The Murderer!

"Look, this is the watch." Mrs. Seymour brought out a black box. Inside rested a gold Miffet watch. Not long ago, Mrs. Hughes had given him a Monroe worth two thousand lubi. The market price of Mrs. Seymour's watch, however, was ten times that—a full twenty thousand lubi. Next door, Piaget's consulting fee had been twenty thousand lubi in one go, and now Mrs. Seymour was directly offering a twenty-thousand-lubi watch. All Karen could say was that the people living on this street were truly wealthy. A normal person's hard-earned annual income—before taxes and expenses—was nothing more than casual pocket change in the eyes of the truly rich. "It's very beautiful, a very exquisite watch," Karen said. "As long as you like it." Mrs. Seymour smiled. "No, madam, it is far too valuable. I cannot accept it." Karen was not merely being coy or putting on airs; he genuinely had no intention of taking it. In his past life, he had started as an ordinary young man and gradually achieved material wealth through his own hard work. In this life, the Inmerless household had no shortage of food or drink, so his relationship with money was quite steady. Haggling with taxi drivers was not about begrudging the fare, but about hating the feeling of being fleeced like a gullible sheep. Of course he liked money, but he was hardly desperate for it. If the Inmerless family had been an ordinary poor household with so many mouths to feed crammed into public housing, he probably would have accepted the watch with a grin. Simply put, he wasn't poor enough. At first, Mrs. Seymour thought Karen was just being bashful and tried to urge him several times, but she soon realized he genuinely did not want it. "How about this? I hear therapists can be hired for courses of treatment, yes?" "Right now, I only provide services to clients of our family. Of course, if you need it, madam, I can provide counseling for you." "Then take this watch as an advance payment for the coming year's consulting fees. Would that work? You can pay me a home visit once a month. Or, whenever things aren't busy at your home, I can come over and ask you for guidance." "Even framed like that, it's far too much." "I think it's well worth it. Do you know how much I spent in total on my husband's funeral?" Karen parted his lips. He knew it was the Plan B package that had made Aunt Mary so thrilled, but he could not state the price outright. The prices on the family's menu were grossly inflated, meant to be discounted according to the customer's reactions. Karen knew the base cost, but he didn't know the final figure the family had settled on with Mrs. Seymour. If he quoted a price too low, wouldn't that make Mrs. Seymour realize she had been completely ripped off? Business was business; profit margins fluctuated, and both parties had entered into it willingly. Karen understood that, and no matter what, there was no need to undermine his own family's business. "Two hundred thousand lubi." Mrs. Seymour held up two fingers. *Phew...* Karen breathed a sigh of relief. His uncle and aunt hadn't gouged her too ruthlessly; it was still within a reasonable range. That sum was enough to cremate Mr. Mossan and Jeff back and forth twenty times over. "So, you see, when I was willing to spend two hundred thousand lubi on a funeral for that dead bastard, what does giving you a watch matter?" Although Mrs. Seymour's emotions had stabilized, her hatred for Mr. Seymour was still very much alive. "I don't mind if you laugh at me, but I'm just afraid—afraid that from now on, I'll be very lonely." When Mrs. Seymour said this, there was no lust or affection in her eyes; the words carried no hidden flirtation. She had grown accustomed to being a virtuous wife, but right before dying, her husband had struck a shattering blow to her entire worldview. "I understand, madam. I am willing to provide psychological services for you. If you ever need me, you can call directly," Karen said. "That's wonderful. Come, let me put this watch on your wrist myself." Once the watch was fastened, Mrs. Seymour stepped back a few paces, studied him closely, and said, "What a handsome young man." *** Stepping out of the Seymour residence and waving goodbye to the warmly parting Mrs. Seymour, Karen walked toward the end of the street, where hailing a cab would be easier. As he walked, he took off the watch and put it away. The golden retriever bounded happily along; nobody at the Inmerless household had been willing to take it on a long walk lately. Karen carried Purr on his shoulder. This cat wouldn't run off wildly at the sight of stray cats on the street, so there was no worry about losing her. Standing at the intersection, Karen hailed a taxi. "13 Mink Street." "Right away, sir." Karen kept his eyes closed during the ride. The first thing that surfaced in his mind was the situation at Piaget's house. Had Piaget started killing people for sport after developing a split personality? No matter how he thought about it, it didn't seem likely. Although a voice over the telephone could be disguised—turning a male voice into a female one or vice versa—it didn't require any voice changer, because the telephone audio of this era already had a heavy metallic distortion. Yet Piaget did not match his psychological profile of that twisted serial killer. Piaget might be a bit awkward when it came to interpersonal relations, but someone capable of deliberately inducing an "alternate personality" in himself was by no means stupid. Then did that mean the paintings he saw in Linda's studio were a coincidence? It didn't feel like a genuine coincidence, either. Karen felt a headache coming on and couldn't help rubbing his brow. That sensation of nausea and dizziness hadn't completely dissipated ever since he laid eyes on that third painting depicting the judgment of the Church of Order. "Are you car sick, sir?" the driver asked, observing Karen in the rearview mirror. "I can drive a bit slower." "No, I'm fine. Please drive a bit faster instead." "Understood." The taxi pulled over to the curb. Karen paid the fare and got out. It suddenly occurred to him that he ought to get a driver's license and buy a car. A license wouldn't be hard to obtain, and a secondhand car wouldn't cost too much. More importantly, getting a cab in Rojia City was inconvenient, not to mention expensive. Karen walked into the living room and saw Aunt Mary sitting on the sofa with Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes's eyes were rimmed with red as she dabbed at her tears with a tissue, while Aunt Mary consoled her from the side. It had been too late last night, so Mrs. Hughes hadn't come inside. Today, she had come to seek comfort from her close friend. "Don't worry, I'll prepare Old Darcy beautifully and arrange a very dignified funeral for him. Sigh, the murderer is truly abominable. Poor Old Darcy." Hearing Aunt Mary say this to Mrs. Hughes, Karen couldn't resist walking over to remind her: "Yes. Even though the killer brutally dismembered Old Darcy into dozens of pieces, Aunt's skills will surely handle it without a problem." "Damned Old Darcy!" Aunt Mary blurted out. She truly had only just learned that Old Darcy had been turned into plural Old Darcys. The moment the curse slipped out, she quickly changed her tune: "To think that damned murderer would treat Old Darcy like this!" With that, Aunt Mary forgot all about comforting Mrs. Hughes. She pulled out a tissue and began wiping her own tears. "What's wrong?" Mrs. Hughes looked at Aunt Mary. Weren't you supposed to be comforting me? Aunt Mary choked out, "My heart aches for Old Darcy. He really... suffered too terribly." Mrs. Hughes looked up at Karen standing nearby, forcing a smile. "Karen, your aunt and I are planning to have barbecue tonight. Why don't you come with us? It's a very famous barbecue place." "I think I'll pass," Karen declined. Aunt Mary raised her head, her eyes slightly red. "Go. I want to drink tonight, and you're the only adult man in the house fit to accompany us." Karen suggested, "I can call Uncle." Aunt Mary roared, nearly losing her temper, "I'm not giving him the chance to carry both of us drunk women into bed together!" "All right, I'll go." "Wait for me a moment. I'll go downstairs first to finish up with those clients." "All right, Mary." Aunt Mary stood up, dabbing at her tears with the tissue as she headed toward the basement. Once she walked down the ramp, a loud shout echoed from below: "*Fuck*, poor Old Darcy!!!" On the sofa, Mrs. Hughes let out a long sigh of relief and even winked at Karen. "Mary has her work cut out for her. Oh, by the way, Karen, where's the watch I gave you? Why aren't you wearing it? Don't you like it?" Mrs. Hughes noticed Karen's wrist was bare. "I like the watch you gave me very much, madam, but I haven't formed the habit of wearing one yet. I forgot it when I woke up this morning. Perhaps I'll get used to it later on." "That's good to hear. I was worried you looked down on the Monroe I gave you." "How could I? That's the most valuable gift I've ever received outside of my family." Just then, the telephone rang. Karen walked over and answered it. "Hello, is this the Inmerless residence? I'm looking for Karen." Sergeant Duke's voice came through the receiver. "Hello, Sergeant Duke. This is Karen." "We identified the body found under the Crown Ballroom stage. His name was Cole, from the neighboring city. He came to Rojia three months ago looking for work. That's the feedback from their police department. "I've already sent officers to canvas the neighborhoods he frequented. We should have concrete details soon—where he worked, what kind of people he associated with." "It would be easier to find leads if it were published in the newspaper," Karen said. "I submitted a request, but it was denied. The reason given was that the state of the corpse would cause public panic and provoke protests from the Berry religion. "I'd love nothing more than to kick a second hole in those politicians' asses with my boots! "They're just busy with the elections and desperate to sweep it under the rug. If we could have published it immediately with the victim's photo, we might not have even needed the other department's help to uncover his local connections by now. "Now all I can do is pray we move faster. "I've already mapped out Old Darcy's circle of acquaintances, and now I'm just waiting on that poor bastard Cole. Just like you said: once the two social circles overlap, we'll narrow down the killer's identity, right?" "Yes." "I still want to ask you one more thing, Karen. Is the killer really that stupid, targeting people close to him? Wouldn't he be discovered in no time?" "My intuition and experience tell me that's the case. And the reality is, you still haven't caught him." "Heh, are you saying the police are so stupid that we make the killer look smart by comparison?" "I didn't say that." "Sigh..." Sergeant Duke let out a breath over the line. The sound of a match striking followed; he was probably lighting his pipe. "You said the bastard will strike again soon to finish his piece-of-shit art project. I hope we can track him down and catch him before he kills the next one." "I hope so too." "All right, I'm hanging up. I'll let you know once there's news. For some reason, I have a feeling your judgment is spot on." "Thank you." After hanging up, Karen smiled at Mrs. Hughes and pointed toward the basement. "Madam, I'll go downstairs to help Aunt Mary." "Go ahead." Karen went down to the mortuary studio. Three bodies lay inside: two from the Crown Ballroom—one of whom was Mr. Seymour—and another sent over from the hospital. All three corpses had been prepared meticulously, appearing peaceful and natural, as if merely asleep. Aunt Mary was sitting on a round stool, legs crossed, a cigarette between her fingers as she puffed away with furious intensity. However, that posture had accidentally caught the hem of her skirt between her thighs, exposing almost an entire leg right up to the hip. Karen closed his eyes and gave a small cough. When he opened his eyes again, Aunt Mary had adjusted her posture and smoothed down her skirt. "Karen, you knew Old Darcy was in dozens of pieces all along, didn't you?" "Yes," Karen admitted. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to piece dozens of fragments back into a person? I'll have to dig through a basin the size of a bathtub, sorting through piece by piece, matching them, and stitching them together. "I'd rather do Lunt's jigsaw puzzles than touch this!" "I know it's hard, Aunt Mary, but only you can pull it off." "Why didn't you tell me earlier? Do you know how much we could have charged if we'd negotiated beforehand? I just agreed to treat this as a welfare case! "Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Aunt Mary clutched her hair. "Going by our usual rates, restoration work like this starts at over ten thousand lubi!" She quickly tacked on, "And that's just the mortician's complexity bonus!" "You've worked hard, Aunt Mary. But I think this bill can be factored into the buyout offer for Hughes Crematorium later." Hearing that, Aunt Mary's expression softened considerably. But soon, she realized something and demanded: "Wait, that's not what I asked! You clearly knew beforehand, so why didn't you tell me?" "Grandfather instructed me not to." "Grandfather?" "I asked Grandfather whether we should inform you of the job's difficulty in advance. Grandfather said there was no need—he said you are the finest mortician he has ever seen in his life." "Grandfather really said that?" "Yes." The irritation finally melted from Aunt Mary's face. But a moment later, her eyes narrowed, and she clenched her fist. "We'll talk about the buyout later. Tonight, I'm ordering several bottles of fine wine and making her wallet bleed!" "Didn't you say we were having barbecue?" Karen asked. "Yes, of course, but it's barbecue at a winery." "I don't drink, though." "You can drink grape juice. I wouldn't dare let you get drunk anyway—who else would take us home once we're wasted? "Besides, your grandfather isn't home today and probably won't be back until tomorrow. This is our golden opportunity." *** At four-thirty in the afternoon, Karen and Aunt Mary climbed into Mrs. Hughes's car, heading toward Rojia City's East District. Since they were heading east, Mrs. Hughes turned down Mink Street, which meant passing through the row-house section. Karen wanted to ask her not to take that route, as he still harbored an uneasy feeling about 128 Mink Street—the townhouse where Uncle Mason's first love and her family lived. However, Mrs. Hughes drove quickly, and they were already approaching. After a moment's hesitation, Karen decided against asking for a detour. "Looks like this family is moving out." A large truck blocked most of the road ahead, forcing Mrs. Hughes to slow down. Karen saw that the house moving out was indeed No. 128. Uncle Mason had mentioned that due to what happened with Jeff, his former flame's family would be moving soon. It seemed today was the day. Karen's gaze instinctively drifted toward the second-floor French window, but the curtains were drawn tight, revealing nothing. "Karen, what's wrong?" Aunt Mary looked at him with curiosity. "Feeling unwell?" "No, I'm fine." "Mary, what if I buy a townhouse here after selling the crematorium? That way, we could be neighbors and live close to each other." "Sounds great. Then you can come over and help me whenever we're busy." "Hahaha! Aren't you afraid I'll slice off those male clients' dicks and steal them to play with at night?" "Karen is right here! Don't you have any shame?" Aunt Mary scolded her. "Fine, fine, I hear you. Let me see which number is opening up... No. 128. Got it. I'll have an agent look at the vacant house and check the price another day." After about half an hour of driving, they pulled into a suburban estate bearing a sign that read "Friday Winery." "Is business slow here?" Karen asked as they got out of the car. "Of course. That's why the owner branched out to bring in extra revenue," Mrs. Hughes answered, before turning to the approaching server. "I have a reservation, Table 7. Also, bring up the wine I have stored here." "Right away, madam." The barbecue was self-serve. The meat was good quality, but Karen didn't care much for barbecue. In his past life, he had stomach issues; in this life, his body was still frail, so enjoying heavy cuts of grilled meat was a luxury he couldn't yet afford. He ate only a little, spending most of his time grilling for Aunt Mary and Mrs. Hughes. The two attractive women drank freely and chatted about amusing memories from the past, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Around nine in the evening, at Karen's urging, the two tipsy women finally agreed to call an end to the night's revelry. Walking to the parking lot, Karen had to support one on each arm; left to themselves, they would have tumbled straight to the ground. Having an arm around each of them was hardly an enviable experience. Both women reeked of alcohol and dry-heaved from time to time, filling the air with a faint sour stench that instantly snuffed out any improper thoughts. Mrs. Hughes pulled open the car door, intending to slide into the driver's seat. Karen didn't dare let her drive drunk. Even if she had the nerve to take the wheel, he wouldn't dare get in. "Madam, let me drive." "You... know how... to drive?" Mrs. Hughes asked with a giggle. "I do." "You're... really... really... amazing." Mrs. Hughes fell against Karen's chest, her right finger naturally resting against his breast and tracing small circles. Karen gently pushed her back and settled her into the rear seat alongside Aunt Mary. Then he took the driver's seat and started the engine. Just as the car pulled out of Friday Winery, Karen saw a police cruiser pulling in, the two vehicles passing each other. *Heh, using a police car for personal business could hardly be more obvious.* *** To familiarize himself with the car, and because it was his first time driving since waking up—and most importantly, because it was a manual transmission—Karen drove very slowly. The two women in the back had long since fallen asleep. Karen rolled down the window, letting the fresh night breeze drift in. At a quarter past ten, Karen drove back to Mink Street. He got out first, helped Aunt Mary out of the car, guided her through the gate, and walked into the living room. "How did she drink so much?" Aunt Winnie, who was sitting on the sofa balancing accounts, hurried over to support Aunt Mary, calling upstairs for Mina to come down and help. "Where is Uncle?" Karen asked. "He's not allowed to take her home!" The drunken aunt suddenly snapped to full alertness. "He's not allowed to drive her back!" Aunt Winnie didn't know whether to laugh or get angry. "Mason got a call after dinner and took the hearse to pick up a client. The Malonco family's funeral home had a falling out with a customer, so that customer wanted to transfer their relative's body to us. He hasn't returned yet." "Oh, good then." Aunt Mary nodded, and then, right onto the floor: "*Blech...*" Karen stepped back a few paces, lightly pinching his nose. "Then I'll drive Mrs. Hughes back home." "Can't she take a cab? Oh, wait, cabs aren't safe." A drunken woman taking a taxi home alone late at night was hardly reassuring. "It's Mrs. Hughes's car anyway. After I drop her off, I'll leave the car at her house and take a cab back myself." "All right. If it's hard to find a cab then, call home, and I'll have Mason pick you up." "Understood, Aunt." Karen left the house and returned to the car. In the back seat, Mrs. Hughes lay sprawled horizontally, her skirt pushed all the way up over her torso. Karen took one glance, shook his head with a faint smile, and started the engine again. *** Rojia City Police Department. Sergeant Duke had his pipe clenched between his teeth, dozing in his chair. He hadn't closed his eyes for several days straight and could only catch brief naps in his office whenever there was a lull. *Ring-ring-ring... ring-ring-ring...* Sergeant Duke snapped his eyes open and grabbed the receiver. "Hello, Duke speaking." "Sergeant, we found it! We found a lead!" "Spit it out!" "Cole used to work at an estate in our city called 'Friday Winery.' They serve food there too. Cole worked as a server for a month before quitting." "Quit?" "Yes! According to his coworkers, Cole bragged to them that he had hooked up with a widowed lady who often dined and drank there, and she took him in as her lover." "Did you find out who the lady is?" "It's the owner of Hughes Crematorium—Mrs. Hughes." Sergeant Duke bolted to his feet. Cole... Old Darcy... One was her lover. The other was her longtime employee. The killer truly had struck only at the people closest to her. Sergeant Duke gripped the telephone receiver, his face frozen in disbelief. Karen had been completely right. This murderer... Really was that stupid!