Chapter 20 Chapter Twenty

Kohlberg had been restless. He felt that something big was bound to happen, but so far all had been peaceful.The body has been removed, the floor has been scrubbed, the blood-stained sheets removed, the bed pulled to one side, the bedside table moved to the other, all personal belongings put in plastic bags and then put in a bag Here, the bag is now on the corridor waiting for someone to pick it up.The laboratory personnel had already evacuated, and even the human figure drawn with chalk on the ground could not remind people that Nieman had ever existed.This method is very outdated, and few people use it. It seems that only photojournalists still like this method.

Now only the visitor's chair remained in the room, and Kohlberg sat down in it to think. What does the murderer do after the murder?Experience has taught him that there are many answers. Kohlberg also killed someone, what did he do afterwards?He thought about it for a long time, years in fact, and eventually he turned in his gun, his license, and said he never wanted to carry a gun again.That was years ago, and Kohlberg vaguely remembered the last time he carried a gun in the summer of 1964, working on the notorious Roseanna case in Mutala.Kohlberg sometimes thought of that unpleasant event, as if he saw himself in the mirror occasionally and saw the murderer's face.

Over the years in the group, Kohlberg has witnessed countless murders, and he knows that people will have various reactions after committing a murder.Some would vomit, some would eat a big meal, some would commit suicide, some would run away and run aimlessly, and some would just go home and sleep. Speculation is not only extremely difficult, but it is also useless for detective work because it is likely to be misleading. However, the circumstances of the Nieman murder made Kolberg ask himself: What did the man with the bayonet do afterward? What are you doing now? What situation?The murderer's atrocities must be the manifestation of internal violence, and that resentment must be further vented.

But is it really that simple?Kolberg vividly remembers how she felt while training as a paratrooper at Nieman.At first he felt so fragile and disgusting that he couldn't eat, but before long he was able to crawl out of the pile of living animal offal, undress, take a shower, and go straight to the dining room to wolf down Coffee was eaten, so even something bloody like that could become a customary routine. Another influence on Kohlberg's thinking was Martin Baker's reaction.Kohlberg is very sensitive, especially to every move of his boss.He knew Martin Baker so well that he could easily detect a slight change in his boss's behavior.Today Martin Baker seems restless, perhaps terrified, which is so rare that there must be a reason for it.

That's why Kohlberg is sitting here wondering: what does the murderer do after committing the crime? Larson, who has always had the courage to speculate boldly, soon had an answer. "Maybe he went straight home and shot himself," he said. This answer is of course worthy of reference, maybe things are really that simple.Larson often guessed right, but he also often guessed wrong. Kohlberg thinks that's how people are.But don't think too much, he has always doubted Larson's ability to handle cases. Now the man he doubted was striding in with a fat, bald man who was over sixty, interrupting Kohlberg's thoughts.The fat man looked depressed, but most of the people who walked with Larson had that look.

"This is Kohlberg," Larson said. Kohlberg stood up and looked suspiciously at the stranger in front of him. Larson briefly introduced: "This is Nieman's doctor." The two shook hands with each other. "Coleberry." "Blomberry." Then Larson started asking a bunch of meaningless questions. "What's your name?" "Karl Axl." "How long have you been Nieman's doctor?" "More than twenty years." "What's wrong with him?" "You probably don't understand." "Tell me about it."

"Even doctors don't necessarily understand." "Oh?" "I just went through the X-rays. There are seventy of them." "and then" "The diagnosis is very good, which is good news." "What good news?" Larson looked aggressive, and the doctor had to hasten to continue: "I mean, of course, it would be great news if he was alive." "meaning is?" "He can heal." Blomberg thought for a moment, then corrected himself. "Well, at least I can return to a decent state of health." "What's wrong with him?"

"As I said, we now have a diagnosis of a medium-sized cyst in Stig's bowel." "Where did you grow up?" "There is also a small tumor in the small intestine and liver." "what does that mean?" "It means that he can recover well. As I said just now, the cyst can be removed by surgery. It is not a malignant tumor." "What is a malignant tumor?" "It's cancer, it's fatal." Larson's confidence has clearly increased. "It's not as difficult as you make it out to be," he said. "But as you may know, we can't operate on the liver, but the tumor is small, and Stig should have years to live." Dr. Blomberg nodded emphatically. "Stig has a strong body and is in great shape."

"what?" "I mean when he was alive. He had normal blood pressure, a strong heart, and was in very good health." Larson seemed to have asked enough.The doctor gestured to leave. "Wait a minute, doctor," said Kohlberg. "What's wrong?" "You've been Chief Nieman's doctor for a long time, and you know him well, don't you?" "That's right." "What kind of person is Neiman?" "The officer was referring to anything other than his physical condition," Larson said. "I'm not a psychologist," Blomberg said, shaking his head. "I just want to talk about medicine itself."

But Kohlberg didn't give up. "You must have some opinion of him." "Stig is a complicated man, like us," said the doctor vaguely. "Is that all you have to say?" "yes." "Thank you." "Goodbye," Larson said. And so the conversation ended. After the physician left, Larson's old habit recurred. He began to pull his long fingers one by one, making the knuckles snap.There were times when I pulled two or three times before making a sound, and I pulled my right index finger as many as eight times. Kohlberg endured in resigned silence.

"Larson—" he said at last. "What for?" "Why did you do that?" "That's my business," Larson said. Kohlberg continued to speculate on the murderer's whereabouts. "Larson," said Coleberg after a moment, "can you imagine yourself as Nyman's murderer, and then try to speculate on his motives and subsequent movements?" "How do you know the murderer is a man?" "There are very few women who can wield that kind of weapon, and even fewer have feet big enough to wear size twelve shoes. Can you put yourself in that shoes?" Larson watched him intently with clear blue eyes. "No, I can't, how can this be done?" He raised his head, pushed aside the blond hair in front of his eyes, and listened attentively. "What the hell was that sound?" Larson asked. There was noise nearby, and Kohlberg and Larson immediately left the room and went outside. A black and white bus from the bureau stopped in front of the steps. Fifty yards away were five young patrolmen and an older man in a suit. The uniformed police officer was busy pushing a group of ordinary people away. The patrolmen held hands, and the commanding officer waved a plastic baton menacingly through his cropped gray hair. The crowd included a few photographers, several hospital women orderlies in white coats, a driver in uniform, and a lot of men, women, and children. These people probably came to watch the excitement.Several of them protested loudly, and a young man picked up an empty beer can from the ground and threw it at the officers, but missed. "Get them," yelled the officer, "this is nonsense." White batons waved one after another. "Wait a minute!" Larson yelled loudly. Everyone stopped. Larson walked toward the crowd. "what happened?" "I'm clearing the restricted area," said the old police officer. The gold bar on his sleeve signifies that he is the captain. "But oh my god, what is there to ban here?" Larson said angrily. "Yeah, Hult, Larson's right," said Kohlberg. "Where did you get these patrolmen?" "The emergency team of the fifth branch." The captain said as he naturally stood up obediently. "They've come, I'm going to command them now." "Stop this farce immediately," Larson said. "Put a guard on the steps to keep unauthorized people out of the building. I don't think that's really necessary. Also, send the others back to their homes." Jurisdiction, I think they are needed more there." There was a noise of static from the police bus, then a harsh voice. "Captain Hult, please contact the General Administration and report to Team Leader Baker." Hult, still clutching his baton, looked at the two detectives disapprovingly. "What's the matter," said Kohlberg, "are you not going to contact the main office? Someone is looking for you." "There's no rush," Hult said. "I'm here of my own free will anyway." "I don't think we need volunteers here," Kolberg said. He was wrong. "It's just bullshit," Larson said, "but at least I did what I was supposed to do." Larson was also wrong. As Larson strode toward his car, there was a gunshot, followed by high-pitched, frantic yells for help. Larson stopped in confusion and looked at his watch. It was ten past twelve. Kohlberg also reacted immediately. Maybe this is what he's been waiting for.