In the past few days, the question about how the culprit preserved the red hyssop flowers baffled me so much! I was compelled to inquire about the mechanisms behind such a possibility. I have visited six flower shops and nearby farms to trace a possible source of such flowers. However, no red hyssop plants could flower during winter. Thus if controlled cultivation is limited to environmental and climate constraints, there must be other ways to preserve a flower's lifespan.
One of the florists showed me her techniques on how to preserve them. She introduced herself as Laksa, born from an archipelagic country on the eastern continent with only two seasons of summer and rain. She was a foreigner who needed to preserve the excess unsold flowers to lessen the loss in her meager business.
From the cozy and fragrant room with a displayed array of flowers in different species, colors, and sizes, she stepped lightly through the creaking wooden stairs, and I followed suit. Compared to the aesthetics and beauty of the flower shop below, the second floor was rather monotonous and in disarray. A little girl ran after Laksa and clung tightly to her leg. "This is my daughter, Chashra," Laksa smilingly introduced the little one. She whispered to her, urging her to introduce herself, but little Chashra was shy and chose to hide in her mother's skirt.
"Sorry, she's like a cat. She's apprehensive for now, but she's terribly clingy," Laksa carried her and gestured to enter a door in the middle of the three rooms. Inside, the wooden wall was painted with a white and colorful butterfly mural. There were bookshelves at the side, cupboards, and strings tied in the corners and suspended midair. I first noticed the smell, the aroma was a mixture of many flowers, but roses and jasmine were the most dominant. An array of flowers were tied to the strings; each flower was hanged and faced downward like a line of laundry suspended to sundry.
"This is airdrying," Laksa explained when she saw my fascination. "I hung the unsold flowers to dry so that they can still last for a few more weeks."
"Can I touch one of the flowers?" I asked, and she even gave me a stalk of peony immediately. Compared to the fresh flowers below, the peony in my hand had a darkened color, some petals were either brown or black, and there was no trace of moisture. The petals had a crisp and rougher texture, which is not the same as fresh peonies' soft and firm structure. "For how long did you air dry this?"
"A week."
"It looked different… There's even no water remaining in this peony." I mumbled my observation.
"The water in it will hasten its' decay, so air drying helps to get rid of the water. And even though these flowers look like that, it's still beautiful, right? Some clients like buying dry flowers, so I sell them like that."
"May I know how long these flowers last after air drying?"
"Around two to three more weeks," She kindly answered. Considering that it has been two months since the last bloom of red hyssops, this method seemed to be not used. I remember how vibrant and lively those flowers at the city hall lounge were. They felt and looked fresh.
"Are there other methods to preserve flowers aside from air drying?" I hopefully turned to a new feasible method. She then walked into the shelves and took one of the books. She opened it and revealed a fragrant book-pressed pink wild rose. Its color was darker, hinting at how long it had been since its' bloom. It was flattened by pressure and time. It was pretty, but it was definitely not the method I was looking for.
"I use this to make bookmarks and cards. I'll give you one because you're handsome," Mrs. Laksa even joked, making me smile and shyly accept the flattery.
"Thank you," I awkwardly responded, but the awkwardness was short-lived. I asked for another way to preserve flowers, and she showed me a sealed box filled with silica gel beads. She slowly poked through it and showed the colorless chrysanthemum. And again, this was more unlikely used by the one who left those flowers.
"Mrs. Laksa, is there another way to lengthen the freshness of a flower?" I was almost at the end of the ropes.
"Ahh, you mean that kind of preservation…." She laughingly scratched her head and led me again downstairs. She then took one of the vases and showed me the water inside it. "This is not water. I mix coconut oil and hot water in it so that my flowers can last for four months! But the smell disappears if it takes that long, so I just air dry them before they lose their fragrance."
"Four months?" I repeated, and she gave a sound of affirmation and telling that it was a method told by her grandma and urged me to keep it a secret.
I'm sure it was because of glycerin found in coconut oil. It made sense how the flowers retained their supple texture since the water contents of the flower are replaced with glycerin as it follows the concentration gradient of the molecules. This four-month timeframe of preservation fits my criteria. The culprit can use this method to preserve the flowers that bloomed in September and use them to November.
"Do you sell red hyssop flower here?" A thrill of excitement tugged my heart. "This is it!" I exclaimed inwardly.
"Red hyssop is not popular among my customers, so I don't sell that." She apologetically said and asked if I liked that flower.
I tried my best to smile and honestly told her that I hated that flower.
It was a lovely trip knowing there was such a method to preserve the flowers. However, I woke up listening to a piece of information that they could not link the skeleton exhibit to the preserved omega glands on the altar due to the lack of evidence. I regretted not collecting the flowers in the city hall with me. I could have used it to analyze if there was glycerin in it. Considering that there were no fingerprints, shoeprints, or other traces left at the crime scene, it is so evident that the perpetrator is rather systematic and organized. That person doubled the number of the body remains from seven skeletal sets that probably belonged to adolescent omegas to fourteen omega glands. That was weak circumstantial evidence, but a pattern will definitely become visible when the culprit makes another public exhibit.
I understood why they did not want Jacob and me to jump to a conclusion this early. However, I guess my pride got the better of my decision-making.
I could not bring myself to see Mr. Caesar as soon as I got home. He gave me his scarf to get through the night alone, but I couldn't sleep. I observed the doodles on the notebook and the writings on the card. There's no way someone would send a cryptic message to the dead souls of the kids… I knew that the one who made this card was only beginning to tell their story or about themselves, specifically.
"Look up… and I saw the cross, then the glands were found in the church," I talked to myself in my room and realized that maybe it was not telling about religion or child sacrifice, but a clue to the next spot where the culprit planned to drop the body parts. "Shit," I couldn't help but swear.
I took a cab early in the morning and headed to the church. I knew that maybe they had collected the flowers already as evidence, but I was hoping that there was still some left. Also, I was hoping to find a card or a clue about the following incident. It was cold, and I felt cold and dizzy, but I urged myself to go through it. I wrapped Mr. Caesar's scarf around my neck before I walked through the snowy pavement while my feet slowly sunk in every step I made.
In a few minutes, I reached the gated wall of the baroque-style church, displaying the magnificence of history and the influence it has had over the centuries. I patted out the snow on my boots and coat before entering the arched doorway. I walked through the aisle, and divine colorful reflections of light through the stained glasses lit the interior with the elegant candlesticks around the pillars and the altar. The statue of saints was carved in solid and beautiful stones, and jaded white flowers were adorned over them to signify purity and holiness.
I was not alone inside. A few nuns and old ladies were praying in their seats, some wearing veils, some are not. I sat in the back row first and observed the interior of the holy crime scene. I was clear about my objectives before going in. But I was out of ideas on where to find the clues as soon as I got inside.
When we were kids, we were taught how to pray before meals and before our sleep. But I stopped believing in the existence of a primordial being since I had prayed so hard countless times before. I asked why it happened to my friends and me. I pleaded to help me regain my memories. I begged him to save them. And thirteen years passed by, and nothing happened. Why must he shun me and let the evildoers run freely unscathed in this world if God really exists? Why is there inequality in our social ranks?
I stared at the cross on the altar, and it took me a while to question whether God was watching how the culprit laid those glands before him. "If he was really watching, I would have wanted to take him as a witness," I joke to myself sarcastically. Yet deep inside, I somehow wished for a god to exist and watched the scene unfold. I hoped he saw who was responsible for this evil and will give them hell six feet under for eternity.
I walked through the aisle and got nearer to the altar after familiarizing the faces of the people inside. When I got near the altar, I pretended to kneel and pray as my eyes tried to look for anything near the altar, yet all I saw were the statue, candles, and a bible. I sneakily tried to pry open the book of life and scanned through the pages to see if there was a card somewhere.
"What are you doing?" A man's deep voice asked me with complete authority that made me stop flipping through the pages.
I turned my head and saw a man in a black and white dress. He was obviously a priest.
Inside the holy church, my only way out was to lie. I answered while bowing my head, "I was troubled lately. I'm desperate to ask for God's guidance. I was hoping I could read a few of his scripture and have peace of mind."
"We will start our prayer soon. Can you hasten and leave the altar, child?" a wrinkle formed at the edge of his eyes. He was smiling, yet I was inwardly terrified.
"Just a little bit." I quickly returned to flipping the book until I saw a color different from the pale old beige paper and black prints… it was red petals of pressed red hyssop flowers. I smiled and took it… noting the page where it was stored, between pages 806 and 807, book of Revelations, Chapter 9.
With a bittersweet smile, I forced a tear to drop over my eyes before I faced the reverend. "It seems like God has answered my prayer," I dramatically said and put the pressed inflorescence in my pocket. He nodded and agreed with me. Before things became more complicated, I rushed out of the church… And all I could literally say was, "Oh, my god!"