Chapter 217
As the online community was abuzz with speculations and heated debates, the breaking news dropped like a bombshell, confirming their worst fears.
At that moment, the floodgates of profanity burst open among the netizens.
“Son of a gun.”
“Are you kidding me? He gets off scot–free because he’s ‘mentally ill“?”
“Hold on, if he’s mentally ill, shouldn’t he be locked up even more so?”
“He slaughtered nearly a hundred innocent animals. You mean to tell me that by proving him ‘mentally ill,‘ he might just walk and find new prey to butcher?”
“If this guy gets off because of some insanity plea, I’m seriously going to question our legal system.”
*Does nobody give a damn about our pets anymore? Since when is animal cruelty okay?”
“Reject insanity as a get–out–of–jail–free card.”
“Refuse to release murderers on the grounds of mental illness.”
The uproar online over the possibility of Lyndon’s release due to a mental illness was too much to ignore.
The Emerald Bay Police Department issued an urgent bulletin in response, covering three points.
First, their investigation confirmed that since childhood, Lyndon had brutally killed nearly a hundred cats, causing a serious social outcry.
Second, Lyndon had indeed sought a mental health evaluation, the results of which were still pending.
Third, the notion of legal immunity for mentally ill murderers was a misconception.
According to national law regarding the criminal responsibility of special individuals, if a pers mental illness caused harm while unable to recognize or control their behavior, and this was contumed through legal procedures, they could be exempt from criminal liability.
However, they would be placed under strict guardianship by relatives or guardians for treatment, and if necessary, subjected to compulsory medical intervention by the government.
The law also addressed the case of individuals with intermittent mental disorders, stating that if they committed a crime while of sound mind, they would be held criminally responsible.
In short, if Lyndon had proven to have been lucid and in control during the attacks, mental illness would not shield him from facing the consequences.
Mental illness was not a free pass from justice. At least, that was how Winnie saw it.
Even if Lyndon was diagnosed with a mental disorder, he was unlikely to escape the law easily.
The parents of the victims would never allow him to use mental illness as a scapegoat for the trauma and potential psychological scars inflicted upon their children.
Even if it meant spending money and pulling strings, Lyndon would likely be found guilty of committing the crimes in a sane state.
Sometimes, capital did represent inequality.
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But at times, it also represented absolute power.
The detained Lyndon was oblivious that his fate was being sealed even before his psychiatric assessment was finalized.
Winnie glanced at the police report on the number of cats Lyndon had killed and thought of the tormented animal spirits that must be lingering. She sent a message to Horace, asking him to dig up Lyndon’s
address.
She planned to tell Horace that she was going to help the spirits of the Ghost Cats find peace, but Horace didn’t even ask why. In less than ten minutes, he sent her all the information she needed.
Pressing her lips together, Winnie couldn’t help but call him.
“Aren’t you curious about what I need his details for?”
On the other end, Horace’s voice carried a hint of amusement, “Whatever you’re planning is fine by me.”
If she wanted to teach the guy a lesson, he could help her.
Winnie’s eyes curled with satisfaction, and after telling Horace she could handle it herself, she hung up.
She changed her clothes and drove to the address Horace had provided a small suburban neighborhood. Lyndon’s house was already cordoned off by the police.
Winnie didn’t enter. Instead, she followed the residual anger of the Ghost Cats to an abandoned factory nearby. In a weed–choked corner, she found several cat skulls.
Sadness flashed in Winnie’s eyes as she looked at the broken bones that had been casually discarded and already gnawed clean by wild dogs.
As she gathered the bones to bury them in an open space, Winnie pulled out her Charms, drawing the spirits‘ anger from the bones. With a surge of her own energy, she solidified the formless resentment into several twisted Ghost Cats.
“Go find the one who wronged you,” she whispered to the spectral felines, “Once you’ve had move on to your next life.”
you enge,
As the incomplete Ghost Cat spirits howled in agony, their anger swelled and they rapidly drifted toward a certain location in the city.
Inside the holding cell of Emerald Bay’s police station, Lyndon was waiting for his psychiatric report with a calm smile. The officer on duty, disgusted by his smirk, stepped out for a moment.
As Lyndon settled into a comfortable position and was about to lie down, his body suddenly convulsed violently.
His eyes, wide and horrified, stared into the void as dozens of twisted black shadows screamed at him, and then one by one, they entered his body.
With each Ghost Cat that forced its way in, Lyndon felt the agony of their torture before death. It was as if his scalp was being torn off, and he couldn’t utter a sound.
Come to think of it, he always cut the cats‘ tongues first to keep them from bothering the neighbors. Now, it felt like his own tongue had been sliced off.
Cold sweat seeped through his torn skin as he writhed in unbearable pain, trying to escape, but his limbs failed him.
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Soon, his abdomen felt like it was being sliced open, his limbs shattered, and every moment of pain brought him closer to the brink of despair.
Yet, he couldn’t make a sound.
At that moment, his eyes mirrored the same fear and despair as the cats he had tormented,
He wanted to scream for help.
He wanted someone to save him.
“Why is there no one around? Who’s going to save me?”
“I’m at death’s door.”
“But, why haven’t I passed on yet?”
“It really hurts.”
The officer walked in with a cup of freshly brewed instant coffee and immediately spotted Lyndon writhing in agony on the bed, clawing desperately at his throat and belly.
His face paled at the sight, and he dashed forward, calling for backup as he fumbled with the keys to
unlock the door.
Once inside, the scene was even more gruesome. Lyndon’s nails had torn through the skin on his face, throat, and stomach, leaving bloody wounds. They weren’t fatal, but they were horrifying to look at.
The officer cursed under his breath, convinced that Lyndon was indeed out of his mind.
To what lengths would a man go to prove he was insane, to inflict such harm on himself?
Chapter 218
