3 times soul stealing

Chapter 2

Part 1 of "The Third Time: The Soul Steals" - An Old Yet Familiar Box

Claire Washburn pulled an old, familiar box from deep within the basement closet—a box she hadn't seen in years. "Oh, my goodness..." She'd woken early that morning, sat on the balcony, and drunk a cup of coffee. The cawing of jays filled the air outside—the first birdsong she'd heard since spring had arrived. She tossed a shirt and trousers over herself and began the arduous task of cleaning the basement closet.

First, they threw away the chessboard, which they hadn't played with in years. Then came the Little League and Pope Werner.

① Pope Warner (1871-1954): A renowned and innovative coach in the United States during the early 20th century. The Pope Warner Junior Football League, established in 1929, is named after him.

② Joseph Haydn (1732-1809): A famous Austrian composer and one of the founders of the Viennese Classical School.

Those old catching gloves and baseball pads from that era. A folded blanket, now covered in dust.

Then she saw the old aluminum box buried under the dusty blanket. Good heavens.

It was her cello, the one she'd used for so many years. Claire smiled as she recalled the past. Good heavens, ten years! Ten years without her ever picking up that cello again.

She pulled the box out from the bottom of the closet. Seeing it brought back happy memories: hours of practicing scales without stopping.

“A home without music,” her mother once said, “is a home without life and joy.” On her husband Edmund’s fortieth birthday, she played the first movement of Haydn’s Concerto in D major with all her heart, which was also the last time she played music on that violin.

Claire opened the case and gazed at the wood grain of the violin. It was truly beautiful; this violin was an academic award given to her by the Hamptons College Music Department. In the days before she realized she wouldn't become a musician like Yo-Yo Ma and switched to studying medicine, this violin had always been her most cherished possession.

A piece of music floated into her mind. It was that very difficult piece, the one she always felt she could never fully grasp: Haydn's Concerto in D major, first movement. Claire looked around, hesitant. Damn it, Edmund was still asleep. Nobody would listen to her play.

Claire gently lifted the cello from its velvet-lined case, took out the bow, and held it with both hands. The bow slid slowly across the strings, and she tuned it carefully. The strings tightened slightly, and the sound returned to its familiar melody. She played casually, a flood of emotions washing over her. The unfamiliar sound gave her goosebumps. She played the first few bars of the concerto. It felt a little off-key, but the feeling was back. "Ha, even at my age, I haven't completely forgotten," she chuckled. She closed her eyes and played a few more notes, letting her heart guide her.

Just then, she noticed Edmund standing to one side, still in his pajamas, watching her from the stairs. “I know I got out of bed,”—he scratched his head—“and remember putting on my glasses and brushing my teeth. But what’s going on? Am I dreaming?” Edmund hummed softly the opening bars of the piece Claire had just played. “Can you finish the next section? That part is very difficult.” “Are you challenging me, Maestro Washburn?” Edmund smiled mischievously.

Just then, the phone rang. Edmund picked up the cordless phone. "Time's up," he grumbled in a boxing-style tone, "it's your office. It's Sunday, Claire. Can't they give you a break too?" Claire took the phone. It was Freddie Rodriguez calling; Freddie was a hospital employee. Claire listened with the receiver, then put it down.

“Oh my god, Edmund… there’s been an explosion in the city! Lindsay is injured.”

The first part of "The Third Time" features a grappling hook equipped with pulleys.

I don't know what made me so nervous. Maybe it was the images of the three dead people in the houses that kept replaying in my mind, or maybe it was the police and firefighters bustling around the accident site. I stared at the backpack, my mind racing, and a voice screamed, "There's something wrong with that backpack—there's definitely something wrong with it." "Everyone back off!" I shouted again.

I walked toward the backpack. I didn't know what I was going to do, but the place had to be evacuated.

“No, officer.” Jacobi reached out to support me. “You can’t do this job, Lindsay.” I struggled free from his grasp. “Warren, get people out of here.” “Officer, I’m not as high a rank as you,” Jacobi said, his tone much calmer than before, “but I’ve been doing this for fourteen years longer. I’m telling you, don’t go near that bag.” The fire chief rushed over, cupping his hands to his mouth as a microphone. “Suspicious explosive. Everyone back off. Call Magitakos from the bomb squad.” A moment later, Nico Magitakos, the head of the city’s bomb squad, arrived with two experts, both wearing heavy protective suits. They hurried past me toward the red backpack. Nico pushed over a box-like instrument with wheels—an X-ray machine. A square, armored bomb disposal vehicle, like a giant refrigerator, slowly and menacingly drove toward the backpack.

The bomb disposal expert, operating the X-ray machine, examined the backpack from three or four feet away. I was certain there was something wrong with it, at least something the perpetrator had abandoned while fleeing the scene. My inner prayer was fervent: please don't let it explode.

"Bring the car over here," Nico called out, frowning as he turned. "Looks like there's a problem." A flurry of activity ensued as reinforced steel plates were unloaded from the truck and used to build a wall around the backpack. A bomb disposal expert pushed a pulley-equipped grappling hook closer to the backpack. If there was a bomb inside, it could explode at any moment.

I found myself in a deserted area, holding my breath and afraid to move. Beads of sweat streamed down my face.

The bomb disposal expert used a grappling hook to lift the backpack and hand it to the bomb disposal vehicle.

Quietly, without a sound.

“I can’t see anything,” said the bomb disposal expert, holding the electronic sensor. “We’ll have to open the bag and take a look.” They put the backpack into the bomb disposal vehicle, and Nico knelt down in front of it. He deftly and skillfully unzipped the backpack.

“No explosives,” Nico said. “It’s just a damn transistor radio.” Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. I pushed through the crowd and ran to the backpack, which had a business card holder on the strap—one of those plastic slipcovers. I flipped the strap over to look at the card; it read: Boom! Explode into the sky.

I wasn't wrong. It was something the criminal abandoned when he fled the scene. Next to the ordinary clock radio in the backpack was a framed photograph. It was a computer-printed photo, a digital camera print on plain paper. The man in the photo was handsome, around forty years old.

I was quite certain that he was one of the victims who were killed in the explosion inside the house.

Below the photo is a caption: Morton Lightol, an enemy of the people.

“Listen to the voice of the people.” Below is the printed name: August Spies.

Good heavens, this is an execution of a death row inmate! I felt nauseous and vomited.

The first part of "The Third Time" features a bewildered expression.

We quickly ascertained the details of the bombed house. It was indeed the house of Morton Lightol and his family from the photograph. The name gave Jacobi a vague sense of something. "This is the guy who owns X/L Systems, isn't it?" "I don't know," I said, shaking my head.

"Look. He's an internet tycoon. He made six hundred million and ran off, while his company's performance plummeted. The stock price once reached sixty dollars, but now it's only around sixty cents." Suddenly, I remembered seeing similar reports in the news. He was described as "an incredibly greedy guy." He wanted to buy a sports team, devour mansions, and spent fifty thousand dollars just installing a security door on his Aspen home, while simultaneously selling off his stock and laying off half of his company's employees.

“I’ve heard of investors overreacting,” Jacobi said, shaking his head, “but this is going too far.” I heard a woman behind me shouting and yelling as she tried to push her way through the crowd. Officer Paul Chin led her through the news vans and a large group of photographers to the front of the crowd. She stood in front of the bombed house.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, her mouth agape, then covered her mouth with her hand.

The officer led her over to me. “This is Letor’s sister,” he said.

Her hair was pulled back tightly, and she wore a wool sweater, jeans, and Manolo Blahnik shoes.

Those flat shoes, the kind that had once tempted me, made me stand in front of the Neiman Marcus department store window for about ten minutes admiring them.

① Manolo Branik (1943–): A legendary figure in the fashion world, hailed as the world's greatest shoemaker, born in 1943 on a banana plantation in the Canary Islands, Spain. His mother was Spanish and his father was Czech.

“This way,” I said, helping the woman, who seemed to be walking a little unsteadily, to a police car with the door open. “I’m Officer Boxer, homicide squad.” “I’m Diana Aronoff,” she murmured, somewhat dazed. “I came as soon as I heard the news. Morton? Charlotte? And the children… have they been found?” “We rescued a boy, about eleven years old.” “It’s Eric,” she said. “Is he alright?” “We took him to the burn unit at Carl Pacific Hospital. I think he’ll be fine.” “That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed happily. Then she covered her face with her hands. “How could this happen?” I knelt down beside Diana Aronoff, gently taking her hand in comfort. “Ms. Aronoff, I have some questions for you. This wasn’t an accident. Do you know who would harm your brother?” “It wasn’t an accident,” she repeated. “Morton once said, ‘The media treats me like Bin Laden. Nobody understands me. People think everything I do is for money.’” Jacobi changed the subject. “Ms. Aronoff, it seems the explosion happened on the second floor. Do you know who might have entered the house?” “A housekeeper,” she said, rubbing her eyes, “whose name is Viola.” Jacobi sighed. “Unfortunately, he is very likely the third body we found. Buried under the rubble.”

“Oh…” Diana Aronoff responded, sobbing.

I shook her hand. “You see, Ms. Aronoff, I witnessed the explosion myself. The bomb was planted inside the house. It must have been done by someone who was allowed in, or who was supposed to be in. Please think carefully.” “There was a maid,” she murmured. “I think she sometimes stayed in the house.” “She was lucky,” Jacobi said, rolling his eyes. “If she had been in the house with your nephew…” “Not with Eric,” Diana Aronoff said, shaking her head. “She was looking after Caitlin.” Jacobi and I exchanged glances. “Looking after whom?” “Catlin, Officer. My niece.” She saw our blank expressions and her face froze.

"You just said only Eric was rescued, I thought..." We were still looking at each other, not finding anyone else in the house.

“Oh my God, officer, she’s only six months old.”

The first part of "The Third Time" features a completely different expression of fear.

This isn't over yet.

I ran to Fire Chief Ed Norowski, who was shouting to his men searching the rubble. “Leto’s sister said there’s a six-month-old baby inside.” “No one’s inside, officer. My men just searched the upstairs rooms. Why don’t you go in and check yourself?” Suddenly, the layout of the rooms in the raging fire flashed through my mind. I still remember it clearly. Below the foyer where I rescued the boy. My heart pounded. “Not upstairs, Captain, go check downstairs.” There might be a nursery downstairs.

Norowski called out to the team members still searching inside the building via intercom. He instructed them to go downstairs to the front hall to check.

We stood before the house billowing black smoke, my chest tightening with pain. Just think, there was still a baby inside. I could have saved another life. We waited, while Captain Norowski's men continued searching through the rubble.

Finally, a firefighter struggled to crawl out of the rubble on the ground floor. "Nothing," he shouted. "We found the nursery. There was a crib with railings and a stroller, buried under the rubble, but no baby." Diana Aronoff exclaimed excitedly. Her niece wasn't in the room. But then a look of horror crossed her face—a new, completely different kind of fear. If Caitlin wasn't in the room, where could she be?

The first part of "Three Times Soul Stealing" is about experiencing a fate worse than death.

Charles Danco stood at the edge of the crowd, watching quietly. He was wearing a cyclist's uniform and leaning against an old bicycle. His face was completely obscured by a racing helmet and sunglasses. Police sometimes use cameras to film the crowds at accident scenes, but without newer equipment, they couldn't capture his face even if they did.

"Well done," Danko thought to himself, looking at the horrific scene. The Letor family was dead, blown to pieces, their bodies mangled beyond recognition. He wanted them burned alive, to suffer a fate worse than death, and the children were no exception. It had been his dream for years, perhaps a nightmare, but now it was a reality—and this stark spectacle would terrify the kind-hearted people of San Francisco. He hadn't actually planned this horrific operation, but he had played a part. Look at the firefighters, paramedics, and local police. They were all frantically searching, completely baffled by his handiwork, and this was just the beginning; the real show was about to begin.

One of the police officers caught his attention: a blonde woman, clearly a officer of some rank. She seemed quite bold. He observed her coldly, wondering if this woman could be his match. Did she really have the ability? He asked a patrolman standing by the police line, "That woman who went inside, is that Officer Murphy? I think I know her." The patrolman, with typical police arrogance, didn't even bother to look at him. "No," he said, "that's Officer Boxer. She's in the homicide unit. I've heard she's a real tigress."

Don't forget the donors in the first part of "Three Times Soul Stealing"

The homicide office was on the third floor. The office was very cramped, and there was a constant buzzing noise. It was nothing like the scene I remembered on a typical Sunday morning.

I went to the hospital for a checkup, and the results showed that I hadn't broken any bones or tendons. Then I rushed back to the office, where everyone in the team had arrived.

We don't even need the investigation report from the explosion site; we already have several leads. Bombings are generally not linked to kidnappings. Finding the baby, my gut feeling tells me, will allow us to figure out who committed this horrific atrocity.

A television was on. Mayor Fisk and Police Chief Trajo were being interviewed at the scene of the explosion. “This was a horrific, deliberate, and indiscriminate killing,” the mayor said to the camera, having come directly from the Olympic Golf Course. “Morton and Charlotte of the Lightol family are among the most generous and philanthropic citizens of our city. They are also our good friends.” “Don’t forget they are also donors,” Jacobi’s partner, Kapi Thomas, added.

“I want everyone to know that the police are doing everything they can to find concrete leads,” the mayor continued. “I assure you, this is an isolated incident.” “X/L Company…” Warren Jacoby scratched his head. “I think I have a little bit of that company in my damn retirement fund.” “Me too,” Kapi said. “What kind of fund are you in?” “I think it’s something like the Long-Term Growth Fund, but whoever came up with the name, it’s kind of darkly humorous. Two years ago, I…” “Are you two ever going to shut up?” I yelled at them. “It’s Sunday, the stock market is closed. We have three dead men, a baby missing, and a whole house burned down, probably by a bomb.” “Definitely a bomb,” Steve Fiore chimed in, the department’s press liaison. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, a veteran of countless news agencies and news outlets. "The boss just got confirmation from the bomb squad. They scraped remnants of a timer and C-4 powder off the wall." This news didn't surprise us, but the harsh reality was staring us in the face: a bomb had occurred in our city, the perpetrator was at large, they had C-4 explosives, and a six-month-old baby was missing. Silence fell over the room.

“You damned thing,” Jacobi sighed, making a face, “this afternoon is over.”

Is the first part of "3rd Time Stealing Souls" a kind of perverted kidnapping?

“Officer,” someone called from inside the house, “it’s a call from Boss Trajor.” “It’s for you,” Capi said to me with a grin.

I picked up the microphone, composed myself, and tried to pull my thoughts back from the crime scene. Tracho was a remarkable statistics expert.

It seems that he has never managed a case so directly since he started studying case studies in school 25 years ago.

“Lindsay, it’s Cindy.” I expected to hear the boss’s voice, but Cindy’s voice surprised me. “Don’t be surprised. This is the only way I could catch you.” “But the timing is wrong,” I said. “I thought it was that shit Trajor who was trying to work me to death.” “A lot of people think I’m a pile of shit who’s always trying to work them to death.” “But the pile of shit I’m talking about is the one who signs checks for me,” I said, letting out a slightly relieved sigh for the first time all day.

Cindy Thomas is one of my closest friends, along with Claire and Jill. Cindy works for the Chronicle and is one of the city's top crime reporters.

“Oh my god, Lindsay. I just heard about it. I heard it at a 24-hour yoga studio. I was doing a 'dog pounce' pose when my phone rang. Ugh, I slipped out, it’s been hours. Are you trying to be a hero? Are you okay?” “I was feeling really choked up… I’m fine,” I said. “I don’t have anything to tell you right now.” “I’m not here to pry into the crime scene, Lindsay. I just wanted to know if you were okay.” “I’m fine,” I repeated, but I wasn’t sure if I really was. I noticed my hands were still trembling slightly, and I had a smoky, bitter taste in my mouth.

“Should I come see you?” “You’ll be stopped two blocks away. Trajo has blocked all communication channels and won’t make any announcements until things are clearer.” “Is this a test?” Cindy joked.

I burst out laughing. The scene from before flashed before my eyes: Cindy had managed to sneak into a suite at the Hale Hotel, where a murder had taken place, and as I recalled, the security at the scene was extremely tight. She beat them to the punch with a press release, instantly gaining a reputation in the industry.

“No, it wasn’t a test, Cindy. But I’m not hurt, I assure you I’m fine.” “Okay, fine, I worried for nothing. So what about the crime scene? Let’s talk about the crime scene, shall we, Lindsay?” “If you want to know if the gas grill in this back room exploded at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? Yes, I think you can quote me as you would. I thought you weren’t involved in this kind of thing, Cindy.” Cindy’s energetic and decisive approach always surprised me.

“I’m still handling this,” she said. “I heard you rescued a child today as soon as I took over. You should go home and get some rest. You’ve had a busy day.” “I can’t help it. We’ve got a lead. I wish I could talk to you, but I can’t.” “I heard there was also a baby who was stolen from a house. Is it some kind of sadistic kidnapping?” “If so,” I shrugged, “they’ll always find a new way to extort ransom from the family.” Kapi Thomas poked his head in from outside the door. “Officer, the medical examiner wants to see you. In the morgue.”