mtl008 Chapter 4507 The Darkest Night (35)
Chapter 4507 The Darkest Night (35)
Chapter 4507 The Darkest Night (Thirty-Five)
The snow-covered ground shifted under the red and blue light. The police car, like a shooting star in the moonlight, left a long trail in the snow before slowly coming to a stop beside a black vehicle. Two policemen got out of the car and walked to the black car. The window rolled down, and Schiller turned to look at them.
"Chief Gordon said your car broke down and sent us to pick you up."
Schiller got out of the car. He got into the police car and said, "Take me to Mosen Street."
"what?"
Twenty minutes later, police lights illuminated the dark neighborhood. A man in a black suit got out of the car, opened an umbrella, and walked into a cordoned-off crime scene. The security camera on the street corner lit up briefly before going off.
Traces of the deceased mortician Jerita lingered in the house, like a ghost unwilling to leave. Bloodstains on the sofa, footprints at the door, fingerprints on the glass. He really did come to help him, Schiller thought; he had found the key.
Suddenly, a message arrived on his phone, sent by the name "Moriarty." Brainiac hadn't taken any action yet. Schiller said, "There's no need to track it down; it was sent by someone he's controlling."
"I'll be waiting for you on the cliff." That's all there is to it.
Schiller left the house, got back into the police car, and said, "Take me to the cliffside restaurant."
Less than half an hour later, the sea, even more dim in the darkness, appeared outside the railing of the rapidly receding pedestrian walkway. The beach was deserted. The canopy, deck chairs, and bar counters were all just blurry outlines.
Schiller got out of the car and walked into the cliffside restaurant through the east entrance. The restaurant was so quiet you could hear a pin drop; there was no light or sound. Only a screen was lit. The moment his gaze focused on the screen, Schiller's pupils appeared almost colorless.
"It's nice to meet you, Professor," a child's voice rang out. "The game has begun, let's cheer together!"
Shila-
"Schiller, I found... *sizzle*—*sizzle*—"
The world fell silent again. The images on the screen changed, finally settling on a painting with a religious theme.
Schiller lightly tapped the ground with his umbrella, a barely audible sound. With a bang, the door to the restaurant's reception room opened. Inside, it was still pitch black, like a gaping abyss ready to devour anyone.
Schiller stared intently behind the door until he heard a sound. He stepped inside; there was still no light, but a strangely shaped machine sat on the table.
Schiller walked to the machine, and suddenly a bright light flashed outside the window, flickering rhythmically, as if someone were transmitting some kind of signal. The light spread further and further, even reaching the lighthouse on the island across the sea, which began to blink incessantly.
“Quiet, Mrs. Brainiac, don’t disturb my thoughts,” Schiller said softly. But clearly, no one could hear him.
The next second, Schiller reached out and touched the machine.
When he came to his senses, he found himself standing on the rooftop of a building. A cold wind howled, the night was deep, and the searchlights of helicopters were blinding. In the instant all the lights focused on him, countless gun barrels, like black holes, were aimed at him.
"Don't move! Put down your weapons! Put your hands up!"
“Schiller Rodriguez, you poisoned more than 50 people in the Mossen neighborhood. We are arresting you immediately. Do not resist in any futile way, or we have the right to kill you…”
Schiller didn't look at them, but instead looked up at the sky. Thick, impenetrable clouds hung in the air, and the heart of the city lay silent, just like that night many years ago.
Schiller took a step back and stood on the edge of the building. Under the flashing lights of police cars and searchlights, he looked back down at the ground thirty stories below. Police cars had completely blocked the area.
"What are you doing?!" the policeman shouted at him. "Don't even think about committing suicide! Get down from there right now!"
Schiller turned back, seemingly pondering the question seriously, and looked at him, saying, "Handcuffs."
The policeman crouched down, gun raised, and slowly approached him: "Put down your umbrella!"
Schiller threw away his umbrella. The police walked over, handcuffed him, and then led him into the helicopter.
"What crime have I committed?" Schiller asked.
No one answered him. Everyone remained silent. They returned to the police station, where Schiller was taken to the interrogation room. A familiar face appeared before him.
“I’m James Gordon, you can call me Sheriff Gordon,” he said. “What are your thoughts on the poisoning case in Mawson Street, sir?”
"You believe I did it," Schiller said with certainty.
"We found the same chemicals you used at your residence as those found on the body. There are multiple eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen you at the crime scene. Students also reported that you were manufacturing drugs in a lab, and we did indeed find the same chemicals in the lab you used. We will charge you with terrorism, first-degree murder, and other crimes..."
“Only you would do that,” Schiller said.
"What?" Gordon squinted.
"I will not go to court."
"That's not up to you."
“It’s not up to you,” Schiller said, looking at Gordon. “You’ve gathered a lot of evidence, but the informants in the police department will deliver it to their masters overnight. I won’t be here for long.”
"What exactly are you talking about?"
“Only you care about the dozens who were killed,” Schiller said. “The rest of us can only glimpse the powerful force we’ve been longing for through death.”
With a bang, the interrogation room door opened, and Schiller's handcuffs were removed. A grim-faced detective looked at him and said, "You'd better not try anything funny, Mr. Rodriguez. You're not going back to teaching at Gotham University. If you can't prove your worth, you know the consequences."
Schiller said nothing. His gray eyes, in the dim light of the police station corridor, looked like snowflakes falling on coal dust.
In the brightly lit, opulent reception room of the mansion, a tall man sat with his legs crossed on the sofa. Seeing Schiller enter, his sinister eyes scanned him up and down before he said, "I've heard so much about you, Professor Rodriguez."
“Kill Carmine Falcone,” Schiller said, “or he will kill you.”
The cigar's glow suddenly intensified, and those scarred hands forcefully stubbed it out on the table. His eyes were fixed on Schiller: "What did you say?"
“Or let me go see Falcone,” Schiller continued, “that’s the only way to save you from death.”
"Rodriguez..."
"Do you know Hugo Strange?" Schiller suddenly changed the subject.
"You mean that professor who's currently enjoying a lot of attention?"
“I see,” Schiller said. “Your lover and your subordinate are having an affair. Next week they will fabricate evidence of your betrayal of the Godfather and then leave Pier 7, which is controlled by the Lawrence family.”
"How did you know?" the man asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Those 50 men won’t just stand there and let me kill them,” Schiller said, turning his eyes away. “You brought me here precisely because you expected me to have this kind of talent, didn’t you?”
"You've only produced some chemicals. What I want is the formula. Or is that just a smokescreen?"
"The effect wasn't that good."
"How many people can you kill?"
"Perhaps 20,000."
"what?!"
“Those 50 people weren’t killed with chemicals. What I’ve created, once deployed on a large scale, is enough to destroy half the city. So I advise you to kill Falcone first, so he can’t stop you from destroying Gotham.”
“Bullshit, destroy Gotham. I still have business to do.” He stood up and walked over to Schiller, his menacing expression turning menacing. “What tricks are you playing?”
“You know better than I do. In Gotham, killing silently is more important than killing more people. Forget about chemicals.”
"Is what you said about having a lover true?"
"No. You can just tie them up and bring them to the Godfather, and take me with you while you're at it."
The man's pupils contracted sharply. Schiller looked him straight in the eye and said, "Solve your persistent lover, your dissatisfied subordinate, the Godfather's questioning, and me all at once. Pretty good deal, right?"
Stepping back into the classically decorated room, Schiller slightly raised his eyes to look at the carvings on the wall panels above, then looked back down to meet the Godfather's gaze.
"Rodriguez?"
Schiller didn't answer, just stood there, seemingly lost in thought. Then, as if suddenly snapping out of it, he looked at the Godfather and said, "Hand me over to the FBI, and you'll have at least three years of peace."
The Godfather paused in his movements. He wasn't angry, nor did he question him; he simply said, "Do you think they'll let you go?"
Schiller shook his head: "I'm just letting you go."
“People often say that I’m different from the people they’ve met. For most, that’s just because they’re inexperienced and haven’t seen enough people. But you’re different, Carmine Falcone. Trust your gut feeling that’s calling the alarm. I’m not a knife for cutting butter.”
The Godfather stared at him silently for a long time, then said, "Three years is too short."
“It is indeed too short. The person you are waiting for, Hugo Strange will never give you.” Schiller shook his head slightly and said, “But I have to leave, because if I stay here, you won’t even last three years.”
Schiller stood in front of the FBI van, the wind whipping his coat. He glanced back at his godfather standing by the window, then got in and drove away from the dark city.
Interrogation rooms, offices, crime scenes, the Capitol Building, the White House, airports, and finally the Pacific Ocean.
When Schiller came to his senses again, he was standing in the dining room. He looked up at the empty window and said softly, "How does it feel to be sentenced to 231 years?"
With a bang, another door opened. Schiller turned around and saw that the door to the opposite compartment was wide open, and it was pitch black inside.
He went back inside. There was another machine on the table. He stared at it for a while, then reached out and touched it again.
With a clanging sound, the shackles struck the ground. Schiller glanced at his prison uniform, then at the prison guard walking in front of him.
"How long was my sentence?" he asked.
"231, sir. Even in Blackgate Prison, it's one of the best," the prison guard said without turning his head.
"How many years would one be sentenced to for smuggling contraband into prison?"
The prison guard stopped and turned to Schiller: "Are you threatening me?"
"Now you want to show me your power, prove me right here, and let me know you're the boss and nothing can get out? But I'm not trying to report you. The warden is too greedy, the suppliers are too difficult, and the buyers don't appreciate your hard work at all. If I could help you take out one of them, who would you choose?"
The prison guard narrowed his eyes.
"Can you take them down?"
"How long was my sentence?"
With a "plop," a toothbrush plunged straight into his throat. The obese figure in the suit slowly collapsed, his own hands clutching the murder weapon. The tall prison guard stood stiffly to the side.
“How many more years will this add to my sentence?” Schiller asked.
The prison guard opened his mouth and slowly said, "Someone will come to bail you out tomorrow, sir."