Chapter 30: What the Fuck Is a Secondhand Hobo?

The community at night remained quiet, yet steeped in desolation.

Since the recent serial killings, several households had moved out of the neighborhood, apparently planning to leave Seattle and return to their hometowns.

The families of the three criminals had also chosen to leave, unable to bear the reality.

This had made the already desolate community even quieter—during the day, not a single soul could be seen on the streets.

Only at night did men gradually appear, driving home.

Roger did not ride his bicycle; instead, he circled the neighborhood, radiating outward from Fiona's house, from south to north. One full loop yielded nothing but the annoying hum of televisions.

"Maybe it's still too early." This book is exclusively available on Tiantian Kan Xiaoshuo, ultra-convenient, ttks. tw for effortless reading, offering you error-free, non-disordered chapters.

To be fair, if Roger were the garage chainsaw killer, he wouldn't have started his work before midnight.

So Roger returned to his own garage, rested until one a. m., then slipped out again.

The community now felt especially silent, like a model neighborhood temporarily abandoned. Occasionally, as he passed a house, faint, chaotic TV noise seeped through the curtains, reminding him this place was not empty.

Roger walked slowly along the street, deliberately fixing his gaze on the garages beside each house. All were tightly shut, their doors nearly shapeless in the darkness, merging with the shadows.

He unconsciously softened his steps, straining his ears, trying to catch any anomaly from the darkness.

At first, only the sound of rats answered him.

Tiny, rapid, scurrying between walls and ground—familiar, yet maddening.

But as he neared the end of the block, those scattered sounds thinned out, as if suppressed by something heavier.

Before the farthest houses, he stopped.

"Creak… creak…"

The sound was not continuous, but marked by distinct pauses. Each one came hesitant, labored—clearly the sound of sawing wood.

Yet if listened to closely, it lacked the crispness and resonance of wood, more like cutting something denser.

Like meat.

Then came a dull thud.

Something heavy had fallen to the ground.

The sound was unnaturally clear in the silent night—so clear Roger almost imagined every living creature outside on the street was listening with him.

In the past, Roger would have been terrified.

But after several intelligence investigations, he had undergone a spiritual transformation—he no longer believed anything could be more horrifying than a bloated corpse.

So he slowly approached the garage, and soon, a fence blocked his path.

Roger took a deep breath and carefully climbed over the fence.

Perhaps the man inside was so absorbed in sawing, the muffled cutting sounds had grown louder, drowning out the fence's creak.

By the time Roger landed, only three meters separated him from the garage.

He did not rush in—after all, in Meilijian, breaking into someone's home was a crime; the man had every right to shoot him dead.

For safety, he pulled his pistol from his coat with his right hand and clutched his pocket watch in his left.

This was his sudden, improvised use of the pocket watch.

If he opened it when facing a hostile person, would the enemy kill him within three minutes?

Or would they calmly chat with him for three minutes?

If it was the latter, wouldn't this thing save his life?

Then this really was the villain dying from monologuing.

Thinking this, he stepped closer to the garage. Since the side door had no windows, he crouched down and peered through the gap between the door and the ground.

The next second, splattered blood filled his vision.

Just as he'd imagined—worse, even more hellish.

There stood a naked man, wearing a black leather apron, sawing apart large chunks of meat with a hand saw.

From the towering silhouette, it was clear this was no cat, dog, chicken, duck, cow, or sheep.

"Shit." Roger muttered under his breath.

Didn't the residents of Xin Yidunweier Shequ have any other hobbies?

Either robbery and murder, or disassembling Gundam in the garage—and what the hell was this outfit?

Cosplaying Heisenberg?

This was insane—was this community some kind of serial killer gathering spot?

Could Fiona and Natasha secretly be ruthless female monsters too?

Roger felt his mind being battered by this brutal reality.

"My SAN Value, which I had finally managed to raise back up, is about to plummet again!"

Perhaps hearing the faint noise outside, the man cutting paused and reached toward the table.

But the next instant, Roger kicked open the side door and stormed in, pistol pressed to the man's skull: "Raise your hands! Or I'll blow your brains out, you bastard!"

The man, caught completely off guard, panicked and helplessly raised both hands.

"Get on your knees! Now!"

Roger walked over, pressing the pistol against his head.

Feeling the cold barrel, the man immediately dropped to his knees and pleaded: "Please, don't kill me—I didn't kill anyone!"

"Then explain this! Fuck, you goddamn murderer!"

"It's not me! I'm just starting a business!"

"Business?" Roger stared: "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I swear!" The man, fearing disbelief, hurried to explain: "This Gundam—I bought it! I'm just disassembling it to sell the parts!"

Roger frowned: "Sell it?"

"Yes, many labs, hospitals, and collectors need them: brains $200, a complete human facial skin $600, both eyes $1,500, skull and teeth $1,200." The man listed them off like treasures, making Roger's scalp crawl.

"What about the heart and liver?"

"Those are even more expensive, but the requirements are high. Besides, I only buy secondhand vagrants—they were already missing plenty of parts."

Hearing the obscure term "secondhand vagrants," Roger couldn't help but purse his lips.

"You mean she was already stripped of many parts before you bought her?"

"Yes, really! Don't believe me? Try piecing her together and see if the heart and liver are still there!"

The man pleaded desperately to explain.

But this only made Roger's stomach churn.

"Please, don't kill me! I'll give you money. I've earned twenty thousand dollars these past few months—though I spent some, I still have several thousand left. Take it all! Just let me go!"

Roger pulled out his phone. On the screen, Vanessa was on a call.

"Did you hear that?"

"God! Damn it! Roger, how can there be such a disgusting, terrifying, absurd thing!" Vanessa had been woken by the call and was still groggy, but after hearing the man's words, she snapped fully awake.

"What do we do now?" Roger asked.

"I'll call the police, Roger. Wait until they arrive before you leave."

"No problem."

Roger hung up the phone and looked at the trembling man, who still didn't know the police were coming. "Now, answer me a few questions."