The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1)

by Lotta Smith

  “Thanks,” he sat up, and took a tea cup paired with a saucer in one hand.

  “Mr. Archangel, are you okay?” I asked, serving him tea and a raspberry cupcake.

  “Of course I’m fine. Can’t you see I’m peachy?” He took a sip of tea and nibbled on the cupcake.

  “Well, you looked a little bit…down.” I said. I’ve read somewhere that major depressions often come in a cryptic way and those who acts fine, and Mom has once mentioned that it’s the vivacious and hilarious ones you need to watch out for a true mental breakdown. I was tempted to dish on Bitchtricia but didn’t. I was afraid of discouraging my employer furthermore, and I wasn’t sure if he would appreciate my nasty nickname of his ex-fiancée.

  “Down? Who? Me?” Archangel gave a dry chuckle, curving his crimson lips into a smirk.

  “Not that feeling down is bad, you know,” I said. “It’s totally normal. Anyone would be discouraged when your ex-fiancée calls you a skirt-wearing schmuck.”

  Without a word, he gave me an icy stare. I thought he was going to turn me into a chunk of rock. Just like Medusa.

  “You know what, I’m not the one who said that.” Additional subzero glaring. So I added, “Okay, I shouldn’t have mentioned the last sentence, my bad.”

  Archangel took a gulp of tea. “For your information, I am not saddened, depressed or disappointed. So Reynolds had stuffs taken from the victims, a memo that appears to be a suicide note, and the murder weapon. But hey, where are the eyeballs when he doesn’t have them? Anyway, now that they don’t give a damn about my opinion, have it their way. Whatever happens following their negligence is not my problem.” And he snorted.

  Alright, so he was mad. No, make it pissed-off, and he was POed a big time. On top of all, he was not happy to admit his feelings.

  “I know,” I said. “I can’t believe the nerve of Henderson. After using so much of your help in solving cases, he can’t just sideline you from the case like Chad Ochocinco. Rude is an understatement.” I spat.

  “For your information, Ochocinco was not sidelined, just booted out from Dolphins after getting arrested for allegedly assaulting his wife. And it happened years ago. Nothing to do with bureaucracy, if that makes a difference.”

  “Well, I don’t know much about basketball anyway,” I shrugged. “The only sport I’ve ever seen in person is Royal Ascot Race.”

  “That horse race where all visiting women wear a ridiculously large hat?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Yup. Royal Ascot is fun even if you have zero interest in horse racing. And I suppose Kentucky Derby would be just as good.”

  “I’ve never seen Kentucky Derby myself.”

  “What a shame. You received an invitation for the coming derby, but you threw it away. Talk about a sacrilege.”

  “I’m more like an NFL, NBA and MLB kind of a guy.”

  I shook off his comment and continued my little speech. “I can’t believe that I used to see Henderson as a man whom you can trust, someone who fights against the evil and pursues truth so that justice will be served. I’ve even sympathized a little for him when I heard about his divorce. Now it seemed like justifiable that his ex-wife had run away with the deli cook. I can’t believe he didn’t stand up for you after all the contributions you’ve made.”

  “Can’t blame him. He’s with the feds. Following his superiors’ orders, licking ass is written in bureaucrats’ job description,” Archangel muttered. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Still, what has happened to his cojones? Where have they gone?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he chuckled. “And I don’t really fancy thinking about them.”

  I fumed. “I can’t believe his gall and I mean it. Hey, now I don’t feel much remorse if I put a hex on him so that one of his cojones mysteriously gets severed and fed to a goat.” I know how to be supportive or what?

  “A goat?” His eyebrows went up to the north. Casting an alarming glance at his crotch, he grabbed a file on the low table and put it on his lap, covering his own private area. “Having his body part ripped off and fed to a goat sounds… well, too harsh a punishment. Okay, so I don’t like him firing me, neither. Still yet I don’t hate him that much. Oh, and don’t put a hex on me, okay?”

  “Speaking of body parts, what had happened to the eyeballs taken out of the victims?” I said.

  “At the moment, it seems like nobody gives a damn about the missing eyeballs. And I bet that the feds wouldn’t find even a stray eyeball at Reynolds’s place if they actually try to locate the eyeballs.” He snorted. “Reynolds is not capable of killing people unnoticed. He was busy as an emerging musician, not to mention this guy’s head was pretty much messed up with heavy dope use. So the feds may argue Reynolds had gotten rid of the eyeballs. Then again, considering his obsession with eyeballs was big enough to mention in so-called suicide note, that doesn’t make sense. When you’re so obsessed with something, it’s hard to part with this special something. Especially when this special something happened to be a hard earned treasure.”

  “Hmm, sounds like Reynolds as a frame theory’s getting more and more plausible, but then, why did the real culprit close the case now? Reynolds was not in the suspects list or anything, practically no one was going after him. Assuming the true culprit had planned to use Reynolds as a frame, why do it now? I’m afraid whoever did it closed the case out of necessity.”

  “That’s the point that the FBI seriously need 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 on searching and all.”

  “Good. I have a plan.”

  “What?” His frown deepened.

  “We’ll keep on digging on from Sam angle. I mean, the Sam angle. Perhaps Karen has gone following that lead. Think about it, no one’s seen her dead body, which makes it possible that she’s still alive, isn’t it?” I looked him in the eyes.

  “Theoretically, maybe, but don’t hold high expectations.” He told me. 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 all that legs and muscles work of a 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 that I’ve known him so far. “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 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.” Just like personal assistants in fictions, I thought.

  “Guess what? The FBI’s not paying us for this case anymore.” He crossed his arms.

  “I suppose they’d be more than happy to pay us, assuming we find and capture the true killer. If they refuse to pay us, we can always call news media, hop TV stations, appear in talk shows and collect what deserves 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, sank enemy battle-ships, 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’clo
ck, I was at Dr. Bob Springer’s practice in Georgetown, where late Frederick Reynolds used to have psychiatric help including hypnotherapy.

  My plan was to look for clues about true Eyeball Snatcher’s identity by searching around Reynolds. Assuming that Reynolds 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, psyche 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 are not supposed to share their patients’ dirty little secrets with others, especially when this someone happens 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, then the shrink might not like to share his patient’s personal information with other professionals in related fields. Suppose he’s ashamed of himself for not being able to help his patient from killing himself? Suppose he was the one behind the scenes who’s responsible for manipulating Reynolds? Not to mention that 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 that he would talk about his dead patient to a non-professional total stranger. Still, as far as I have an appointment as a patient, he just can’t kick me out like a stray raccoon with a possible rabies infection, can he?

  I did an eagle-eyed inspection of Dr. Springer’s clinic while I spent some time in the waiting room. I found his waiting room to be very clean, comfortable, and divided. Unlike the regular family doctor’s office where you meet coughing guys, feverish women, wailing babies and shrieking kids running around with runny noses. Here, the waiting room was completely divvied into four cubicles so that patients didn’t need to see, much less interact with, fellow patients. Which meant that your risk of picking up new bugs while waiting to have existing illness treated was significantly lower than at an average medical facility. And 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 blonde hair, and presumably in his early 50s. His handshake was firm and confident. Not a bone crusher or a cold, limp fish. The office was decorated in a theme that reminds of a moderately good room at a five star hotel, but not lavish enough to score six or seven stars.

  I told him that 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 this 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 the eyebrows skeptically, “is that why you’re here? I’m not quite grasping the situation, I’m afraid. For starter, 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 want to help me, though he didn’t seem to buy it.

  “Kelly, are you a reporter or something?” he said, staring me hard with his hazel eyes. “I’ve made it clear that I decline to provide any comment, quote, or whatever crap 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 as a friend of mine. “And I just cannot believe that the police and the FBI act like as if they have given up finding Karen, just because a guy who claims to be this serial killer Eyeball Snatcher dies, leaving 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 shrink’s frown had deepened. “I’m not supposed to discuss my patient’s personal matters with the third party.”

  “I know, but a desperate time calls for desperate measures, doesn’t it? Besides that, Good Samaritan laws state that you can waiver doctor-patient confidentiality.” For an emphasis, I added, “Whatever we discuss in this room stays in this room. Scout’s honor.” Though I didn’t mention that I happen to be a Girl Scouts reject.

  “That sounds quite a stretch to me,” he gave out a resigned sigh. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “For starter, how about your opinion about 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 a 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,” I nodded. At least, Dr. Springer’s words sounded to be his genuine feelings to me.

  “As a physician, I know I was supposed to help him from himself and whatever demon 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 predict that he would commit such brutal crimes?”

  I made sympathetic sounds. “Besides the lack of confidence and narcissism, how different was he compared to other serial killers and psychopaths?”

  “First off, he was possessed with a 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 guilt and remorse 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 comes to piano lessons, but nothing abusive. Unlike other psychopaths, he was not one of those “You got to suck it up feelings and get over it” kind of patients. That made a sense. If he could just suck up and get over his feelings, there’s no point seeking psychiatric help.

  Especially, when a real psychiatrist comes 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 said. “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.”

  “I understand,” I nodded. 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 the patient to the extreme like making him to write a note implying that he’s responsible for the 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 interrogation high.

  The shrink rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose now I know where you’re heading for. 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 that Dr. Springer the shrink was the true culprit. Maybe this was the moment where I uncover 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 you’re alone with the suspect in a secluded place.

  “Well, what should I do with you?” Dr. Springer muttered and I noted he didn’t say what-can-I-do-for-you?—like all the people in healthcare industry tell you like a mantra.