Der unvergessliche Kuss von Ghost Lips

Kapitel 6

“Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked, looking at Zin. “Perhaps this could have been completely avoided.” “Looking back, I think we should have.” The lawyer said, head bowed. “But most companies receive these threatening emails all the time.” “This isn’t just a threat.” I tossed the stack of emails back onto the table. “This is extortion, this is intimidation. Mr. Zin, you’re a lawyer. This email mentions his daughter; it’s an open threat. Since you’ve come to me, Mr. Zin, my answer is: the contents of these emails must not be disclosed. The names mentioned in the emails are only known to you and me. Of course, we will send our people to find out where these emails came from.” “I understand.” The lawyer nodded meekly and handed me the folder again.

I scrolled through the email addresses. One was Footsy123@. The other was Chip@. Both emails were signed with the same name: August Spies. I turned to Jacobi.

"Warren, what do you think? Can we find out who sent the email?" "We've already sent people to investigate," Zin replied hastily.

"You investigated." I looked up at him, a look of astonishment on my face.

“We’re an electronic communications security testing company. All these addresses use free internet service provider websites. There are no user billing addresses. No real information is required when activating the service. People can go to libraries, airports, anywhere, as long as they have a computer terminal and internet access, to apply for an email account. This email was sent from a newsstand at Oakland Airport. This one was sent from a convenience store chain near Berkeley. These two, well, they were sent from a public library. They’re all untraceable.” I thought Zinn was definitely an expert in this field and wouldn’t make a mistake, but one thing caught my attention. This convenience store, the library, and that real Wendy Raymond’s house.

“We may not know who these guys are, but we do know where they are.” “In the People’s Republic of Berkeley,” Jacobi said, snorting dismissively. “Hmph, I’ll go check it out.”

The second part of "Three Times the Soul" features two murders, occurring two days apart.

Around noon, I slipped out of the office to meet Cindy Thomas at the longevity noodle shop in Yerbabuena Park for lunch, where the casual meals were inexpensive and delicious.

“Did you see today’s Chronicle?” she asked. We sat at a small table outside the shop, Cindy picking up a meatball with her chopsticks, the meatball occasionally slipping through her fingers. “We’ve taken down X/L Company.” “Thank you,” I said. “You don’t need to worry about the rest.” “Well, now it’s your turn to do me a little favor.” “Cindy, I’m thinking this case won’t be under my jurisdiction for long, especially if any word gets out to the press.” “Then at least tell me”—she said, looking at me seriously—“Should I assume these two murders are related?” “How could you think they’re related?” “Oh dear,” she said with a grin, “two prominent businessmen murdered in the same city, two days apart.”

And both of their companies have recently been under attack from the press. "They're in completely different industries," I struggled to say.

“Really? On one hand, we see a greedy senior executive who squeezed tens of millions of dollars from the public while the company's performance declined; on the other hand, there’s someone hiding behind a politician’s mouthpiece, exploiting the poor. Both are dead, tragically killed. What did you ask me, Lindsay? Why did I think they were connected?” “Alright,” I sighed. “You know our agreement, right? Nothing can be published without my permission.”

“Someone is targeting them, isn’t that right?” She wasn’t just referring to the two people who had already been murdered. I knew what she meant.

I placed the bowl of noodles on the table. “Cindy, you have quite a few informants around the Bay Area, don’t you?” “You mean in Berkeley? If you mean those journalism courses that dig up 'real-life success stories' or something.” “I mean the radar-free zone. The troublemakers.” I took a breath and looked at her with a worried expression. “The troublemakers.” “I know what you mean,” she said, then stopped, shrugging. “There are all sorts of weird things happening there. We’ve all gotten used to it, taken it for granted, forgotten what normalcy is supposed to be like. Some people become… how should I put it… restless. Some people are making a fuss, but nobody pays attention.” “Making a fuss about what?” I pressed.

“You won’t hear me. My God, you’re a cop. You’re a million miles away from this kind of thing, Lindsay. I’m not saying you have no social conscience. How do you feel when you read in the paper that twenty percent of people don’t have health insurance, or that a ten-year-old girl in Indonesia sews Nike shoes day and night just to earn a dollar a day? You just flip the newspaper, like I do. Lindsay, if you want my help, you have to trust me.” “I’ll tell you someone’s name,” I said. “But it can’t be in the papers. You have to find out for yourself, gather the information. And once you find out anything, don’t let anyone else know. Don’t say ‘I have to protect my sources.’ You have to tell me first, and only me. Is that a deal?” “It’s a deal,” Cindy said. “Tell me the name.”

A crisp chirping sound in Part Two of "Three Times the Soul Stealer"

“Beautiful,” Malcolm said, squinting as he carefully examined the bomb on the kitchen table with the surgical microscope he wore around his eye socket.

He smoothly wound thin red and green copper wires together with both hands, the wires running from the bomb block to the detonator's end pin. He then kneaded the soft, putty-like C-4 explosive into a ball and stuffed it into the leather case. "Too bad, I'll have to blow this up too," he shouted, admiring his masterpiece with satisfaction.

Michelle walked into the room, her hand trembling as she placed it on Malcolm's shoulder. He knew this job would terrify her—connecting wires to a bomb, electrifying it, and sending it flying into the sky.

“Relax, darling. It won’t electrify, it won’t explode. Right now, it’s the most obedient thing in the world.” Julia sat on the floor, listening intently to the news report on TV, the auburn wig she’d worn the night before lying at her feet. The program was interrupting with a news segment about the Clifford Hotel murders. “Listen,” she raised her voice.

“Although police haven’t linked Ben Gossain’s murder to Sunday’s bombing at a Gulf tycoon’s house, sources say there’s evidence linking the two events. Police are currently looking for a beautiful, dark-skinned woman in her early twenties who was seen entering a hotel with George Ben Gossain.” Julia lowered her voice. “Beautiful?” she said with a smile. “Darling, they’ll never find me. What do you think?” She covered her face with a wig and struck a model’s pose.

Michelle forced a laugh, but inwardly she was filled with regret for being so foolish as to forget her asthma inhaler at the scene. Unlike Julia, who had killed the unfortunate man face-to-face last night, looking him straight in the eye, she was now talking about it with ease and a smug look on her face.

“Mika, darling,” Malcolm said, turning his head. “I want you to be a brave girl and put your finger here.” He used tape to attach the detonator with copper wire to the soft C-4 explosive, then inserted the cell phone for detonation.

“This is the most delicate job. I need you to hold the green and red copper wires for me, sweetie, don’t let them touch… it’ll be a disaster if they do,” Malcolm often joked with her. “What a round-faced Wisconsin doll,” he always said with a laugh. But she proved she was no doll. She gripped the wires with her fingers, trying her best to appear brave. She was no longer the silly country girl.

“Don’t be afraid,” Malcolm said, blinking as he reassured her seeing her worried expression. “All that stuff about wires blowing up when they touch is just movie nonsense. Actually, the most dangerous thing is connecting these tiny copper wires to the ringer, not the phone battery; otherwise, they’d blow us all up to Eau Claire.” Eau Claire was her hometown.

Michelle's fingers were trembling. She didn't understand if he was joking with her.

“Alright,” Malcolm sighed, pushing the microscope tube to his forehead and plopping down in his swivel chair.

“According to the trade, once it’s powered on, this thing will go into overdrive, until it roars. It’ll blow the police station dome to smithereens. Think about it, that’s a pretty good idea.” “How about we take it for a drive?” Malcolm continued. “What did you say?” Michelle asked hesitantly. “Okay,” he said with a smile, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He handed her another cell phone. “The number is pre-set. Remember, it won’t detonate until the fourth ring.”

This is a matter of life and death. Don't wait until you hear the fourth ring before you run away. Drive away as soon as possible... let it explode on its own." Michelle shook her head, trying to hand the phone back to him, but Malcolm just smiled.

“Okay, don’t worry. It won’t explode if it’s not powered on. Everything’s set up.” Michelle took a deep breath and pressed the “send” button on her phone, just wanting to show she had guts. Immediately, the phone strapped to the bomb began to vibrate.

“It’s connected,” Malcolm said, blinking.

Michelle felt a chill run down her spine. Malcolm was so confident. He had everything planned out, but what if something went wrong? In the Middle East, Palestinians were willing to become human bombs, and there were always reports of them being blown up.

*Beep…* She stared wide-eyed at the purse. The phone rang a second time. She tried to remain calm, but her hands trembled violently. “Malcolm, please.” She tried to hand the phone back to Malcolm. “Look, it’s connected. I don’t like this, please…” “Please what, Mika?” Malcolm gripped her wrist. “Don’t you trust me?” The phone, like a bomb, vibrated again. This was the third time it had rung… Michelle felt a chill run through her. “Press it, Malcolm.” She frantically searched for the stop button on the phone.

The next ring would detonate the bomb. "Malcolm, please, you scared me to death!" Malcolm ignored her, instead squeezing her hand with his fingers. Suddenly, she felt a wave of disorientation. "Oh my god, Malcolm, this is going to—" *Beep*... The fourth ring sounded.

The ringtone was like a scream, tearing at everyone's heart. Michelle's eyes were fixed on the phone, on the bomb.

The bomb was shaking violently. This is terrible… She stared intently into Malcolm’s eyes.

The bomb made a soft popping sound.

There was no explosion. There was no flash of light. Only a clear, sharp chirping sound.

The sound came from the detonator.

Malcolm grinned. He pulled out the detonator, which had been knocked detached by the impact. "I told you, baby, no power, no explosion. How does it look? I think it works perfectly." Michelle's tense body relaxed, but internally, she was screaming angrily. She wanted to slap him hard. But her limbs were still weak, and sweat soaked through her T-shirt.

Malcolm, holding the detonator, moved to the bomb on his swivel chair. "You think I'd let this thing blow up here?" he said, shaking his head. "How naive, darling. It's for something important. I'm going to use it to blow the souls of every person in San Francisco to heaven."

Part Two of "Three Times of Soul Stealing": My Starting Point Was to Make Her Happy

Around seven o'clock, I returned to the office. My other colleagues were all busy with their own tasks, analyzing the existing clues. Cindy gave me a book titled *Vampire Capitalism*. She said that reading it would give me a general understanding of the emerging new radicalism.

I casually flipped through the book's chapter titles: "The Decline of Capitalism," "Economic Segregation," "Vampire Economics," and "The Great Battle of the Greedy."

Jill was standing in my office doorway, but I was completely unaware until she knocked loudly, startling me awake. “Do you have time to see John Ashcroft? He’s a big shot in our city’s law enforcement… Are you reading *Vampire Capitalism*?” “For work,” I said with a smile, but with a hint of confusion, “to deal with that serial killer who’s been committing so many crimes.” Jill was wearing a stylish red suit and a Burberry summer raincoat, and her handbag was stuffed with case files. “I thought I could have a drink here.” “Yes,” I said, placing the book on the table, “but I’m still at work.” I handed her a bag of salted peanuts from Sichuan, China.

“What are you up to?” she asked with a grin. “Trying to head the newly formed Subversive Terrorism Investigation Unit?” “You’re quite the smooth talker,” I said. “There’s something I don’t think you know. Bill Gates, Paul Allen, and Warren Buffett made more money last year than the thirty poorest countries that make up a quarter of the world’s population.” Jill laughed. “Given the nature of your line of work, it’s quite surprising to see this kind of social awareness in you.” “Something’s been on my mind, Jill. It’s that fake bomb we found outside the Lightols’ house, and that crumpled piece of paper stuffed in Bengossine’s mouth—company letterhead with threatening words on it. These guys have made their motives clear. And now they’re mocking and playing tricks on us. Why play this game?” She crossed one leg and placed her red shoe on my desk. “I had no idea. You’re in charge of catching them, and I’m in charge of locking them up.” A heavy silence fell over the room. “You don’t mind if we talk about something else?” “Let’s talk about your peanuts,” she said, shrugging as she tossed one into her mouth.

"I don't know if I'm overthinking it. On Sunday, after we went for a run together, I noticed the marks on your arm."

"Jill, I've been feeling a bit uneasy. I've been thinking about it all by myself." "Thinking about what?" she asked.

I looked into her eyes. “I know those marks on your arms weren’t from hitting the shower door. I know what bruises look like. Jill, you have to admit, you’re only human, just like all of us. I know you really wanted that child. Then your father died. I know you’re trying your best to convince everyone you can handle everything. But sometimes you might not be able to. And you don’t want to tell anyone, not even us. As a result, I don’t know how those marks came about. You have to tell me.” The stubborn look in her eyes suddenly became fragile, as if it could crumble at any moment. I don’t know if I’ve gone too far, but to hell with pretense, she’s my friend. My goal is for her happiness.

“Perhaps you are right about one thing,” Jill finally said. “These scratches may not have been caused by hitting the shower door.”

Part Two of "Triple Killer": Criminals Who Are Often Repulsive

Some criminals are truly inhuman and heinous. These criminals are often disgusting, yet they are frank about their motives. Sometimes I can even imagine their motivations. But there are also criminals who remain silent. These criminals are very well hidden, and you can't easily detect them. Their cruelty is like a heavy punch to the body; the skin may not break, but the internal wounds are deep, a consequence of the inherent flaws of human nature.

It is these insidious criminals who often perplex me, making me wonder if the work I have done in my life has been worthwhile.

Jill told me about what happened between her and Steve. I wiped away her tears, but I cried myself, like her closest confidante. Afterwards, I drove home, my head spinning. Her face, pale and contorted with pain, shame, and humiliation, is an image I can never forget. Jill, my Jill.

My first reaction was to drive to her house that very night and slap Steve hard across the face. For so many years, this hypocritical and arrogant guy had been insulting and hurting her.

The Jill I remember, the face of Jill in my mind, has always been that of a little girl. Not the assistant district attorney, nor a top student in her Stanford class, nor a lucky one whose life had been smooth sailing. She was cold and stern in the execution of her duties, putting murderers in prison. My friend.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning all night. The next morning, I forced myself to study the case. The autopsy report, which I had rushed out the night before, confirmed Claire's findings. It was indeed ricin that had poisoned George Bengossine.

I had never seen the police station so tense and busy as it was that morning, with federal government officials in dark uniforms and staff from various media outlets coming and going. I felt like I had sneaked into the police cordon to find Cindy and Claire.

“I need to speak with both of you,” I said. “It’s important. I’ll be waiting for you at Susie’s Restaurant at noon.”

"At noon, I walked into that quiet counter restaurant on Bryant Road and saw Cindy and Claire huddled together at a small table in the corner. Both of them had anxious expressions on their faces."

“Where’s Jill?” Cindy asked. “We thought she’d come with you.” “I didn’t ask her,” I said. I settled down in the seat opposite them. “It’s about Jill.” “What is it…” Claire nodded, looking confused.

I told them about everything in detail, starting with the injuries I saw on Jill's body when we were running together.

I told her how shocked I was by these scars, and that I suspected she might have been self-harming after losing her child.

“This has been happening since ancient times,” Cindy interjected. “Right?” “You asked her?” Claire asked, her expression grave.

I nodded, looking directly into her eyes.

“So…?” “She said, ‘What if I didn’t hurt myself?’” I noticed Claire was looking at me closely, trying to read something from my face. Cindy blinked, as if she was just beginning to understand what was going on.

“Oh my God,” Claire murmured. “God, you weren’t talking about Steve…” I nodded, swallowing the words that were about to come out.

A suffocating silence hung over the small table. A waitress approached. We mechanically ordered our lunch. After she left, I looked up at them.

“That beast,” Cindy said, shaking her head. “I’m going to cut off his manhood.” “Count me in,” I replied. “I thought about it all night last night.” “How long has it been going on?” Claire asked. “How long has this been going on?” “I don’t know the details. She just said it was because of the child. After she miscarried, that paranoid man blamed her entirely. ‘You can’t have children, can you? You’re so self-important. You can’t even do what every woman can do. Have a child.’” “We have to help her,” Cindy said.

I sighed. “Is there any way?” “Get her to move out,” Claire said. “She can live in either of our homes. Does she want to move out?” I didn’t know. “I don’t know if she’s gotten to that point. I think what’s hardest for her right now is the humiliation. It’s like she’s done something wrong. Wrong to us. Or to him. It sounds strange, but I think she still wants to prove herself as a wife, a mother, as he wants her to be.” Claire nodded. “Then shall we talk to her? When?” “Tonight,” I replied.

I looked at Claire. “Tonight,” she said in agreement.

The waitress brought our lunch, and we ate what was on our plates, but had no appetite. None of us brought up the proposal. Suddenly, Claire shook her head. “It’s like we have nothing to say.” “It depends on what we say,” Cindy said, unzipping her bag. “I have something to show you.” She took a notebook with a spiral hook on the side, tore off a page, and read: Roger Lemons. De Vinnell Building. 555-0124.

“This person is a professor at Berkeley, in the linguistics department. An expert on globalization. Be careful, his views on life, how should I put it, may not be the same as yours.” “Thank you. Where did you get this?” I folded the paper and put it in my wallet.

“Let me tell you,” Cindy said, “it’s a hundred and eight thousand miles away.”

The second part of "The Third Soul" is a means of venting protest.

I tried not to think about Jill; I called Roger Lemons and eventually found him in his office. We spoke briefly on the phone, and he agreed to let me see him.

Stepping out of the office building, I took a deep breath of fresh air. I hadn't been to the neighborhood across the bay much these past few days. After driving there, I parked my Pioneer near the stadium on Telegraph Street. I walked along the street, where vendors lined both sides, hawking handicrafts and small stickers for car bumpers. The sun shone on Sprauer Square, where groups of young students, backpacks on their backs and wearing sandals, sat on the ground, while others sat on the steps, engrossed in their books.

Raymonds' office was in the Devine House, a rather formal building, an annex to the square main building. "Come in, the door's open," came a heavy Mediterranean accent as I knocked. Did this foreshadow a rather rigid, well-educated British opponent? Professor Raymonds' office wasn't large, cluttered with books and periodicals. His desk was messy, and he sat back in his chair. He had broad shoulders, dark skin, a tuft of black curls falling across his forehead, and a light black tumor on his face.

“Ah, it’s Sheriff Boxer,” he said. “Please have a seat, and welcome. I’m so sorry the room is a mess.” The room had a musty smell, a mixture of the stale odor of books and tobacco. On the desk sat an ashtray and a pack of unfiltered Rothmans cigarettes.

I leaned over and sat down in the chair opposite him, took out my business card holder from my bag, and handed him one of my business cards.

“Murder case,” Ramons said, reading my business card, his lips pursed and his expression focused. “So, I suppose you’re not here for some petty squabbles?” “Perhaps something that interests you,” I said. “Of course, you know what’s been happening around the bay these days, don’t you?” He sighed. “Yes, even a bookworm catches a whiff of what’s going on. It’s a tragedy. It’s completely counterproductive.” (Fanon①)