For a woman who has been forced, beaten, dismembered, and turned into chicken feed, this is an ugly rìzi that can be described as "nothing abnormal". For some reason, Jennifer's eyes gave me a sigh of relief. If it is not hers, then it is likely to be the next victim. Or as I started thinking about Mrs. R.
I opened the folder and browsed through the autopsy report of Jennifer Pepper. I asked Gleason: "Are there any findings at the crime scene that impressed you?"
Gleason shook his head, "No. We talked to your neighbors, and no one said they saw anything conspicuous. It's not that someone could see your house in the first place, but no one reported seeing it. Have been to any strange vehicles or similar things. Nothing."
"Have you asked them about the ship?"
Gregory sneered: "Why do we do this?"
I leaned forward in my seat, "Because behind my house is a huge area of water called the Atlantic Ocean. Do you think it’s not feasible for someone to park a boat on the beach and drag a woman into my house? Do you think it’s him? Damn it's not feasible?"
He did not respond. Caitlin said, "I don't think we will make any progress if we sit and wait."
Caitlin was right—the five of us were sitting around a huge coffee table, playing "Viewpoint". We were supposed to play "Task Force", but we didn't get any results. I stood up and went out within a few seconds. There are a few neighbors I want to talk to them personally. This is not to say that I don't believe in the interview skills of Gleason and Gregory. It's that I don't believe them.
There were two Jǐng cars parked on the lawn of my house, and one of them tried to prevent me from entering. His partner told him that the house was completely within my jurisdiction, and he let me pass to minimize conflicts.
This house feels very strange, just like the set in a movie, the actors and staff are out for lunch. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a white garbage bag from under the sink, and walked upstairs. I hid under the Jǐng cordon at the crime scene that blocked Lacey’s room and straightened up. The air entering my nostrils smelled bad, like the cremation of a gingerbread man. I wrinkled my nose, not so much a stale smell, as I saw a mattress soaked in blood.
**The blood stains in some places are lighter than others, and there is a clear outline, where one hand of Jennifer has rested, and the other hand looks very like a pair of shoulders.
I stuffed Lacey's clothes and some pairs of her shoes in the garbage bag, and turned around in the room, waiting for clues. God used a stick to tap my head. I had no such luck and found myself sitting in front of a long wall mirror hung by Lacey’s bed. I checked myself in the mirror: my clothes looked terrible, and my stubble had grown for five days. I touched the rough cinnamon hair follicles with my hands, and felt that shaving was the best for me.
I turned around to check the outline of the beard I had just grown (I was already wondering whether to shave it off), and immediately found that my head was blocking the back of Lacey's lighthouse painting. A great oil painting is like lasagna, it takes a few days to absorb all the flavors. When I was admiring this painting, suddenly.
I left the mirror and walked towards the wall. Eight inches below Lacey's painting is the remnant of the last resting place of Jennifer's eyes. A blood clot about three inches in diameter condenses on the wall, but the part of the wall where the eye touches the wall is still mainly white. There is a small black hole in every shelter, and every nail is an artifact that was nailed out from there, and the combination of this illusion is a pair of dazzling eyes. It's creepy, to be honest, super creepy, but I can't get rid of this miracle.
I walked around the room, trying to find out what caused the blow, but I found nothing. I think sometimes you get beaten just because you stare at yourself in the mirror for a long time.
For the next two hours, I have been talking to neighbors in the nearby area. Obviously, those federal agents, or I like to call them gentlemen, are telling the truth. No one saw any suspicious activity on land or at sea. The last time I talked was the parents of the teenager who violated the curfew and smoked marijuana. When I asked their son where he was, they said he was doing research on a paper in the library.
If I remember correctly, "doing research in the library" can roughly be understood as drinking Colt 45 on the roof, or trying to take off the clothes of the neighbor's daughter. It's on the roof again. The key word here is roof. I know on which roof our children will be questioned.
I walked about two hundred yards along the beach and came to a bay where the Surrey Breakwater Lighthouse is located. On the way to the lighthouse was a granite boulder, which protruded three-quarters of a mile into the bay. Each boulder is fifty-five, we are talking about feet here, and the walkway is piled with three-story high, five-story wide, and five-story par-length stones. About a thousand seagulls lined up along the breakwater, and when I passed by, each seagull would fly back to their habitat in a small circle.
Due to the large gaps between the rocks, it takes about five minutes to walk. Let's put it this way, the lighthouse is not entirely accessible by wheelchair. As for the lighthouse, it was built in late 1879 and it seems that it has not been renovated since the beginning of 1880. From the back, the lighthouse looks like a small two-story building. Unfortunately, before and after Reagan Zhèng Fǔ, this lighthouse should be condemned. All the windows are sealed with wooden boards, the paint on the outside has long been washed away, and there are more nails sticking out than sticking in.
I can hear the nervous voice from the roof of the lighthouse annex. I didn't want to cause a crazy mess. After some debate, I decided, "I'm going there. If you run away, you will die."
Those voices fell silent. Through the guardrail, I bounced myself onto the roof, and my pants were torn by a nail that had long since been retired. Thinking about it, I don’t think I can design a more dangerous place for a youth gathering.
Four of them were sitting on skateboards with jewels on their faces and empty expressions. Both girls are wearing clothes. I don't know if I need to have a brief conversation with the boys and explain the goals to them.
I walked to the small group of them sitting on the spacious flat-top dining table and took the liberty of stealing a bottle of beer from the box hidden behind the farthest boy.
The four of them sat there in horror, watching this fashionable idiot open the beer and bring it to his mouth. I stopped suddenly and said: "Beer has a few rules of etiquette."
They all nodded, or maybe they both rolled their eyes vigorously, seeming to nod, and I went on to say, "There is an unwritten rule that you can’t drink other people’s beer unless someone else drinks with you."
The group of people looked a little confused. I asked, "This is your beer, right?" One of the girls nodded and I said, "It means all of you have to drink beer so that I can drink this beer. . I really want to drink this beer."
The four of them looked at each other and slowly took out a Keystone lamp from the box one by one and turned it on. They bravely behave like a 5-year-old, but when you can't help but giggle and almost pee on your pants, it's hard to do it. After each of them took a few sips, I asked them: "How old are you?"
A girl with pink and green hair said loudly: "Thirteen. We are seventh graders. What's wrong, how old are you?"
"Eighteen. I am a senior in high school."
A boy wearing 7 earrings said: "Liar, you can't be in high school. You are only fifty years old."
Ouch. If this is my second beer instead of the first, I will tear off this kid’s sex. My neighbor seemed to be the only unhappy person. I said, "Listen, I won't tell your parents anything. I was doing the same thing when I was thirteen." Almost five years.
He nodded and took a sip of beer. I fast-forwarded, "I need your help. Were you here last night?"
My neighbor, the monkey left his back and said, "Yes, we are here."
I asked them all to stand up and point to the coastline near my house. "I know it was dark, but does anyone remember seeing a boat?" In these places, boats are very rare. In the past ten months, I have seen two ships.
Three of them shook their heads, but I saw my neighbor nodding. I poked him, and he motioned for me to follow him. He walked to the edge of the lighthouse roof and said, "I'm coming up to urinate." He showed me the urine that his hand might leak, and then continued, "I saw this ship floating there, very far. So I remember because this is the only time I saw this kind of boat near here."
I asked him what it was like. He thought it had two sails, "medium size"
I asked each of them to enter my number into their cell phone and instructed them to call me if they see the ship or anything suspicious again. I finished my beer, and after some inner struggle, I think it's better to smoke marijuana with them.
Once safely back on the granite, I quickly browsed through what I learned in the past half an hour. First, the children started drinking beer and smoking marijuana at the age of thirteen. Second, I can no longer pretend to be a high school student. Third, on the night Jennifer was murdered, a boat floated near the coast.
All of these are equally interesting. All of these are equally disturbing.
On the way to Caitlin's apartment, I stopped at a liquor store. I was about to open the front door of her house when I suddenly figured it out and rang the doorbell. Caitlin opened the door and cast a look at me. I said, "Are you trying to make me angry?" Or something nearby. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)