Chapter 48 murder artist

Recently, I was intrigued by a passage from a well-known critic of homicide fiction.In fact, I am a murderer myself.Said the critic: "The best and most exciting detective novels today are those that focus on explaining why criminals commit crimes. At least the 'why' is as important as the 'who' and the 'how' of the crime." I wholeheartedly agree with this.I think the character and heart of the murderer in the novel are worthy of further analysis.In the past, too much attention has been paid to figuring out who the criminal is and how to catch him.And I don't think time should be wasted finding out what those criminals did.

Although many times their methods determine whether they can become famous, but in the final analysis, those are just the methods used by this group of people. I must say: we, the murderers, are not so prone to mistakes.Those unlucky ones get caught only because they made a mistake and got the attention of the police.We are generally very competent, and although there are so many agencies working against us, if you look at the number of cases that have occurred, you will know that the vast majority of us are safe. But the most common misconception people have about murderers is that they are different from ordinary people, and they are always portrayed in exaggerated terms as crazy monsters or cold-blooded killers.In fact, this is far from the case.In fact, the murderers are very normal, just dare to act according to that iron principle: everyone is for himself.

In order to correct these misunderstandings, and by the way, to provide some material for detective novelists, I decided to write how I did it.I'm smart and lucky enough not to have to worry about getting arrested or something unpleasant for writing these things. Personally, when I killed Susan, I didn't have any hatred for her, but there are always some people who will think that I killed her out of hatred.I actually liked her so much that I almost married her.But she later fell in love with that stupid Burnethwaite and married him.I know that when she wants to marry that purse, her life is over.

I guess it was Susan's femininity that attracted me.And she was fascinated by the so-called masculinity of Burnett. Actually he's just a rough guy, but he's more of a human being.He saved some money, but instead of gambling, he put it into the vagaries of investing, buying stocks, and made a lot of money.At the Ganas Stock Exchange, when the news of the gold discovery in Orange Frey caused optimism and the market rose, he calmly seized every opportunity to make a profit and increase his wealth.When the recession inevitably came, most of his wealth disappeared like everyone else, but instead of just selling stocks like people do in depressions, he quietly bought stocks that were almost worthless. sent stock.Thus, when the economic recovery also inevitably came, his fortune ballooned again, and he was an annoying chap.

When I introduced Brunethwaite to Susan, she was captivated by his presence and success.Later she was taken to Europe by him.In this way the engagement between us was dissolved. I never want to see her again. Eight months later, someone knocked on my back door.I opened the door and saw Susan standing on the steps with her suitcase in her hand.Sitting down on the soft couch, she began to tell her story.As I expected, what attracted her to Bunewest's self-proclaimed masculinity turned out to be downright tyrannical and selfish.She could bear no longer his roughness, so she ran away and came back to me.Seeing the past affection, she thought I would help her.

She didn't notice that I had lost my enthusiasm for helping her.I actually felt bad after she abandoned me and tried to erase her from my life and try to run my poultry as best I could. My farm has become self-sufficient and with those machines I can manage the whole farm by myself. Often I like the animals and I'd rather do the farm work myself. But if Susan joins in, it will be hard for me to enjoy myself like I am now.I had to settle her down, and to not bore her, I had to make her do things that weren't that important but that weren't optional.My step-by-step life would be broken.Those 3,000 chickens were a time of concern, and they might catch a cold or something. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any decent reason to refuse to help her.And Susan chose the time of arrival carefully.She would find no other lodging in the village then, and the train back to Fort Ganners was gone.Once I keep her, once the ice is broken between us, it will not be so easy to send her away the next day.After all, I used to like her very much, and I told her that no matter what happened between me and her, if there was any trouble, she could come to me.I pride myself on keeping my word and I can't imagine her telling my friends how I broke my word when she needed help.

Susan was still talking about how her husband was rude to her, and all the thoughts were running through my head.Outwardly, I was listening to her, and I kept thinking about those thoughts, until it made me a little annoyed that she thought it so natural that I should help her.From her words, I knew how she wanted me to help her, and this annoyed me even more. I began to see how I would pay for a lawyer to process her divorce, how my comfortable life would be disrupted, how my peace of mind would be destroyed by complex emotional issues.In short, all the good things in my life will come to an end.I am getting more and more annoyed, I really want to strangle her neck.

But strangling someone to death is much harder than I imagined. I didn't want to face her face, so I walked around behind the sofa, put my hands around her neck, and strengthened.Later, I found that it was more efficient to do this, because my hands could press down on her neck and head, just like being hanged on a gallows, and I would not be hurt by her violent kicks and kicks.When she finally went limp, I wasn't too tired to hold on until I was sure she was dead. Her face turned purple-black, her tongue stuck out, and it was creepy compared to her pretty face a few minutes ago.Her brown, glossy hair had also grown dull and lifeless.Apart from that, Susan's body did not leave me with any other feelings.

After making sure she was dead, I stuffed her tongue back in her mouth and started disposing of the body.On this point, when I read in detective novels that murderers struggle to destroy bodies, I always like to point out that there is nothing difficult about it.I was done in no time that night. It would be a few weeks before anyone cared about where Susan was, and I didn't need to be in such a hurry, but I was excited to see that I could implement my idea.The next morning, I got up early and drove around my farm, as usual. One afternoon three weeks later, the local policeman Sloan visited to find out what I knew about Susan.

The John Sloan who asked me the question is different from the John Sloan who was off duty.The latter will show us his western marksmanship at Wiggin's bar in warm weather.He squatted down slightly, holding two six-shot revolvers at his waist, and fired his rounds with perfect accuracy, while watching side to side like in the movies for potential opponents.To the cheers of the crowd, he spits on the barrel, cooling his gun.He is a vivid western cowboy hero. Officer John Sloan, on the other hand, is a vigilant, shrewd, and dedicated policeman.I sensed from his questioning that he assumed I knew about Susan.

I think someone reported Susan missing, and they followed the trail to me.I told Officer Sloan frankly about my past relationship with Susan and how she had visited me three nights earlier and how she had left that same evening. Naturally, he wanted to know more details, and asked me why I didn't report Susan's situation to the police after seeing the missing person notice in the newspaper.I explained that I never read the newspapers and would not have reported it to the police if I had read it, since I knew she had escaped from her husband. I told Sloan she wanted me to help her but I refused and we got into an argument and she ended up running out of the house in a rage without her hat, gloves and box.I also told him I had no idea where Susan was going, what she was going to do, or if she had a purse. After asking these questions, Sloan wanted to see Susan's box.Seeing that the box was unlocked, he opened it. There was a gray handbag in the box, and in it were some change, and women's things like earrings, diamond rings, and pearl necklaces; and some keys, one of which belonged to the box.After checking the contents of the box, Sloan asked me what Susan, Mrs. Burnett, was wearing that night. This problem came earlier than I expected.I told him what I had thought about three weeks ago.These words sound perfectly true, but they are all vague and worthless.I put Susan's clothes and handbag in her trunk three weeks ago, but the trunk was left unlocked to match what the key was found in.I wear gloves for these things, I don't want to do something stupid like leave fingerprints in the box. Sloan listened carefully to my description, then pulled out a suit from a suitcase and asked me if it was the one Mrs Burnett was wearing that night.The dress was obviously worn, but of course I would say no.I know that if someone who saw Susan walked into my farm that night described the work of that dress, it would sound more or less similar to the one I described. After a few more insignificant questions, Officer Sloan took his leave, taking the box, hat, and gloves. The police didn't come for me for days.In the evening I went to the bar for a drink as usual.I went to the same bar that John Sloan used to hang out, but he never showed up. I know the police will come again, it's only a matter of time, because Susan's whereabouts are interrupted here, unless they find other valuable places, the police will keep an eye on me.Officer Sloan returned a week later.This time he came with two others.One was the prematurely bald Constance Barley, a young man who never took off his hat, but who pursued Riley Odo, the village beauty.The third was their head, a CIA detective from Fort Ganners.This time around, Sloan said only one sentence: "William, this is Inspector Ben Liebberg." After listening to his introduction, I looked at the detective.He was a tall, handsome man, more of an actor than a detective.I heard later that he was also a pretty good bartender. His hobby is inventing new recipes for cocktails and other concoctions. Inspector Liebberg apologized for the interruption, then offered to take a look at my house and surroundings.Mrs Burnett was evidently seen coming into my farm, and no one has seen her anywhere else, so the Inspector wanted to find out if she was hiding somewhere on my farm. I told him I understood and would be happy to show them around the farm. When introducing my farm I told them that my wish was to be as independent from the outside world as possible, so I made both my farm and the house as self-contained as possible.I showed them the coal bunker.The coal bunker is in the kitchen, like a small house, with coal piled up to the top, and some falling outside, and there is a coal outlet near the floor, which goes all the way to the stove. There is also a concrete sink in the kitchen where I store rainwater, and it has a hand pump attached to it, and the spout goes to the bathroom.The rest of the water comes from a large tank on the roof, which is also connected to a pump. After reading this, I took them to the chicken coop, which was a three-hundred-foot-long, compact kind, and the hens were showing off their eggs, judging by their triumphant cries.The police also saw the artificial hatching room next to it, where I experimented with artificially hatching chicks. Next I took them to that corrugated iron warehouse.In the warehouse was farm machinery like tractors, threshers, grinders and small implements like alfalfa harvesters and of course my rakes and plows and things like that.Outside the warehouse are rows of large storage tanks, which contain livestock and poultry feed such as corn kernels, corn flour, peanut meal, and bone meal. I can make different mixed feeds with these. The policemen visually measured the size of the jars and jotted something down in a notebook. I also pointed out to them the cultivated land in the distance. The alfalfa field was green with a pond beside it, and the corn field and other fields were yellow-brown.In the distance herds of cows, bulls and horses graze in the meadow. After watching the entire farm, Detective Liebberg thanked him and took his men away.It was obvious that he was rather disappointed. Another week passed peacefully and they started spying on me, which was too much for me.Constable Barry, diverting his usual route of going out, detoured past my gate, and observed my lawn and house from there. I decided to go out so that the whole drama would come to a climax.The best plan would be to make a mistake like Clayton's and run away. I made some preparations and drove out of the house very early in the day.I drove the car for five brisk miles and then parked in the woods away from the road and hid it in the thickest of trees. I had to go the rest of the way by myself, and my destination was those subterranean caverns not far from the Blitchett Gold Mine.Although these caves are not small, they are not worth seeing, and there are not many tourists.I know the police have searched thoroughly, so no one will bother me. I brought a portable reading light and had plenty of food for camping so I could stay comfortably in these holes. I'm not worried about my chickens, their troughs are full of food for three days, the water fountains are full, and the eggs will automatically roll into the trough at the front of the coop without piles into a pile.The other horses and cows would not go hungry either, they had plenty to eat and drink.Now the chickens don't need artificial warming, and the heat of an electric lamp will keep them together at night, which is enough to keep warm. So, I have nothing to worry about, and I can read my detective novels in peace.Those stories are all good, except that the various detectives are not so good, and they always have to turn to their writers for help. By coincidence, the first person I met when I got out of the car back at the farm was Officer Sloan.God didn't design the human face to express surprise, excitement, contentment, curiosity, inquiry, friendship, and regret all at once, but Officer Sloan did it all at once. He recovered with difficulty and asked me where I had been.I told him I went to those caves to see if Burnethwaite got lost and stuck there or died there, and I got lost myself and never turned out until now.Sergeant Sloan squeezed his fingers hard, I guess he cast the net far and wide, but didn't expect me to stay so close, almost at his hand. While he was wondering what to ask me next, I looked around and saw that my farm was a mess like an overturned ant nest.Apparently there were no less than twenty police officers involved, and there was a lot of chaos everywhere. They searched in every corner, on the roof, in the house, and outside the house were full of people.Some people bowed their heads to check whether the house had a basement, some dug holes everywhere, and some people gesticulated by the pond, the sink, and the crop fields.I couldn't see what was going on in the warehouse, but it must have been crowded, because there was corn and alfalfa everywhere outside the crop warehouse. The scene of the chicken coop is the best.They took the chickens outside and checked the concrete floors in the coop.There was six inches of hay on the floor of the chicken coop, and it hadn't been touched in years, and it had all been turned over, and a lot of it was piled outside in the open space. There are a few guys outside who are going to turn over the foundation of the chicken coop. It seems that they are really going to dig three feet.I use the word "ready" because the hens are always in the way.They have nowhere to go, but the hen-determined cops are going to keep requisitioning the hen's room.The hens are very home-loving, not to mention they have eggs to lay, and being enclosed between the outer wall of the coop and a fence, the hens refuse to fulfill their vocation.Now that outer wall is again the target of inspections. The police again began to disturb the flock of Lyghaun's hens.These chickens are easily startled birds that croak and jump all the time, and you'd better be quiet with them. At this time, a policeman who was digging the foundation among the chickens raised his head because someone was calling him in the distance. He answered, and immediately thousands of hens jumped up in unison and began to call, and there was also the sound of flapping their wings.So the shadow of the policeman disappeared in the mixture of chicken feathers, hay, dust, and feed. I didn't get to watch it because Officer Sloan asked me to go to the police station and answer a few questions.At the police station, I was first handed over to Constance Barry for a while, and I nodded to him in greeting.It took a while for Sloan to come over and start asking me, but trying to look like he had the truth and asked me a routine question.Halfway through my third cigarette, a cry came into the room: "The body has been found." I jumped up and cried, "Really? Where is it?" in a tone that reflected the panic I felt when Mrs. Burnett and I were friends but no crime was discovered. I turned to look at Sloan, who was staring at me with suspicion. But that's no threat, I'm safe, and whatever tricks I have are not going to trick me into giving away anything.If I showed even the slightest bit of guilt, Sloan would definitely have me as a murderer.This is what I have to avoid. It seems that meeting him in the bar in the future will be somewhat embarrassing.I don't mind his business-like suspicions, but it's another matter if he personally thinks I'm a murderer. Sloane continued his trick, asking the incoming men where the bodies had been found. The latter describes an uncultivated field with less confidence.They both glared at me, waiting in last-ditch hope for something to show me.I exclaimed, "What an oddity. I never thought that field could be used for burying bodies. So Susan was murdered, wasn't she?" Of course they'll never find her dead body on my farm or anywhere else.They inspected the furnace for burnt human bone fragments and took a good deal of the ashes for chemical analysis.They also dug the trench to see if I melted the body with some chemical in the bath.Anyway, they searched everywhere, let the CIA experts in Jonasburg test every suspicious detail, but still found nothing. Finally they had to give up and withdraw.They couldn't even prove that Susan was murdered.They searched every corner of my farm, but couldn't find Susan's body.Naturally, the cloud of murder suspicion over my head also disappeared. For Christmas, to show that I had a clear conscience, I gave Officer Sloan a pair of cockerels for Christmas. Nine months later, life was as peaceful as ever, only my good mood was slightly spoiled when I heard that Officer Sloan was going to be transferred to the Ludson Police Department. We had a hilarious farewell party for him, Bill Wiggin provided the drinks and I served the chicken, of course.Poor John didn't get to give us a final shot at the party.Because the fresh air seemed to have had a little bad effect when we got out into the yard, it took him a long time to get upright, and he had to lean wobbly on the row of clothes-drying poles. Then the new hatch took up all my energy, I did it myself, it made my house dirty and messy.So I hired a housekeeper.She was tall, fair-skinned, blond, but she gave the impression of being chubby like a child.She is very capable, and her warm smile also shows that she is a kind-hearted person. My new housekeeper has put my house in order, so now at night I can sit down and jot down my accomplishments at leisure. I look forward to these texts being published.I'm also particularly interested in Officer Sloan's reaction when he sees these things.I also wonder what he'll think of his all-time favorite fat chicken after reading this stuff. I think he'd be disgusting, but he didn't have to, how did he know the chickens were fed on Susan's dead body? I'm not saying the chickens were pecking directly at Susan's carcass, quite the contrary, the Susan they were eating was contained in a carefully formulated feed.Every part of Susan was ground into powder in a grinder, turning it into high-quality bone meal and meat meal. As for the blood, it was also processed into dried blood meal, which just went through another process. These jobs are not difficult for me, because I read the "Farmer's Magazine" a long time ago about the method of dealing with animal bodies.Human corpses have smaller bones, so it is easier to process them with a shredder. All I have to do is to pulverize every little piece of the body, such as teeth, which have to be pulverized twice until they are as fine as bone meal.As for the hair, I burned them to a char. After processing, I swept the area with green alfalfa, and then put the animal carcasses, green alfalfa, and corn kernels into a grinder to process them into feed, so that the traces of human cells were completely eliminated. Meat meal, bone meal and blood meal are mixed with other powders to make a mixed feed.This is the delicacy of the chicks that I experimented with.The chicks grew into the fat chickens Sergeant Sloan tasted.And these chicks and the chickens they produce have brought me a lot of fame on my farm, and other farmers have asked me for a recipe for a mixed feed. Liebberger will definitely revisit my farm, and will know where to find evidence that there was once a body on my farm, but I promise he won't be successful.Even if he dissected a whole batch of broilers, he would not find any human cells in their bodies.Every chicken that has eaten feed made from human corpses has already entered the stomach of a human being. People don't swallow chicken bones, but I came up with the idea of ​​killing chickens, cleaning them, and selling or giving them to my customers with a promise to recycle the bones.My reason is that I am short of bone meal.So the chicken bone and other bones go back into my shredder, a good example of an infinite loop, no?In addition, a considerable number of people, some at a distance, participated in this human feast, because they ate the eggs laid by those hens. Inspector Liebberger would not be interested in scrutinizing those fertilizers. If I were him, I would not waste this effort.The unsalable and edible chicken heads, paws, viscera, feathers, etc. are burned or dried, and the place where they go is still the endless shredder.They are already spread all over my farm as fertilizer. I hope the good Inspector doesn't try to use my story to get me to a confession. It would be a pity if a student who was obsessed with detective fiction was arrested after publication for inventing a reason for a woman's disappearance. I think if my book is read by the villagers, I will have to face some bad emotions.Some narrow-minded inhabitants look at me with horror.But the consequence of this emotion is that I will no longer be disturbed by those visitors, so I am in my place. Something new is going on in my house.My housekeeper, Ms. Ann Lise, may end up being disappointed because she's already in love with me.She was concerned about my whereabouts to the point of not giving me privacy, and was overly concerned about making me comfortable. She's starting to bore me. I'm not going to just ask her to stop all the kindness she's been doing to me, I don't want to hurt her feelings, and I'm not going to fire her so she can get a new job.She's not very capable, and I'd be ashamed of myself if I did that. I suggested that she should go out to socialize more, especially at night.But she said that going out alone is really meaningless.My housekeeper has no friends, not even relations. Poor thing, no one is thinking about her while I'm figuring out what to do with my specialty mix for next season.The president of the National Poultry Council has expressed his readiness to visit my farm and the chickens that have made me famous.