3 times soul stealing

Chapter 5

"You can't do this, Jill." These words had been echoing in her ears ever since she met him. Good heavens, her eyes were fixed on her palms. She was the chief assistant to the district attorney in this city. What more proof did she need?

The phone rang suddenly, startling her. Could it be Steve? Just hearing his voice made her nauseous. That chilling, seemingly concerned tone: "Hi, honey, what are you doing? Come home quickly, I'm waiting for you." The answering machine picked up the caller's voice, saying he was the Sacramento District Attorney's Assistant, calling to find a released prisoner from the state jail to be a witness. She breathed a sigh of relief and let the message automatically go to her voicemail.

She closed the thick file. This was the last time, she vowed silently. She would tell Lindsay everything. Not telling her the truth made her uneasy. Lindsay had always thought Steve was a nasty guy. She wasn't stupid.

As she was tidying up the case files, the phone rang again. This time, the ringing sounded particularly peculiar, like a sharp knife piercing her heart.

"Don't answer, Jill." She was already in the hallway outside, but she couldn't resist glancing back at the caller ID. It was that familiar number. Jill felt a dryness in her throat. Slowly, she picked up the receiver. "This is Mrs. Bernhardt," she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Honey, working so late again?” Steve’s voice seemed to pierce her very flesh. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, his tone aggrieved, “I think you’re afraid to go home.”

The sealing of a bottle of wine in the first part of "The Third Soul".

That night, George Bengosyan had a stroke of good luck.

Bengosyan was short, bald, and had a flat nose. Even during his residency, he realized that his major, urology, offered little future; his real interest lay in working with regional insurers and building a massive health insurance company.

He also knew that he was not good-looking and that he could not attract beautiful women by boasting about his money-making prospects and making witty remarks in the industry. He certainly could not win over the very sexy analyst from the Bank of America Health Association in front of him.

It was as if he were wandering in someone else's dream. Mimi was completely bewitched by him, and now they were on their way to the suite he had rented at the Clifford Hotel. "I'm staying on the top floor of the hotel, the view is absolutely stunning, you just wait and see," he teased her.

George lecherously rubbed the bottom edge of Mimi's bra against her breasts as he casually pushed open the door to his suite at the Clifford Hotel; he imagined her firm, full breasts swaying alluringly before him, her bright eyes gazing at him with deep affection. This is the secret to choosing photos from one's youth when selecting images for annual reports.

"Wait a moment," Mimi said softly, pinching his arm with her fingers, before turning and going into the bathroom.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” George said, pouting.

He hurriedly and forcefully tore open the seal of a bottle of wine, a complimentary gift from the hotel, and filled two glasses. He was fifty-four years old, but his lust remained unchanged, and now he seemed even more restless and impatient. He had to catch a flight early the next morning to Illinois to attend a meeting of the Senate Health Protection Committee. He knew that since he removed poor people's accounts and high-risk items from the proposal, the committee had changed its mind. The Health Protection Plan had removed 140,000 families—all struggling below the poverty line! Mimi emerged from the bathroom, looking exceptionally alluring. George handed her a glass of wine.

“May all your wishes come true,” George said, raising his glass to her. “And may we both have good luck. May this evening be unforgettable.” “And may your insurance company have good luck as well.” A smile flickered across Mimi’s face as she raised her glass to clink with George’s.

“Hey, wanna try something exciting?” She grabbed his wrist. “I guarantee it’ll make your thing rock hard.” She took a small bottle from her handbag. “Stick your tongue out.” George did as she said, sticking out his tongue, and she put two drops of the medicine on it.

It was bitter. The taste was so strong it almost made him jump. "Why don't you make this sweeter, like strawberry?" "One more drop." Her smile was bright and cheerful. "That way you'll have enough strength. For both of us." George stuck out his tongue again, but he felt his heart start pounding.

Mimi dripped another drop onto his tongue. At that moment, the smile on her face slowly vanished, replaced by indifference. She pinched his cheek with her fingers, then turned the small bottle upside down.

The liquid from the vial was poured into George's mouth. He tried to spit it out, but Mimi pushed his face back, forcing him to swallow it. His eyes widened. "What the hell? What's going on?" "It's poison," Mimi said, putting the empty bottle back into her handbag. "It's a special kind of poison, designed for someone as special as you. Just one drop will slowly wear you down for hours, eventually killing you. If you drink this, you'll be dead in an instant." George released his grip, and the champagne glass fell to the ground and shattered. He spat forcefully, trying to vomit up the swallowed liquid. This bitch is insane; she must be talking nonsense. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen, which convulsed violently.

“Mr. Bengossine, this is revenge for all those you’ve oppressed. You haven’t met them, but they were all hopeless families who had been counting on you or your ‘Lucky’ insurance company to lend a helping hand. Do you know Felicia Brown? She’s dead; her melanoma was curable. And Thomas Ortiz, does that name ring a bell? Your risk managers certainly know him. He couldn’t afford his son’s brain tumor surgery and shot himself. People call it ‘liquidation.’ Mr. Bengossine, is that what you call it?” Suddenly, his stomach convulsed violently. A bloated mass of mucus gushed into his mouth, which he spat onto his shirt, but his abdomen still felt like countless claws were clawing and churning his internal organs. Pulmonary edema. Organ failure. Shout for help, he thought. Get outside. But his legs wouldn’t move; they buckled, and he collapsed to the ground.

Mimi remained standing there, a mocking expression on her face, coldly observing. He reached out towards her. He wanted to punch her, to strangle her, to crush her to death. But he was too weak.

"Quickly..." This is no joke.

Mimi leaned closer to him. “Mr. Bengossine, now you’re tasting the ‘clearance sale,’ how does it taste? Goodness, open your mouth wider. Wide open!” George tried desperately to inhale, but to no avail. His jaw drooped, his tongue swollen and filling his mouth. Mimi waved a blue piece of paper in front of him. At least he could feel it was blue—though his vision was already blurring, making it difficult to discern the color. In the hazy light, he saw his company’s “Good Luck” logo on the paper.

She crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and stuffed it into his mouth. "Thank you for taking out 'Good Luck' insurance, but as this form says, your claim has been rejected!"

Part 1 of "Three Times of Soul Stealing": My phone is ringing.

My phone is ringing.

It was still the middle of the night. I sat up in bed, glancing sleepily at the small clock beside my bed. Damn, it was only four in the morning.

I groggily reached for my phone and looked at the caller ID. It was Paul Chin calling. "Hey Paul, what's up now?" I mumbled.

"Excuse me, officer. I'm at the Clifford Hotel right now. I think you'd better come over and check it out." "What did you find?" Did that even need asking? A call at four in the morning meant something serious had happened.

“Yes. I think the Letourne bombing is getting complicated.” Eight minutes later, I had hastily put on jeans, a sweater, quickly combed my hair, and got into my Blazer, then drove across the Vermont highway and onto Highway 7. The car sped by like a shooting star in the quiet night sky.

Three black and white police cars and a hearse were parked outside the hotel's imposing entrance. The Clifford Hotel was an old hotel in the city, recently renovated. I squeezed past the police guarding the entrance. The hotel lobby was furnished with spacious built-in sofas, the walls decorated with bull horns, and several waiters stood there bewildered. I stepped into the elevator and headed to the top floor. Chin was waiting for me on the top floor where the incident had occurred.

“The victim’s name was George Bengossine, a health insurance tycoon,” Paul Chin explained as he led me into the suite. “You’d better be prepared. I’m not kidding.” I looked at the body. It had been propped up against the leg of a conference table; the suite was lavishly furnished.

Bengosyan's skin had taken on a dark yellow hue caused by oxygen deprivation, and had a jelly-like, sticky texture. His eyes were open, like two gear-like recesses. A pale yellow, viscous substance was trickling from his nostrils, slowly spreading across his chin.

“What on earth is this guy doing?” I whispered to the forensic pathologist who was bent over performing the autopsy. “Is he playing some deadly trick with aliens?” The pathologist looked puzzled. “I don’t understand either.” “Are you sure this is a premeditated murder?” I turned to Qin and asked.

“The hotel reception got a call at 2:45 a.m.,” he said with a shrug. “It was from outside the hotel. They said there was some trash in the top-floor suite that needed to be removed.” “Doing my job,” I said dismissively.

“That’s it, and this,” Chin said, handing me a wad of paper he’d pulled out with his latex-gloved hand. “It was found in his mouth.” The paper was still crumpled, like some kind of company letterhead.

There is an embossed logo on the paper: Good Luck Health Insurance.

It was an insurance benefits statement, and some words on the paper were filled in later. My eyes fell on those later-filled words, and my heart sank.

We have declared war on the greedy and corrupt elements in our society. We have had enough and can no longer turn a blind eye. The powerful and wealthy are natural-born opportunists, ruthlessly plundering and defrauding ordinary people, the weak, and the poor. The era of economic segregation is over. No matter how rich or powerful you are, we will settle accounts with you. We are everywhere, and war is inevitable. We vow to fight this war to the very end.

"Oh, damn it." I looked at Chin. This wasn't murder. This was an execution. This was a declaration of war. He was right, the Letour family bombing was really getting complicated.

The declaration of war was signed by August Spies.

This kind of thing will happen again in Part 2 of "The Third Time".

My first call after that was to Claire.

We only have one hour left. Afterwards, major newspapers around the world will carry this seemingly blind and bizarre murder on their front pages, calling it the second murder in a sinister and horrific saga. I need to find out how Bengosyan died, and I need to be quick.

The second call was to Trajo. It was not yet 5 a.m. The officer on night duty transferred my call.

“This is Lindsay Boxer,” I said. “You said you’d be informed of the case’s progress as soon as possible.” “Yes,” I heard him mutter. I could almost picture him holding the microphone, his eyes still sleepy.

“I’m at the Clifford Hotel. I think we’ve found the motive for the Letourne house bombing.” I could picture him sitting bolt upright the moment he heard me, wide awake despite still being in his pajamas, practically knocking his glasses off. “Was it one of the partners at X/L that confessed? It was all for money, right?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “This is a war.” I hung up the phone with the police chief and looked back around Bengosien’s hotel suite. There was no blood, no signs of a struggle. There was a half-full champagne glass on the conference table. Another glass lay shattered on the floor at Bengosien’s feet. His suit jacket was tossed on the armchair. There was an open bottle of champagne on the table.

“Find out who he went upstairs with,” I said to Lorraine Stafford, also one of our homicide team, Corey. “If you’re lucky, there might be security cameras in the hotel lobby. Also, try to find out where Ben Gossine was before he came to the hotel and what he was doing.” We’ve declared war on the greedy and corrupt in society… that’s what the paper said.

A chill ran down my spine; this kind of thing will happen again.

I understood that I needed to find out about Bengossian and Good Luck Insurance Company's background as quickly as possible within a few hours. I couldn't imagine what he had done to deserve such a cruel treatment.

I picked up the crumpled piece of paper again.

No matter how wealthy or powerful you are, we will settle accounts with you eventually. We are omnipresent, and war is inevitable. We are determined to fight this war to the bitter end.

August Spies, who the hell are you?

The second part of "Triple Threat" features a large-scale, terrifying weapon.

When people turned on the TV to watch the news in the morning, they learned from the reports that "a petite woman with light black skin in a suit" (according to the night doorman), "as if she had been held in his arms the whole time" (according to the waiter at Massa nightclub), accompanied Bengossine back to his hotel suite last night.

She's either the killer or an accomplice; she opened the door and let the killer into the house. She's probably not the maid we're looking for.

I put the newspaper on the table and looked up to see Claire standing there. "Lindsay, are you free?" Even with the toughest cases, Claire always maintained an optimistic attitude, but this time her expression was quite serious, as if the autopsy results had surprised her. "You lost a few hours of sleep," I said to her.

Her slightly confused eyes seemed to say, "It's okay."

“I’ve been doing this for ten years,” Claire said, plopping down in the chair across from me and shaking her head. “I’ve never seen a corpse’s internal organs look like this.” “Go ahead,” I said, leaning forward to listen intently to her story.

“I don’t even know how to describe it precisely,” she said. “The body’s internal organs were just a mess. The blood vessels and lungs were completely deteriorated. There was massive gastrointestinal bleeding. The spleen and kidneys were extensively necrotic… Lindsay, it was malignant necrosis of all the internal organs,” she said, staring at me.

I shrugged. “It’s the result of some kind of poison, isn’t it, Claire?” “Yes, but this toxicity is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I’ve flipped through several magazines. I once encountered a child with similar vascular deterioration and edema; we initially thought it was mainly a rare allergic reaction to castor oil. So, I thought of castor beans. But this is different. This is ricin, Lindsay! It’s easily produced in large quantities; it’s a protein extracted from the castor plant.” “So, this protein is poisonous, isn’t it?” “It’s highly poisonous. Thousands of times more toxic than cyanide,” Claire nodded. “It’s easily absorbed and secreted; just a tiny bit, like the tip of a needle, is enough to kill. It also evaporates in the air, Lindsay. But I don’t think ricin alone would cause this, unless the dosage was…” “Unless what dosage?” “Unless a large dose, say ten times… fifty times the dosage, to accelerate the decay of the circulatory system, Lindsay. This Bengossian was practically dead before the champagne glass in his hand fell to the ground. Ricin poisoning often takes several hours, even a whole day to kill. The poisoned person will experience symptoms such as a severe cold, intense gastrointestinal pain, and fluid buildup in the lungs. This guy returned to the hotel at 11:30, and the hotel called the police at 3:00 AM. Only three hours.” “We found a broken champagne glass on the ground and sent it to the lab. They can test for the poison in the shards, right?” “Whether the test finds the poison is not my concern, Lindsay. Why make him suffer like this when only a tenth of the dose would have killed him?” I understood what Claire meant. Regardless of who the perpetrator of these two murders was, he undoubtedly carefully selected his victims; both murders were meticulously planned and premeditated. The killer possessed weapons capable of causing widespread terror.

We're everywhere… They're telling us: we possess this deadly poison. We could extract large quantities of ricin if we wanted to. "My God, they're warning us, Claire. They're declaring war."

The second part of "The Third Soul Stealer" depicts the fate of newborn infants as one of poverty and despair.

We mobilized all available resources, including city medical teams, the Department of Public Safety, and local FBI offices. We were no longer simply dealing with a murder case; we were confronting organized terrorism.

The trail to the maid had gone cold. Jacobi and Kapi had people identify her from photos in bars at several colleges and universities near the bay, but to no avail. Meanwhile, things were looking up: Cindy had published an article about X/L in the Chronicle, resulting in a media frenzy that disrupted their company and even threatened to subpoena them. Chuck Zinn couldn't take it anymore; he called me and said he wanted to talk. An hour later, he arrived at my office.

"Officer, you can see the documents you want. Actually, I can tell you everything frankly. Morton did receive some emails in recent weeks. Others on our board received similar emails. None of us really thought much of it."

"Of course, we've increased security internally." Zin opened his briefcase, took out an orange folder, and pushed it onto the table, handing it to me. "It's all here, officer, sorted by the date it was received." I opened the folder, and a jolt went through me. The following words jumped out at me: To the Board of Directors of X/L Company:

On February 15, your company's CEO, Mr. Morton Letor, sold 762,000 shares of your company's stock, totaling $3,175,000.

On the same day, approximately 256,000 of your company's shareholders suffered heavy investment losses, with a net return of -87% last year.

35,341 children worldwide have died of hunger.

In this country, 11,174 patients died from various diseases, all of which were entirely "preventable" with proper medical care.

Still this Wednesday, 4,233,768 mothers around the world gave birth to their babies, but the fate awaiting these newborns is poverty and despair.

Over the past 24 months, you have sold approximately $600 million worth of your own company's stock, purchasing properties in Aspen and France, without giving anything back to the world. We order you to donate all proceeds from future stock sales to the poor and the World Health Organization. We order the board of directors of X/L Company, and all other company boards, not to prioritize their own interests, but to consider the plight of the economically exploited and struggling poor.

We are not making a request, we are ordering you.

Mr. Letour, guard your wealth. Your little Caitlin is now up to you.

The letter was signed August Spies.

I flipped through the other emails. The wording was getting increasingly harsh, and the various ills of the world that were listed seemed more and more dangerous and vicious.

Mr. Letour, you haven't followed our instructions. The board hasn't responded either. We're taking action. Your little Caitlin is now in the running.