Wine and Gun

"You mean, Sunday gardeners have the right to choose? I thought they were all mentally ill pathologically." Herstal raised his eyebrows.

"Pathologically, yes; but they are different types." Olga inserted another piece of cake and ate like a little pecking at rice. "The gardener...how to say, he knew what he was doing was a crime in the legal sense, and he could choose to do it or not. There was no childhood trauma that compelled him to do anything, and he was not like some patients. It's the same as the picture of the god who is completely collapsed by himself."

She paused, then put her fork on the plate and looked up.

"If you want me to say, the Sunday gardener has the ability to stop committing crimes, but he just doesn't want to choose that." Olga showed a light smile, "He just doesn't care, can you imagine?

"To a psychopath like him, there is no particular significance to the life or death of those victims, and there is no essential difference between you and me who can be his victims; to him we are not human beings, at least Not a creature equal to him, but tools and objects for him to choose from. He did not choose his victims according to some kind of obsessive-compulsive psychology, so Hardy and the others could not grasp the law of his choice of victims: precisely because He has no rules, he is completely freewheeling."

"Then why did he have to kill those people, decorate them, and then show them off? Isn't this a manifestation of obsessive-compulsive disorder, like most murderous maniacs with a track record?" Er asked.

Olga looked at him as if he had asked an interesting question. Then she smiled: "Because he thinks it's beautiful, because he wants to do it, because he can do it—that's all."

"This is really... an impressive speech." Herstal replied with consideration.

He thought of the corpse hanging upside down in the water, the bloody flowers in the empty chest of that man. Abel, the response to the Westland pianist's work, an occasion for provocation: it was totally unnecessary for the gardeners, who had never been exposed to it.

Just because he wanted to.

"Here's the problem: because he's still very young. And I guess, maybe his hobbies have room to change." Olga continued, without appearing to be worried, "Maybe he will suddenly feel one day, It would be interesting to create a theme similar to that of the pianist, and then we might find that he suddenly started to choose criminals as murder objects; Not killing his own victims...most serial killers follow a set pattern, and he has a pattern to follow now, but I doubt it's going to last."

"Because you said that he didn't choose victims according to his obsessive-compulsive mentality," Herstal said softly.

"That's it, so he might suddenly turn into a nüè killer next time, or something—if he wants to, as long as he thinks it's interesting enough. It's generally thought that the Sunday gardener has committed crimes for ten years, but there's a possibility : Maybe ten years ago he was a serial killer with another name at all; for him, it just depends on where his interests develop." Olga shrugged, "and people's interests change a lot. , that's why Bart is so worried."

Herstal gave her a sharp look: "Because of me?"

"Because of you," agreed Olga, looking at Herstal with the kind of eyes she observes feline hunting. "There's been some changes in his pattern lately, around you. It's because we can't. It's easy to predict him, so don't know what these changes mean."

"Maybe he just wanted to plant delphiniums in the sockets of my eyes," Herstal quipped, his lips curving grimly.

"That's the best idea, really." Olga laughed, and she picked up the fork again, the silver cutlery gleaming between her fingers as if she was holding a life-threatening blade.

Then the profiler said in a tone of pure intimidation: "Or maybe his taste has changed, and he's going to kidnap you, cut it up and eat it piece by piece, and put on a live-action version of The Silence of the Lambs in front of our eyes— —As I said, anything can happen if he wants to, if he can do it.”

Herstal smiled politely at the other party: "I'll wait and see."

Sunday.

In the future, the insurers in Westland can launch a new product called "Sunday Insurance" to comfort the hearts of every police officer tortured by Sunday gardeners in the Westland Police Department. Chief among them must be Bart Hardy.

It's hard to imagine the pressure under which Officer Hardy was under pressure: his team was solely responsible for all the serial killings of Westland pianists and Sunday gardeners, essentially being sent to fight a losing battle. When Albarino Bacchus appeared at the door of the A\u0026H law firm again, the general, who was still defeated, was standing outside the blockade with a weary expression on his face.

——The office of the firm was surrounded by a blockade, for the second time in a week, it was hell.

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