"
"I'm his nephew. He's my uncle."
"Ah, I knew it. No way you were just a hired hand. A handsome young man like you wouldn't need to haul bodies to make a living. You could stand right here and wait for wealthy ladies to pay for the pleasure of dancing with you."
Duke burst into hearty laughter at his own attempt at humor.
Karen offered only a polite smile.
He had grown rather accustomed to it; in this world, there was always a subtle kind of malice directed at good-looking people.
"My name is Duke Marlow. You can call me Pipestem Duke."
"Karen Inmeles."
"Karen, how old are you this year?"
"Fifteen."
"Tsk. Mason has quite the remarkable nephew. What we just went through back there—that's a first in all my years on the force."
Just then, other police officers began entering the hall.
"If there's any progress on the case... No, whether there is or isn't, I'll come find you again. Mink Street... Number 13, was it?"
"Yes, Inspector."
Inspector Duke turned and called out to the arriving officers:
"There's a murder victim beneath the hole in the center of the stage. Secure that area, then contact headquarters and request additional reinforcements."
As he continued down the steps, his back turned to Karen, he muttered under his breath:
*A nephew who can spiritually resonate with a psychotic killer...*
Having taken only a few steps, Duke stopped abruptly and looked back at Karen.
"One more thing."
"Go ahead."
"When I examined the body earlier, I noticed it had undergone some embalming. Coupled with the winter cold, decomposition would take quite a while. The killer could have gone on enjoying that pleasure—or hatred—for much longer.
"Why did he choose to unveil the corpse... the artwork, in this manner?
"I can understand his desire to show it off, but it seems to me he could have played with it a while longer, couldn't he?"
Karen looked at Inspector Duke and answered, "It's possible the killer grew tired of the old and wanted something new."
Duke's pupils contracted slightly. "You mean the killer has already picked out a new target?"
"No."
"Oh..." Duke breathed a sigh of relief.
Karen continued,
"The killer might already be admiring it right now."
...
Karen walked out of the ballroom. Outside, two ambulances had already arrived. Many injured victims were being loaded into them, and the earlier chaotic scene had regained some semblance of order.
What made Karen feel awkward, however, was that the Inmeles family's modified "Nutshell" hearse was nowhere to be seen.
Had Uncle Mason been so preoccupied with hauling "guests" that he hadn't even noticed his nephew wasn't in the car?!
Left with no alternative, Karen prepared to hail a cab home.
The reason he had taken the initiative to construct a criminal profile for Duke earlier wasn't because he had an itch to play detective. It was because he had an urgent need to build external social connections. Even though he didn't dare run away from home just yet, that didn't stop him from preparing for the future—such as getting to know more people.
As for hiding his abilities, there was really no point. When you have a grandfather at home constantly weighing whether to kill you, what would you even be holding back for?
Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of Karen.
A man stepped out of the vehicle, wearing a flat cap, with an aquiline nose and a sharp chin.
After the man got out,
Karen naturally slipped inside, only to realize after settling in that a woman in a gray dress was fast asleep in the back seat, her head resting against the far window.
The taxi driver turned around and called out:
"Ma'am? Ma'am, you've reached your destination."
The woman was jolted awake. Opening the door on her side to get out, she muttered in mild complaint:
"The boss is unbelievable. The police already ruled it an accident, so how could it possibly have anything to do with an aberrant demon? Yet he insisted on coming to check. Hey, Boss, wait for me!"
"Where to, sir?"
"Sir?
"Sir?"
"Ah, yes?" Karen responded, slightly dazed.
"Where are you headed, sir? You have to give me an address so I can take you there."
"13 Mink Street."
"Right away."
The taxi started moving.
Silently, Karen slowly opened his clenched left hand, gazing at the burn scar of the crucifix etched across his palm.
*Did she just say... aberrant demon?*
At that moment,
Karen suddenly felt a wave of guilt and unease, paired with an unsettling sense of dread.
The world outside of home...
didn't seem quite so pleasant after all...
Chapter 13