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

by Lotta Smith

  “E-excuse me?” I felt my voice quiver. The current situation was not what I’d anticipated for today’s meeting with the shrink.

  “No worries Ms. Kinki, you’re in good hands.” He opened one of the desk drawers, put 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 he started to rub it with a cloth. “But I’m positive how I address you wouldn’t bother you for a long time. I would never, ever let you leave here still feeling eerie and anxious.”

  I realized that it was unusual for a shrink to say ‘fix’ something. Commonly, It was a common understanding 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 fruits…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 leftover Starbucks espresso.

  “Ms. Kinki,” Dr. Springer shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t let you walk out 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 on the ground. Oh My God! was an understatement. Obviously, I had hit the jackpot with my theory, which might be good if it was not that my very own life and my eyeballs that were in danger.

  “Oh my goodness,” 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 flashed the spoon, still sporting that Hannibal Lector smile. “With the unfinished business, you’re doing me 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…

  “Don’t worry, it wouldn’t hurt that much, and it’ll be over in minutes.” Dr. Springer juggled the spoon.

  I froze. It seemed like he wouldn’t let me go.

  Holy crap. I started to hear Freddie Mercury singing 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 here. Yes, I had to get the hell out of here.

  I thought and I thought fast. Here’s Plan A: Mention people such as a private investigator knows where I was and who I was with, just to let him know that he couldn’t simply off me and get away with it. Then again, if I was the killer, I didn’t want to let a person who accused me of murders go. By letting this 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 this one seemed better than Plan A.

  All I needed to do was acting like a certified lunatic. Who would listen to a crazed woman, much less take her words seriously?

  “AAAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!” I started to shriek like a banshee. “I’m hearing voice, I’m hearing voice! I must leave here, right, now. Beelzee-bubb has a devil put aside for meeee!”

  I stood up. “About your previous question: yes, people often tell me that I have 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 was hoping that the part of mentioning the voices had stunned the shrink, and I had earned enough time to escape. In addition, I hate it when they tried to convince me with It’s-not-you-it’s-me logic so I decided to go with It’s-not-me-it’s-them cliché.

  I was expecting something in line of a shock in his part, however, which wasn’t the case.

  He literally 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 that I’ve ever met in my entire career.” He said between fits of laughter, and 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 kill another 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 manage to scare you a little bit and see your response, you know, but you’ve so surpassed my expectations. Anyway, who could have thought that you 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 the both.

  “You can’t blame me. In my line of work, I rarely get to have entertainment on the job.” He shrugged.

  “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 for 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 that you might be the true culprit behind the serial eyeballs poking murders?” I gave out a groan with mixed feelings of a disappointment, annoyance and embarrassment. I made a mental note to myself: wash hands as soon as I’m done with this session.

  “A payback is not my choice of word, I’m afraid. It was more like a trial and observation.” He kept on grinning. “Besides that, you should be grateful, Ms. Kinki. You’re 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 method as a weapon of murder. So 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 the 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 a 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?” I opened my eyes wide with a surprise.

  “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 from getting a grip of little things like trying to alter their appointment times, then they seek special treatments from us, and if you’re not firm or careful, you’ll be sorry. The next thing, you are their little pet a
nd your misery is written in The Nightmares of Mental Health Professionals.”

  Now 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 on patients. Then again, as 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 eyebrows, as if he had to think a lot before uttering another word.

  I looked him expectantly.

  After taking deep breaths and groaning several times, Dr. Springer had finally opened up. “Actually, there was a very disturbing something about my late patient, he had once mentioned about haunting dreams.” He described the details of the dreams and Reynolds’s frustration, confusion and fear that it might have been a reflection of the reality, and his struggle to find a truth about it.

  “Wow…” I gasped, “Assuming that 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 that.” He said bitterly. “At that time, I thought it was merely a byproduct of watching, reading and hearing news of gruesome murders on various media. So after clarifying that in reality, it didn’t happen in his life, I just advised him not to expose himself to violent, murderous, or creepy stuffs; real or virtual. I believed that his dreams were just bad dreams. I had never took his nightmares as something reflected events that had happened in real life. You know what, now it looks like my turn to feel eerie.”

  “Was he worried about the possibility of being a serial killer and he tried to find the truth? Well, it doesn’t make a sense,” I said while I thought. “For one thing, if I deliberately killed someone, I know that I did it and I don’t need to find the truth about whatever I’d committed because...after all, I know if I really killed someone.”

  “I get your point,” he said. “And that’s why I didn’t dig much about his dreams. If he did it, he would have either made a complete confession to me or never had 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 that your diagnosis was right?”

  “None taken,” he said. “I still believe that he is… no, he was not responsible for murders or taking eyeballs out of women. Then again, the alleged suicide note he has left is bugging me. Actually, to be honest with you, I was taken aback when you came here and dropped that particular bomb on me. Still yet, I’m not real comfortable with your theory that someone I don’t know was messing my patient’s mind, possibly using hallucinogenic drugs.”

  “I agree with you,” I nodded. “Suppose someone uses such drugs, does it enable one to brainwash other person more easily?”

  “Hell, yes. But please note that I would never do such an evil thing to my patients. It’s totally against Hippocratic Oath, not to mention it’s a crime against humanity. And believe me, if I was such an evil doctor, I should be a filthy rich retiree in Caymans by now. I don’t even know the victims of Eyeball Snatcher cases, so if I could really brainwash my patients, I’d do something to drive the patients to drain their bank accounts and donate everything to me. That’ll 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 Caymans sounds a better idea than becoming the master of a killing puppet.

  “And did I mention that he was afraid of blood?” Dr. Springer continued.

  “Excuse me? He was afraid of blood?” My eyebrows hit the north.

  “Yes. Maybe you’ve heard of the tragic accident which killed not only his career as a pianist, but his fiancée and unborn baby.” He described the accident.

  “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,” he nodded. “That’s why I oversaw the comments about his bad dreams. I took his dreams just 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.” He shook his head. “I knew that he was using something and I kept on trying to convince him to go to rehab and receive proper treatment regimen that is targeted to addictions. But no, he didn’t even admit that he was destroying his career, his life, and even his soul by using drugs; all he kept on saying was No rehab, please.”

  Dr. Springer looked genuinely disappointed. Frustrated, even; for what he could have done but didn’t. I wanted to tell something comforting to him, but nothing other than sympathetic sounds came out.

  “I don’t know if I could have saved him from his very own self 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 had occurred around him. I don’t believe that he was the evil, cold blooded, perverted serial killer who not only resorted to poking the eyeballs out of them, and murdering them. 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 right now, right here so he can 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 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 that 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 have Greek heritage but they have long been known to be in a typical French marriage in which both parties are engaged in one affair after another with the third parties. That might be a part of the reason for his Kentucky Darby invitation going straight to trash, I suspected.

  “What for?” Archangel said.

  “My remark about your mother. It was insensitive.”

  “No problemo,” he shrugged. “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 are 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 when he ate breakfast I’ve cooked when I was a maid in the island. It was just a basic, no-frills breakfast pancakes, fried eggs, sausages and sautéed tomatoes, but he said that was better than the one he had at a Mandarin Oriental. I never really understood the reason for his initial compliment and just assumed that he was in a mood to hire a personal cook. I now had a gut feeling that it was his unmitigated opinion. It was not a complement for convenience that he could hire just one-woman chef/driver/secretary for a moderate but much cheaper rate than hiring them separately.

  I supposed he had a craving for hom
e 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 her delicious meals, there might have been a better chance that I could be a slim girl.

  “Where’s your chipperness this morning?” Archangel said nonchalantly. “How did your investigation go?”

  I told him about my encounter with the shrink yesterday, except for the part that I acted like a basket case.

  “So, you confirmed that the shrink has nothing to do with this case.” He said.

  “Excuse me, but it sounds like you knew that Dr. Springer was not responsible for either brain washing Yves or killing 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 being an investigator with a badge: too much leg work, time-wasting and ruins your good shoes quickly.”

  “Why don’t you trade your high heels with 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,” he shrugged. “I’ve got a lead which requires some waiting for updates. And I want to be ready for an action at the right time.”

  “Oh really?” I said, half of me was excited with an 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 is the reason for visiting London?”

  “Oh?” I arched my right eyebrow in confusion, hoping some intelligent remarks would pop out of me. Obviously, “giving a lecture” was not the right answer with this context, so I said. “Aside from giving a lecture, you had something related to the current case, right?”