7 Investigation on the Word 'Blood' (2)

The blood on the ground had already congealed, and a white corpse looked especially arresting.

Even though the lights were dim, one could still see that the dead lady had mesmerizing snow-white skin, a head of unblemished blond hair, slender limbs, full breasts, and an exquisite face that surpassed those of the street girls in the downtown area.

However, such a beautiful body had been completely cut open from the chest to the lower abdomen. The flesh was open, revealing an empty bloody cavity. Her limbs were also covered in shocking large wounds.

Sherlock looked on…

He did not go near to observe, nor did he utter a word.

After a full 20 seconds…

Deacon Baldell frowned slightly. The sheriff even wondered if Baldell was scared out of his wits by the bloody scene.

At that moment, Sherlock finally made a move. He threw the cigarette butt into the gap between the steam armor's knees.

"Where are the clothes?" he asked cluelessly.

"Wh-what?"

"The victim's clothes." Sherlock looked around again. "I don't see the victim's clothes."

"Well…" The sheriff hesitated for a moment.

"The crime scene hasn't been touched by anyone. There were no clothes to begin with. The killer must have taken them away…" Catherine had come over at some point in time and answered. She looked at him expressionlessly. "These sheriffs are only responsible for protecting the crime scene. They don't know the details of the murder. If you want to know anything, you can ask me."

Sherlock displayed a rare bit of chivalry. "Thank you, beautiful lady."

"There's no need to thank me. I don't like you as a person. I just hope that you can find the killer quickly." She did not hide the coldness in her tone. "I hope your ability is not as inferior as your quality…"

Perhaps it was because the difference in class was too great, Catherine did not want to hide her dislike for the detective in front of her at all. However, it was also because the difference in class was too great that she did not make things difficult for him because of her dislike.

This commoner was not qualified for a judgment nun to make things difficult for him.

Hence, she only looked down on him, but she was extremely serious as she told him all the clues she had obtained.

As for Sherlock, he naturally did not have any objections. He was not stupid, and he was not like the sheriff behind him, who hoped to cross-rank interaction.

He knew what he had to do. He was also aware that he had only come here to test if this case concerning the Vatican could bring him some novelty…

Of course, since the Vatican had chosen him, he had to come whether he was willing or not.

In short, he listened to the clues Catherine mentioned very calmly.

One spoke while the other listened.

Just like that, the man and woman with the huge disparity in status displayed a strange tacit understanding.

A few minutes later…

Sherlock frowned and said, "You guys… basically didn't find anything."

Catherine was still expressionless. "I told you before that the fewer people know about this, the better. If we want to mobilize the people from the tribunal court, why would we find a private detective like you to deal with this?"

"That makes sense." Sherlock was not despondent at all. Instead, he revealed a bright smile and walked into the alley alone.

Catherine and Deacon Baldell looked at each other and slowly followed. As for the short old priest, he had been standing still like a statue ever since he got out of the carriage. If one got closer to him, one could even hear faint snoring.

In the alley, the figures of the few of them split the light from the gas lamps into fragments.

Sherlock stepped over the muddy blood stains and bent down to pick up a fragment of flesh. He glanced at it under the dim light.

"For a friable tissue like a liver to be cut so neatly, the killer's skill isn't bad."

His words were not directed at any particular person, but a habitual muttering to himself.

"A piece of sternum manubrium, which still had two ribs attached. The cut surface is just as neat." He picked up another piece of bone and said, "This kind of dissection and dismemberment of the body could not be completed in a short time. From the degree of blood coagulation, the time of death was around 5 a.m. this morning… Speaking of which, why was the killer suddenly so obsessed with the number [4]?"

"Four?" Catherine was a little puzzled.

"Yes, this guy cut almost everything he could into four pieces." As he spoke, he picked up a few more pieces of flesh and skillfully pieced them into a whole lung lobe before placing them in the open chest cavity of the corpse.

"What… are you doing?" Deacon Baldell, who had been silent, finally spoke. His voice was not loud, and no one could tell that he was disgusted by it. However, the blood-red notice eerily exuded an immense sense of oppression.

Most of the deacons of the judicial department were covenant persons, and they had reached the second stage. After all, only people with powerful strength could be qualified for those cruel and dangerous missions.

Sherlock did not panic because of the pressure. He did not stop what he was doing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baldell. I know it's a little disrespectful to your wife, but the killer probably left us some clues… Look here…"

He quickly pointed at a section of intestines that had just been coiled and said, "A very shallow wound, running from top to bottom… After the killer cut open her chest and abdomen, he was not in a hurry to chop it up. Instead, he made some marks on his internal organs with a knife."

As he spoke the few sentences, he had already pieced together most of the internal organs on the ground.

The sheriff stood at the entrance of the alley and watched from afar. There were several times when he wanted to say something but hesitated.

There was an uncomfortable thought in his mind. A normal person, even a doctor, would not be able to put together the chopped up internal organs so skillfully.

Could it be that this commoner detective from downtown had been cutting up internal organs so often that practice made perfect?

"Done…"

Two minutes later, Sherlock had put all the remnants back in place…

Amidst the fragmented internal organs, one could vaguely see knife marks.

"YES?"

Deacon Baldell's eyesight was obviously different from ordinary people's. Under such dim light, he could quickly identify the marks between the assembled organs.

A bloody word 'YES' had been scratched out with a sharp blade between the internal organs.