Wine and Gun

On the ground near the folding table, there were scattered pieces of broken porcelain, which used to be a porcelain cup before they were completely shattered. Herstal's eyes were splitting the moment he saw him, yes, the sad lover seemed to overreact to the slightest random movement of his chosen prey, and it was clear to him that his prisoners should be safe. Lie quietly in place to receive his care.

Herstal knew that it was time for him to show weakness, and the prisoners before Elliott might have suddenly gone mad because of his attempts to resist—those attempts to escape shattered his fantasies about his lovers, and the consequences were He nearly cut the heads of those men off their necks.

So Herstal chose to kneel and look up at Eliot. He didn't know how much hesitant he could successfully add to his expression. He felt that it might be difficult, because he was no longer, no longer the child of the past.

"Sorry," he tried to inject real apology into his voice, "I just wanted to drink, but you weren't there, so—"

With a deliberate pause, Elliot looked down at him.

"I don't think I can, and I'm sorry for breaking the glass," he said softly, hesitantly, "but I'm really thirsty... can you give me a sip of water?"

Herstal observed the rise and fall of Elliott's chest and the arc of his Adam's apple swallowing when he took a deep breath, and in another corner of his heart, Albarino Bacchus was smiling at the scene: his smile It is always brilliant, but very few people can see through the glaze on it is just a cold mask.

- but anyway, it probably worked.

"Oh, Herstal," Elliot whispered, the trembling warmth in his voice sounding so sincere, "Herstal."

The other party hugged him back to the bed, his bare toes brushed against the cold ground, and his ankle was in pain under the restraint of the rope. The pain was dull, nothing compared to anything else.

Elliot quickly brought him a glass of water, kneeling on the bed just like yesterday and feeding him slowly. The young man's eyes were terrifyingly bright, with a wet red ring around his eye sockets, and he would almost be recognized as a high-flying junkie on the road.

Herstal's lips were close to the mouth of the cup, and the cool liquid burned down his throat. He was tightly tied between his fingers behind him, and he quietly held a sharp broken porcelain piece in the mouth. palm.

When Lavasa McCard entered Officer Hardy's office, Olga was sitting on a pullout sofa in the corner of the office, desperately trying to refresh herself with coffee, a bright red Tudor crown in her hand. 's mug, in large white letters: Keep Calm and Love Colin Firth.

It's really hard to say whether Olga has remained calm or not. Maybe a truly calm person will not show a miserable appearance that he hasn't slept since the 1960s. McCard surveyed her tired face carefully, then asked, "What's wrong?"

"I've read all the profiles BAU made to the killer Qiángni before." Olga nodded towards the stack of folders in Hardy's office, "The killer was very careful when placing the body, and except for those on the deceased's clothes. In addition to being unable to clean up the bloodstains, he tends to wipe all the bloodstains off the skin of the corpse - which the BAU sees as a sign of guilt."

"Isn't it?" McCard asked rhetorically.

"I admit that in many cases," Olga took another sip from the coffee cup, sticking her tongue out because of the unpleasant taste, "most of the cases are like this: the murderer keeps kidnapping the same type of Victims to satisfy his own desires. In his eyes, these same type of victims are the shadows of someone he once loved; when he brutally killed them, he felt guilty again. It is not the guilt of the deceased, but the guilt of the fact that he killed someone's phantom in his mind - therefore, when the killer Qiángni committed crimes in other states, the local police used to investigate a lot of suspects who were the same age as the deceased. Right? Because if the killer replaces his past lover with a victim, they're likely to be about the same age?"

"Yeah. But you know we got nothing in the end." McCard grimaced. "He's moving from state to state, and he'll be in each new city for a while, and he'll probably be a part-timer in that city— Such a person, about thirty-five to forty-five years old, once had a failed relationship, and maybe has a tendency to bào? No, we checked all possible suspects, and finally found nothing."

"Many serial killers will leave a record in the process of escalating their power, but the killer's DNA has confirmed to us that he didn't have it before." Olga shook his head and snorted lowly, "We should change our minds. Alright - Al and I have some new ideas. Al, please?"

McCard looked at Albarino, who was standing in front of a whiteboard against the wall with pictures of his victims.

"I counted the time from kidnapping to death, and it doesn't seem like a regular pattern - we know that the killer will kill his victims after the rain, but he's not actually the first time the victim is kidnapped. After a rain, they will definitely kill them." Albarino clicked on the whiteboard, on which he had previously listed a long table, with scribbled notes, "This is the time when the deceased was kidnapped and the local precipitation statistics. Table - Agent McCard, as you can see, here are four who died after the first rain, one died after two rains, two survived three rains, and One died after a full six rains."

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