Chapter 302

On a stormy night with lightning and thunder, rain pattered against the manor's roof, mingling with the faint crackling of the still-smoldering fireplace logs.

It was a deeply hypnotic sound, so Schiller slept soundly in bed—until a frantic phone ring shattered the silence, and his eyes snapped open.

He glanced out the window; a flash of lightning split the sky, casting the window's panes as sharp shadows across the floor and bed—one of them slicing directly across Schiller's eye.

He took a deep breath, rose from the bed, and shuffled barefoot through the pitch-black manor to the downstairs hallway, where he picked up the receiver. As expected, Gordon's anxious voice came through: "Harry Cooper is dead, Professor Schiller. You need to come."

"Is this connected to the serial killings? If so, call Batman."

"Batman's already here, Professor Schiller. I know it's late and I shouldn't disturb you, but this case is… unusually bad. You really should come."

Schiller looked up at the floor clock—the hands pointed precisely to 2 a. . He remembered the last time Gordon called him in a rainstorm: when Fish Mooney died.

He went upstairs, dressed, grabbed his umbrella, and stepped out the manor gate. Gotham's night remained terrifyingly dark; the damp air pulled into his lungs banished his drowsiness.

A black sedan pulled into the manor gate—black suit, black umbrella, black sunglasses—the silent, signature style of Gotham's mobsters. The man who opened the door said nothing; Schiller asked nothing.

Cooper's manor lay west of the North District, far from Falcone's estate. When the car stopped at Cooper's gate, Gordon rushed out. Schiller stepped out, and Gordon led him upward.

"What exactly happened? I've rarely seen you this flustered. Even the serial killings shouldn't have shaken you this badly."

Gordon's face was pale. He offered no further explanation, only said: "You'll understand when you see the scene."

They climbed to the third floor, where several officers stood at the stairwell. Gordon approached one officer in a distinctive uniform—a stern-faced older man—who sized up Schiller, stepped forward, and extended his hand: "Hello. I'm Chief Smith of the Gotham Police Department. I've heard much of you…"

Schiller shook his hand briefly and introduced himself. The chief didn't indulge in pleasantries; he waved Gordon on: "Take the professor in. But be careful."

Gordon nodded and led Schiller through the crowd to a door at the end of the third-floor corridor. He unlocked it. Inside, the scene was horrific.

Unexpectedly, there was no corpse—or rather, no intact corpse.

The room was red—but the floor, ceiling, and furniture were never meant to be red. Every trace of red was blood and fragments of internal organs.

There was no corpse because the body had been evenly smeared across the entire room.

Batman stood in a corner, his gaze fixed on the room's center: a large, intricate symbol drawn in black ink, resembling a ritual circle, with a pile of black ash at its heart.

Schiller stepped inside and halted at the threshold. Gordon squeezed past him between the doorframe and Schiller's body, then shut the door. Schiller tapped the floor with his umbrella's tip, lifted it, and studied the blood on it.

He then scanned the entire room. It was small—roughly twenty square meters—likely a parlor. Three sofas stood against the floor-to-ceiling window, the wall to the right of the door, and the wall beside the door. A round table sat in the center; opposite it, a desk and bookshelf. A typical English manor parlor layout—identical to the one in Schiller's own manor.

The black ritual circle occupied the room's center. The red stains radiated outward from it, covering the entire floor, most of the walls, and the central portion of the ceiling.

"I didn't describe this over the phone because I didn't know if this even qualifies as dismemberment. It's… too fragmented," Gordon said, covering his mouth.

Schiller turned to Gordon: "Do you have shoe covers?"

Gordon pulled out shoe covers and gloves—standard crime scene gear—then donned a mask and face shield for himself. He offered them to Schiller, who shook his head.

Slipping on the covers, Schiller entered the room, circling it slowly. As he observed, Batman spoke: "Cooper's body was pulverized and smeared evenly across the room. This method differs entirely from the first three cases…"

Schiller crouched near the ritual circle, examining the floor: "Pulverized? That's not quite accurate."

"Isn't that pulverization?" Gordon asked. "We can't find a single intact fragment—blood, skin, bone—all crushed and spread across the room."

"Indeed—but not all of it."

Schiller stood, looking up at the ceiling: "There isn't enough mass here."

"What do you mean?"

"All the blood, organs, skin, and bone fragments you see—collect them, piece them together—they amount to only about two-thirds of a human body's mass."

"One-third of the corpse is missing."

Gordon opened his mouth as if to ask how Schiller knew—but the question circled in his throat and died. The scene was horrifying enough. He didn't need more horror stories.

Batman stepped forward, standing beside the ritual circle: "This symbol isn't from any recorded magical system. But I'm certain the hexagram at its center relates to demons."

"Things are getting weirder, right?" Gordon, forcing back nausea, joined him: "First, the Twelve Apostles killings. Then a man cut in half. Now they're grinding corpses into paste and painting walls with them. What's next? Vaporizing people?"

"Clearly, this isn't something a normal human could do," Schiller said slowly, his tone calm—but unnerving. "The killer's power level has escalated to another tier."

"You've been patrolling this area lately. Any findings?"

"I was the first to discover Cooper's death. I came because I heard an explosion—but when I arrived, I saw no suspicious figures."

Schiller walked to a nearby sofa and wiped the tip of his umbrella on a clean section of its leg. "Though what I'm about to say may make you question my professionalism, I must say it: this case may involve supernatural forces."

"Supernatural forces? What do you mean?"

"Isn't the ritual circle obvious enough? Someone summoned a demon here. The demon killed Cooper."

Gordon tilted his head, lips pressed tight. "I imagined you'd present a brilliant, intricate deduction—and reveal a shocking conclusion. I imagined you'd produce evidence to prove it. But I never expected…"

"Detective Gordon, don't judge what happens in this city by ordinary standards."

Batman spoke: "Why do you make this judgment?"

Schiller stepped closer, bent down, and studied the floor: "Observe the direction of the blood and tissue spatter. It radiates outward from the center. Cooper wasn't killed by an external explosion—he exploded from within."

"Could a madman have forced him to swallow a bomb?"

"Good deduction, Detective Gordon. That's exactly the kind of thing a Gotham criminal would do. But ask our explosives expert, Batman…"

"Is there any bomb in the world that, upon detonation, could pulverize a human body—skin, muscle, organs—into perfectly even fragments, then spread them uniformly across a room?"

"Explosion might shatter the body, but it's nearly impossible to distribute the fragments so evenly across floor and walls."

"Could someone have blown him apart, then manually smeared the remains?" Gordon asked.

Schiller gave an approving nod. "Detective Gordon, your thinking is perfect for a detective. Honestly—you have talent."

"If the killer were a true psychopath, he might do this—even worse. But the details suggest it wasn't manually smeared."

"Look here…" Schiller walked over. His shoe heel pressed into the floor with a wet, muffled sound—but it drew both men's attention instantly.

He pointed to one leg of the sofa, where a layer of tissue had accumulated: "This is where the body's fragments were ejected during the explosion, then caught and piled up as they hit the floor."

"Notice: the layer closest to the sofa leg is skin tissue—even epidermis and dermis are visible. Above it, fat. Above that, fragments of internal organs."

"This proves it wasn't a killer who exploded the body, then chopped and smeared it by hand. Had that been the case, the layers here would be chaotic, not ordered."

"Imagine Cooper, blasted apart by some unknown force—first liquefied, then flattened like a pancake, then ground finer still, like a wave spreading across the floor."

"The sofa leg is like a bridge pier standing in the sea—except the human tissue is denser. So the pier caught and preserved the original layering."

"I agree this isn't something a normal person could do. No bomb could produce this effect. To grind a body this finely, you'd need heavy machinery."

"From the moment I heard the explosion to when I arrived here—there wasn't enough time for anyone to move large machinery."

Gordon scanned the room: "Could there be some trap mechanism?"

"Before I called you, I checked every corner of this room. No traps, no hidden doors, no secret compartments, no passages. This is just an ordinary manor parlor."

"So you both think… this was done by some supernatural force?"

"Yes. And it's unrelated to the Twelve Apostles killings. I've never heard of anyone in the Bible being exploded and ground into paste."

"Forgive me…" Gordon said hesitantly, "but if this involves the supernatural, the Gotham Police Department can't help. None of us have expertise in this area."

"If I went out now and announced your conclusions, they'd lock us up as lunatics and throw us out."

Schiller shook his head: "Not necessarily. They might be even more superstitious than you."

At that moment, a knock came at the door. An officer burst in: "Chief! Bad news—Mrs. Sanchez, the head of the boarding school near Gotham River, is dead!"