Wine and Gun

"So," McCard gān said, "he probably won't be able to testify in court."

Garcia was stunned for a moment, apparently not thinking in this direction just now: "Yes, yes."

—Then he doesn't even have the last bit of value. McCard thought.

Worst case scenario is that Stryder is not dead but can't testify in court, so the prosecutor's office will charge Herstal Armalite with attempted first degree murder causing grievous bodily harm, and they all know , the difference between accomplished and attempted is a world of difference.

You know, the result that McCard wants is not the kind of result that people can get out of after being in prison for decades. He needs the Westland pianist to stay in prison forever and honestly, forever and ever. Can't take another step out of this steel cage.

"There is no direct evidence that he is a Westland pianist, and he did not use his usual piano strings as a weapon when he attacked Slade." McCard said slowly, he had thought that with Amma With the level of obsessive-compulsive disorder of a person like Wright, he could never resist the temptation to kill Slade with piano strings.

Did he hold this desperate murderer too tight?

Garcia said hesitantly: "But, the Kentucky case back then...?"

"It's useless, there is no evidence to prove that it was a childhood pianist who committed the crime," McCard shook his head and sneered, "That case is powerful enough for us to determine whether Herstal is a pianist, but it is not enough for the jury. On the contrary, what I am worried about is that Armalite will use the reason that 'Streede qiángjian had him back then' to defend himself."

He paused and straightened his thoughts: the pianist was just too cautious, he never committed crimes where he lived, never used his car as a communication tool, and never returned to the scene of the crime— It now appears that the evidence is far from enough.

With what he knew about Amarette, he had no doubt that Amarette would plead not guilty. The man he attacked was Slade, and he couldn't have pleaded guilty in a case like this.

... The important thing is the interrogation, the pianist must spend a lifetime in prison, which is the best outcome.

"We need to put a little pressure on prosecutors and the jury," McCard muttered.

Cold metal handcuffs were placed on the wrists, and the chains between the handcuffs passed through the welded rings on the table, making it impossible to break free. There was a screeching noise on the floor as the chair was pulled, and an interrogator took his seat—

Bart Hardy sat across the table in the interrogation room, looking wearily into Herstal's eyes.

"Time: Saturday, May 6, 2017, 10:30 a.m. Interrogator: Constable Bart Hardy." Hardy began softly, indicating to Herstal that they had started recording, "Mr. Armalette , you understand your rights, don't you? You have the right to start this interrogation after a lawyer is present, and every word you say will be used as evidence in court."

"I understand." Herstal's voice sounded very, very calm, like stagnant water without waves, "I give up this right."

Hardy paused, then said softly, "Herstal, I'm sorry."

—I can't even tell at a glance what he's thinking when he says this, whether it's a common police tactic to announce to his prisoners that he and he are from the same camp, or whether he's sincerely apologetic.

Herstal sneered back at this: "Why be sorry? Is there that much difference between killing someone with joy and killing someone with overwhelming hatred? Or is it up to you? As for the choice of victims? Killing innocent people and killing criminals can't be generalized, just as citizens think of pianists and gardeners?"

Hardy's lips twitched, and he said, "Herstal—"

"If I want to kill Slade for the so-called justice, am I considered a hero?" Herstal continued to ask, his voice was a bit aggressive, "And if I was for myself If his selfish desires killed him, I would be considered a heinous crime?"

"So," Hardy asked softly, "did you want to murder him out of a moment of anger, or did you plan it?"

After all, the difference between premeditated murder and passion murder is a world of difference. The average lawyer would suggest that his victim would try to spin a favorable answer on this issue, but apparently Herstal doesn't care much about these details now. .

He showed a smile, it was a gloomy and bleak smile, he said: "I want to kill him every day for the past thirty years."

"And what about Albarino?" Hardy asked, swallowing too nervously. "The CSI surveyors found a lot of Albarino's blood in your house. Did you kill Al too?"

"Does that surprise you?" Herstal asked rhetorically.

"But," Hardy whispered, "why?"

Leohard Schreiber sat in a booth against the wall in the café.

This is his accustomed position: with his back against the wall, no uninvited guests will approach behind him, he can see all the windows and doors in the room at a glance, and he can leave the scene at any time. With sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and a voice recorder in his pocket, he thought he was fully armed.

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