The Mind’s Eye

by Perry Prete

  "Yup. You know those flyers you get in the mail every week, the ones where you have to bend the card stock then tear off the coupon. As soon as I saw this, I had to bring you in."

  "This why I was called? The similarity to my arm case?" Again, Roz replied with, "Yup. You got lead again." Paul stood, "Techs all done?" Roz nodded.

  "So why didn't the arm get taken or removed?" Paul asked.

  "No clue but take a look at this." Roz pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, tapped the screen a few times and held it out beside the dead girl's arm. "I had the office email me a pic of your first vic's arm. Take a close look at the edge of the skin on her arm and then take a look at my vic on the floor." Paul squinted at the phone screen; he enlarged the picture with his thumb and index finger until he noticed something that had eluded him for months. "Fuck. I can't believe we missed this all this time." He bent low and looked at the dead girl's shoulder again. "There it is. The same circular, evenly spaced marks on the dead girl's shoulder was almost unnoticeable on the arm from the snow bank. You think the freezing and decomp affected the skin and made those tiny marks hard to find? The torn skin only shows a few sections where the small holes are. I never saw any pictures of the arm after it thawed out. I missed those marks all this time."

  Roz pocketed her phone, "Whatever the reason, those same marks are on both arms. My biggest concern is if it was the same perp, why didn't he or she take the arm. And talk about overkill. This girl wasn't just killed, I mean shit, she was killed ten times over. And why start, then stop?"

  "Excuse me, detectives." A masked androgynous person clad in white Tyvek coveralls from head to foot, interrupted their conversation, "I thought you should see this." He held out a plastic Ziploc bag with prescription bottles inside, "They were all opened, and the pills tossed all over the bathroom. It's like someone was pissed and scattered them all over. We're picking them all up now; we'll separate them, count them and see if the pill counts are out." As he went to leave, Paul stopped him, "Do you know what the meds were for?"

  The technician looked at the meds, "Taxol, Methotrexate and a ton of vitamins, B, D and C. Methotrexate is for arthritis I think. Not sure what Taxol is for."

  Roz was already tapping wildly on her phone, "How do you spell that first one you mentioned?"

  "T-A-X-O-L."

  Roz lowered the phone, "Taxol. Breast cancer. Our vic has had breast cancer." She looked down at the woman lying dead on the floor then up at Paul, "You think whoever did this left her because she had cancer?"

  Paul shook his head back and forth, "I have no clue what goes through someone's mind when they do something like this. I thought I had a grasp of what these guys think, but this is just vicious. You think he scooped out the girl, broke into the house, found the meds, realized she had cancer then did this?" He looked up at Roz who had a puzzled look on her face.

  "Any more surprises for me?" Paul asked. Before Roz could answer,

  Paul continued to ramble, "Fuck. I wish I hadn't asked for lead. I've had nothing, no clues, leads, jack shit in months and the stress is killing me." Paul composed himself and continued, "Bad analogy, sorry, I'm still better than...," Paul realized he still had no information on the girl laying on the floor at his feet.

  "Abigail Schneider, twenty-three, lives alone, rental house, no pets, works for some IT company as a programmer. We're calling family and friends now. We're going around the neighborhood asking if anyone saw anything."

  Paul composed himself, "Security system?"

  "None. And, we can't find a landline phone or her cell phone. Guess it was taken too."

  "How did we get this one?"

  "She was supposed to be at work at six. Apparently, she's never late, and the boss was concerned considering her health. Called 911 and here we are. Hey, did you figure out how the other girl had her arm ripped off ?"

  "It takes three thousand pounds of shearing strength to rip an average arm from the torso. We think we figured out why we didn't find any ligature marks on the skin. The medical examiner thinks the body was frozen, body secured to something heavy, then a rope wrapped around the wrist or arm and a pulley or some type of hydraulic press attached to the arm. They tried it on pigs than a cadaver. But those holes punched into the skin are a new twist. We found it was easy to dislocate an arm by twisting it back really hard. If there's a will, there's a way."

  Roz had a look of disgust on her face, "You had to do all that?" "Christ no. I'd toss my cookies. M.E. did the tests and sent me the results. But the tiny holes in the skin means we have to revisit the whole concept of what was done and how."

  "Our M.E.? The girl? She did the test?" Roz asked. Paul smiled, "No fucking way I'd do it."

  *****

  Nicole opened her eyes, her mind still in a haze from the night before. It was an unfamiliar sight as she looked up from the floor. She reached up, grabbed the bedspread and pulled herself up off the floor to a seated position. Her head was pounding, she was nauseated and felt as though she would vomit any moment. A few deep breaths later, she felt well enough to stand. She stood, closed her eyes tightly shut hoping it would stop her head from spinning. One slow step after the other, she made her way to the washroom, turned on the water and pulled the plastic shower curtain closed behind her. The hot water cascaded off her back to the tub floor below. Nicole's stomach gurgled, she shrugged her shoulders and vomited whatever was left in her belly. Her throat burned from the stomach acid that was forced out. Nicole opened her mouth under the hot shower as it sprayed down upon her and spit. She repeated this several times until she couldn't taste anything anymore.

  She pulled the shower head from the holder, stepped back and cleared the bottom of the tub and watched as her stomach contents swirled down the drain. She used her foot to kick the larger pieces that refused to budge under the water pressure and felt her stomach turn again. This time, there wasn't anything more to expel. She heaved a few times, hoping that if she were going to vomit, it would happen. Nothing. She replaced the shower head, adjusted the angle, sat at the back of the tub, pulled her legs in close and curled up tightly and fell asleep under the spray of the warm water.

  *****

  Paul leaned forward from his chair at his desk, his head resting on his forearms, eyes closed as he tried to get a few moments of rest. His head had been pounding since he left the Medical Examiner's office a few hours earlier and after seeing Abigail's body on the stainless-steel table, he had lost his appetite. He popped a few Advil, closed his eyes and waited for the meds to take effect.

  The phone on his desk continued to ring, but the only phone he wanted to hear was his cell phone which was plugged in and only a few inches from his keyboard. As he sat there, he wondered if he should return the call that he missed four months earlier then again at the dead girl's house. He played several phone conversations scenarios in his head, and none of them ended in his favour. Paul kept his face buried in his folded arms as the office world continued to unfold around him. He criticized himself for not calling back so many months earlier. Paul had no one else to blame for his current situation, and he wanted there to be someone he could yell at who he thought was the root cause of his current state. Instead, the life of the office continued around him, he heard the conversations but cared little about what was being said.

  Paul's stomach made noise that reminded him of a small dog growling. He didn't have an appetite, but his stomach was telling him that it still needed to be fed. Blindly, he reached across his desk, fumbled for the thermal mug of stale coffee, raised his head and chugged whatever was left at the bottom of the mug, then lowered his head again. The sounds of the small dog in his stomach stopped growling at him, for now. Paul wanted to find a way to erase any part of his mind that stored the images of the dead girl he saw this morning.

  Ding. Paul's laptop made a familiar sound. He knew what that noise meant, more email. The last thing he wanted to see. Ding. Ding. Ding.

  The noise continued several more times, and Paul r
efused to look at the screen until it stopped. That many emails at once could certainly only be one thing, photos from the autopsy completed on Abigail Schneider, grisly, disgusting pictures of indignities performed on a human body in the name of justice. It was the single most horrific part of the job that he hated the most. It didn't matter what happened to the person before they died, it was nothing compared to an autopsy. The insidious "Y" incision starting at the clavicles, across the chest and down the abdomen, the skin gets peeled back resting over the arms, the ribs are snapped with massive stainless-steel shears along both sides, midpoint between the sternum and the spine, twisted back and forth to release the attachment at the sternal notch and pulled out only to be cast aside like a section of beef ribs ready for the barbeque over a beer and football game. Each organ: heart, lungs, liver, spleen, stomach, intestines, bladder, kidneys, all removed in order, examined, weighed, cross sections taken for evidence until all that was left was a cavernous hollow. Then the scalp is cut horizontally above the ears, the skin pulled forward over the face, and a bone saw cuts through the skull until a cap is removed exposing the brain. Again, like the other organs, the brain is removed, examined and weighed. What is left is nothing of the person who was. After the autopsy was completed, the organs were placed in a large yellow biohazard tub, labeled and readied for disposal. The rib plate replaced, and the skin sewn closed with a large needle and a twine type suture. Paul shuddered at the thought of seeing those pictures of the young girl who lay on the hardwood floor this morning. Yesterday at this time, he assumed, death was the last thing on Abigail's mind.

  Paul had a lot of questions about life, none that were answered by either of his parents. His mother was a nun in her previous life before she left the convent. He grew up in a religious household, God fearing, church going but lost his faith as a young man, too many questions about life and death to believe a God would allow or permit atrocities to be committed against man. Paul's head remained lowered for several minutes after the last "ding" informing him the emails had ceased. He sat upright, held the mouse with a firm grasp, like a standing person holds the overhead bar on a moving bus, and clicked on the email attachments. He printed each picture on standing paper in vivid color and without looking at them, slid them into the folder with the crime scene folders of this morning's attack. He took a deep breath and walked around the squad room, asking any of the other detectives if there had been any more leads during the canvas of the neighborhood or if Abigail's phone had been located.

  "No one saw or heard anything. Sorry, bud. Wish I had better news. The guy seems to be a ghost. No one saw him enter the house or leave. No sign of her phone either." The detective rummaged through some papers, read the notes and added, "Spoke to her family doctor. She did have breast cancer, recently diagnosed. Prognosis was good. Doc said she still had a long way to go but was getting better."

  *****

  Simone and Nicole sat in the coffee shop sipping tea to help subdue Nicole's sour stomach. They sat at the table closest to the washroom in case Nicole had to vomit again. When Nicole tilted the white paper cup back, Simone noticed the dark circles under her eyes.

  "I'm glad you called me today hon, you do look like shit. Are you sure you should be out today? Maybe you should spend a few more hours in bed?"

  With shaking hands, Nicole lowered the cup to the table and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I needed to get out of the house. Thanks for coming with me, didn't want to be alone."

  "You sure you got sick from overusing your ability?" Simone finished her tea and shook the cup double-checking it was empty. "I mean, this has never happened before," she offered.

  Nicole put her hand to her forehead, "It's not like this ability comes with a manual. I was fine when I got home and woke up in pain. I was super sick this morning, and then a few hours ago, I started feeling like my guts were being ripped out from my chest and this headache." She touched her forehead, running a finger just above her eyebrows. "Then, everything just stopped. I don't get it. The pain is gone, but I'm exhausted. I feel like someone beat the shit outta me and when I was down, kept kicking me."

  Simone reached out and covered Nicole's hand with her own. She squeezed gently, "Honey, you know I'm here for you, but I think it's time you go see a doctor."

  Nicole turned her hand over and held onto Simone's fingers, "And tell them what, I developed physic abilities and it gave me a brain tumour." They both chuckled.

  "Don't be so pessimistic. How about, you started having debilitating headaches and suggest a Cat Scan or an MRI? Besides, I think once you tell him about the sudden headaches, you'll get a CT or MRI anyway."

  "I'm feeling a lot better now. Really. I may not look like it, but I am. All the pain is gone. I just need rest," Nicole paused, "and company. I don't want to be alone. I can't be alone. It's too scary."

  Simone stood, shook the two paper cups, making sure they were empty, tossed them in the trash, and helped Nicole to her car. Nicole was buckled in on the passenger side, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep as Simone drove. Simone glanced at her resting friend, reached across, took hold of Nicole's hand, and held it tightly. With her eyes still closed, Nicole smiled softly and squeezed Simone's hand. She interlaced her fingers with Simone's and felt at ease.

  *****

  The three detectives stood in the squad room, leaning against the fabric-covered partitions between desks and went over the case details with Paul Hammond. It was nothing more than a re-hash of the details they had from earlier in the day with the exception of Abigail's activities from the previous day.

  "Abigail was at a party last night. Her friends took her there, sat with her, never left her side and brought her home early. They said she was weak and tired, didn't have anything to drink, didn't socialize with anyone she didn't know, didn't give out her number, take anyone's number, didn't text or call anyone while at the party. She had her fortune read or something like that by a palm reader," Ken Simmons looked at his notes, "actually, a picture reader. Whatever the fuck that is. Anyway, her friends just wanted her to get out of the house and be with other people. Abigail was still trying to hold on to some sort of routine, she still worked, even though her doctors told her to quit. She was supposed to go in today to work on some special project which is one reason why she didn't drink and went to bed early."

  Paul checked his notes, "Did she meet anyone, do anything out of the ordinary?"

  Dan Levy shook his head, "Nadda. Brave kid, though. Some of her friends just thought she had the flu or something, didn't even know she had cancer. She only told those closest to her she had breast cancer and was trying to just have a normal life."

  Paul sighed deeply, "Did the psychic tell her about her illness or did they miss that one?" He laughed loudly.

  "Never bothered to ask about that," Dan admitted. "You want me to look into it?"

  Paul gave Dan a look of disdain, "Really, as if we don't have other leads to follow up than to ask a psychic what they saw in the future for our vic?"

  "Ah, Paul, at this point, we don't have any more leads," he offered.

  Paul realized the investigation had nowhere else to go at this point. "K.

  Interview as many of the guests as possible. See if anyone was paying any special attention to Abigail before she left. You know, some guy not taking "No" for an answer. Maybe an old boyfriend that didn't want to let go? Talk to that psychic too. See what he or she said."

  Ken looked down at his notepad, "She, not he. Nicole Blake."

  "K. Nicole Blake. Find her, interview her and find out what she and the other guests know." As the other detectives turned to leave, Paul continued, "And if you don't get a lead, see if the psychic will do a card reading to help with a few clues."

  "Pictures you a-hole, pictures. Not cards."

  "Whatever." Paul flipped his hand in the air, turned and went back to his desk. He was clearly on edge by the lack of process, and the stress was starting to show.

  *****

  Si
mone sat Nicole on the couch in her living room, covered her with a blanket and went to make dinner. As Simone walked away, she looked back at her friend pulling up the blanket close around her neck, and for the first time saw her as something different. Simone was worried Nicole might be sick and she decided that if these headaches continued, she would force Nicole to get that scan. Every few minutes, Simone would peek around the corner from the kitchen to check on her resting friend.

  Even though Nicole did not eat much, she tried to convince Simone she was feeling better. So, well, in fact, Nicole promised Simone that she would be at work the next day. Simone countered that Nicole needed more rest.

  They playfully argued back and forth, as they ate until Simone noticed her friend was almost back to herself again.

  A knock at the kitchen door interrupted the two girls as they sat at the table. Simone went to the apartment door, pulled the curtain back and saw two men in suits standing before her.

  "Police mam'." The men stood, stone-faced, attempting to look the part of the serious cops on the job. Simone closed the curtain, paused for a moment, wondering why they were at her house, unlocked the door and greeted them, "Can I help you?"

  Dan Levy tried to be polite and smiled, it was a challenging smile, obviously forced, "We're looking for Nicole Blake. We understand you may know where her whereabouts?" Another forced fake smile. Simone thought the detective's face might crack at any moment.

  "Can I ask why you want to talk to her?"