In the evening, Bruce had a late dinner. When he returned to the hotel, it was already past 9 pm.
They were always this busy when there was a case. Remembering that he had to gather at the police station at 7 am the next morning, Bruce rubbed his forehead tiredly. He took off his clothes and walked to the bathroom. After a shower and a good night's sleep, he would be full of energy again tomorrow.
Soon, he leaned against the bathtub and closed his eyes, letting the hot water relieve his fatigue. Thinking of his team members who were still carrying a large pile of case files back to the hotel, Bruce couldn't help but admire them in his heart. After all, all he wanted to do now was to sleep in his bed. He really didn't know where they got so much energy from.
Bruce firmly believed that it was not because he was lazy. Compared to those who worked from 9 to 5, he felt that he could be called a model worker. Perhaps he just didn't have the mentality of his team members who were desperate to solve the case, hoping that fewer people would die in the hands of the serial killer, and saving even one more victim.
Ring ring ring. The phone in the room rang.
Bruce's hands paused in the middle of washing his hair. He then pretended that he didn't hear it and continued. It was probably to ask about room service.
When the phone rang for the third time, Bruce stood up impatiently from the bathtub. With his hair still covered in foam, he grabbed a towel and wiped the water on his body. He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom.
"This is Jones." The calm voice didn't show Bruce's impatience, but God knew how much he wanted to throw the phone and go back to the bathroom to wash the foam off his hair. When he lowered his head to answer the phone earlier, the water droplets with foam accidentally flowed into his eyes. At this moment, his eyes were stinging, and they were still flowing with physiological tears.
"Hello?" There was no sound from the other end of the phone. Bruce began to wonder if this was some kind of boring prank.
"If you stop chasing me, I will stop chasing them." A low and even somewhat hoarse voice came from the phone.
Was it Death?
Bruce put the phone back to his ear. His brain spun quickly. With a playful tone, he said, "Do you think I will agree to your deal?"
"That's a good condition."
"Hmm?" Bruce said sarcastically, "I thought you would be smarter. You definitely wouldn't call every police officer who wants to arrest you. You wouldn't even call every team member."
"You should accept the conditions." The deep voice on the other end of the line interrupted Bruce.
"But why did you call me? I'm not the person in charge, and I haven't been paying attention to this case since ten years ago. I'm just a normal … "Bruce seemed to have figured something out. He leaned against the bed in a relaxed manner, rubbing his eyes with the hand that was not holding the microphone.
"This is your last chance." He interrupted Bruce again.
"Let me think, hmm," Bruce paused, pulled up a corner of the towel and wiped the water dripping from his hair. "Is it my indifference that makes you feel uneasy?"
"You will regret it." The voice carried a hint of malice.
Bruce felt that the voice was threatening. He narrowed his eyes slightly, like a creature at the top of the food chain who found some prey when it was not hungry. He couldn't help but chuckle a few times from his chest. He said in a teasing tone, "I'll wait and see. How long do you think it will take for me to convince them to arrest you? I have to say that your look of a victim is really wonderful, George.
Foyet？ Or you can run away like a mouse, hide in a dark corner and never show up again. But what qualifications do you have to be called Boston's Death? The ending in the book "The Night of the Death God" is better. "
The phone was suddenly hung up. Bruce listened to the busy tone on the phone, and his bad mood became better. He even hummed a tune as he went back to the bathroom.
Sure enough, happiness was built on other people's pain. Bruce washed the foam off his hair and put on a bathrobe. When he walked out of the bathroom, he took out a bottle of Coke from the fridge in the room. He sat on the chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and looked at the night view of Boston.
It was a pity that he didn't drink. Otherwise, drinking at this time could be considered a form of living. But Coke was the same. He picked up the glass and poured the Coke into it.
As for Foyet, after what he said, Bruce was not worried at all that he would run away. Narcissistic serial killers were all like this. They believed that they were unique, that they would not fail, and that they could not bear others' ignorance or misconception of their feats.
Bruce knew that the Death God also left a letter for the reporter who wrote the book, asking the reporter to write that Sheriff Shaunessy had submitted to him, and to change the ending of his arrest or death in the book to inform everyone that he was still at large.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Bruce, whose thoughts were interrupted, stood up, drank the Coke in his glass, and went to open the door.
Hotch stood outside the door, still dressed in a suit. He looked like he was going to attend a meeting instead of resting. He was about to say something when he saw Bruce's expression. He paused and asked, "Have you been drinking?"
"No, you know I don't drink." Bruce was a little puzzled by Hotch's question. His team members all knew this. Even during dinner, he didn't touch a drop of alcohol. Of course, he wouldn't say it out loud. He would hold the glass and pretend to drink, but after a few times, these people stopped pouring him alcohol.
"There's been another murder. We're going to the scene. If you …" Hotch looked at him with some curiosity and explained the purpose of his visit.
"I'll be quick. Give me three minutes." Of course, Bruce couldn't say no. After all, his biggest wish was to stick by Hotch's side. Besides, he felt that Hotch's expression was a little gloomy.
Bruce closed the door. When he passed by the bathroom, he saw himself in the mirror. He was wearing a bathrobe, his hair still dripping wet. The bathrobe was tied loosely around his waist, revealing part of his chest and abs. He was holding an empty glass of wine in his hand. Probably because he had just taken a shower, there was still a dense mist in his eyes.
He finally knew why Hotch had asked him that question earlier.
Bruce took a dry towel and quickly wiped his hair. When he took off his bathrobe and changed into his clothes, his mind was still wandering. He didn't know if Hotch was satisfied with what he saw.
Then, his rationality reminded him that Hotch was a straight man. How could a straight man pay attention to the body of a person of the same sex?
Sigh, no matter what, he still had a long way to go.
oo00oo
They arrived at the new crime scene. It was a bus parked on a side road. There were several bodies on the bus, and some numbers were painted on the window with blood.
Rossi looked around. "Six bodies, not including the driver. The murderer used a gun. Probably more than one."
This was different from how the Grim Reaper usually committed crimes, but … "The wedding ring of the previous victim." Hotch saw a victim's hand on the railing. It was hard not to notice the ring.
"What did he take?"
"Is that important?" Hotch shook his head and got out of the bus.
Bruce had just put on his gloves and was about to examine the bodies to see if he could find anything when he saw Hotch and Rossi get out of the bus one after another.
Are they leaving the crime scene alone? Bruce glanced at his latex gloved hands and followed them without a second thought. He saw the two turn into a side alley and was about to follow them when he stopped.
He heard Hotch's voice. "Tonight, he called the hotel and made me an offer."
"What did you say?" It was Rossi's voice.
"I hung up, and then he did it."
"So, you think it's your fault?" Rossi asked.
After a moment of silence, Bruce heard Hotch's voice tremble. "Yes."
For the first time since he met Hotch, he felt that Hotch was wavering.
The night wind blew at Bruce's damp hair, making him feel cold.
Rossi's urgent voice came from the wind. "Here, use my gun. No, no, you hung up on him. In fact, you killed them. Do it and end it quickly. Don't worry about us. Without you, we can still catch that guy."
"Da Ve, I've spent ten years on this." Hotch's voice trembled.
Bruce leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. Listening to the voice from around the corner, he bit his lip.
Rossi was still speaking. "Shaunessy accepted the deal. He stopped killing people. Shaunessy closed the case and chased the FBI away. You've been working on other cases for the past ten years."
"But I've never forgotten this case. I've always been thinking about this profiling."
"Hey, I'm retired. Should I blame myself for every murder that happened while I was on tour for my book signings? Listen, if you want to blame yourself for everything like Shaunessy and Gideon, then do it. " Rossi paused and said earnestly, "But there's a voice in your head that says it's not because of your conscience, but because of your pride."
Rossi tried to persuade him. "It's not our fault, Aaron. It's those bad guys'. That's why we're profiling them. It's their fault. We're just doing our job. If we stop, other people will too. Trust me, I know. "
"Pretend I didn't say anything." Hotch seemed to have thought it through.
"Are you sure?" Rossi asked.
Hotch's voice sounded a little relaxed. "You said it really well, didn't you?"
"My wife always says I have a talent for acting."
"Which one?"
"Every one."
As their voices got closer, Bruce quickly got on the bus that was used as the crime scene. He took out his phone and made a call. "Penelope, check every alias of Foyet."
When they got on the bus, Bruce just hung up the phone. He pretended to have just realized that they were not there. "Hey, where did you go?"
Rossi glanced at him and then at Hotch. She shrugged. "Did you find anything?"
Bruce glanced at Hotch and saw his slightly red eyes. He controlled his expression and looked away, but his hand clenched the phone tightly.
"I …" Bruce opened his mouth, but found his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat and turned his head to look out the window. "I received a call when I was at the hotel. It was from the Grim Reaper. I probably said something to provoke him." His face was dark under the dim street lights.
Even though he knew that this would not reduce Hotch's self-blame, Bruce would rather Hotch blame him than put the blame on himself, even though he knew it was impossible.
Hotch and Rossi looked at each other. Rossi asked, "What did you say?"
Bruce repeated the last words he said to the Grim Reaper. "He said I would regret it."
"So, do you regret it?"
"…" Bruce could feel both of their gazes on him.
At that time, he answered viciously with a provocative tone, as if the Grim Reaper was just a toy in his hands. But now, he did regret it.
It wasn't because of these few unrelated lives. In the realm, when he was stronger than ordinary people in the beginning, the battle between contestants might affect innocent people. Perhaps he couldn't bear it at the beginning, but this kind of unwillingness would only cause him to fall into a disadvantageous position in the battle and endanger himself. It was self-evident which was more important between his own life and the lives of ordinary people. He gradually began to abandon this kind of 'weak' emotion.
What's more, there were countless people in the realm who used human lives to practice their evil arts. There were also contestants who strengthened their necromancers who killed countless ordinary people for their own skeleton army. Even if he couldn't stand it, but to make an enemy out of a powerful contestant for these people who had nothing to do with him? Impossible.
He looked on coldly and gradually abandoned these feelings that would make him uncomfortable. He did not know when it started, but he had become himself now. He had no mercy for strangers.
But how could he devote even the slightest bit of emotion to a person who would die at any time? When this life disappeared, wouldn't he be the one who would be hurt?
In this way, one emotion after another that would only make him 'weak' was gradually abandoned, and finally, he became a qualified high-grade contestant who was washed by the cruelty of the realm.
This was him, the current and real him.
But now he regretted it, because of Hotch. He would not be touched by these lives that had nothing to do with him, but Hotch would.
Hotch's moral values were exemplary, not to mention that after hanging up the phone, he killed people like the Grim Reaper. Even now, Hotch rationally knew that he was not wrong, but the emotional condemnation of himself still made him suffer.
Bruce felt sorry for Hotch's pain, but sadly, he could not empathize with this kind of pain. It was difficult for him to feel this kind of emotion that he had abandoned.
But at this moment, Bruce wanted to feel this kind of pain, even if he knew that this kind of pain could not be shared …
It was only because of love that I wanted to share your happiness and feel your pain.
Bruce began to try to feel this.
He felt so lucky that he fell in love with such an outstanding person, and it gave him the idea of finding back those weak but beautiful emotions that he had lost.
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