Part 183
To prepare oneself to face a new beginning is an extremely challenging thing. The Vault didn’t know what she could do to help Harry Forrest.
Privately, she hoped that this person’s future could be bright and open, smooth sailing, unimpeded by the darkness of the past.
She regarded Harry Forrest as her eternal student, and also as a half-stranger, half-family member.
Julian Grant, as if he could read minds, said in a light tone, “Then he can come work at Trident, I’ll write him a referral. You said his spatial reasoning is so strong, isn’t he perfect for Trident’s modeling work? Do you know how high the salary is for the techs responsible for our [Crime Analysis] modeling? Just the team bonus alone must be several million by now. If you want to stay too, then you’d be colleagues—what a coincidence, right?”
The Vault paused and asked, “Are you focusing on ‘if I can stay,’ or ‘if he can come over’?”
Julian Grant raised an eyebrow, arrogantly saying, “Do you understand the adult world? Why are you making me choose?”
Outside, the sky gradually darkened. Julian Grant casually turned on the car’s interior light so she could see a bit more clearly.
The orange light illuminated the car, casting shadows along Julian Grant’s already sharp facial features, making them even more defined. He wore a slight smile at the corner of his lips, gazing intently ahead, exuding a faint, warm aura.
The Vault tilted her head to look at him, watching the shifting light and shadow from outside play across his face. She couldn’t help but think that, most of the time, she and Julian Grant weren’t exactly in perfect sync, but he was always so perceptive and gentle, so when she needed him, he became safe and reliable.
Being with him always made her feel lighthearted, as if basking in the sun, with a sense of lazy comfort.
The Vault mimed swiping an invisible card beside him with two fingers.
“Beep.”
Julian Grant asked, “What card?”
The Vault smiled, “A good person card.”
Julian Grant’s expression changed instantly, and he said mercilessly, “I don’t accept that card. Get out, and don’t ever come back.”
The Vault: “No.”
Julian Grant tried to hold back, but couldn’t, and scolded angrily, “Do you believe I’ll drive us into a ditch? Huh? You think I don’t dare? And a good person card—no one hands them out as often as you do, even in bulk. Where did you get the buy-one-get-one-free deal?”
The Vault shook with suppressed laughter beside him.
·
After night had fully fallen, Henry Harris finished the interrogation and some paperwork on her end, and finally had time to call The Vault.
“Hello.”
Just that one word, and The Vault could hear her exhaustion.
“What’s wrong, didn’t go well?” The Vault put the phone on speaker and set it on the coffee table. “Did Henry Jameson confess?”
“He did.” There was a hint of relief in Henry Harris’s voice. “We’ll reorganize the files and prosecute him.”
Julian Grant heard the commotion and came out of the study, carrying his laptop, and sat down beside her.
“Is Leonard Campbell’s side hard to crack?” The Vault said, unsurprised. “The evidence isn’t clear, can’t expect him to slip up. Keep looking.”
“He confessed too.” Henry Harris enunciated clearly, “He said he did it all.”
Julian Grant exclaimed, “Leonard Campbell?”
“Hm?” The Vault also found it illogical, and for a moment felt only doubt about the result.
Henry Harris said, “Hold on, I’m going to make a cup of coffee.”
Henry Harris had never conducted an interrogation like this before. The scene was calm, yet she felt a sense of oppression.
The Vault pulled out pen and paper from under the cabinet, quietly listening as Henry Harris summarized Leonard Campbell’s statement from today.
“He could have denied it, argued, but he admitted it. He didn’t seem to have any remorse—not the kind of arrogant lawbreaker who thinks he’s above everything. It was as if he knew everything, yet remained clear-headed and detached.” Henry Harris said in a low voice, “But when I mentioned Nina, he really seemed a bit confused, as if he didn’t remember it. I don’t know if it was just my imagination.”
The Vault pondered for a moment, then muttered to herself, “Someone who can control their emotions so calmly—why would they plan something so wildly irrational?”
Discordant. Yes, an inescapable sense of discord.
Leonard Campbell could use “experimental observation” as a reason to explain any of his crimes, yet The Vault couldn’t find any logic connecting his various actions.
A lack of emotion doesn’t mean someone is impulsive or extreme in thought. In fact, it could be the opposite—this trait could create someone extremely restrained, excessively calm. At the same time, culture and upbringing also influence a person’s behavioral habits.
As an authority in his field, Leonard Campbell was polite and respected. He had spent most of his life studying the characteristics of human society, integrating himself into it—so how could he suddenly become interested in the topic of “destroying a person”?
Human psychology is inherently selfish and fragile—shouldn’t he understand that best?
Even if, for argument’s sake, he really was conducting this academic experiment in an extreme way, with his personality, he should be even more rigorous.
Selecting targets, making plans, controlling variables, and so on—he would make sure nothing could go wrong.
Then he shouldn’t have mailed Sean Hall a handwritten letter. He shouldn’t have invested so much emotion in his experimental subjects.
He should have, from a god’s perspective, with a detached attitude and no personal bias, simply observed and appreciated this man-made fate.
But he didn’t.
The Vault could feel the strong emotions of the person behind the scenes.
Henry Harris’s slightly hoarse voice interrupted her thoughts: “Leonard Campbell said he wanted to know how far a person is from committing a crime. That’s a topic many social psychologists want to study—he just didn’t have a moral barrier.”
Hearing this, The Vault’s mind actually became clearer.
She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and immersed herself in a state of absolute calm.
She considered herself a very rational person. If, stripping away all distractions, she were now in Leonard Campbell’s position, about to plan this experiment—
This would be a lifelong pursuit, the pinnacle of her academic field.
She would start by selecting targets.
“Controlling variables is the most important part of an experiment. Even in social psychology experiments, various tests are used to screen targets first. In Leonard Campbell’s experiment, what are the variables? What are the constants? What irreplaceable commonalities or shifting connections exist among Harry Forrest, Xavier Daniels, Sean Hall, and Ms. Steele?”
There are commonalities, but too few. These people have completely different living environments, preferences, personalities, intelligence, even willpower.
If it were The Vault, she wouldn’t have grouped these people as her experimental targets. It’s too chaotic—she wouldn’t know what she could observe from them.
The Vault opened her eyes and said, “If I were arrested and my crimes exposed, I would definitely want to show everyone my ‘great’ research. After all, I poured so much effort into it. I’d introduce it to the world, show off, publish the results. I’d want to stand in the spotlight, bear all the controversy, and leave a bold mark in the field of psychology.”
Henry Harris was silent.
The Vault asked, “Did Leonard Campbell ever mention his experimental plan to you?”
Henry Harris’s voice was very soft: “No.”
“If you ask him now, he’ll definitely be able to give you an answer—he’s very smart.” The Vault pressed her finger to her chin, her gaze unfocused on the TV cabinet ahead. “But I don’t think he’s telling the truth.”
Henry Harris: “Then what do you think it is?”
The Vault leaned back, shaking her head gravely.
Seeing she had no intention of speaking, Julian Grant had to relay the message for her: “She just shook her head.”
Henry Harris said, “Let me know when she nods.”
Julian Grant paused, baffled: “Can’t you two just do a video call?!”
Henry Harris: “…Forgot.”
Julian Grant was about to marvel at the unique brains of these two women when he felt a weight on his shoulder—The Vault was almost half-leaning on him, saying, “Show me photos of Ms. Steele when she was young. And the others, too.”
Julian Grant’s arm went numb, but he turned the screen toward her, enlarging the photos.
A few similar photos were placed together. At first glance, it was hard to tell them apart.
The Vault stared at their faces for a long time, her frown deepening, until finally her eyes flickered, as if she’d figured something out.
Julian Grant quickly asked, “What is it?”
The Vault said softly, “Suppose, suppose we really were wrong, and the other party’s target was never so-called geniuses. Not about control.”
Henry Harris’s voice sounded heavier, probably because she’d brought the phone to her ear. She asked, “Then what was it?”
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