Chapter 27

Chapter 27: Rain Rain Go Away 06
When Albanino Bax charged impetuously into the evidence laboratory, Bates still felt somewhat dazed.
At that moment, Bates was standing in front of the table in his white lab coat, holding a blowtorch in one hand and a skull in the other. No one knew what that combination in his hands was for. When Albanino came charging toward him with that astonishing black eye, he could only let out a sound that meant questioning: “Uh, Al?”
“We’ve brought you something you could call evidence.” Albanino screeched to a halt in front of him, then pulled something from his pocket: a shard of broken porcelain wrapped in a latex glove, possibly once part of a cup or something similar, with a bit of dried blood on one of its sharp edges.
“If we can detect DNA belonging to the killer Johnny or DNA belonging to Hestal Amaret on it, this case is solved,” said Lavasa McCade, standing behind Albanino. But looking at his posture with his arms crossed, one couldn’t help but feel he didn’t seem too happy either.
“But can either of you explain the whole sequence of events to me?” Bates, who had been inexplicably handed a piece of porcelain, still felt completely confused.
“That’s right, we visited a potential suspect named Elliot Evans,” Albanino said lightly. “While Agent Bacchus kept him occupied, I searched his home as thoroughly as I could—no other suspicious bloodstains, except for this tiny bit on a pile of broken porcelain shards he’d thrown in the trash. Oh, and the house he’s renting has a basement, and it’s currently locked.”
“So either this is Amaretto’s blood, or it’s the killer Johnny’s blood—is that what you’re thinking?” Bates’s eyes widened. He almost unconsciously tightened his grip on the porcelain shard and gestured for the other two to follow him toward another lab.
“That’s what I’m hoping. Elliot Evans matches Morozer’s profile of the killer Johnny, not to mention he has some suspicious wounds on his hands.” McCade nodded, his tone sounding quite certain.
They followed Bates through the long corridor, walking so quickly that many of the scientists in the hallway cast them surprised glances. As soon as they had left Elliot’s house, they had called Officer Hardy, and by now there must be plenty of people waiting for news from here.
Bates stared at the porcelain shard in his hand, then suddenly pointed out, “Albanino, you know this is illegally obtained evidence. Legally speaking—”
“It’s illegally obtained evidence, of course. But it’s still enough to apply for a search warrant.” Albanino’s voice was gloomy. “If—and I mean if—there’s a hostage being held captive in his basement, I don’t think the prosecutor would care too much about a tiny porcelain shard not being presented to the jury.”
“But, Dr. Bax, he’s your friend,” McCade suddenly said.
Albanino’s mouth tightened. After a moment, he replied, “He’s a friend I don’t yet know very well… After I discovered there’s a locked basement in his house, I feel I know him even less than before.”
“How did you get to know him?” McCade asked again.
“A little accident, a bit of a whim.” Albanino shrugged, his eyes calmly fixed ahead. “You know, I think his face is quite handsome.”
Dr. Albanino Bacchus’s romantic escapades were widely rumored in the industry—during the Bob Landon case, they had even been sensationalized by quite a few online media outlets. Clearly, McCade was aware of this as well. But some of the subtle implications in that answer still made McCade’s eyebrows twitch. Right, Olga had always complained that her former superior was an old fuddy-duddy—no wonder he couldn’t stand this kind of behavior.
They stopped at the entrance of the DNA Testing Center, and Bethes darted inside alone. After the door closed again, Albanino let out a slow sigh.
“I hope this all ends as soon as possible. After all, I don’t know what kind of attitude Armalite has toward the killer Johnny. From what I know of him, he’s the most insufferable kind of lawyer. If he unfortunately angers the other party…” Albanino said, glancing thoughtfully at McCade. “You see, it looks like it’s going to rain again today.”
Hearing what he said, McCade also turned to look out the window—the weather hadn’t been clear since early morning, and now leaden-gray clouds hung low over the city, with a cold wind beginning to pick up.
Albanino was right. It would probably rain again soon.
McCade fell into a brief moment of contemplation, but then he heard Albanino speak again: “Well then, you stay here and wait for the DNA test results. I have something to take care of—I need to go out for a while.”
McCade glanced at him, condensing his question into that brief look.
Albanino shrugged and smiled. Many people would say his smile was full of warmth and enthusiasm, but McCade really didn’t think so. The chief forensic officer said meaningfully, “I’m a little worried—after all, little Johnny wants to go out and play, doesn’t he?”
Hestal was not stingy about admitting that he had cursed Albanino Bacchus in every language he knew, and the other man was indeed exactly the kind of bastard who loved to kick someone when they were down. When Albanino came in, he had been just a tiny bit away from cutting through the rope around his wrist, but now there were still about two especially tough strands left unbroken, and Hestal was helpless about it.
He had already heard Elliot’s footsteps coming up from the stairs.
In fact, it was only after a long, long time had passed since Hestal confirmed that those police officers and that damned Albanino Bacchus had left that Elliot finally came downstairs. Of course, all that extra time hadn’t helped Hestal find anything else he could use to fray the rope.
When Elliot appeared, his face seemed a little paler than before. He crossed the distance in a few quick strides, tore the tape off Hestal’s lips, and then pulled him into a tight embrace.
Over the past two days, Hestal had quickly grown accustomed to this serial killer’s habit of clinging to people at the slightest provocation. Suppressing the reflex to turn his head away, Hestal asked calmly, “What’s wrong?”
There was a pungent smell of smoke on Elliot. Clearly, after the police had finished questioning him, he had stayed in place smoking to calm himself for quite a long time before he was done. Judging by the smell, he had smoked at least half a pack upstairs—and that was no exaggeration. It was only afterward that Albanino would learn there was another reason it had taken him over an hour to come downstairs: after Albanino and the others had finished questioning Elliot’s boss, the man had made a long phone call to interrogate Elliot about whether he had gotten himself into some kind of trouble.
Unfortunately, Hestal didn’t know this, otherwise he would have at least understood why Eliot’s expression was so grim.
“I won’t let them take you away from me!” Eliot declared, completely ignoring Hestal’s question. He was still licking and kissing Hestal’s lips like a small animal, his fingers gripping Hestal’s hair with careless force.
There was a heavy smell of smoke between this person’s lips, almost making Hestal frown, but he still replied softly: “Yes, where else would I go if I left?”
Eliot responded with a sharp intake of breath, and then he suddenly bit down on Hestal’s neck with great force, completely ignoring the sharp gasp from the other. He pressed Hestal’s entire body onto the mattress—which let out an ominous creak—and Hestal could feel a tongue wetly licking over the stinging skin of his neck.
The man lifted his lips from his throat, blood dripping gruesomely from between his sharp teeth. His fingers clutched the tablecloth on the altar, white—pure, joyful. The triumph of faith.
“All who are cleansed by this water,” the man said, his voice pressed extremely low, “have been saved.”
Elliot’s cold, uninjured hand slipped beneath his shirt, touching his skin, and the chill made Herstal’s skin tremble uncontrollably.
“Herstal,” Elliot said softly in his ear, blowing warm breath onto his earlobe; the young man was kneeling entirely over him, and a moment later, Elliot’s jacket was also thrown onto the mattress, “I want—”
“——Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far from him.”
The other man slowly traced the scar on his throat with his fingers.
“You know it yourself—you are gradually becoming more perfect.”
Hestal struggled slightly, his body pressing down onto the jacket. The whole movement seemed to enrage Elliot; he suddenly seized Hestal by the neck, his fingers sinking into the soft skin.
“Don’t leave,” Elliot whispered, his voice trembling, “if you leave, no one will be able to take care of you, don’t—”
Elliot’s eyes were wide open, his pupils dilated, looking almost like a rippleless black swamp. Then, he suddenly lowered his head, his teeth painfully colliding with Herstal’s lips.
Albanino’s red Chevrolet was parked at a corner of the street. He had run a lot of errands today: in the morning, he had gone with McCard to find Elliot Evans, and then returned to the crime lab; at this hour, McCard and the others should still be at the crime lab waiting for the DNA test results, and while the others waited, Albanino had gone back to the WLPD to pick up the car that had been parked in the police station parking lot since last night.
Now, he had circled back to the area near Elliot’s home, keeping watch near the only exit of Elliot’s apartment. The red body of the car looked like a drop of blood beneath the leaden gray sky. The sky had grown even darker now, and fine threads of rain began to drift and sway onto the windshield. Albanino gazed at the dark canopy of the sky. He still looked calm—he was waiting for a phone call.
—And he didn’t have to wait long.
The caller ID showed Olga. When Albanino picked up, she got straight to the point: “I’m at the WLPD. The officers here helped me pull up Elliot Evans’ previous records.”
“Any special findings?” Albanino asked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to stay here too long—the red Chevrolet was still too conspicuous for this street. At this rate, he’d either get his car keyed or get robbed.
“Evans dropped out of middle school due to mental health issues. Partly because of his family’s hereditary illness, and partly because one of his teachers treated him with unusual harshness—obvious discrimination.” Olga’s voice was steady, and Albanino could hear the rustle of pages turning through the electronic hum. “I just contacted his middle school principal. She pointed out to me that Evans actually liked that teacher at the time, so even though the man treated him harshly, he never fought back—until his classmates and other teachers eventually realized something was wrong.”
Albanino snorted. “Let me guess—that teacher was a tall, handsome man in his forties?”
“He was a bit younger when it happened, but he died at forty-four. That was about six years ago.” Olga answered slowly and heavily.
“After a rain?” Albanino asked. He had basically caught up with the thread of the case.
“After a rain. His throat was slit.” Olga agreed. “Of course, since the killer at the time climbed in through the window, the local police classified the case as an attempted robbery. The DNA results aren’t out yet, but the current findings might already be enough to convince a judge—oh.”
A burst of noise came from her end. Olga seemed to have covered the receiver and said something to the person beside her. More than ten seconds later, she brought the phone back to her ear: “Word came in from Bates’s side—the blood belongs to Hestal.”
Albanino spent half a second wondering whether he should pretend to be shocked, but then figured there was no need to waste time beating around the bush with Olga. He asked directly: “Did Bart go to apply for a search warrant?”
“He’s waiting for word over at the judge’s place. I’m heading to the scene with the SWAT team right now. Bart will bring the search warrant and meet us near the Evans residence… Where are you right now?” Olga’s voice suddenly dropped into a suspicious interrogation.
“Uh,” Albanino could barely hold back a laugh. He couldn’t let Olga catch any hint of something off. Watching the increasingly large raindrops land on the glass, he struggled to keep his voice sincere. “I’m right near Elliot Evans’s house.”
“…You can’t be serious,” Olga couldn’t help but raise her voice.
“I am. Someone has to worry before the evidence is confirmed—what if Elliot really is the killer Johnny, and he flees out of fear of punishment?” Albanino retorted. “See, I’m now quite certain he hasn’t fled out of fear of punishment.”
He seemed to hear Olga suppress a curse that was beneath her dignity, and then she said in that tone of unmistakable disapproval: “Regardless, you are not to act on your own right now. Stay where you are and wait for SWAT to arrive, alright?”
What else could Albanino say? He answered with a string of “alrights,” just to keep Olga from clucking over him like a mother hen possessed by Bart. After repeated assurances, he finally managed to hang up the phone, watching the raindrops fall outside as a dull rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.
Perhaps it was on a day like this that Elliot would uncontrollably recall his past, recall a certain man he loved but who would hurt him. In any case, the massive wound spanning the victim’s neck was his answer to everything.
Hestal must have already glimpsed the signs long ago; he would act endearing in front of Elliot—because he was such a clever person. The only pity was that now was not Hestal’s moment to make the rules.
Albanino hummed vaguely the nursery rhyme tune of “come again another day,” took a disposable phone from the storage compartment beside the driver’s seat of the Chevrolet, and without hesitation dialed a string of numbers.
The call connected immediately, and the instant the other party picked up, he switched to an urgent tone that sounded utterly sincere. Lowering his voice, he said, “Elliot, I shouldn’t be making this call, but—they’ve found out, they’re coming for you.”
He heard the light, quick breathing on the other end of the line, but he no longer had any intention of waiting. He hung up briskly, then sat in place, dismantled the disposable phone, and snapped the SIM card in half.
After Albanino finished all this, he stuffed the fragments of the SIM card and the disposable phone into a sealed bag and put it back at the bottom of the storage box. By now the rain was falling heavily—Westland’s autumn was always like this—and outside the car’s windshield was already a blur of water.
Albanino glanced outside, then pushed the car door open and jumped out of the vehicle.
Hestal felt he was truly about to be choked unconscious by him. His vision was beginning to go black in waves, and they both knew how rapid a process it was for the heart to stop from lack of oxygen. At that very moment, Eliot’s phone rang from somewhere near Hestal’s spine, and the sound startled them both.
Eliot sprang off him like a frightened animal and pulled the phone out from under Hestal—the phone had originally been in Eliot’s jacket pocket, and it must have fallen out when he casually tossed the jacket onto the mattress earlier.
Hestal gasped for breath, enduring the moment of blackness before his eyes, while Elliot answered the phone on the other end, his expression changing rapidly. The last trace of color drained completely from his face, and by then the caller had already hung up—Elliot hadn’t even had time to say a single word.
Elliot numbly lowered his raised hand, the phone slipping from his stiff knuckles and hitting the dusty floor with a clatter.
Then he slowly, slowly looked toward Hestal, and in the moment Hestal saw the expression on his face, Hestal suddenly understood.
Hestal propped his upper body up, panting. Half the buttons of his shirt had been undone, exposing his heaving chest, and his lips were bleeding too. But when he looked at Elliot, somehow Elliot caught a chill in his eyes that he had never seen before.
“What’s wrong?” Hestal asked, tilting his head to one side as if genuinely confused. His blond hair, once always neatly kept, had fallen loose over his forehead, the tips brushing messily against his eyelashes. “Did they find you?”
Now Hestal was certain—the person who had made that call earlier was Albanino Bakes. Of course he was capable of doing something like that. After all—
“I want to see you burn.”
That bastard.
“I can’t—” Elliot murmured, then his next words suddenly rose in volume, “Hestal, we can leave, I won’t let—”
“Yes, yes, of course we can.” Hestal replied. He struggled to adjust his posture, kneeling on the mattress, his gaze calm and sharp. “But why would I leave with you?”
Elliot stared at him blankly.
“Just like those people you killed before—was there even one among them who wanted to leave with you?” Hestal asked with keen interest. “Because of their endless rejection, you eventually had to kill them—or perhaps, to you, that doesn’t count as ‘killing.’ It was a failed love, wasn’t it? Just like every one of your failed loves?”
Elliot’s breathing grew more rapid, and he said, almost at a loss for what to do: “Hestal, you—”
“Or perhaps it was the same as your first love? Elliot, in which rain did you kill the one you truly loved?” Hestal let out a cold laugh. “Because you loved him, you even worshipped him, but he saw you as garbage on the roadside. You faced him fantasizing about an impossible dependence, and you yourself knew such a thing would never happen. When you simulated that feeling on your victims, and in the end it had to conclude in frustration…”
Elliot stared at him intently, his face hideous, his teeth grinding audibly. At the same time, a bolt of lightning tore through the night sky, shining in through the narrow window set slightly above ground level in the basement, illuminating the pale faces of the people.
Hestal’s final sentence drifted lightly from his lips, sounding like a curse or a bewitchment.
“…It’s raining.”
A furious groan burst from Elliot’s throat as he charged toward Hestal, riding the thunder rolling in from the far edge of the sky, pulling a knife from a sheath somewhere at the small of his back—
By the time he reached Hestal, who was half-kneeling on the mattress, time seemed to freeze. He held that pose in disbelief, looking down—blood was trickling steadily from his abdomen, where a butterfly knife was buried deep, Hestal’s fingers gripping the handle tightly, his wrist swollen and red from being bound by rope not long ago.
That knife had once belonged to Hestal. When they had encountered each other on the highway, Hestal had driven that knife into Elliot’s palm. Later, Elliot had tucked the knife into the inner pocket of his jacket, and over the following dozens of hours, had forgotten it was there.
The jacket now lay crumpled on the mattress, having just been accidentally pinned beneath Hestal.
“You know, Elliot,” Hestal said quietly, in an almost conversational tone, “you’re not a particularly competent serial killer.”
He pressed down with his hand, slowly slicing open Elliot’s abdomen with that not-particularly-effective butterfly knife buried deep in Elliot’s flesh. Blood sprayed out, gushing like a spring and landing on the back of his hand.
Elliot’s body convulsed violently, a sound of disbelief gurgling in his throat, but only bloody foam spilled from between his lips.
Hestal raised his head to look at the other, still kneeling, because the rope around his ankles had not yet been cut, and besides, he likely could not stand at all due to the numbness in his limbs. But his eyes were terrifyingly bright, his pupils dilated with excitement, squeezing the bright blue of his irises into a narrow ring—and a cold smile twisted at the corner of his mouth.
“Unfortunately,” he whispered, “I’m afraid I’m better at this art than you are.”
By the time Albanino reached the Elliot family’s front door, he was completely soaked through by the rain.
He had no intention of going through the steps of opening the door—he kicked it straight in. With a sharp crack as the flimsy bolt snapped, the forensic pathologist invaded someone else’s residence, which was hardly something someone in his profession should be experiencing.
The room still reeked of dust and cigarette smoke, the air stinging unpleasantly. Albanino drew his pistol from the shoulder holster: a Colt M2000. Though he preferred the feel of a knife in his hand over a firearm, he never refused to speed up the work, nor was he willing to leave too many handles for an FBI Special Agent to grab while the man was still in Westland.
He swiftly crossed the living room, which was extremely dim for lack of light. The moment he descended the stairs to the basement, a smell of blood hit him in the face. Albanino’s lips curled slightly as he slowly pushed open the ajar basement door.
Then he saw Hestal Armalite half-crouched on the floor at the center of the basement, the blood beneath him pooling into a river. Lying before him was Elliot Evans’s corpse, its hollow eyes staring at the ceiling in disbelief, the entire upper body covered in chaotic blood trails—without a doubt, the Westland Pianist had slashed this body to pieces. Many wounds, not yet fatal but deep and painful, added together were enough to drain all the blood from his veins.
Hestal slowly, slowly straightened up, hair disheveled, pupils dilated, a long streak of spattered blood across his cheek, his lower lip covered in wet blood from where he had bitten through it. His shirt had been messily pulled partway out of his waistband, and three or four buttons below the collar were undone. And all of it—the expensive black-and-white fabric of suit and shirt, the glistening skin—was soaked in blood, spreading chaotically across the cloth, clawing and sprawling in every direction.
The butterfly knife in his hand was still dripping blood. The guardless design had indeed cut his finger, causing the blood from his index finger to slide down along the metal, silently dripping into the pool of blood at his feet.
Herstal looked at Albarino—this was it, this was the moment when monsters gazed into each other’s eyes, their innocent, shattered prey lying at their feet. Herstal was still breathing heavily, his hoarse voice cutting through the gaps between the rumbling thunder, brushing itchingly against Albarino’s fingers bared in the stench of blood.
And Albarino joyfully, sincerely praised—
“Verweile doch, du bist so schön.”
(German: Please stop, you are so beautiful)