by Lotta Smith
“I didn’t,” he said. “Try pulling the door instead of pushing.”
The moment I pulled the door, it opened without difficulties. “Oh…” I mumbled.
“Have a seat.” He patted the chair in front of him. As I sat, he said, “You can’t blame me. In my line of work, I rarely get to have entertainment on the job.”
“What’s the spoon for if you don’t poke eyeballs out of people?” I squinted my eyes.
“This is my favorite spoon. I usually scratch my back with this silver baby when I get itchy. Some of my patients are real germaphobes, and they simply can’t stand the thought that I might have scratched my back with my bare hands prior to shaking hands with them.” He grinned. “But don’t tell my patients that this spoon’s only a cover and I actually scratch my back with my bare hands. Or that I often forget to wash my hands after scratching my back.”
I regretted that I shook hands with him. “So, I suppose it was some kind of a payback on your part on the account that I’d suggested you might be the true culprit behind the serial eyeball-poking murders?” I groaned with mixed feelings of a disappointment, annoyance, and embarrassment. I made a mental note to myself: wash hands as soon as we’re done with this session.
“Payback is not my choice of word, I’m afraid. It was more like a trial and observation.” He kept grinning. “Besides that, you should be grateful, Ms. Kinki. You’d be a dead woman if your accusation turned out to be right.”
He had a point. And again, he addressed me as Ms. Kinki.
Then suddenly, his expression turned serious. “As a psychiatrist, I have never used hypnosis as a method to manipulate my patients. And as a matter of fact, it’s not viable to use hypnotic methods as a weapon of murder. As humans, we all have a subconscious, but the subconscious generally works in order to preserve its host’s life, not to destruct it. So, technically, it’s impossible to force a subject to kill him or herself. I use hypnotic methods in therapeutic processes, but the sole purpose of using this method is to help my patients feel better, not to aggravate their conditions. Manipulating the patient to take eyeballs out of women I don’t even know, to kill them, to kidnap a young girl, and then to commit suicide, that’s beyond my means. And you know what? We mental health professionals are constantly struggling not to be controlled or manipulated by our own patients.”
“Is that so?” With a surprise, my eyes got wider.
“Unfortunately, it is. We deal with a smorgasbord of mental and psychological problems each day and, believe me, some patients are practically comfortable with their problems, albeit their family, neighbors, and coworkers are not. For example, patients with personality disorders often try to control everyone including the therapists, and I mean, especially the therapists. They start by getting a grip on little things, like trying to alter their appointment times. Then they seek special treatment from us, and if you’re not firm or careful, you’ll be sorry. The next thing, you are their little pet and your misery is written in The Nightmares of Mental Health Professionals.”
It looked like I had to reconsider my investigation strategy, I decided. Still yet, I had things to check out and “Asking doesn’t hurt” happened to be my motto.
“Okay, so I understand that under normal circumstances, even skilled therapists cannot implant destructive thoughts or ideas in patients. Then again, as the late Mr. Reynolds was allegedly using recreational drugs, does it by any chance alter his reactions to whatever is done under hypnosis?”
“Well, I’m not really sure, but…” He crossed his arms and furrowed his eyebrows, as if he had to really consider it before uttering another word.
I stared at him expectantly.
After taking deep breaths, Dr. Springer finally opened up. “Actually, there was something very disturbing about my late patient. He had once mentioned haunting dreams.” He described the details of the dreams and Reynolds’s frustration, confusion, and fear that it might have been a reflection of reality, and his struggle to find the truth about it.
“Wow…” I gasped. “Assuming the part about ransacking his own place in order to locate the eyeballs was true, doesn’t it make my theory somewhat acceptable?”
“I’m afraid so, at least a part of it,” he admitted bitterly. “At that time, I thought it was merely a byproduct of watching, reading, and hearing news of gruesome murders on various media outlets. So after clarifying that in reality it didn’t happen in his life, I advised him not to expose himself to violent, murderous, or creepy stuff—real or virtual. I believed his dreams were just bad dreams. I never took his nightmares as reflected events that had happened in real life. You know what, now it’s my turn to feel eerie.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense,” I said while I thought it through. “For one thing, if I deliberately killed someone, I’d know I did it and wouldn’t need to find the truth about whatever happened.”
“I get your point,” he said, “and that’s why I didn’t dig further into his dreams. If he did it, he would have either made a complete confession to me or never have mentioned it, just like all or nothing.” He sighed. “Seriously, now it’s my turn to be eerie.”
“No offence, but what do you think about your initial impression? Do you still believe your diagnosis was right?”
“None taken,” he said. “I still believe he is… no, he was not responsible for the murders or taking eyeballs out of women. Then again, the alleged suicide note he left has been bugging me since I heard about it on the news. Actually, to be honest with you, I was taken aback when you came here and dropped that particular bomb on me. I was contemplating whether or not to share my experience with late Mr. Reynolds with the law enforcement, and here you come. Still yet, I’m not real comfortable with your theory that someone I don’t know was messing with my patient’s mind, possibly using hallucinogenic drugs.”
“I agree with you. Suppose someone uses such drugs, does it enable one to brainwash another person more easily?”
“Hell, yes. But please note that I would never do such an unethical thing to my patients. It’s totally against my Hippocratic Oath, not to mention it’s a crime against humanity. And believe me, if I was such a corrupt doctor, I should be a filthy-rich retiree in the Caymans by now. I don’t even know the victims of the Eyeball Snatcher cases. If I could really brainwash my patients, I’d do something to drive them to drain their bank accounts and donate everything to me. That’d be a perfect crime, except that’s not acceptable from all standpoints. Still, it’s far better than having my patient kill total strangers.”
He sounded serious.
But he had a point. If I were a really bad person with the means to get whatever I want, ending up as a filthy-rich retiree in the Caymans sounded like a better idea than becoming the master of a killing puppet.
“And did I mention he was afraid of blood?” Dr. Springer continued.
“Excuse me? He was afraid of blood?” My eyebrows hit the north.
“Yes. I assumed the triggering factor to be the tragic accident in which he witnessed a lot of blood.”
“It’s hard for someone who’s afraid of blood to poke the eyeballs out of people, because that involves seeing, touching, and feeling the blood. Lots of it.” I cocked my head.
“Exactly. That’s why I overlooked his concern about being the killer. I took his dreams as a manifestation of his past trauma.”
“Did he mention the name of the person who provided drugs to him?” I asked, not that I was expecting much, but I didn’t want to miss anything.
“No, unfortunately not. I knew he was using something, and I tried to convince him to go to rehab and receive a proper treatment regimen that is targeted to addictions. But no, he wouldn’t even admit he was destroying his career, his life, and even his soul by using drugs. He was adamant about no rehab.”
Dr. Springer looked genuinely disappointed—frustrated, even—about what he could have done but didn’t. I wanted to say something comforting to him, but nothing other than sy
mpathetic sounds came out.
“I don’t know if I could have saved him from himself or not, and I have no idea of the plausibility of your theory. My point is that I’m still having a hard time accepting the course of events that occurred around him. I don’t believe he was the cold-blooded, perverted serial killer who resorted to poking the eyeballs out of his victims. Then again, does it make any difference if I voice my opinion? I’m afraid not.”
He shook his head as if to shake off the bad memory so he could move on. “I suppose your appointed time’s up,” he said. He didn’t offer me to call him if I had further questions or concerns.
Chapter 27
“Not much appetite this morning?”
Archangel’s fork was reaching for my plate before I answered.
“Hasn’t your mom ever told you it’s rude to take food from your dining companion’s plate before politely asking first?”
“No, she hasn’t. We rarely dined together, as she had been a busy socialite so far as I remember.” He shrugged, cutting my uneaten sausage into two halves. “Though she once told me it’s a sacrilege to waste perfectly good food to rot. How sweet of her to enlighten me when she was oh-so-busy man-hopping.”
“I’m sorry.” And I meant it. Both of his parents had Greek heritage, but they had long been known to be in a typical French marriage, in which both parties were engaged in one affair after another with third parties. That might be a part of the reason for his Kentucky Derby invitation going straight to the trash.
“What for?” Archangel asked.
“My remark about your mother. It was insensitive.”
“No problemo. Every household has its own lifestyle. Your mom always kept an eye on you while mine had arranged a former Four Seasons chef to come to the house and feed me regularly. Not to mention, I had nannies and housekeepers. My childhood wasn’t bad.”
I felt worse hearing his clarification. It’s not like home-cooked meals were the only perfect diet. Still yet, growing up in a wealthy family but without home-cooked food or cozy family moments was a different story. Maybe I shouldn’t judge other people’s childhood, but—
I still remembered the first time he ate a breakfast I’d cooked when I was a maid on the island. It was just a basic, no-frills breakfast pancakes, fried eggs, sausages, and sautéed tomatoes, but he said it was better than the one he had at a Mandarin Oriental. I never really understood the reason for his initial compliment and just assumed he was in the mood to hire a personal cook. I now had a gut feeling it was his unmitigated opinion. It was not a complement for convenience that he could hire a one-woman chef/driver/secretary for a moderate but much cheaper rate than hiring them separately.
I supposed he had a craving for home-cooked food and he wasn’t even aware of it. My mother might have been a husband-hopper, but I was always well-fed with home-cooked food that I enjoyed and loved. Though, in the retrospect, had it not been for her delicious meals, there might have been a better chance that I could be a slim girl.
“Where’s your chipperness this morning?” Archangel asked nonchalantly. “How did your investigation go?”
I told him about my encounter with the psychiatrist, except for the part where I acted like a basket case.
“So, you confirmed the shrink had nothing to do with this case,” he said.
“Excuse me, but it sounds like you knew Dr. Springer was not responsible for either brainwashing Yves or killing the women.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” He cocked his head. “Still, it’s always nice to fact-check my knowledge.”
I frowned.
Stealing a piece of sautéed tomato from my plate, he continued. “You know what? That’s the part I didn’t like about being an investigator with a badge: too much leg work and time-wasting. It ruins your good shoes quickly.”
“Why don’t you trade your high heels for trekking shoes? The latter comes with much more durable soles.” I groaned between my gritted teeth. “Besides that, it’s far more creative than idly sitting around all day.”
“Ax the ‘idly’ part. I’ve got a lead, which requires some waiting for updates. And I want to be ready for action at the right time.”
“Oh really?” I said, half of me was excited with anticipation of coming across a breakthrough, but the other half was doubtful and ready to yawn and say “duh.”
“What kind of a lead?”
“What do you think was the reason for visiting London?”
“Oh?” I arched my right eyebrow in confusion, hoping some intelligent remark would pop out of me. Obviously, “giving a lecture” was not the right answer in this context, so I said, “Aside from giving a lecture, you had something related to the current case, right?”
“Correct,” he confirmed. “Yet I haven’t collected all the pieces of the puzzle though. It takes some waiting, I guess. If you’re tired and fed up with being mocked by an innocent shrink with a wicked humor and ruining your shoes, you can stay here and do more creative work, such as grocery shopping, shining the silverware, and watering the plants, just to name a few.”
“What a lovely offer. I’m touched. But I’ve got a plan today.” I shrugged, hoping I was as nonchalant as him. “A plan not only to ID the killer but actually catching the culprit. Let’s see who catches the killer first.”
“Very funny,” Archangel said with a wide grin, like he’d just heard a joke with a good punchline; which added a further annoyance to my already pissy mood.
Waving at me with one hand, he said, “Good luck with your project today. Don’t forget to call in to check with the progress.”
“Consider it done,” I said, while thinking, Assuming there’s actually progress on your side.
I didn’t know why I started competing against my employer. I knew for a fact that however hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to beat Michael Archangel when it came to detecting. Still, I didn’t like the current situation in which he didn’t even try to accelerate the process of finding and nailing the killer—especially considering that Karen was still missing. Also, as he has mentioned, having been ridiculed by Dr. Springer had something to do with my crankiness.
I was determined to find the killer before he or anyone else did. I was ready to run for the Next Top Amateur Sleuth contest, if only such a contest existed.
“Hey, will you consider giving me a raise if I reach the killer first?” I asked.
I was desperate to prove myself, maybe for the first time in my entire life. The mysterious part was I had no idea who I was trying to impress.
“A raise? Oh yeah, I’ll give you a 20 percent base salary raise on the rare case that you reach the killer first.” He shrugged. “But that will likely only happen when pigs start to fly.”
Chapter 28
The day started slow.
As soon as I left Archangel’s office, I went to Dupont Circle to visit one art gallery after another, in an attempt to find any information regarding Sam. Within a couple of hours, I had widened my search to my neighborhood. Without a clue, or rather, with more information than I could handle, I ended up at Tyson’s Corner.
Considering the enormous collection at her home, the late Alice Sinclair, the second victim of Eyeball Snatcher, had presumably frequented those galleries. Each gallery had a variety of artwork by Sam, Samantha, Samentha, Samuel, Samuela, Samurai, Sammy…just to name a few. After hours of hanging around the galleries, I couldn’t come up with any useful information that could lead to Sam, Alice’s secret lover.
I released a frustrated sigh.
I was clueless after hours of investigating. I really hated to admit it, but Archangel’s comment that legwork on my part would most likely to end up a waste of time, energy, and good shoes was pretty accurate.
At 1:45PM, I had two options: One, buy groceries and return to the office as if it was just a long shopping trip, or two, think of something creative to ID and catch the killer, hopefully, within minutes. Oh, there was option three: return to the office and confide in
my employer that he was right and I was so wrong, so I could enjoy today’s daily dose of snicker.
It was a tricky situation.
After all, the name “Sam” was pretty much worthless as a clue. Assuming it was a first name, there were practically countless numbers of people with that name all over the world. Not to mention, there was a possibility that “Sam” was a part of a surname.
Oh-la-la, I thought. A nasty cloud of depression hovered over my head. Stay positive, Kelly, I told myself. I had to keep a ‘my cup is half full’ attitude instead of a grim ‘my cup is half empty and it’s drying away’ outlook.
For starters, I congratulated myself on keeping the ugly purple pimp car. I might not be Sherlock Holmes, but I had my own ride to conduct my own investigation. Albeit its gas mileage was terrible, the car was safe to drive in heavy traffic; people tend to drive extra-carefully around my pimp car for fear it might be a gangsta vehicle. Add the three-salami and mozzarella calzone at Luciano’s, which tasted just divine. I had a vehicle and a calzone, what else did I need? Okay, so I treated myself with a cannoli. I had intended to skip dessert, but the Italian pastry shot me with a charm gun from the next table, tempting me out of my will. The cannoli temptation was simply irresistible, just like an Italian gigolo.
The only thing I needed was more information to make “Sam” work.
I thought, and I thought a lot.
Then I had the moment, the one metaphorically described with a brightly shining light bulb suddenly appearing on your head out of nowhere.
Sam had probably interacted with the other victims as well as Alice Sinclair.
The moment this thought hit me, my mind was set. I decided to pay a visit to the late Dr. Julia Stewart’s home. She seemed to be a person who bought artwork pieces, and she was close to her family. I could probably talk to her family, friends, or neighbors, and if I got lucky, they might remember something important.
I went straight to the parking lot, got into my purple Caddy, and drove.
