11. [Chapter Eleven: The Madman 2.0]
I suddenly remembered something.
Sartre is going to New York today. His flight departs at 10:35 PM Pacific Time and arrives at 9:30 AM Eastern Time. Flight number AA1644, seat number K08. I know this because I'm holding his ticket in my hand.
All day long, Sartre wore his press conference pass around his neck, as if afraid no one would know he was going to New York. In fact, everyone knew; he did this for a whole week, except when he deliberately took it off and swung it in front of me like a pendulum.
"Hey Mel! I really feel sorry for you. How did you get rejected? You looked like a pathetic lost dog right after the interview. Did Mr. Durand give you a hard time?" The sharp corner of that thing almost hit my nose. "No way, he was quite polite to me. Do you think he might have noticed something was wrong with you?"
Sartre pointed to his head, his tone incredibly arrogant. I had no doubt that if I said Mr. Durand had been quite rude to me, his laughter would have blown the ceiling off. People around me cast sympathetic glances my way, but I didn't need them, nor did I want to pay attention to Sartre's provocation. I simply glanced at his ID badge. It read "Jack Sartre," a black-and-white headshot that had been touched so many times that the ink was blurred, like a funeral portrait. Whether in the photo or in real life, his smile was exaggerated, his mouth stretched into a clown's eerie, upturned grin.
I said, "I have work to do. Please leave."
Sartre's eyes widened in surprise, as if he hadn't expected someone as timid as me to so bluntly tell him to get lost. My polite "please" seemed to have been ignored. Sartre shoved everything on my desk to the floor; if he could have moved the whole table, he probably would have flipped it over and smashed it in my face. "You have a job?! You talk like nobody does! Have you gotten your brain fixed? If not, get back to your asylum! I don't want to work with a lunatic like you!!"
“To be fair, you’re behaving more like a madman than I am right now.” I calmly picked up the mug on the table. It was placed rather far back, having slipped through the net, and I’d better hold it in my own hands lest an enraged Sartre spill coffee in my face—it’s still very hot. Lawrence likes my face; I should take good care of it.
"Damn it, you—" Sartre was furious, grabbing the landline phone to smash me, but luckily I dodged it while holding my mug. Sartre lost his balance and tumbled head over heels into the swivel chair I'd just been sitting in, falling awkwardly to the floor, breaking my poor chair in two. He was jabbed hard in the stomach by the armrest and cursed loudly in pain. I silently took a sip of my coffee. Although I don't have much of a sense of collective honor, the thought that someone like him was from the same school and major as me made me feel incredibly ashamed.
The newspaper's only security guard rushed over and took the agitated Satya away. Having no chair to sit on, I finished my work standing up and then went to my supervisor's office. I handed him the compiled documents and told him I wasn't feeling well and would like to ask for half a day off. Interns can only take half a day off at most; any more than that is considered absenteeism and results in immediate dismissal. He must have heard the commotion from our end; he didn't say anything and granted me leave.
I packed my things and went downstairs to wait for the bus at the bus stop. The bus took a long time to arrive, and I idly calculated how much money I had in my bank account. I still needed to save up for several months' salary before I could go see Lawrence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sartre storming downstairs, carrying a bag just like me. It seemed he had also taken the day off.
We weren't very close, and he didn't see me. He hailed a taxi and slammed the door shut. I thought for a moment, then called out to another taxi that was right behind us and said to the driver, "Please follow the one in front."
The driver gave me a knowing look; he must have a lot on his mind. I ignored him, my eyes fixed on Sartre's car, memorizing every landmark and street sign we passed. I was surprised to find that Sartre lived only three blocks from my industrial apartment, even though he had always claimed to live in the bustling, expensive city center. But I quickly stopped being surprised; vanity is a male flaw, and Sartre was particularly prone to it.
Sartre's taxi stopped downstairs at his apartment building. Just to be safe, I waited until he went inside before following him. Sartre's heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, stopping on the fourth floor, followed by the soft sounds of keys being fumbled and doors being opened. I listened intently for a moment on the third floor; it must be the east-facing apartment, number 402. He slammed the door shut, and I heard the sound of beer cans being kicked over, followed by Sartre's cursing. He cursed the obstructing beer cans, hurled insults at my name, and smashed things as he went. It seemed the soundproofing here wasn't great, but thankfully the neighbors weren't nosy, and no one complained about Sartre's noise.
I walked back to my apartment and rummaged through the clutter on the balcony, finding a roll of waterproof tape left over from the last plumbing repair. It was very sturdy, but I wasn't sure I'd ever need it. I pulled a suitcase from under the bed, filled with clothes, documents, and travel-sized toiletries. I'd packed it on my first day here; it was a keepsake, a way to grab my bag and go whenever I was ready to go see Lawrence, without wasting a second. More importantly, I'd hidden the handgun Lawrence had given me inside. I turned the cylinder open; it was full, six bullets. I snapped the cylinder shut and tucked the gun into my back waistband. I'd picked up that habit from Lawrence.
I hadn't actually planned everything out, and I hadn't even figured out Sartre's movements. But like that book said, plans sometimes go awry. Could that killer, Mr. Jack, have foreseen that a downpour would erase the bloodstains from dragging the body? Luck is a crucial element of success, whether it's running for President of the United States or being a serial killer. I picked up my suitcase, quietly locked the apartment door, and arrived at Sartre's apartment building. There was a coffee shop across the street. I sat on a sofa booth by the window, ordered a cappuccino, and pretended to watch the pedestrians on the street.
During the meal, a waitress came over and asked if I wanted a refill. I thanked her, and she brought me a new glass, smiling as she asked, "Waiting for your girlfriend?"
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m waiting for my senior. He has something to give me.”
Actually, it's okay if I can't lie. I can selectively tell the truth, and the listener will logically make it sound plausible for me. This way, I neither violate my conscience nor hinder myself from achieving my goal. She told me she got off work at eight o'clock in the evening, I nodded to her, and she went back to work contentedly. See? I didn't promise her anything; that's just what she thought. I simply said I knew this coffee shop was open until at least eight o'clock, and if Sartre wasn't out by eight, I'd have to go somewhere else.
Thankfully, Sartre left at 5:30 PM. He wasn't carrying a suitcase, so he wasn't going to the airport; he'd be back. I shouldn't have followed him now. So I waited. He returned at 6:00 PM, carrying a McDonald's takeout bag. Apparently, he'd gone to buy dinner. I placed ten dollars under the cup and plate, half of it as a tip for the waitress, and slipped out the door when she wasn't looking, following Sartre upstairs. The door to room 402 was tightly shut. I heard the sound of shoes being changed inside, followed by him hastily tearing open the paper takeout bag, cursing, "Damn, forgot to buy drinks." He had already gone into the inner room, but then he came back out. My heart leaped into my throat, as if the door was about to open at any moment, and I would have nowhere to hide. I was lucky, because I heard him mutter "Oh well, too lazy to move," then throw himself onto the sofa, turn on the TV, and burst into laughter from an entertainment program.
I breathed a sigh of relief, rushed downstairs to buy a dozen Coca-Colas, and knocked on the door of apartment 402. Sartre came to open the door, cursing and swearing. When he saw it was me, his expression changed rapidly, first surprise, then disgust, but when he saw the Cokes in my hand, his mood brightened, and he winked and said, "Oh, you've come to apologize?"
I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Sartre probably thought I was embarrassed, so he became even more smug, with a smug look on his face. Without saying a word, he snatched the Coke from my hand, then stepped in and let me through the door, saying in a condescending tone, "I just bought too many fries, you can eat them for me."
I sat down on the sofa and picked up a limp fry from the coffee table. It looked a lot like a human finger, and the sticky ketchup next to it resembled a pool of blood. Sartre plopped down on the armchair, picked up a half-eaten hamburger from the table, and began to munch on it, sipping the Coke I'd bought with a satisfied sigh. "You've got good timing," he said, "I was just about to have a Coke. You're still my junior, and I can't be bothered with someone like you. Mentally ill, no parents, kind of pathetic..."
I listened patiently to his rambling, and then asked, "May I see your plane ticket and work ID?"
"Heh, you're envious, aren't you?" Sartre said with a smug grin. "Alright, go get it yourself. See that jacket hanging by my door? I put it in the pocket."
Following his directions, I found the two items. Sartre was engrossed in the reality show on TV when I shot him, right in the back of the head. Blood gushed from the hole, and his body went limp.
It brings back so many memories. Something just popped into my head.
It seems I really did kill Mr. Rodin. He was already dead before Lawrence beheaded him.
A note from the author:
A calm madness. I think my writing is alright.
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