by Lotta Smith
“That’s the point that the FBI seriously needs to consider.” He frowned and massaged the temples.
“What about Karen? Is she still alive?”
“I believe so, though a part of me wants to go all skeptical about it. Then again, Tasha the psychic sent me a text saying Karen’s still alive, and she was commanding that I keep searching.”
“Good. I have a plan.”
“What?” His frown deepened.
“We’ll keep digging from Sam angle. Perhaps Karen is following that lead. Think about it, no one’s seen her dead body, which makes it possible that she’s still alive, right?” I looked him in the eyes.
“Theoretically, yes.” His baby blues were hard to read, but at least he didn’t deny it completely.
“In that case, it’s worth trying, isn’t it? Let’s keep positive attitudes, you know.”
“For your information, I’m not the legs and muscles work type of detective. Usually someone with a badge does that kinds of work for me, but not this time, I guess.”
“I know,” I said. “But it happens that I trust in you.”
“What?” He looked perplexed for the first time since I’ve known him. “Are you serious?”
“I am serious. And do you remember that I’m your personal assistant?”
“As a matter of a fact, I do remember that,” he replied. I could sense skepticism in his voice.
“I’ll do the legs and muscles work for you. So let’s start rolling. We’ll find the real killer and we’ll nail him on our own.” As I said that, I was picturing myself as one of super assistants in fictions. In my mind’s eyes, I was visualizing myself apprehending the serial killer.
“Guess what? The FBI’s not paying us for this case anymore.” He crossed his arms.
“I suppose they’ll be more than happy to pay us, assuming we find and capture the true killer. If they refuse to pay, we can always call the news media, hop TV stations, appear in talk shows, and collect what we deserve for our hard work.”
Archangel squinted. “Sounds like a plan that’s screaming for a kamikaze.”
“Good. Kamikazes are the best ally when they blow in your favor, you know. After all, when the Mongolians attempted to invade Japan several times, a series of kamikazes always blew, sinking enemy battleships and killing ‘em all. Seriously, that’s what we need right now.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” He sighed. “You’re inconceivable sometimes,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’ll take it as a compliment.” I beamed a smile.
Chapter 26
The next day at three o’clock, I was at Dr. Bob Springer’s practice in Georgetown, where the late Frederick Reynolds used to receive psychiatric help, including hypnotherapy.
My plan was to look for clues about the true Eyeball Snatcher’s identity by searching around within Reynolds’ associates. Assuming he was used as a scapegoat, the real culprit should have contacted him. So all in all, asking his shrink seemed like a decent place to start.
Generally speaking, psych patients tend to share lots of personal information, including but not limited to their dirty little secrets, with the shrink, and I was positive that dealing with a serial murderer was genuinely distressing to the late patient, hence the shrink must have known it.
The problem was that shrinks were not supposed to share their patients’ dirty little secrets with others, especially when this someone happened to be a total stranger.
Anyway, I called his office in the morning to make an appointment as a patient. I thought about impersonating someone like a researcher, psychology student, or nonfiction author specializing in criminal psychology/psychiatry, but opted out. First of all, I was lacking confidence to discuss complicated scientific topics.
Even if I had confidence, the psychiatrist still might not like sharing his patient’s personal information with other professionals in related fields. Suppose he’s ashamed of himself for failing to help his patient from killing himself? Suppose he was the one behind the scenes who’s responsible for manipulating Reynolds? Not to mention, he would unveil my cover without breaking a sweat. I didn’t want to risk having myself sued and appearing in headlines in the UK. Not again. Better safe than sorry. Am I considerate or what?
Okay, so there was no plausible reason he would talk about his dead patient to a non-professional total stranger. Still, as long as I had an appointment as a patient, he couldn’t kick me out like a stray raccoon with a possible rabies infection, could he?
I did an eagle-eyed inspection of Dr. Springer’s clinic while I spent some time in the waiting room. I found it to be very clean, comfortable, and divided. Unlike a regular family doctor’s office where you met coughing guys, feverish women, wailing babies, and shrieking kids running around with runny noses. Here, the waiting room was divvied into four cubicles so that patients didn’t need to see, much less interact with, fellow patients, which meant your risk of picking up new bugs while waiting to have an existing illness treated was significantly lower than at an average medical facility. I knew psychiatric illnesses were generally considered uncommunicative, but even psychiatric patients are not exempt from Norovirus. As the result, the chances of my milking information about Reynolds and Dr. Springer from the fellow patients was slim to none.
At least, considering that I didn’t hear patients shriek or Dr. Springer chanting mantras to brainwash his patients, his practice itself seemed very appropriate and highly professional.
After waiting for about five minutes, I was called into the psychiatrist’s office.
Hello, Ms. Kinki. I’m Dr. Springer, nice to meet you.”
Dr. Springer was a large man with short, frizzy blond hair, and he was presumably in his early fifties. His handshake was firm and confident, not a bone crusher or a cold, limp fish. The office was decorated in a theme that reminded me of a moderately good room at a five star hotel, but not lavish enough to score six or seven stars.
I told him I was having eeriness for days and I was nervous. I needed to provide him with a chief complaint as a patient.
“Can you tell me more about your eeriness? Like the timing it started, for instance?”
“Oh, I can tell you exactly when it started,” I said. “I started having this eerie feeling as soon as I heard in the news that the police had found that famous musician Yves dead in his house, with what appears to be a suicide note that says he was that Eyeball Snatcher.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Kinki, but…” Dr. Springer furrowed his eyebrows skeptically. “Is that why you’re here? I’m not quite grasping the situation, I’m afraid. For starters, can you tell me what it has to do with your feelings?”
“Doctor, please call me Kelly,” I said. “Well, I can’t help having odd, stomach-churning feelings when I hear something that doesn’t quite make sense, you know.” I shrugged helplessly in an attempt to drive the doctor to want to help me, though he didn’t seem to buy it.
“Kelly, are you a reporter or something?” he asked, staring at me hard with his hazel eyes. “I’ve made it clear that I decline to provide any comment, quote, or whatever nonsense to any kinds of media.”
“No, I’m not a journalist. Indeed, I detest the media.” I shook my head profusely. “I’m just a concerned citizen who, at the same time, happens to be a friend of Karen’s.” At least, I considered Karen a friend of mine. “And I just cannot believe the police and the FBI act like as if they have given up on finding Karen. …Why? Just because a guy who claims to be this serial killer, the Eyeball Snatcher died and left behind a confession note. I thought maybe you’d know something about him—like, if he’s really a serial killer or not. I know it’s like a wild-goose chase, but I can’t help feeling that my little friend is still alive. I want to try something, anything that might help her.” The latter part of my little speech was true.
The psychiatrist’s frown had deepened. “I’m not supposed to discuss my patient’s personal matters with a third party.”
“I know,
but a desperate time calls for desperate measures, doesn’t it? Besides that, Good Samaritan laws state you can waiver doctor-patient confidentiality when necessary.” For an emphasis, I added, “Whatever we discuss in this room stays in this room. Scout’s honor.” Though I didn’t mention I happened to be a Girl Scouts reject.
“That sounds quite a stretch to me.” He released a resigned sigh. “So, what do you want to know?”
“For starters, how about your opinion of late Mr. Reynolds? Like whether he seemed like a violent killer?”
“No, he never seemed to be a killer-type patient. As far as I know, the worst-case scenario I had in my mind was the patient committing suicide, which was later realized, unfortunately. But murdering multiple women? No way, it’s ridiculous. And I’m not saying this just because I failed to save him from himself.”
“I see.” At least, Dr. Springer’s words sounded to be his genuine feelings.
“As a physician, I know I was supposed to help him from himself and whatever conflicts within himself, which I’ve failed. Then again, I’m not an amateur in forensic psychiatry. I’ve had my share of meeting serial killers and psychopaths, but he wasn’t anything like them. On the contrary, he was completely different from them. Unlike other violent individuals, he was lacking the confidence and narcissism. How could I have predicted he would commit such brutal crimes?”
I made a sympathetic sound. “Besides the lack of confidence and narcissism, how different was he compared to other serial killers and psychopaths?”
“First off, he was possessed with guilt and remorse for years, which was the reason he came to me to seek help in the first place.”
He told me about Reynolds’s long-lasting emotional struggles over losing his fiancée and his child-to-be in a car crash in which he was the driver. According to Dr. Springer, Reynolds’s upbringing was quite normal. So his mother got a little strict and head-on when it came to piano lessons, but nothing abusive. Unlike other psychopaths, he was not one of those “You have to suck up your feelings and get over it” kind of patients. That made a sense. If he could just suck it up and get over his feelings, there was no point seeking psychiatric help.
Especially, when a real psychiatrist came with a big price tag.
“I googled that you do hypnotic therapy. What was he like under hypnosis?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you are assuming, but I can assure you that he didn’t become violent, demonic, or monstrous. He was very calm, just like his usual self, and cooperative to the point of obedient. And I tell you, you can wear whatever persona you choose to when you’re alert, but your subconscious never lets you disguise yourself into something you’re not. So when you see a calm and gentle person under the hypnotic influence, he or she is most likely to be calm and gentle by nature.”
“I understand.” He had a point. But at the same time, that might be a clever excuse to avoid further questions about his involvement with his patient’s crimes.
“By the way, I saw a hypnosis show in TV that the therapist manipulates the subject,” I mentioned nonchalantly, “like planting a thought or belief, say…that he is a chicken, and then suddenly, the subject starts clucking and tries to lay eggs, albeit the subject was a man. Does it mean a therapist can control a patient to the extreme, like making him write a note implying he’s responsible for crimes he didn’t commit and kill himself?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Kinki…umm, Kelly, but has anyone ever mentioned that you have an overactive imagination?” Dr. Springer asked.
“Are you trying to dodge my question by answering with a question to my question?” I asked back, eyes squinting. I was under the influence of an interrogation high.
The psychiatrist rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose now I know where you’re heading with those questions. You are about to accuse me of controlling and manipulating my patient to kill innocent people, is that correct?” Then he flashed a toothy grin, which was a little creepy.
“Well…” I hesitated. Maybe I had just hit the right button, assuming Dr. Springer was the true culprit. Maybe this was the moment where I uncovered everything like a brilliant detective from classical mystery novels. The problem was, I wasn’t really sure if it was smart or even marginally sane to accuse someone of quintuple murders face-to-face.
Especially when I was alone with the suspect in a secluded place.
“Well, what should I do with you?” Dr. Springer muttered, and I noted that he didn’t say “What can I do for you?” like all the people in the healthcare industry are always asking you like a mantra.
“E-excuse me?” I heard my voice quiver. The current situation was not what I’d anticipated while meeting with the psychiatrist.
“No worries, Ms. Kinki, you’re in good hands.” He opened one of the desk drawers, putting one hand inside, as if he was trying to fish out something. “I will fix your problem in no time, Ms. Kinki. Oh, I know you prefer to be addressed as Kelly, but informality doesn’t bode very well with me, you know.” He took a shiny metal kiwi spoon out of the drawer and started to rub it with a cloth. “But I’m positive how I address you won’t bother you for long. I would never, let you leave here still feeling eerie and anxious.”
I realized it was unusual for a shrink to say ‘fix’ something. Commonly, it was understood among mental health professionals that one couldn’t just ‘fix’ other people’s problem like fixing a broken toaster or vacuum cleaner.
Besides that, with a close look, the tip of the metal spoon, indeed, looked sharp. It looked so sharp that the device seemed good enough for other purposes besides eating kiwi…such as, poking eyeballs out of yours truly.
“Well…” I gulped. “I appreciate your kindness and your passion to help and cure patients and…you know what? I don’t have eeriness any more. Thank you very much. You cured my problem already!” I smiled and managed to produce a light chuckle, except my voice sounded more like a squeak of a squirrel high on caffeine after chugalugging a leftover Starbucks espresso.
“Ms. Kinki.” Dr. Springer shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t let you walk out of here still feeling eerie that I may be the mastermind of such violent serial killings.”
Then he smiled like Hannibal Lector.
Ewwwww…my jaw dropped to the ground. Obviously, I had hit the jackpot with my theory, which might be good if it were not my life and my eyeballs that were in danger.
“Oh, my goodness!” Standing up, I said with a fake lightheartedness. “I suppose I must leave now. I don’t want to waste your time anymore.”
“You’re not wasting my time,” Dr. Springer showed off the spoon, still sporting that Hannibal Lector smile. “With our unfinished business, you’re doing me a favor by staying here.” Then he added, “As in forever.”
“Un-unfinished business?” I couldn’t help stuttering. Like what? I wanted to ask, but my voice failed. Stupid voice, stupid mouth, stupid me… Desperate to flee, I hurried to the door. Pushing hard, I tried to get out, but the door wouldn’t move.
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt that much, and it’ll be over in minutes.” Still sitting comfortably at his desk, Dr. Springer jiggled the spoon.
I froze. It seemed like he wouldn’t let me go.
Holy crap. I heard Freddie Mercury singing the song “Bohemian Rhapsody” in my head. Oh, no. Now I was stuck with the worst-case scenario. I just couldn’t lose my eyeballs and get myself killed. I had to get out of there. Yes, I had to get the hell out of there.
I thought and I thought fast. Plan A: Mention people, such as a private investigator, knew where I was and who I was with, just to let him know he couldn’t simply off me and get away with it. Then again, if I were the killer, I wouldn’t want to let a person who accused me of murder go. By letting that person go, this special someone might brag about his/her theory. And Plan B: Behave profoundly weird and dumb, bordering on crazy. That was not my favorite plan, but it seemed better than Plan A.
All I needed to do was act like a certified l
unatic. Who would listen to a crazed woman, much less take her words seriously?
“AAAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!” I shrieked like a banshee. “I’m hearing voices. I’m hearing voices! I must leave here, right now. Beelzee-bubb has a devil put aside for meeee!”
Dr. Springer opened his mouth, and then shut it. For a moment, he seemed to be stunned.
I continued. “About your previous question: yes, people often tell me I have a strong imagination. However, that’s not the case. It’s only that I hear voices other people don’t hear, and it’s not my problem but theirs.”
I hoped I had earned enough time to escape. In addition, I hated when people tried to convince me with ‘It’s not you it’s me’ logic, so I decided to go with that cliché.
I was expecting something along the lines of shock on his part; however that wasn’t the case.
He burst out laughing—a bark of laughter with a howl, guffaw, and roar. It seemed as if he was about to start rolling on the floor at any moment.
“Holy crap! Ms. Kinki, I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years, and you’re the most hilarious patient I’ve ever met in my entire career,” he said between fits of laughter as he tossed the spoon on the desk.
“Pardon me?” Now it was my turn to furrow my eyebrows. Something was wrong, though, in a good way. The shrink’s response didn’t fit the stereotype of a serial killer about to murder his prey. A merry doctor hit hard by laughing gas was more like it. “No offence,” he choked. “I was just trying to play along with you. And I thought it might be funny if I managed to scare you a little bit and see your response, you know, but you’ve surpassed my expectations. Anyway, who could have thought you’d start acting like a head case?”
“Excuse me? Were you just playing with me?” I gasped. I didn’t know whether to be glad or insulted. Maybe the right answer was both. “If that’s the case, why did you lock me in this room, alone with you?”
