Wine and Gun

At this moment, after listening to the other side's brief description of what happened last night, Albarino said to himself thoughtfully: "I'm pretty sure I avoided all the photos in your neighborhood that might have photographed me yesterday. The camera - I have to say, the apartment you rented is high-end, but the camera has a lot of dead spots - since I observed your apartment, I'm sure sleepwalking can do it."

Herstal wisely didn't ask what "observed" was, and he didn't expect to like the answer.

Then, he asked, "So why do you want to risk being photographed coming to my apartment?" And then he fell on my bed. Is this something that a perverted murderer should have?

Albarino blinked at him, then burst out laughing.

"It may be because everything is really coming out of me subconsciously; it is also possible that I have never slept with you, and I feel a little uncomfortable; or, this is a sign of weakness - people believe that your partner is lying down. When they are on your chat, they are at their most calm and vulnerable, does that make you feel at ease?" Albarino said in a low voice, "Among these answers, choose one you like and believe."

"You know I can't feel at ease when you say that," Herstal replied.

"But didn't you realize this possibility long ago? It's not like you." Albarino retorted, his voice brisk, "And even so, you still slept with me."

"Are you expecting me to drag you into the living room or do I sleep in the living room by myself?" Herstal retorted. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Albarino half-closed his eyes sleepily, the room was so warm that he really didn't want to move. However, he still used his very slow-moving brain cells to ask, "Then what do you think is a good idea?"

—Herstal stared at him for a moment, then a smile appeared on his face.

He said, "This."

Albarino followed his gaze—and then he realized that the hand he was resting under his head wasn't just under his head. His wrist was bound by a real metal handcuff, and the other side of the handcuff was placed on Chuáng's head.

"I think it's a good idea, it's very safe," Herstal said slowly.

Albarino said, "Fuck."

"Okay," Bates said, his face wrinkled as he stared at the two corpses, "so we have two dead, one named William Brown and another named Anthony Sharp, and they are criminals. relationship with the victim."

The officers have taken enough photos to fix the scene, the forensic site investigator has done a preliminary autopsy, and now the CSIs are removing the flowers from the belly of the corpse, which Bates and his colleagues will forever hope. Find any clues from those flowers.

But it is a pity that, despite a thousand names, the fragrance of the rose remains; no matter how many times I try, the fingerprints of the Sunday gardener cannot be extracted from the petals.

"Obviously," Olga pondered, "Bart would never make such a guarantee until the DNA test results came out; but I'm pretty sure, looking at this theme, the other dead must be Sharp."

Bart was now directing other police officers to survey the surrounding environment from a distance. Bates glanced over there and asked, "But why? Kill the criminal and the victim together? I thought it was Westland who killed the criminal. A pianist can do a lot of work."

Indeed, the Sunday Gardener never cared about the identity and experience of his deceased. He killed people of all ages, from old to young, and once killed a sixteen-year-old girl who was visiting relatives from Los Angeles to Westland. The child disappeared less than three hours after getting off the plane. There is no logical explanation at all. It can only be said that she was hit by bad luck.

And a scene presented live tailored to a victim's experience? Sunday gardeners have never had such a thing.

Olga shook his head: "This is not the strangest part of this case, if I say it, the strangest thing is-"

She stretched out her hand from a distance and tapped the throat of the young man nicknamed Billy, where the hydrangeas had all been taken out, and now the wound was ferociously exposed. The metal brace on his body was removed and the silk and satin were taken away, and now he is lying on the ground naked, waiting to be put into the body bag by the people of the Forensic Medicine Bureau.

"His throat?" Bates asked in confusion.

"Yes, because the gardener often cuts the throat of the dead so neatly, doesn't he? He never takes the time to torture the dead." Olga stared at the pale corpse, "There are no other scars on the dead, so it is likely that Died from a cut throat - but this time the gardener destroyed the cut left by the cut and then decorated the wound with flowers. He never covered that scar in the past and didn't mind it showing with..."

"Maybe it's just that he has new inspiration this time?" Bates said uncertainly.

"Perhaps," Olga whispered, her brows furrowed sternly, "I hope that when the Forensic Medical Bureau conducts an autopsy this time, they can give a little more detailed opinion about this wound. We may be able to learn from the autopsy. The report speculates on why the gardener did that..."

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