by Lotta Smith
“I see.” Archangel shrugged.
“Well, then…” the pinch-hitter ME tilted her head. “So, where have the eyeballs gone, and what are they doing right now?”
“I believe locating the eyeballs is our job,” said Latino.
“Alright,” she nodded. “Now I’m wondering how they’d gotten out of the orbits.”
“That’s your job to determine that, I’m afraid.” Simpsons pointed out.
“Oh,” she frowned. “That’s tricky. Maybe wild animals ate them? Like the rest of missing parts in her body?”
Considering the background of the body’s discovery, her reply sounded pretty much plausible to me. My understanding of camp sites are that they have a wide range of wild animals including but not limited to hedgehogs, raccoons, squirrels and grizzlies. Oh, don’t forget the bugs. Lots of them.
“No, animals didn’t eat the eyeballs,” interrupted Archangel. He didn’t seem to share my thoughts. He was observing the body over the ME and the officers’ heads, using his height with a full advantage.
He continued. “Look at the endings of the optic nerve that the eyeballs used to be attached to. The edges are sharp and nerve fibers are not wavy, which implies they were cut off by a sharp object like a scalpel, rather than getting yanked out forcibly with teeth or claws.”
“Oh really? Let me see.” She took a magnifying glass and carefully observed the corpse on the dissecting table.
As the law enforcement guys who were grilling the temporary coroner had stepped aside, Archangel moved toward the dissection table for a better view.
“Found any residues of the eyeballs, like aqueous humor, fragments of cornea, sclera, or ciliary muscle, for instance?” He asked.
“I have to run some tests to confirm that, but so far, I don’t think I’m seeing them.” The coroner replied.
“Okay, so if the tests come back negative for eyeball components, then that means the eyeballs were cut out by delicate hands that belongs to human.” Archangel told her. “Generally speaking, wild animals aren’t crazy about table manners.”
“I see, you have a point.” She turned to face Archangel. “Are you a forensic medicine expert?”
“No. I received basic training in forensic sciences back in the old days, but that’s about it. It’s only that I happen to be genius when it comes to detail orientation and observation.” Archangel shrugged. In his dictionary, words like modesty seemed to be missing.
“By the way, which section are you from?” The ME asked curiously, scanning him from head to toe.
Henderson stepped in and introduced us to her “Dr. Stewart, this is our consultant Michael Archangel and his associate Ms. Kelly Kinki. Archangel, this is Dr. Stewart, the medical examiner.”
“Oh,” she gasped with wide eyes. “It looks like the FBI is more… avant-garde than I’d expected.”
“I guess so.” Archangel shook off her comment and observed more about the deceased while the officers in uniforms fed him with more detail.
I took a quick peek at the deceased and wished I didn’t. Yikes was an understatement. On the table was a chunk of flesh that was barely recognizable as a human. Many parts of the decaying body seemed to be missing—probably bitten off by critters in the wild. The victim’s complexion was greenish purple. On top of all that, in the eye sockets where the eyeballs fit in was nothing but reddish brown darkness.
I felt like vomiting. It was true that I’d seen many corpses before, but this particular victim was by far the most gruesome.
All of a sudden, it hit me that I didn’t belong here and I didn’t deserve to be here. Unlike the assistants of brilliant detectives in fiction, I had no relevant training in criminal justice or forensic sciences, much less expertise. My areas of expertise were pretty much limited to cooking, planning and organizing a party, speaking some French, and breathing fire. I didn’t even know if fire breathing counted as a skill.
I also realized that a real-life autopsy involved a real corpse, and the aroma of decomposing human tissues was not lovely. That was a completely different thing from watching gruesome scenes in TV cop shows. Hell, I was getting really sick.
“Are you okay?” asked Dr. Stewart. Now she had stepped back away from the dissecting table.
“I’m terribly disturbed, but I think I’ll live. Thanks for asking.” I said, managing not to puke.
“I know,” she sighed. “Disturbing is an understatement. You know, I was totally convinced that the eyeballs were eaten by wild animals. It’s early April and critters coming out of hibernation are hungry. Maybe a part of me wanted to believe so. Not that being left in a deserted camp site to die is nice, but it feels better to imagine raccoons or some animals had feasted on that poor dead woman, rather than this depressing possibility that some kind of human freak poking the eyeballs out of her. I know I’m sounding irrational, but it’s just too horrifying to imagine the latter even though it certainly looks like your friend’s right.”
I thought about pointing out that he’s not my friend, but it seemed irrelevant. Instead, I asked. “Does it mean someone killed the deceased and took out the eyeballs from the victim?”
“Maybe, but I’m not really sure which of the events—death, or poking out the eyeballs—happened first. The cause of death is really hard to tell right now because the body had sustained tremendous damages, not to mention that the corpse is already at a very advanced stage of decomposition. Looks like she was left in the field for at least a week. So she might have been murdered, but natural causes of death such as a heart attack cannot be completely ruled out. I need to cut open the cadaver to find out more about her. Also, I’d better call someone for backup.”
She shrugged and continued. “What I can tell now is I’m just a temp substitute medical examiner and I’m somewhat clueless. And basically, this field called forensic medicine doesn’t look as good as I had previously anticipated. They said it’s an easy job to earn extra bucks on an account that it’s a rural area where you’re not likely to have many bodies to observe and cut open, unlike big cities. Look what happened, my luck’s really rotten.” She rolled her eyes.
I made some sympathetic sounds.
I could imagine her feelings. It was a rare occasion to meet someone feeling as out of league and confused about criminal investigation as myself. In general, people I encountered in the job were very confident for what they do and who they are, and I was the only clueless tourist. Just like that.
“Besides that,” rubbing her tummy, Dr. Stewart said. “Encountering this kind of death doesn’t seem like a good prenatal experience for the little one.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped. Due to the baggy scrubs, her baby bump was almost unnoticeable but if you looked closely, she was indeed pregnant. Under the surgical mask, she also sported this certain glow of a mother-to-be.
“You need a raise.” I told her. Actually, I wanted one, too. It might be selfish to think so, but I suppose meeting a decaying, half-eaten cadaver missing eyeballs has that effect on many people.
“I know!” she chuckled. “But I guess I’d better say adieu to this job than demanding a pay increase.”
“Oh, so you’re taking a time off for a while, that’s nice,” I said.
“Nope, I’m saying adios muchachos to medicine, as in forever.” She shook her head. “I’m quitting.”
“Oh, wow…” I said, a little taken aback with the unexpected turn of events. As a woman without much of a career, I had a hard time grasping a concept of withdrawing from a challenging albeit lucrative profession for good. Add that little green-eyed monster raising its head effect. For me, having a serious career that you call your own alone sounded like a real privilege. Not to mention a profession in which you get to cut people open with scalpels and everything sounded pretty cool.
“Yeah, I know my decision would not be considered a smart one by everyone, but at least I’m determined to quit and live a little, I’m positive I wouldn’t regret this decision of mine.”
“Wow,” I nodded, partly because “wow” was the best my clueless self was able to come up with. “That’s nice.”
“The truth is, it really bothered that I couldn’t even find the stuffs that the tall guy in a dress had pointed out so easily.” Dr. Stewart told me.
“Well,” I interjected. “If that giant transvestite is the reason for your quitting medicine, I’m afraid you seriously need to reconsider. It’s not you, it’s him. When it comes to crime-solving, he’s simply special, I’ve seen him beating even the most seasoned investigators. Please don’t feel bad about missing something he had found before you do. It happens to anybody, and it does all the time.” I didn’t get all pushy or bossy, but I didn’t want her to make a big decision just because of Archangel. He had this special effect of draining confidence out of people (mostly in law enforcement.)
“No. That’s not the case,” she chuckled. “It’s just me, no one but me. Actually, I should have made up my mind more than a decade ago, perhaps when I found myself depressed and devastated soon as I started visiting the ward as a medical student,” she grimaced. “But unfortunately, I was a coward. I knew I wanted to quit but at the same time, when I thought about disappointing my folks, I got completely horrified. So I ended up chickening out, I simply got scared of changing the track course of my life. In retrospect, stubbornness factor had practically aggravated the situation; I was so obsessed with not becoming a quitter and continued pursuing the field I practically loathed. I knew I hated dealing with diseases, injuries, miseries and dramas. For me, just visiting the ward was a living hell. Just standing at the corridor of the ward, I could feel the bacteria, viruses, demons, and everything that caused catastrophe infesting all around me. Such thoughts totally drove me crazy and I totally sucked at providing care. I got kicked out of three clinical residency programs until, eventually, finishing a pathology program. Which was far better compared to clinical programs because at least, patients didn’t complain, cough or puke on me. Still, as you can see, even as a pathologist, I’m not all that good. So far, I’ve misdiagnosed at least twenty-three cases of cancer as benign and one-hundred-and-forty-six cases of benign lesions as cancers. So I took this opportunity to become a substitute ME, in hopes of being needed once in a while. But nooo, even now I’m as useful as a giant gallstone. So finally, I came to terms with myself to quit for good.”
Her fair skin around the eyes turned pink. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you such a big speech like a Congress candidate. Where’s my manners and what was I thinking?”
“Don’t worry, the tale of your journey and your opinion was very compelling.” I reassured her. Phew…it was true that all happy people are alike; each happy person is unhappy on his or her own way. Her story had me convinced that I was lucky not to be a medic. Indeed, the prospect of dealing with germs and bodily fluids sounded icky, not cool.
“Congratulations on your new life and do send my hug and kiss to your wonderful baby.” I added, and I meant it sincerely.
“Thank you.” She smiled a genuine, beautiful smile. In her brown eyes was full of joy and happiness. “Thank you for your kind words to the baby, and to me.”
I wished her all the best and she wished me back the same thing. We promised to say hi to each other if we ever come across.
That was the first and the last time I had ever talked to her.
Chapter 3
That’s it? That’s my feelings?
I felt unexpectedly calm.
It was a strange feeling.
The shabby alley was reeking of stale beer and urine.
I didn’t know how I dared to come here.
Maybe I was wasting my time…
I knocked on the door.
No answer.
Perhaps, I was making a complete fool of myself…
Again.
Still, I had to come.
After some banging, the next door banged open.
“She ain’t got no keys, push the door and just shuddafuckup.” Spit the old woman. A junky, obviously.
I thanked her politely.
Shaking her head, she disappeared back to her cave.
For the first time in many, many years, I felt peaceful.
Perhaps, what I was feeling was…love…
Chapter 4
“Suppose there’s a victim’s face here on the plate. Think of the fried eggs as eyes, now let’s consider this asparagus as the neck of the vic, okay?” Henderson said.
“Regarding food as the face of a murder victim? That’s a unique way to depict food. Very appetizing.” Archangel commented.
“Shut up and look at the fried eggs.”
Henderson, Archangel, and I were gathering at the dining table at Archangel’s office slash main residence. On the dining table were three plates of eggs benedict, and dozens of photographs. Over the table, the photographs were spread like a patchwork centerpiece. Each photograph featured a bloody corpse minus the eyeballs.
“Excuse me, but they are poached eggs, not fried.” I corrected Henderson, who responded with a quizzical look on his face.
“Eggs benedict,” showing the dish with the palm of my hand, I smiled apologetically to the FBI agent. “One with Canadian bacon, the other with prosciutto and pineapple confiture. Bon appetit.”
I had no idea why I had to feel apologetic.
“Okay, eggs benedict, not fried eggs,” he nodded, and dug in.
* * *
On a regular day, I get up around 7:30, groom myself, and walk up to my workplace—the 19th-century Greek revival house in Bradley Drive, McLean, Virginia.
The large two-story house with 6 bedrooms, 5.5 baths, and a grand staircase was just a moderate residence in the neighborhood. Archangel inherited this house that served as the office and residence from one of his late distant aunts. The same aunt had left him two apartment complexes just three blocks away from the house, and actually, I happen to be one of his tenants. It seemed like she had had a good sense of interior planning. Both the house and the apartment came with relatively conservative interior décor with relaxing color schemes, such as lavender-colored walls in my unit and lovely (and very expensive) pieces of furniture.
Making breakfast for two had become my morning ritual at work. When I was new to this job I used to come to work after eating breakfast on my own, but soon shifted to sleeping in, cooking food at Archangel’s, and eating with him in the dining room decorated in pink. With the former routine, I had nothing better to do other than longingly watching my employer eat, which made me hungry again. I tend to get hungry when I see other people eating. Good thing I wasn’t in the food business.
This morning started just like usual.
I opened the entrance door, walked into the grand foyer accentuated with a gorgeous crystal chandelier from Baccarat, and a leather upholstered Italian chair from circa 1960s. I took a look at the flowers in a Tiffany vase and decided that the white calls were doing well.
Michael Archangel was already in his full gear (today’s attire: a white miniskirt and a scarlet sweater) and coming down the grand staircase muttering, “Morning. Coffee? Where’s my coffee?”
“Good morning, Mr. Archangel, coffee’s coming right away.” With a little finger wave, I switched on Mr. Coffee and launched cooking. I suppose it wouldn’t require much effort just to switch the coffee machine on, while he got dressed in the wardrobe that involved a mini-skirt and applied heavy makeup. But it was a ritual and considering that I was paying only 100 bucks a month (utilities included) for the nice and spacious 2 bedroom apartment that I occupied, I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t sure if I could even rent a closet for that money in this neighborhood.
When I was whisking up Hollandaise sauce, Henderson called the landline. In the kitchen, Archangel was hanging around with a mug of coffee in one hand. When the phone rang, he put the mug on the granite countertop and took the kitchen phone. His jaw slightly hardened when he got a notification that another woman’s body missing the eyes was d
iscovered in a forest park in Maryland. After disconnecting the phone, he told me that he’s expecting Henderson bringing in further detail of the case. Which meant the FBI agent secured his share of breakfast.
“According to the Chief Medical Examiner’s findings,” Henderson said. “Whoever killed the victims had first choked them like this.”
He put the head of the fork in the middle of the sautéed asparagus and crushed it underneath. “But the point is, the killer compressed the vic’s throat with a force just to knock her unconscious, but not enough to suffocate her to death. The vic’s hyoid bone was intact.”
“Hmm,” munching on a cut piece of prosciutto, poached egg and English muffin topped with pineapple jam, Archangel placed the knife on the asparagus in the similar manner as the FBI agent did.
Then he dug into the other egg with the fork. He scooped up the yolk without breaking the yolk sac. “The killer poked the victim’s eyeballs out while she was unconscious, just like this.”
Setting the yolk aside, he sprinkled ketchup over the white of the egg. The red ketchup filled in the egg white that used to accommodate yellow yolk, just like blood filling in the empty eye socket now that the eyeball had been poked out.
“This killer’s got a knack for some kind of craftsmanship. Not to mention this killer had kept the cool while working on the eyeballs. So an eyeball is protected by the sclera on the surface, it tend to rupture when handled without caution.” Archangel commented.
“Exactly. On both occasions, the killer poked the eyeballs out of the victims without breaking them. That isn’t easy. Add that the victims were still alive when it happened.” said Henderson, cutting his bacon egg benedict. Unhardened egg yolk started running into the Hollandaise sauce. He dipped the above mentioned abused asparagus into the mixture of egg yolk and sauce, and savored it.
“Yum…” he muttered happily to himself.
I noticed it was the first time I saw him with an expression that remotely resembled a smile.
