3 times soul stealing

Chapter 7

① Franz Fanon (1925-1961): American African-American writer, psychoanalyst, and social philosopher. He proposed a theory that certain neurological disorders are caused by social factors, and he is known for writing about the struggle for national liberation among the peoples of the colonies. His works include *Black Skin, White Mask* and *The Unfortunate Ones of the Earth*.

He once said, 'Violence itself is the judge and the juror.' However, people aren't particularly shocked by this. "Laymonds's feigned sympathy was like the screeching of a dentist's drill." "Can you tell me what that means, Mr. Laymonds?" "Of course, Sheriff, but you must first tell me what brings you here." "Officer," I corrected him. "I'm in the homicide division. Someone told me you might have firsthand information about what happened here. It's ideological. Those people actually blew up three sleeping people, nearly killed two innocent children, and even mashed a victim's internal organs as a form of protest." "When you said 'here,' I suppose you meant this quiet, academically vibrant campus of Berkeley," Laymonds said.

“When I said ‘here,’ I meant those places where those people commit crimes, Mr. Lemont.” “Yes, Professor,” he replied. “The Romance Professor Lance Hart”—I saw a glint of a smile in his eyes—“if we’re all about titles.” “You said you weren’t shocked by these murders.” “Why would I be shocked?” Lemont shrugged. “If a patient is covered in wounds and someone tells him he’s sick, would he be shocked? Our society is infected with a virus, officer, and the ones spreading it are coming and going freely, saying ‘What, it’s me?’” “Do you know,” he continued, lifting his head, “that those deep-pocketed multinational corporations now produce more GDP than ninety percent of the world’s countries? They support governments all over the world, maintaining so-called systems of social responsibility.”

“And why,” he said with a mocking laugh, “that we’re quick to lash out at morally rebellious acts when our racial nerves are touched, but become indifferent and blind to economic ones? It’s because we don’t see things from the perspective of the oppressed. We see them from the perspective of a powerful culture. From the perspective of big corporations, interpreted through the lens of television propaganda.” “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “I’m here about the four victims. Someone’s been murdered, their life hanging by a thread.” “Yes, that’s true, officer. That’s exactly my point of view.” I resisted the urge to lunge at him, grab his collar, and slap him across the face. I pulled from my bag the photo of the maid that was affixed to Wendy Raymond’s student ID, and the forensic sketch drawn by the police department’s forensic artist—the woman captured on surveillance footage as she entered the Clifford Hotel with George Bengossine. “Professor, do you know these two women?” Raymond almost burst out laughing. “Why should I help you? It is our country, not these two women, that has created this injustice. Tell me, who has committed the greater injustice? It is these two female suspects”—he threw the front page of the Chronicle onto my side of the desk—“or these shining stars in our system of governance?” I looked at the photos of Letour and Bengossine in the paper.

“If these people are foreshadowing a war,” Raymond laughed, “then I say, let the war break out. Officer, what’s that popular saying these days?” He smiled and said, “That American saying, let’s give it a try.” I put the photos away, closed the album, and put it back in my bag. I stood up, feeling utterly exhausted. Before I could get physical with him, I turned and left the Romance-speaking Professor Emeritus Lance Hart.

Part Two of "The Third Time" takes place on the way back to the office.

On my way back to the office, I was seething with anger. Raymond's sarcastic lecture, coupled with the case's stalled progress, only fueled my frustration. I returned to the office after six, still unable to calm down. I called Cindy and arranged to meet her at Susie's Restaurant. Perhaps discussing business over lobster tacos would be more efficient. I needed my female friends' advice.

I had just hung up the phone with Cindy when Warren Jacoby walked in. “Yang Xin Restaurant,” he said.

"Yang Xin Restaurant?" "That's much better than fried corn tortillas. And it's cheaper. Ladies drool over Chinese food. Officer, you know that kind of delicacy. When you get there, people will tell you that the Qin Dynasty of China perished because of tender, delicious young chickens."

"Where have you been?" he asked, sitting down. He had something to tell me, and I knew the enigmatic smile on his face meant he had something to say.

“Going to that People’s Republic was a complete waste of time. You’ve made a new discovery? Not those restaurant recommendations, are you?” “There’s been a lead on Wendy Raymond’s matter, a response to the report,” he said with a smile.

This has really whetted my appetite.

“It was a call from a small chain supermarket on the other side of the bay. The night shift clerk said he saw the face in the photo. They've sent someone to pick up the videotape. He said the woman now has red hair and is wearing sunglasses. But she took off her sunglasses to count the money while paying, and the clerk swore he wasn't mistaken, it was her.” “Where on the other side of the bay, Warren?” “On Harmon Avenue in Oakland.” I searched my memory for that neighborhood, and we both thought of the same thing. “The McDonald's where little Caitlin was found is nearby.” Geographically, that made sense. “Take the photo to every small shop in the area for identification.” “I've already ordered someone to do that, officer.” Jacoby’s eyes gleamed with that familiar light, meaning he still had a backup plan.

“There will be countless calls coming in,” I said, tilting my head slightly toward Warren, expectantly. “How can you be so sure this report is credible?” He blinked. “She went to that little shop to buy asthma spray.”

The second part of "Three Times Soul Stealing" reveals the complexity and variability of these emotions.

When Jill arrived, Cindy, Claire, and I had already drunk most of a bottle of beer and eaten very few chicken wings from a large plate.

Jill hung her coat on the hook and walked over to our table. She had a forced smile on her face, but her nervousness was still clearly visible.

“So,” she put her briefcase on the table and plopped down next to Claire, “which of you will question first?” “It’s not really questioning,” I said. “There are some chicken wings… this piece…” I poured the remaining beer from the bottle into her glass.

We all raised our glasses, and Jill hesitated slightly. No one spoke for a moment, yet everyone seemed to be pondering what to say. How many times had the four of us gathered like this before? In the beginning, the four women each had their own work troubles, and we'd come together to seek each other's help in solving a crime case someone was handling.

“Cheers to friends,” Claire said. “True friends will always stand by each other. No matter what, Jill.” “I’d better drink this right away,” Jill said, her eyes a little watery, “or I’ll fall in.” Jill gulped down about a third of the drink in her glass. She took a deep breath. “Alright, enough beating around the bush, right? You all know?” We all nodded.

“Telephone, telegram, mailbox① The word ‘mailbox’ here is pronounced the same as ‘boxer’ in English, which is a sarcastic remark that nothing can be hidden from boxer.” Jill winked at me.

“If you’re in pain, we’re all in pain,” Claire said. “And vice versa, if any of us were in your shoes, you would be the same.” “I know,” Jill nodded. “So, it seems the next thing you’re going to do is tell me that I shouldn’t be the typical submissive, power-loser spouse.” “I guess the only thing we’re really concerned about now,” I said, licking my lips, “is for you to tell us how you’re feeling.” “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “First of all, I’m not really power-loser. We’ve fought. Steve’s a brute, but he never punches me, never hits me in the face.” Cindy opened her mouth to say something in disagreement, but Claire stopped her.

“I know that won’t exonerate him or prove anything. I just want you to know,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I think it’s hard for me to explain my own feelings. I’ve handled so many cases. I know how complex and ever-changing these emotions are. In short, I’m ashamed. I admit that I’ve been involved in this myself, and I’m truly ashamed.” “How long has this been going on?” Claire asked.

Jill leaned back in her chair and smiled slightly. "Do you want the real answer, or the answer I've been deceiving myself with for the past few months? The real answer is, this is how it was before we got married." My teeth were grinding together.

“It’s always something trivial. What clothes I wear, what decorations I want to buy for the house that he doesn’t like. Steve is so stubborn, he always says I’m incredibly stupid.” “Stupid?” Claire gasped. “You’re so much smarter than him.” “Steve isn’t stupid,” Jill said. “He just can’t see things can change. At first, he’d just pinch me, like here, on my shoulder. Always pretending it was unintentional. A couple of times he’d throw things at me when he was having a fit. Once, I remember—she suddenly laughed—“it was a piece of this cheese.” “Why?” Cindy shook her head, looking incredulous. “Why does he do that to you?” “Because I paid my bills late. Because I bought a pair of shoes that were a bit extravagant, and we were just married and a little strapped for cash.” She shrugged. “Because he wanted to.” “Has he been treating you like this ever since we met?” I asked, horrified.

Jill swallowed. “You think I’ve been keeping this from you all along, right?” Just then, the waitress brought over some fried tortillas, and a Shania Twist song played in the background. “It’s like you’re bribing me.” She took a tortilla, dipped it in guacamole, and laughed again. “What a new interrogation. ’Yes, I know where Bin Laden is hiding. But, to let me tell you, bring me some more of this delicious cheese…’” We all burst out laughing. Jill always had a way of making us laugh.

“Nothing really happens,” Jill said. “It’s always the little things. In big matters, I really feel we’re a perfect match. We’ve been through a lot of big things together. But in small things… like, someone invited me to dinner, but he didn’t like the group. I forgot to tell the housekeeper to straighten his shirt. He made me feel like a stupid kid. Utterly mediocre.” “You’re not mediocre at all,” Claire interrupted.

Jill looked into her eyes and smiled. “My cheerleader… even if I shot this bastard, you’d still praise my marksmanship.” “We actually did talk about that possibility,” Cindy said.

“You see, I actually thought about doing that,” Jill said, shaking her head. “I thought about who would preside over my case. Hey, I think I’ve made this way too dramatic.” I asked, “If a woman came to you asking for advice on how to get out of this predicament, what would you say to her? Now you’re the prosecutor, not her wife. Think about it, what would you say?” “I would tell her that if it were me, I’d go and sue him right away, so he won’t dare fart again,” she said, laughing heartily.

We all burst into laughter.

“You said you need a little more time,” I said to Jill. “We’re not asking you to change your life today. But I know you. You’re putting up with it because you feel responsible for maintaining this. I want you to promise me, Jill, that he won’t be able to throw a punch at you again. If he causes any more trouble, I’ll come and pack your bags. You can move in with me, or Claire’s, or Cindy’s… well, not exactly Cindy’s… hers is too messy. But you have somewhere to go, darling. I want you to promise me that if he threatens you again, you’ll leave.” Jill’s face glowed, and her bright blue eyes sparkled. She looked absolutely beautiful to me. A curl of her bangs cascaded over her eyes.

“I promise,” she finally said, a slight smile appearing on her face and her cheeks flushing slightly.

“You have to keep your word,” Cindy added.

Jill raised her palm. "God above, I swear, I'm not lying, or I'll get sores on my face." "Enough, enough," Claire said.

Jill took all our hands and placed them in the center of the table. "I love you all, my true friends," she said.

“We all love you, Jill.” “Okay, let’s order some food now,” she said. “I feel like I’m back at the law school cafeteria. I’m starving.”

The reason I didn't sleep well that night was because of the second part of "Three Times Soul Stealing".

Perhaps it was because I didn't sleep well that night, but I couldn't fall asleep all night, my mind filled with that beast—who would run away whenever his cronies went to play golf, yet pretend to be a devoted and considerate husband in public—and now he's gone so far as to become violent towards one of the smartest women in our city—my dearest friend.

Whatever the reason, Steve's shadow haunted me the next morning, preventing me from calming down, answering the phone, or concentrating on the case.

I grabbed my wallet. "If Trajor calls me, tell him I'm going out for a bit and will be back in about an hour." Ten minutes later, I drove to 160 Beale Street, a high-rise building near the Lower Market. The 160 I was going to was a glass-walled building, housing accounting firms and law firms. Steve's company was in that building.

I took the elevator to the thirty-second floor, feeling drenched in sweat and practically gasping for air. I pushed open the door to the North Star Partnership firm, and behind the counter in the lobby sat a pretty receptionist who looked up at me with a smile.

“Looking for Steve Bernhardt,” I said to her with a stern face.

I didn't wait for her to call Steve. Instead, I went straight to the office around the corner—Steve's office, the one Jill and I had visited once before. Steve was leaning back in his armchair, wearing a dark yellow-green crocodile shirt and khaki pants, on the phone. When he saw me come in, he continued talking to the person on the other end of the line in the same tone, winking at me and pointing to a chair, indicating that I should sit down. "I saw you wink at me, friend."

I waited patiently as he talked about business on the phone, occasionally throwing in industry jargon like, "Looks like you're really going to make a big deal out of this, buddy." My temper started to flare up.

Finally, he hung up the phone and turned his chair to face me. "Lindsay," he said, staring at me as if trying to guess what had happened.

"Enough with the chit-chat, Steve. Do you know why I'm here?" "No. I don't." He shook his head, then his expression shifted slightly. "Is Jill alright?" "You know, I've been holding back from jumping over and shoving the phone in your mouth. Jill told us everything, Steve. We know everything." He shrugged, looking completely innocent, his glasses dangling in front of me. "Know what?" "I saw the bruises. Jill told us what she's been through these past few days." "Oh"—he leaned back, his eyebrows arching—"Jill said she met up with some old friends last night." He glanced at his watch. "Ah, I'd love to sit with you and chat about some personal matters, but I have a meeting at 12:30..." I leaned forward, bringing my face closer to his desk. “Listen. Listen carefully. I’m here to tell you this is over. From today onwards. If you ever touch her again… if she knocks off a tiny piece of her nail and won’t say how… if she comes to work with even the slightest frown on her face, I’ll charge you with assault. Do you understand, Steve?” His expression remained unchanged. He ran his hand through his short, curly hair and chuckled. “Oh, Lindsay, everyone says you’re a fiery woman, but I didn’t know… Jill shouldn’t have let you get involved. I know this kind of thing is nothing to you stay-at-home women, you love having a dog… but we’re married. Whatever happens is between us.” “Not anymore,” I rolled my eyes at him. “Assault is a felony, Steve. I’ll deal with people like you.”

“Jill will never testify against me,” he said, then frowned. “Oh dear, what time is it… Lindsay, if you don’t mind, I have to go downstairs to my meeting.” I stood up from my chair. I didn’t understand why he was being so dismissive. We were talking about Jill. “I’m going to make this clear, you hear me,” I said. “If you lay a finger on her again, don’t worry about whether Jill will testify.”

You go for a run, come home from get off work, and in the garage, you hear something that makes your heart skip a beat… You'd better be careful, Steve.” I walked to the door, my eyes fixed on him. Steve sat in his chair, swaying slightly, looking speechless and furious. “What’s wrong? Has this gotten a bit out of hand, Steve?”

What will happen next in Part Two of "The Third Soul Stealer"?

Cindy Thomas sat somewhat distracted behind her desk in her Chronicle office. She turned the cap ring on her almond-orange juice cup and took a slow sip. Then, Cindy opened the newspaper on her desk, glancing at the headlines on the front page. One of her signed articles, in bold, appeared in the right-hand column: Another CEO Murdered; Police Revisit First Homicide Case.

She turned on her computer to check her email. The screen background icon lit up—a fit man in a tank top and a construction worker's belt. Cindy clicked the internet icon, and her email notification popped up.

Twelve new emails.

She saw one of the messages was from Allen, with whom she had played horns four months ago. "I'm going to church at 8 pm on May 22nd for a recital by Penpkins Smith. Are you free? Penpkins Smith is one of the best trumpet players in the area!" "Of course I'm free," Cindy replied, typing away. "Even if it means another lecture from you."

She quickly scrolled down to check the subject lines of other new emails. One reply was from a researcher investigating Letor and Bengossine's backgrounds. This guy had been to court and sued insurance clients who had been scammed over the past two years.

What a despicable person! The last email came from an unknown address, and she was about to delete it when the subject line caught her attention. It was from SLAM@, and the subject was "What's Next."

Cindy clicked on the email, intending to delete it and throw it in the trash later. She took another sip of orange juice.

Don't ask us how we know your name or why we're contacting you. If you want to do something good, now is your chance.

Cindy moved her chair forward, getting closer to the computer screen.

The “tragedies” that happened last week were just the beginning; the real show is yet to come.

Finance ministers from around the world will meet next week to divide up the remaining piece of the "free" world economy—a piece of fat meat they covet and vie to take a bite of. The Bretton Woods Conference (officially the United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference) was held in July 1944 in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, USA, during World War II. It was expected to make arrangements for postwar financial issues after the defeat of Germany and Japan. Cindy's heart pounded as she read on.

We are prepared to slaughter one notorious bloodsucking pig every three days until they wake up and stand up to condemn the global virus of the free world's corporate system. They use grand lies to bewitch people, advocating that trade will bring freedom to the poor, resulting in countless impoverished countries and turning our sisters into their slaves, making them bleed and sweat for transnational capitalists. They exploit the stock market, sucking the blood and sweat of American workers.

We are no longer outnumbered.

We are an army, armed with deadly weapons, heading straight for the super vampire.

Cindy blinked incredulously, almost unable to move. Could this just be an internet prank? Someone playing a clever joke? She pressed the "print" button, tidied her desk slightly, clipped the phone to her ear and shoulder, and continued reading:

We chose you because the media these days are corrupted, as corrupt and selfish as their multinational conglomerates. Are you also in league with them? We'll wait and see.

We need those G8 giants meeting in San Francisco next week to do something historic. Unshackle themselves. Annull the debt. Work for the freedom of the people, not for their own benefit. Smash the machine of colonial oppression. Promote healthy global economic development.

You will hear our voices before we do. Every three days, a damned pig will be slaughtered.

Ms. Thomas, you know how to handle this letter. Don't bother tracing its source, or you'll never hear us speak again.

Cindy's mouth was dry and parched. SLAM@. Was this real? Was someone playing a trick on her? She moved her mouse to the bottom of the page. Then, she froze.

The email was signed by August Spies.

Part Two of "The Third Soul Stealer" features a notorious bloodsucking fat pig.

I returned to my desk and found a message from Chief Trajo and another from Jill.

“Someone at the Chronicle is waiting to see you,” my secretary Brenda called to me.

“The Chronicle?” I looked up and saw Cindy sitting with her legs crossed on a pile of files outside my office. I walked over, and she stood up, but I didn’t have time to talk to her right then and there.

“Cindy, I’m so sorry, I can’t talk to you right now, there’s a briefing right away—” “No,” she interrupted me, “I have something to show you, Lindsay. This is absolutely a priority.” “Is everything alright?” She shook her head. “Hard to say.” We closed the door to my office, and Cindy took a piece of paper from her purse. It looked like an email.

“Sit down,” she said. She placed the paper in front of me and then sat down beside me. “Look at what’s written here.” I glanced at Cindy; it didn’t look like good news.

“I received it this morning,” she explained. “My email address is listed on the Chronicle’s website. I don’t know who wrote it or why they’re writing to me. It’s really annoying.” I read the email. Don’t ask us how we know your name or why we’re contacting you… The more I read, the more a murderous aura washed over me. We’re planning to kill a notorious bloodsucking pig every three days… I looked up at Cindy.

“Read on,” Cindy said.

I lowered my head again and continued reading. My mind raced, trying to determine whether the email was serious. By the end, I was certain it wasn't a joke.

August Spies.