The heavy rain had just stopped, but a light drizzle persisted. When Nemocine and Shiller both declined the offer to ride in a police car, they were exceptionally calm. When Shiller drove his own car with her in it, she showed no objections, only staring absentmindedly at the rain outside the window.
"The fabric inside the leather cushion of the bar stool holds the fibers from where I left remnants when I stabbed the letter opener there. And you deliberately did not clean it up, letting Gordon see it when he visited, making him know it was my handiwork," Nemocine said. "You didn't stop me from going crazy in your house because you knew the letter opener was the only weapon I could obtain. If the police investigate now, they'll find only my fingerprints on it. And as a high-functioning child with a history of mental illness, no one would think I couldn't commit murder."
"But the flaw is that I have no grievances with the mayor, and I have an alibi for when he died. Yet, these can be overturned. My background is miserable, blaming the mayor seems normal. Gordon is my adoptive father, he might commit perjury for me. You are my psychiatrist, you might conceal for me out of compassion. The jury might not believe your testimonies."
"In addition, many of the police who have seen me want me dead, because that way the mayor's death won't be blamed on their clandestine employers. Nobody wants to deal with this mess now, and letting a mentally ill child take the fall is the best option."
"And you did all this so I couldn't say your name," Nemocine turned her head back, staring at the front windshield, "Once I chose silence, saying to Gordon that I didn't see anything, I'd be your accomplice, never having a chance to speak again."
"You seem tired, miss." Shiller concentrated on driving and soon stopped the car in front of Kazsow 125, saying, "Go back and get some sleep."
Nemocine silently changed her shoes, wiped the rain off her hair with the towel Shiller handed her, and walked up the stairs, but stood by the railing on the second floor looking down.
"Why are you doing this?" Nemocine asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Imitating him."
"We'll talk about this tomorrow, you need rest now. Go back to sleep, miss."
Nemocine had no choice but to return to her room. She began to recall everything she had just seen, but she was indeed very tired and couldn't remember anything. The day's experiences were too intense for a child. Nemocine soon fell asleep, even having a deep sleep she hadn't experienced in a long time. When she woke up the next morning, she felt more clear-headed than ever.
A vision of the corpse suddenly flashed before her eyes.
No, the killer couldn't be Shiller.
Bruises are the easiest to judge when the crime occurred. The strangulation marks on the neck prove that the time of death for both bodies was no more than an hour ago.
At that time, Shiller was with her, he simply had no time to act, having a solid alibi, and it was her own eyes that witnessed the alibi.
But if it wasn't him who did it, why did he arrange the letter opener this way, preventing her from speaking in front of Gordon? Who was he hiding for? And why would he hide for him?
Nemocine solved one puzzle, only to find more puzzles surrounding her. She recalled Shiller urging her to sleep last night, possibly implying that fear and fatigue had flawed her reasoning. It was his only defense.
How ridiculous. Nemocine couldn't help but think, how could he expect a 14-year-old child to understand such subtle hints? Unfortunately, she understood it anyway. Perhaps this is the trouble with being smart.
Breakfast was a very ordinary omelet, seemingly from the fast-food restaurant they drove past on the street corner yesterday. As always, Shiller read the newspaper after breakfast.
"Do you remember you said we could discuss something today?"
"Is your head hurting again, miss?"
"Maybe a little, but after yesterday's brainstorming, I feel much better."
"That's good, after all, I'm your psychiatrist. If there's no progress in treatment at all, someone will come to trouble me."
"Gordon? Or Batman?" Nemocine finally sensed something was wrong. She began to realize something unknown to her had long happened. This feeling of losing control made her uncomfortable again.
"Let's talk about that case," Nemocine said, "I don't think you're the one who did it, but you don't want anyone to find out who the real killer is. So you used the letter opener to make me unable to speak. Who's worth doing that for? Your friend? Your partner?"
"Neither." Shiller said, basically admitting Nemocine's deduction. He continued, "I've never intended to frame an innocent young lady, so it wasn't the letter opener. Even if you spoke out, they wouldn't trace it back to you."
"What?" Nemocine stood up in disbelief.
"Also, there's no leather fabric on the barstool sides."
Nemocine rushed to the barstool side. She saw the marks she left earlier with the letter opener on the high chair. She reached out and turned over the area, but found that Shiller was telling the truth. The chair was genuine leather, with just the sponge beneath, and there was no fabric layer.