Chapter 428: The Clouds Over Metropolis (Part Nine)

Back in his room, Shiler took off his glasses, yawned, and showed no sign of tension despite being trapped in an estate where two murders had occurred; he undid his tie, preparing to change into his pajamas, when the door knocked again.

Shiler closed his eyes, stood with his hands on his hips, sighed, then turned and walked to the door, opening it; outside stood Agent Kela, who sized him up before saying, "Are you planning to sleep?"

"Isn't it obvious enough?"

Kela frowned deeply, staring into Shiler's eyes: "But I'm afraid you can't sleep now—a third murder has occurred."

"I see, old Parker…"

"Not Parker," Kela denied, raising her arm to check her watch: "Two minutes ago, Mrs. Davis died—in the downstairs bathroom."

"Commander Benjamin is requesting your presence immediately," Kela said to Shiler, looking at him. "You haven't forgotten, have you? After the mayor's death, you were the only one who entered that bathroom."

Shiler ignored her, walked back into his room, and retied his tie; when he emerged again, Kela instinctively felt a chill run down her spine.

Shiler paid no attention to Kela, stepped out the door, and headed downstairs; Kela followed behind, as if wanting to say something, but Shiler showed no intention of waiting for her.

He descended the spiral staircase in swift strides, like a glass bead rolling endlessly downward through a labyrinthine helix; in the center of the hall, the corpse still lay motionless.

The blood on the tassels at the tablecloth's edge had congealed; the candlesticks' wicks had all gone out; layers of overturned tables surrounded the body, shards of fine porcelain scattered among them, glinting in the brilliant light.

Shiler descended layer by layer; behind him, Kela felt as if he were sinking deeper into some abyss—the surroundings hadn't changed, but his demeanor grew ever more profound.

Only when the sound of his leather shoes on the floor reached them did Shiler pause at the first-floor stair landing; he did not look at the corpse, but walked straight toward the bathroom.

At the bathroom door, Lionel and Benjamin stood waiting; seeing Shiler approach, Lionel moved to speak, Benjamin seemed ready to say something—but Shiler ignored them both entirely, stepping directly into the bathroom.

A woman's corpse lay face-down on the sink, shot in the waist, recently dead, still wearing an elaborate gown; the deep blue hem, now stained with red blood, had turned an eerie purple; moonlight streamed through the window above the sink, illuminating her body and casting a strange shadow on the floor.

Shiler stood at the center of the bathroom; Lionel and Benjamin stood behind him; Benjamin spoke: "Three murders in one night…"

Lionel wiped sweat from his brow: "It must be the serial killer's work."

"What is a serial murder?" Shiler suddenly asked.

"Multiple murders within a short time…" Benjamin replied; Shiler continued his sentence: "That concept has a second half: identical methods, and clear connections between each case…"

Benjamin frowned; Shiler turned slightly, gazing at the woman's corpse: "Is her cause of death the same as old Parker's? Was Parker's the same as White's? Are all three deaths consistent with the earlier murders?"

"What links these cases? Has the killer left consistent symbols? Used a narrative tied to numbers? Do these victims share any common traits?"

"If none of these exist, why do you call it a serial murder?"

"But they all happened in a very short time."

"Then it's merely multiple murders occurring in a short time," Shiler said rapidly, offering no pause for thought; then his next words sent a shiver through everyone present.

"This killer is utterly mundane."

"I can hardly imagine such a stupid, dull, talentless creature exists in this world."

"He kills one person, throws them down from upstairs, kills another, throws them down again—what is he doing?"

"Why does he value life so little?"

"Why does he think death can be so easily resolved with a gun or a knife?"

"Why does he treat corpses—such precious resources—as if they can be carelessly discarded without artistry?"

"I suspect he's a fool who's read too many detective novels, watching detectives solve cases from a god's-eye view, convinced even they're nothing special."

"He thinks: such a simple case took detectives so long to solve—so if I create something more complex, they'll spend their entire lives like flies without heads, never finding a clue."

"I won't judge detective novels—they're works of the author's soul—but I must say: even if inspired by them, those novels are outdated, just like him."

"In theory, he doesn't understand what a serial murder truly is—he thinks killing many people quickly qualifies as one. To such thinking, I can only say: he'd be better suited to a slaughterhouse, maybe even win 'Top Performer.'"

"In practice, his work is crude and sloppy: no coherent theme, no tense countdown, no signature symbols, no clues tied to numbers or patterns…"

Shiler gave a weary smile, as if struck by absurdity: "He can't even unify his weapons—sometimes a knife, sometimes a gun…"

His expression turned to disgust: "And he doesn't even care—when the bodies fall, blood splatters everywhere, staining the tassels, knocking over the candlesticks."

"Has he never considered: what if the candle ignites the tablecloth? A meticulously staged murder becomes a chaotic fire scene, leaving only ugly char marks—everything ruined. No true serial killer would allow such a blunder."

"His manipulation of the crowd is a disaster—showing not a shred of philosophical interrogation of human nature…"

"If you insist I judge these cases, I can only say…" Shiler drew out the word, then concluded:

"A mediocre man's utterly clichéd, uninspired crime."

"Enough!"

A cold voice came from the bathroom door; Benjamin turned to see Lionel, face dark with fury.

Until now, Benjamin had been wholly absorbed in listening to Shiler—he hadn't noticed that this ever-smiling merchant's expression had turned grotesque.

Shiler turned back, silently studying Lionel, and said: "Mr. Lu Se, do you know? I don't expose a fool's thoughts not because I can't see them, but because I'm forgiving—I hope this world leaves room for fantasy to those like you, pitiful souls."

"You told me you invited me here for two reasons: to speak with your son, and to cure his illness—but you had a third purpose: to commit a serial murder right before my eyes."

"Of course, you've read my record," Shiler raised his voice, staring into Lionel's sinister gaze: "You know I've participated in the most famous serial murders, met countless serial killers…"

"I know you desperately long to commit a flawless murder before me, to make me look foolish, proving you're a genius criminal at the pinnacle of the world."

"But when I showed no special emotion over Mayor White's death, and told you on the way to the bathroom that the case was too mundane for my interest, you hurriedly prepared the next one."

Shiler gave a weary smile: "Yet your only innovation was switching the weapon—from gun to knife."

"Then, when I made my disdain even more explicit, you nearly flew into a rage and committed the third murder."

"And your only 'innovation' this time? Moving the dumping site—from the banquet hall to the bathroom."

"That's you, Lionel. Accept it."

"You're just an ordinary man—so mundane you don't even inspire interest. You have no genius mind."

"He has no genius mind," Lex sat against the wall, back resting, hand pressed to his neck, sneering: "But he never admits it."

"He was consumed by jealousy of geniuses—willing to pay any price to steal their talent and wisdom, including my mother."

"Yet the cruelest irony? After he abused and killed her, he discovered I was just like her—a super-genius."

Lex coughed twice, his face pale, as if drained of strength: "But he dares not kill me—he still needs me to extract worldly benefits for him."

Bruce stood in the center of the storage room, looking down at him; after a silence, he walked to Lex, stood before him, his shadow falling over Lex, and asked: "Did you kill White and Parker?"

Lex sneered: "That was Lionel's doing—just a simple delayed device, the kind from old detective novels. So he couldn't easily change the dumping location—the device was mounted on the ceiling beams."

"For over a decade, he's tried to control me. I had to play along—but this time, he's finished."

"Why?" Bruce narrowed his eyes at Lex.

"Just now, I killed Mrs. Davis and dumped her in the bathroom. I imagine the professor, called out of his room again, is thoroughly fed up."

Bruce frowned; before he could ask, Lex continued: "Lionel's little tricks fool no one with even a modicum of sense. His so-called clever setups are no different from a child's block towers."

"I knew only the professor had entered that bathroom—so if the third murder happened there, someone would definitely call him."

"When he examined me, I realized—he's one of us. We have a little patience for fools… but only a little."

"Once that patience runs out, we make them regret it."

Lex laughed softly, looking at Bruce:

"I'd just finished killing someone when I saw you passed out drunk in the hallway. I thought: a drunken playboy burning alive in his own liquor flame—that'd be a decent way to die…"

"But now, you're alive—and far more interesting than dead."

"You know? Every time Lionel introduces me to others, he says: 'I'd rather he be a playboy like young Wayne…'"

"But ha! Even young Wayne isn't a playboy!"

"Hahahahahahaha!"

"!"

Lex stood up, laughing louder and louder; as he raised his head to look at Bruce, what appeared in his vision was Bruce's fist, as big as a bale.