Chapter 10 third quarter

Team leader Edward Delaney examined the living room deliberately.The room is well-kept.The ashtray was clean and the footstools were all in their place.His favorite chair is also in its place. He looked back at his wife, who was watching him teasingly. "Have you passed the inspection, sir?" "Excellent," he nodded. "You are always at my service." "I don't do superficial things," she said. The oak cocktail table is already set out with a coffee pot, creamer, sugar, cups, saucers, pastry plate and knife.And half a pineapple fruit cake. "Boone," Rebecca said, "the coffee isn't strong, so don't worry about not being able to sleep at night."

He grunted a few times. "The cake is also low in calories," Monica said, looking at her husband. "Liar," he said cheerfully. "I'll only eat a slice anyway." The four of them took their places to eat and drink. "The cake is so good," Delaney praised. "Greasy but not greasy. Where did it come from?" "Velera did it," Monica replied. "She insisted on leaving the rest to us." "How was the party?" Boone asked casually. "Fine," Monica said with absolute certainty. "Interesting and—instructive. Don't you, Rebecca?"

"Exactly," echoed Rebecca. "I really appreciate the discussion after the presentation." "What's the topic?" Boon asked. Monica raised her chin and stared straight at her husband. "The woman who had a pre-orgasm." "Oh my God!" Delaney shouted before it was too late, and the two women burst into laughter. "Monica knew you would shout that," Rebecca explained with a smile. "Oh, really?" Delaney said. "That's a normal reaction. What does this pre-orgasmic woman mean?" "Obviously," Monica said. "Just a woman who's never had an orgasm."

"Cold woman?" Boon asked. "Standard male reaction," his wife teased him. "Cold feeling is a very unreasonable term," Delaney's wife answered. "Actually, 'cold feeling' means aversion to 'sex', which can be used by both sexes. But men can't bear the name of being sexually cold because of their little self-esteem, so these two words become A term used to describe women. Tonight our experts and scholars have shown that this is not the case for men and women. They are just pre-emptive orgasms. After training with heat therapy, these people can also achieve real orgasms."

"Moreover, he will become an upright and useful person in society in the future." Delaney added sarcastically. Monica was very calm.She knew Delaney was very proud of her caliber in the women's rights movement.When discussing issues, it is inevitable that there will be disputes.Monica thought it would be better to have an argument than him to say, "Yeah, honey...yes, honey... well, honey," and point his nose at the New York Times. Delaney was indeed proud of her.Remembering those days when their son died, she was so depressed that she couldn't extricate herself.

However, she is a strong woman, and she just pulls herself together.Of course, her two daughters also helped; if she continued to hide and cry in the small room, there was really no way to solve some of the needs and difficulties of the two of them. After they went to school, she gave her heart and soul to the feminist movement.Began to engage in a series of meetings, lectures, symposiums, and improvements to the neighborhood. Delaney was delighted.He appreciated her vigorous efforts toward her own beliefs. But admiration for her abilities didn't mean he necessarily agreed with her rhetoric.When it was time to speak, he was never silent.

His two wives, Monica now and Barbara late, were good listeners and helpers in his business affairs.He often provides some valuable advice. Now, sitting opposite his wife, watching her chatting with the Boones, he felt more than once in his heart how lucky he was to be with these two rare women in his life. Monica was a strong woman, with broad shoulders, broad hips, and a strong waist.The chest is full and the ankles are slender.There was a soft sensuality about her, a physical intimacy.Her passion is not limited to spiritual aspects. Black, thick, shoulder-length hair, combed back, revealing two eyebrows that have not been artificially treated, and very light makeup.She is a crisp and neat woman, with both hardness and softness.

Looking at his wife's lively energy, Delaney felt a familiar excitement, and he wished his guests would leave.Monica suddenly turned to look at him, and winked at him in unison. "Leader," Rebecca asked sincerely, "what do you really think about the feminist movement?" He resolutely averted his gaze, and answered Rebecca's question solemnly. "Well," he began. "I don't disagree with most of the guidelines." "I know," she followed him. "Equal work, equal treatment." "No no," he quickly corrected. "Monica speaks better. Job competition, pay equal."

His wife nodded approvingly. "Then what are you objecting to?" Rebecca questioned. He straightened out his thoughts. "No objection," he answered slowly. "There are only two things to keep. First, there is nothing wrong with the feminist movement itself. It is an indicator of a minority or some oppressed people seeking innovation. There is nothing wrong with it. In order to achieve the goal, there must be organization. In order to gain political and economic real power, it is necessary to take the lead. Black people, red men, women—everyone is the same. In order to fight for the highest power, it is inevitable that everyone will speak out. This is still not wrong.

"It's a pity that after doing it, there are more bureaucratic articles and less novelty. It has become a group of women, blacks, etc. who exercise power. There is a contradiction, a basic conflict. If the answer cannot be forward and backward Unanimous, then these people will simply destroy their original intention of forming a group." "You think I'm this type of person in the feminist movement?" Monica was very angry. "No, I don't think so," he replied calmly. "That's because I knew you, married you, and spent time with you. But can you deny that since the feminist movement—almost fifteen years ago?—this kind of cliché, official Flavorful characters have been emerging in an endless stream?"

Monica slapped the table with her palm, causing the empty coffee cups to rattle on the tray. "You are too much!" she said. "It's the truth," he said calmly. "What about the second point?" Rebecca was anxious to mediate the relationship between their husband and wife. "You said there were two objections. What was the second?" "Not objecting," he reminded her. "It's a reservation. The second point is: the feminist movement is women's efforts to achieve equal treatment, equal work, and equal opportunities for development in business, politics, and industry. Good. But have you ever really thought about this 'equality'? as a result of?" "Look at our poor Captain Abner Boone—a dazed look." Boone returned a feeble smile. "He's been working eighteen hours a day for six weeks. He's sleeping and eating random meals whenever he can. You can't even imagine the pressure he's under. "Rebecca, have you seen him often the last six weeks? Have you two had a good meal? Do you know where he is and what danger he's in? You don't, I suppose. "Does your husband enjoy living like this? He's in charge, not in control. Would you like to be equal in this job? I don't believe it. "What I want to say is that I don't believe that women really understand the needs they put forward. If you don't tear down a wall, how will you know what is really behind the wall. The dangers, obstacles, and responsibilities are beyond your imagination." "We are willing to take on all of this," Rebecca said resolutely. "Really?" The group leader sarcastically. "Is this really the case? Are you willing to chase a drug addict with a knife in a dark alley? Are you willing to rush to the battlefield without fear of death? "To put it bluntly, are you willing to work hard non-stop? Meet the boss's requirements, eat less, run fast - and risk stomach ulcers, lung cancer, alcoholism, heart embolism, cerebral palsy at a young age. congestion? "Of course, not all men's jobs are like this. Many people can still commute to and from get off work on time, plant flowers and plants, and enjoy their lives in peace. But their bodies and minds are under too much and too heavy pressure. And those leadership positions that women most yearn for People, their exhaustion and hard work are indescribable. Is this the equality you want to play?" Rebecca was always docile, but this time she became abnormally angry. "It's up to 'us' to judge the merits, and that's what our feminist movement is about." What's even more strange is that Monica didn't get angry at her husband's words. "Edward," she said, "a lot of what you say is true. Not all, but there is some truth." "so?" "So, we know that when women's status is raised and established, they will bear the same tension and pressure as men. But if it has to be this way, it's not necessarily the case. We believe that the system can, at least, be modified. So success doesn’t necessarily mean stomach ulcers and brain congestion. Institutions are not immovable stones etched on a hill. They are set up by men and can be changed by men—men and women.” He stared at her. "When do you think this Paradise will appear?" "There's no waiting in this life," she admits. "The road is long. But the first step is to put women in positions of power that will affect our future society." "Drilled from the inside?" "Sometimes you're really mean," she laughed. "But the concept is good. Yes. By investing in it, as a part of it, you can influence the entire system." Boon stood up exhausted. "The topic is really interesting," he said hoarsely. "I'd love to hear it again. Unfortunately, I'm so tired that I'm afraid I'll fall asleep after a while. Rebecca, it's time to say goodbye. " She stepped forward, took his arm, and looked at him with concern. "Okay, let's go. I'll drive." Delaney fetched coats and hats for them.The two couples say goodbye to each other.Delaney and Monica stood in the door, watching them get into the car and drive away.Delaney closed the door, put two locks on it, and then put on the chain.Turn back to face your wife. "It's just the two of us after all." She looks at him. "You showed your sharpness tonight, you bastard." "Thank you." She stared first, then laughed.He got into his strong arms.The two are very close.Then she drew back. "How can I do without you?" she said. "I'll clean up the cups and saucers; you go on patrol." He did go on patrol.Every night routine.From attic to basement; look at every lock on every door, every bolt on every window.He doesn't think these jobs are stupid or ass; because he used to be a policeman in New York City. When work was done, the small lights in the porch and vestibule were left on.He went up to the bedroom on the second floor.Monica is making the bed. He fell tiredly on the easy chair, bent down, and started to untie the pair of well-polished thick-soled high-soled kangaroo leather boots on his feet. "Was the dinner really good?" he asked her wife. "So-so," she said, waving her hands. "It's true that everyone enjoyed it. It was a joy to eat! What did you eat?" "A sandwich and a bottle of beer." "I think it's two sandwiches and two bottles of wine. Edward, you really shouldn't be struggling with sandwiches anymore. People are as fat as a mountain." "The fatter you are, the more you love." He got up and took off his coat and vest. "What do you mean?" she asked. "When you weigh three hundred pounds, can I not be angry with you?" The two slowly put on their clothes, one opened the wardrobe, the other pulled the drawer.While yawning, strike up a conversation indiscriminately. "Poor Boone," he said. "Did you take a close look at him? Tired as a dead man." "Rebecca better not wear green," she said. "It looks so yellow." “Cakes are really good.” "Rebecca says she's lucky if she sees him three hours a day." "Remind me to buy wine, there's not much left." "You think that cake is as good as the one I made?" "No," he lied. "Very good, but not as good as yours." "When will I make one for you to eat?" "For 'us'. Make strawberries." He sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear.There is a blue seal around the thick neck; this is a memorial left by wearing a hard-collared uniform when I was a policeman.He watched her clothes thinning. "You're getting thinner." "Really?" She was a little proud. "Really, your waist..." She stood in front of the long-length mirror on the closet door and looked at herself. "Hmm... probably lost a pound or two. Edward, we really should go on a diet." "right." "You can't have any more sandwiches." he sighed. "You just refuse to give up?" He was helpless. "You never admit defeat. You never admit that you married the most stubborn person in the world." "I'm going to keep talking about it," she is vowing. "I'm lucky," he teased. "Have you been in touch with Mrs. Thornson lately?" "She called yesterday. Didn't I tell you?" "No." "Oh. She wants to get together with us. I said I'll talk to you and arrange a time." "Ok." The "hmm" caught her attention.Monica temporarily stopped putting on her cotton dressing gown.Check him out. "What is it? Ivar Thorsen wants to see you?" "I don't know," he said. "If he wants to, just give him a call and it will be over." Sure enough, she expected it. "What did you and Boone talk about—the case?" "yes." "Can you tell me?" "Can." "Wait until I finish my face cream," she said. "Don't fall asleep first." "Won't." She went into the bathroom, flannel pajama bottoms on his side.Sit on your sleeping side.I thought about cigars, but smoked Monica's cigarettes.Bland and tasteless. He was a strong, strong man, and he walked like a tiger.Iron gray hair like a brush.The deep-lined facial features carry a confident look of "hoping for the good, but not afraid of the bad". The shoulders are round and hard, and the new flesh still cannot conceal the strength and health of the past.The scars on the body, the wind and frost on the eyelids, the yellow stains on the teeth-all show that this is a beast that has been tempered and experienced in the world. He sat peacefully, smoking a cigarette, watching his wife go to bed, leaning against the bed board, and then pulled the quilt to his waist. "Okay, go ahead," she said. He walked unhurriedly to the small table next to the bed.There are many miscellaneous things on the table.There was a gun, and cufflinks, and a bottle of brandy, and two carved glasses.He poured two small cups. "Good idea," she said. "It's better than medicine," he said. "We'll sleep soundly and sweetly like good babies." He sits beside her; she moves a little to make room.The two toasted each other and sipped. "Jade liquid fine nectar." Only then did he succinctly recount the two murders that Boone had told about.Monica blanched at the mention of the dead man's wounds, but she persisted, taking a gulp of brandy. "That's all," he concluded. "Now you'll know why Boone's listless tonight. He's been busy for over a month." "Why didn't I see anything in the report?" "They want to suppress the news—dumb, but simple. They don't want a repeat of the 'Son of Sam' hysteria. Besides, tourism is big business in this city. Arguably the biggest. If the big headline hits 'Manhattan It's not hard to imagine how much business would be affected by the 'hotel killer' impact." "Maybe Boone will catch the killer." "Maybe," he wondered. "Unless it's luck. But I can't see the current information, it's too thin. Moreover, there is still a big problem: they sent Captain Shimati to sit in the town. Shimati is a spur. Very ambitious and clever , very good at protecting himself. Boone won't be able to handle it then." "Why put someone over his head? Isn't Boone doing a good job?" Delaney sipped. "He's a pretty good detective. I'm sure he's doing the best he can. But they've got—what did he say?—twenty-four guys on the case. I think, They think that someone with a high rank should be sent to command. But I guarantee that Shimati will not be able to solve it. Unless there is another murder and the murderer shows his weakness." "Do you think you'll do it again, Edward?" He sighed, stared at the wine glass, then got up and paced back and forth at the end of the bed.She never took her eyes off him. "I can pretty much guarantee it," he said. "The signs of psychopathy are blatant. This is the worst kind of homicide, the hardest to break. Indiscriminate. There is no motive. The murderer has nothing to do with the deceased." "Don't know each other?" "Yes. An unexpected meeting. We were strangers before." Then he told her all that he hadn't explained to Boone. "Monica, a long time ago, when I was a detective, seventy-five percent of homicides in New York City were committed by relatives, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances of the deceased. "The rest, so-called 'stranger murders', are cases committed by murderers who don't know the dead. Major crimes like robbery, sniping, or—worst of all—killing for the sake of bloodlust. There is a French word that I can't remember for a while, which means death desire, taking pleasure in killing. "Anyway, at that time three out of four homicides were committed by people who knew the deceased, and we had a high detection rate. Just focus on those who were involved. "However, in the past ten years, the percentage of strangers' murders has been increasing, and the detection rate has been relatively declining. There are no official statistics, and based on my experience, the difference is not too far away; there are two relative parabolas; one increases, and the other decreases. "Because there is no trace of the stranger's murder. I don't know how to start and where to start." "You know," she said sincerely. "You found the killer in the Burner case" (Berner Gilbert, see) "I'm not saying it can't be done. It's just too difficult. Far more difficult than a crime in a fit of rage." "So you think there's still a chance of catching him?" He stopped abruptly and looked at her. "Him?" he asked. "You think the murderer was a man?" She nods. "Why?" He wondered. "I don't know," she said. "I just can't imagine a woman doing something like that." "A knife with a short blade is a woman's weapon," he told her. "And the deceased was obviously receiving the blow. And when the murderer committed the murder, it seemed that he was completely naked, without any clothes on." "But why?" she cried. "Why would a woman do such a murderous thing?" "Monica, crazy behavior has its own logic. It's different from ours. To them, this kind of behavior is the most reasonable and correct. To us, it's scary and weird. It's not the same. " He sat back beside her again.The two drank slowly.He took her hand and pressed it against his big one. "I just happen to agree with you," he said. "Based on what Boone told me, I didn't think it would be a woman. The difference is that you rely on intuition and prejudice, and I infer the probability most. There are many cases of this kind of indiscriminate killing: Son of Sam, Good Jack, Boston Executioner, Yorkshire Good, Black Peony, and so on—all of them are men. There are women who commit crimes—like Martha Baker in Lonely Hearts. It's just that their motives are almost the same. Word. I am talking about murder without a motive. All I know so far is that it was all done by men." "Could it be a man disguised as a woman?" "It's possible. There are so many things in this case that have nothing to do with my experience. It's almost like people from outer space came here to kill these businessmen." "Poor lady and child." "Yes." He drank the remaining wine. "This whole thing's a mystery. No clue. I know Boon's feeling. Drink up." She drank obediently.He took the empty wine glass to the bathroom to rinse it, and drained it in the sink.After turning off the light, he went back to Monica's bedside and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "Go to sleep." "After hearing these things, you told me to sleep?" she called. "I can't thank you enough." "It's up to you to hear it," he reminded her. "Besides, brandy helps sleep." He went to bed on his own, and turned off the lamp beside the bed. "Good night," Monica said lazily. "I love you." "Love you," he said, pulling the blanket over him. He kept permuting and combining in his mind: men, women, whores, homosexuals, shemale.Even transsexuals. He lay there helplessly.Know that Monica is asleep.I heard her breathing gradually sinking and her snoring gradually rising. He repeated Boone's words over and over again.He did not consider why he was so interested in the case.He's retired; it's none of his business, he can do nothing about it. If you ask him why he should meddle in other people's business, he will definitely reply firmly: "Well... two people were killed. This is not a good thing." He glanced sideways at the clock.It was almost half past two in the morning.But it must be done without delay. He got off the bed lightly, halfway through the darkness—— "What's wrong?" was Monica's surprised voice. "Sorry for waking you up." "I'm awake," she replied stubbornly. "where did you go?" "Uh, go downstairs. Make a phone call." "Boone," she answered quickly. "Are you really unwilling to give up?" He was speechless. "Then it's better to fight here," she said. "Even he woke you up this time." "No," Delaney said firmly. "He won't sleep." He sat on the edge of the bed and turned on the lamp.The bright lights dazzled their eyes.He picked up the phone. "What's the number?" She gave him the number.He dialed accordingly. "Hello?" Boone answered after only one sound.The voice is hoarse. "I'm Edward Delaney. Hope I didn't wake you up." "No, team leader. I want to sleep, but I can't. My head keeps spinning." "Where's your wife?" "She's asleep. The earthquake won't wake her up." "Boone, have you checked the background of the deceased? Personal information?" "Check it out, team leader. I sent people to Denver and Akron. If you suspect they have a homosexual record, don't. Both are clean. No record, no gossip." "Hmm. I should have expected you to look into this. One more thing..." Boone waited for the next sentence. "You said that after the second murder, the investigation team found two black hairs on the back of the chair?" "Yes. There's another one on the pillow. All three are black nylon." "Only the two on the back of the chair, I'm interested. Did they take a picture?" "I took a picture. I took hundreds of pictures." "Was it taken before it was taken down?" "Absolutely, team leader. I also brought a measuring tape to measure the size and position." "Excellent," Delaney said. "Now you do this: Take the photo that shows the hair in the correct position on the back of the chair. Bring out someone from the lab or laboratory. Go back to the murder scene and find the chair. Measure it carefully Find the distance from the fixed point of the hair to the seat. Understand? Assuming that the hair belongs to the murderer, you measure from his head to the tailbone. The technician should be able to deduce the approximate height of the murderer from this. Of course not Precise; an approximation. Always better than nothing." The other party was silent for a while, and then: "Damn it!" Boone roared. "Why didn't I think of it?" "One cannot be everything," Delaney reassured him. "Should have it all," Boon blamed himself. "That's what they paid me for. Thank you, Team Leader." "I wish you all the best, Captain." After hanging up the phone, he saw Monica staring at him in amazement. "It's really you. It's really amazing." "I just wanted to give him a hand." "That's not true." "I'm sorry for waking you up," he said. "Not necessarily," she said, "what is lost, what is gained..." So she leaned over to him.