Despair and Psychological Crime
Dr. Ashmore pulled the pack of cigarettes and the sheathed knife from my pocket before I could react, still lost in a daze.
He turned the knife over in his hand. "If you hadn't just been fishing for information, seeing this blade, I'd mostly have assumed you wanted to kill me."
I slumped back in my chair.
He thought for a moment, then said, "That interview technique—Detective Vance taught you, didn't she?"
I said nothing, glaring at him sideways.
He went on without waiting for an answer. "You're stronger than her. She wants to please everyone, so she has too many weaknesses. You're different. You know how to let go."
"After Serena died, there's nothing left I can't let go of."
I said bitterly, "I didn't come here for your commentary."
He said, "Don't be impulsive. That would ruin the fun—and don't be too quick to argue. You want answers, and I'm about to give them."
I said, "Making one up on the spot shouldn't be hard for you."
He shrugged. "Whether you believe it is your business. But before that, I have a condition."
I eyed him warily.
He said, "Tell me—Sweden, and everything about her past… did you figure all of that on your own?"
I said, "Detective Vance and I worked together."
He said, "This afternoon—how did you save Detective Vance?"
I said, "Just being observant. Your murder method isn't as perfect as you think."
Something seemed to cross his mind. He turned away and looked out at the rain.
He said, "You remind me of someone I knew in the Mamiao Syndicate."
I caught that one word. Mamiao?
I vaguely recalled that it was the name of a criminal organization from twenty-five years ago.
He said, "Tell me—what else do you know?"
I said, "Six Degrees Murder. Through six people, you can kill anyone in the world."
He said, "Not that hard to pull off, is it?"
I said, "Especially when you're a psychiatrist."
He said, "True. Six Degrees Murder—what an ugly name you came up with."
He lit a cigarette and held it between his fingers.
He said, "You could be my student."
I said, "Learn your Six Degrees Murder?"
He said, "If you're willing."
I said, "In your dreams."
He smiled faintly. "I knew you'd say that."
Fine rain struck the glass, producing a faint crackling sound.
I discreetly adjusted the phone tucked at my waist. Since walking through that door, the voice recorder had been running.
I said, "What about what I came for?"
A grave expression crossed his face. He asked, "What if I told you her death was voluntary?"
I froze.
---
An agreement, he said.
He told me he and Serena had made a pact. Her death could let him keep living.
I cut him off. "That's utter bullshit."
He removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. "Even if you don't see me as a teacher… at least let me finish."
Twenty-five years ago—it was a savage era.
An accident left him homeless, and he became a railroad worker.
It didn't seem to be a good year. Many parents would abandon their children on the tracks at night.
The trains would roar past, drowning out the cries of infants beneath the thunder of wheels.
In the darkness, whatever was crushed beneath their feet—no one gave it a second thought.
And he watched it all happen, feeling genuinely relieved. This world was no place worth staying. Leaving early was a blessing. Staying too long, like him, meant you could never leave.
Someone once told him that only a ghost could think such thoughts.
The ghost of those days, today's Dr. Ashmore, sat before me, narrating these things in a calm voice.
He said, "Why do trains draw their curtains at night?"
I said, "So passengers can sleep."
He said, "You're half right. It's so the ghosts outside the windows can rest. Seeing all those unfortunate children but unable to chase the train—how could ghosts ever find peace?"
I said, "Absurd."
He said, "Let's call it absurd then. That ghost wandered the tracks, unable to catch up to anything. Until one day, a little girl pulled open a curtain, and they found each other."
Not long after, she was abandoned by her parents. The ghost found her.
But what the ghost did was raise her, slowly bringing her up.
He said, "Why do you think the ghost didn't devour her?"
I stayed silent.
He said, "Because she made a deal with the ghost."
She demanded the ghost adopt other orphans, care for abandoned infants. The price was that she had to suffer their hardships twofold.
That winter, the ghost holding her hand, walking back along the tracks—that was when the deal was struck.
A filthy bargain. But fair.
Yet the ghost was torn. He hated this world, but for her and those abandoned infants, he had to remain.
Over the long years, she noticed the ghost's suffering, so she proposed a possibility.
She could die in his place. That way, the ghost would have a reason to become human, a reason to stay.
He said, "Her death in exchange for his rebirth."
In that moment, the ghost saw an angel standing right before him.
Because she understood clearly—he was a ghost, a ghost who ran an orphanage. If she couldn't transform him into a human, something terrible would come of it.
The ghost had intended to use those orphans to carry out certain plans.
But he agreed. After killing her, he would choose to be a good person.
Because after all this time, he had fallen in love with her.
When Dr. Ashmore reached this point, tears spilled from his eyes as though he couldn't contain them.
He said, "Can you imagine? The pact between an angel and a ghost—it was too beautiful."
All I could see on his face was something called ugliness.
I said, "What year did you make this pact?"
He said, "She was twelve."
I said, "And that's why you killed her?"
He wiped his eyes and said, "That's precisely why."
My fist slammed hard against the desk.
I said, "Be a good person? You nearly killed Detective Vance and me."
He lowered his voice. "I just didn't want her sacrifice to be in vain."
I said, "You think I'd believe you."
Dr. Ashmore's fingers tapped the desktop.
He said, "I came back from the airport."
I froze.
He said, "A single line about problematic business documents was enough to force me back. Why? Keeping the orphanage running has always been part of our pact. I couldn't allow any mistakes."
I said, "What about those women you murdered?"
He said, "That was before I killed her. I thought I could find a substitute. In the end, I realized only she would do. She was irreplaceable."
I said, "A substitute…"
He said, "A substitute after you took her from me."
Dr. Ashmore looked at me. "Do you understand now? You're the one who killed those innocent women."
I had no more patience to listen.
From somewhere far off, the faint wail of police sirens drifted closer.
Detective Vance was almost here.
The phone had recorded enough evidence, too.
I pushed back my chair and turned to leave.
Dr. Ashmore suddenly called out to me.
He said, "The recording won't do you any good."
What?
I instinctively pulled out my phone, only to find the recording had stopped at fifty seconds. When? I retraced what had happened—around fifty seconds in, I'd grabbed him by the collar to bluff about the case being exposed, leaning close to whisper in his ear. If there was a blind spot, that was the moment—he had turned off my phone's recording.
He had calculated this from the start?
Dr. Ashmore's silhouette stood framed in moonlight. I turned my face away, eyes wide, barely making out his dark outline.
His silhouette smiled. "That will be part of your despair."