Chapter 13: Criminal Psychology

Chapter 13 Criminal Psychology

"The killer did it on purpose?"

Sheriff Duke asked in bewilderment.

But in truth, another word in Karen's speech had struck a chord deep within him, and that was... artwork.

A young man,

actually using the word "artwork" so casually to describe this victim's corpse;

Although Sheriff Duke understood that this was the young man putting himself into the killer's perspective to speak, being able to organize and adopt this kind of descriptive language so fluidly in such a short amount of time made it hard for him not to feel astonished.

Yet he still wished to hear the young man continue, immediately pressing: "How did you determine that?"

"Evidently, this is not a crime of passion."

"Mm," Sheriff Duke nodded.

A crime of passion stands in contrast to premeditated murder, meaning there was originally no motive to kill, but under the victim's provocation or stimulation, the perpetrator lost their reason, spiraled out of control, and ended up killing another.

But this corpse had been subjected to so much arrangement and decoration; it had long since departed from the realm of a crime of passion, because the killer had already completed a whole series of subsequent post-mortem processing.

Twirling his pipe, Sheriff Duke continued to ask, "On what grounds do you make that judgment? After all, we haven't conducted a detailed investigation of the scene yet, have we?"

Karen hesitated for a moment, then replied, "A feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Yes, the feeling when I saw the corpse."

"Investigating a case by feeling?" Sheriff Duke raised his hand, "No, I want to hear about your feeling. Can you be specific?"

"The killer hid the corpse beneath the stage..."

Sheriff Duke interjected, "Therefore, the killer is very familiar with the environment of this dance hall. Combining that with what you said earlier about this accident not being an accident but intentionally manufactured by the killer, then the killer is either an employee of this dance hall, or at the very least, a regular customer.

Oh, sorry, I interrupted you again. Please continue."

"I can only follow my feelings, Sheriff," Karen explained once more.

"It's fine, go on."

"A dance hall is a very lively place, crowded and noisy. Generally speaking, when a killer disposes of a body after committing murder, the main purpose is to destroy the corpse and eliminate all traces. Here, it is completely different.

The reason why the killer would place the corpse here, and subject it to such complex and meticulous arrangements, is that the purpose must have been to present it on a certain day in the future... which is today.

It is like a painting covered with a red cloth after the artist completes it, waiting until all the guests have gathered to unveil the red cloth and reveal the piece before everyone's eyes.

Furthermore,

placing it beneath the stage, I feel there is another layer of meaning."

"Another layer of meaning?"

"Though it wasn't a crime of passion, the killer clearly harbored a profound and intense hatred."

"Rest assured on that point. Once we investigate and identify the deceased, we will screen the victim's social network, focusing particularly on individuals who had conflicts or stood in opposition to the deceased."

"No, no, no, you misunderstand my meaning. The hatred I am speaking of is not the kind of hatred you understand, Sheriff."

"Not the same?"

"It shouldn't belong to the everyday sphere of life—the kind of grievances accumulated from friction among colleagues, relatives, neighbors, or friends that eventually transform into a murderous motive to commit the crime.

The hatred I speak of exists on a completely different level.

Look,

the killer's handling of the victim's body pays far too much attention to detail. Not only is there a heavy religious undertone, but there is also an expression of artistic emotion akin to that of a sculptor."

"I can understand these words you're using, but when you chain them together like this, I am a bit..."

"Come with me."

By now, Uncle Mason had already led the crowd to carry the severely injured man out. Inside the hall, only Karen and Sheriff Duke were left for the moment.

Because neither Sheriff Duke nor Karen had screamed when the corpse in the hole at the center of the stage was discovered, the others, in that chaotic environment earlier, had not even noticed that there was another corpse here that did not belong to this "accident."

Karen stepped down from the stage and walked toward the seating area. The layout of this dance hall closely resembled a theater. In fact, before it was converted into a dance hall, it originally was a theater in Roga City.

Thus, walking from the stage toward the "audience seats"—the booth area—meant climbing upward step by step. The further back one went, the higher the elevation became, resembling an arena-like setting.

Karen continued to walk upward, stopping when he reached the middle section.

Here stood a scattering of very tall, small tea tables, so small they could only hold a few glasses of alcohol, and no chairs were provided alongside them. If one wanted to sit down comfortably, extra money had to be spent to book the booths upfront.

This area was simply meant for you to set down a glass and chat with friends. Of course, if you were a girl, you could freely and casually go to the front seats to share a table and drink.

Unlike Uncle Mason who had washed his hands of such things long ago, Ron was a regular at this dance hall, and this particular area was his main territory, because there was no minimum charge here.

A single song lasted only three minutes, and three minutes cost 5 lubis. Even though Ron made a decent income, he actually had many expenses, so he could not afford to invite dancers to dance to his heart's content.

Most of the time, he would hold a single glass of purchased beer, constantly wetting his lips with it while looking around here and there, watching those "scantily clad" beautiful women;

He would always wait until the most beautiful, his absolute favorite one appeared, before going over to invite her for a dance or two. Immediately after the dance, he would hand the song money to the dancing girl, then step off the stage and return right here, continuing to wet his lips with that glass of beer, savoring the memory slowly while searching at a leisurely pace for his next dancing partner.

Ron had recounted all of this himself on the drive over here. He was very proud, because with the minimum cost, he had prolonged his pleasure to the absolute maximum.

Karen turned his head; Sheriff Duke was standing right behind him.

"Sheriff, please turn around."

"Alright."

Sheriff Duke turned around, standing at the mid-level height, facing the stage down in front.

Karen's voice drifted over from behind him.

"Please use your imagination, Sheriff. This is no longer the dance hall where a stage collapse accident just occurred. Right now, it is operating normally.

Listen, the music has already started playing; it is the joyfully paced 'Roga Elf'."

This piece was very cheerful. Aunt Mary loved to play it while working in her studio.

"Look, the lights have gradually dimmed. The guests have already selected their dance partners and stepped onto the stage.

Look, in the middle of the stage, there are hundreds of couples, embracing tightly and dancing together.

On the periphery, there are indeed a few couples dancing ballroom styles earnestly. Though their posture isn't perfect, it can still be considered proper.

But inside? The male customers are pressed flush against the dancing girls, their hands sliding down toward places they shouldn't be, rubbing continuously.

Listen, the sound of hormones is snapping and rolling incessantly across the stage;

Look, everything before your eyes is a concentrated manifestation of humanity's primal desires. Everyone is huddling close together, using each other's bodies as cover to tear away their disguises, even seeking a kind of thrill from doing it in public.

Look up again,

that glass stage above is yet another vast landscape of titillating scenery.

Morals, ethics, reserve—all of these have been cast off the stage. Money and primitive desire begin to bare their fangs and claws. The side of oneself that should be too ashamed to show in public becomes completely dignified and uninhibited here, on these two tiers of stages before your eyes."

Accompanying Karen's narration,

a starkly similar scene truly seemed to materialize before Sheriff Duke's eyes, light and shadow beginning to interweave and shift at this moment.

"Please direct your gaze once more into the stage. To the center of the stage, then slowly downward, take your time, and finally, fall into the space beneath the stage."

"Tell me, what do you see?"

Sheriff Duke replied, "A corpse. A corpse with a Berryist Bible resting on its chest, arranged in a specific, mocking posture."

"Then, pray tell, what is his posture?"

"Lying down."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Is it not?"

"Stand right where you are now, and look closely once more. Is he... truly lying down?"

Sheriff Duke's gaze froze. From his elevated vantage point, as his conscious perspective shifted further, he could not help but gasp.

"No, he isn't lying down—he is standing. And those people dancing on the stage, they are the ones who are actually lying down!"

Suddenly,

Sheriff Duke clenched his fists tightly.

For he had just realized one thing:

This spot was an observer’s position. No, it was a connoisseur's position.

Sheriff Duke slowly turned his head to the left.

Within his mind's eye, a dark silhouette seemed to manifest, standing right there beside him, a smile playing at the corners of its mouth as it admired the dynamic tableau before them.

He... was the killer!

Instinctively, Sheriff Duke reached out, wishing to seize him.

Yet the moment his hand brushed the dark silhouette, it dissolved. All light and shadow around him vanished with it, reverting once more to the chaotic mess of reality.

There was no other sound, save for his own somewhat heavy breathing.

Turning back to Karen, Sheriff Duke spoke, "That is a fellow who takes pleasure in slaughter. He was admiring it."

Matters had grown grave.

Accidents were unpredictable; the casualties they caused brought grief to loved ones.

But a psychopathic murderer was different. His mere existence could plunge the entirety of Logia City into panic.

"He does not actually believe he is murdering. He is painting a canvas; he believes he is presenting a form of art."

"Then the Berryist Bible, the flowerpot upon the abdomen, the middle finger, the stark naked corpse—all of this..." Sheriff Duke frowned slightly. "All of this seems... seems..."

"You wish to say that all of this seems to have become unimportant, do you not, Sheriff?"

"I... do feel that way."

"Because the sense of a grand composition is already sufficient. No, to be more precise, it is because these arrangements are merely supporting elements, meant to flesh out the artwork and give the scene more texture."

"So, whether it is the flowerpot, the middle finger, or the Song of the Soul, investigating them is actually meaningless. They were not deliberate expressions, but rather casual embellishments by the killer?

It is even highly probable that this corpse, whose identity I still do not know, was not a follower of Berryism at all?"

Karen nodded, yet still offered a reminder, "But Berryism yearns for nature, and nature is a form of instinct."

Sheriff Duke said, "Indeed. Some Berryist believers are quite fond of organizing debauched orgies, viewing such behavior as a way to grow closer to nature. This element happens to echo the scene upon the stage perfectly.

Therefore, the killer is not a Berryist, nor does he harbor hatred for Berryism. His hatred stems from this attitude—no, what he hates is contrary to what Berryism advocates."

"You are correct, Sheriff. An artwork devoid of emotional venting is merely a sophisticated arrangement without substance; it cannot bring joy to its creator. Hatred can also be a form of joy, and joy requires projection.

This corpse is not being punished here. He is not the object of the killer's punishment, but rather the vessel for the killer's projection.

When the killer stood here, watching all of this unfold, he could project himself into that standing position. The men and women dancing so obscenely upon the two stages then became the objects of his hatred and mockery.

He stands while they lie down. He is like a god looking down upon a filthy populace. This is a hatred that transcends ordinary meaning."

Sheriff Duke nodded, then shook his head again. "I seem to have grasped something, yet I have no grand clue. The killer... projection... then, between the killer and the deceased, there might be no enmity... they might even have a very good, very intimate relationship. Because only in this way could the killer, through the deceased..."

Karen smiled slightly and said, "Find that sense of projection."

Sheriff Duke tapped his own head with his pipe,

laughing twice in self-mockery:

"Ha... Ha..."

Then,

exhaling a long breath, he said, "I feel that everything you just said is entirely baseless, pure speculation and fabrication, yet I happen to think you make a great deal of sense."

"I am merely fulfilling the duty of a good citizen, maintaining the virtue and order of this city."

"In the upcoming investigation, I shall focus heavily on those who were close to the deceased. The closer they were, the more attention I shall pay."

Karen remained silent.

"You are of the Immerse family? What is your relation to Mason?"

"I am his nephew; he is my uncle."

"Oh, I knew it. You shouldn't be a mere laborer hired by his family. You are so handsome; if you wanted to earn money, you wouldn't need to work as a corpse mover. You could simply stand right here and wait for those wealthy ladies to spend money just to ask you to dance."

Having spoken, Sheriff Duke burst into laughter, thinking himself quite humorous.

Karen merely offered a polite, accommodating smile.

He had grown somewhat accustomed to it. This world always harbored a certain malice toward those of fine appearance.

"My name is Duke Marlo. You may call me Meerschaum Duke."

"Karen Immerse."

"Karen, how old are you this year?"

"Fifteen."

"Tsk. Mason has quite a remarkable nephew. The experience just now was a first in all my time investigating cases."

At that moment, police officers began to enter.

"If there is progress in the case... no, regardless of whether there is progress, I shall come find you again. Mink Street... Number 13, correct?"

"Yes, Sheriff."

Sheriff Duke turned and shouted to the officers who had just entered:

"There is a murder victim beneath the hole in the center of the stage. Protect that scene, then contact the station to request fresh reinforcements."

As he continued down the steps, he muttered in a low voice with his back turned to Karen:

A nephew who can mentally resonate with a psychopathic murderer.

After taking a few steps down, Sheriff Duke suddenly halted, turning back to look at Karen:

"One more thing."

"Please speak."

"When I examined the corpse just now, I found it had undergone a certain degree of preservation treatment. Coupled with the fact that it is now winter, the body will not decompose so quickly. The killer could fully continue to enjoy this pleasure of projection—or rather, this hatred."

Why would he choose to present the corpse... the artwork, in this manner?

"I can understand his desire to display it, but I feel he could have played around with it a little longer, don't you think?"

Cullen looked at Sheriff Duke and replied, "It is possible that the killer has simply grown tired of the old and yearned for the new."

Sheriff Duke’s pupils contracted slightly. "You mean the killer has already selected a new target?"

"No."

"Oh~" Sheriff Duke let out a breath of relief.

Cullen continued:

"The killer might already be admiring it now."

...

Cullen walked out of the ballroom. Upon stepping outside, he saw that two ambulances had already parked there. Many of the injured were being lifted into them, and the chaotic scene from before had regained a semblance of order.

What left Cullen somewhat awkward, however, was that the Inmeres family’s modified "Nutts" hearse was nowhere to be seen.

Had Uncle Mason been so preoccupied with transporting the "guests" that he failed to notice his nephew was not actually in the vehicle?

Helpless, Cullen prepared to hail a taxi to head home.

His earlier initiative to assist Duke with the criminal psychological profiling was not due to a sudden urge to play detective, but rather because he felt an urgent need for external socialization. Although he dared not "run away from home" just yet, it did not stop him from making preparations for the future—such as getting to know a few more people.

As for hiding one's talents, there was truly no necessity for that. When you had a grandfather at home constantly weighing whether or not to kill you, what was the point of hiding anything?

Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of Cullen.

A man stepped out of the vehicle, wearing a peaked cap, with an aquiline nose and a sharply pointed chin.

After he got out,

Cullen naturally slid into the seat, only to realize after settling in that a woman in a gray dress was fast asleep on the other side of the back seat, her head resting against the car window.

The taxi driver turned around and called out:

"Lady, lady, you've arrived at your destination."

The woman was shaken awake. As she opened the door on her side to step out, she murmured with a hint of grievance:

"The boss is really something. The police station already ruled it an accident, so how could it possibly have anything to do with aberrations? Yet he still insisted on coming here to take a look. Hey, boss, wait for me!"

"Sir, where to?"

"Sir?

Sir?"

"Ah, yes?" Cullen responded, somewhat lost in thought.

"Where are you heading? You have to tell me the place so I can drive you there."

"Number 13, Mink Street."

"Alright."

The taxi started up.

Cullen silently and slowly unclenched his tightly balled left hand, staring at the cross-shaped burn scar left upon it.

She had just said... aberration?

At this very moment,

Cullen suddenly felt a wave of guilt, along with a profoundly uncertain sense of dread.

The world outside of home

did not seem quite so beautiful either...