The Mind’s Eye

by Perry Prete

  As Nicole felt her stomach contract and force its contents up and out, she was happy that she hadn't lost all compassion for the victims and that she was still sickened by what she had seen. As the second wave of nausea hit her, a gentle hand was placed on her back. She opened her eyes as she was bending over the sink and saw Paul's feet standing beside hers. This man she went out to dinner with the night before and had sex with after was comforting her as she vomited in his sink. She was oddly happy.

  Blindly, Nicole reached above her head and turned on the tap and washed the vomit down the drain then rinsed her mouth several times. "I hope this won't clog the sink. I'm so sorry."

  She heard Paul laugh out loud as she was still leaning over the sink, "That's why they invented Draino. Don't worry about it." He placed a tea towel over her shoulder as she stood.

  "I must look just lovely."

  Paul took the tea towel from her shoulder and wiped the corners of her mouth, "I'd kiss you right now but honestly, your breath is fucking bad."

  Nicole laughed and fell into Paul's arms and hugged him. She held him tightly, then pulled back, and cleared her throat, "Let's finish this. What do you want to know?" Nicole took her seat.

  Paul sat across from her. He made sure his phone was still recording, "Tell me everything you saw."

  Nicole began to tell Paul every detail of the vision she had of the man stuffing the torso into the suitcase. When she was done, Paul pat himself down, realized he didn't have a pen or his notebook, found his jacket and got what he needed.

  "Tell me again where he grabbed the body?" he asked. "What did his arms look like?" He scribbled notes and continued to bombard Nicole with questions. "You said there was a belly button stud. I don't recall any. What color did you say?"

  "Around the waist. There was a stud, purple I think. Is that the birthstone for February? Anyway, I'm not sure what type of stone it was, but it was purple."

  "Where did you say he grabbed her?" Paul asked again.

  "Waist." They were almost talking over each other to get everything out. "Was it a stud or a ring?"

  "What?"

  "The belly button ring, was it a captive or barbell?"

  "Barbell."

  "His arms. Tell me about his arms, tattoos, hair, skin color? Anything special or different?"

  "Light skin, pale almost, thin, not a lot of hair, no tattoos, no moles. I think but..."

  Paul interrupted, "His nails, what about his nails?"

  "What about his nails?"

  "Did he bite his nails?" Paul never took his eyes off his notepad.

  "No. Wait, I think so. Is that important?"

  "It is. It tells something about his habits, grooming, and it's a dead giveaway, especially since we don't know what he looks like. Yet."

  The barrage of questions continued for several minutes until Paul was satisfied he had every last detail documented. Paul slouched in his chair. "It was unbelievable. We know more now than we ever have before."

  Nicole was surprised, "From that? I doubt I gave you much information." Paul tapped his notebook, "For starters, we had suspected the unsub was white, but now we know, you told us he was thin, dark hair, doesn't have a lot of hair on his arms, a nail biter, and where he touched the body. I'm texting Dan to tell him where we can attempt to lift prints from the body. Chances are we won't get anything off the body, but at least it's an opportunity that we didn't have before. And now we know where to look."

  Nicole was stunned, "You can get someone's fingerprints off of human skin?"

  Paul knew a little about forensic science from spending time with the techs at crime scenes, "We can if we can figure out where to look and it's done soon enough after contact. I seriously doubt in this case we'll get lucky, but at least we know where to look and keep our fingers crossed."

  He took a bite from a piece of dried toast and tapped his notepad with the end of his pen. He forced down the piece of bread, coughed, got up and went to the sink to get a glass of water to clear his throat. He stood, leaning against the counter, "You up for another vision?"

  Nicole shook her head, sighed deeply and grabbed the next photo on the pile.

  Paul was still standing, "You sure? If this is too much, you don't have to do this, you know." Paul's voice showed concern for Nicole. There was silence as they looked at each other. Nicole turned away, picked up the next photograph, flipped it over but didn't look at it.

  "Whenever you're ready."

  Paul took his seat across from Nicole, pushed his plate to the side and had his pen handy to take notes. They looked at each for a few moments, then Nicole stared down at the photograph and closed her eyes.

  *****

  The thin man sat at the table, a coffee cup to his right, the newspaper spread across the table before him. He flipped the pages back and forth, looking for headlines, for stories about what he had done. He was oddly concerned that the details of his deeds went unreported. He enjoyed reading about what he had done and seeing if the details were correct. So far, little of what he had done made the papers.

  He reached for his cup of coffee, his hand fell forward and past the cup. The back of his hand striking the cup, knocking it over, spilling coffee across the smooth surface of the table, as his vision went blurry, his head swimming in imagery. Flashes of things he had never seen, a place he had never been blinded him. He was in his kitchen, but he was somehow now seeing a place strange to him. He closed his eyes, opened them again but the same strange kitchen was in his mind. He turned his head, but the scene didn't move with him. He rubbed his eyes, opened them again, but nothing changed. He stood, his head swimming with images and a stranger before him. He yelled out loudly, spun around blindly, the image never changing perspective. He struck the counter, lost his balance and fell to the floor, but as he fell, the image didn't fall with him. He was on the floor, blind with a vision in his head that wouldn't leave him.

  The image turned, and he was now facing a strange man with dark hair who was talking, his mouth moving, but he couldn't hear the words. He reached for the man, but his hands never appeared in his vision. He waved his arms like a man flagging down a passing car. It did no good. Nothing changed. His sight remained on the strange man. The image began to blur, the orientation slowly drifted down and went to black. His eyes were open, yet he saw black. He thought he had gone blind.

  Light slowly filtered in from the sides until the familiar sight of his kitchen cabinet replaced the strange image of what he had been seeing. His vision returned, seeing things that belonged, things he knew, things he understood.

  He grabbed hold of the counter and pulled himself up. Standing in his kitchen now, he suddenly felt nauseous and bent over the sink and vomited. He felt a hand on his back, someone comforting him, he looked down and thought he saw a man standing beside him. He stood up, spun around to confront the stranger, but he was alone. He turned around in the kitchen, thinking the stranger moved faster than he could react. He turned back the other way, still nothing. He ran to the living room, down the hall, nothing. Adrenaline spilt from kidneys, a rush went through him and raced to the front door. He grabbed the handle and twisted; it was locked, the deadbolt still firmly latched from the inside.

  For the first time in his life, regardless of anything he had done, he was now questioning his sanity. He placed his thumbnail under teeth and began to bite hard. Tiny shards of nail broke off, he spit them out, but he continued to chew, he could taste blood, but that didn't stop his compulsion.

  *****

  Almost two hours later, Nicole sat at the table, exhausted, barely able to stay awake. She had examined all the photographs Paul brought and described the visions that filled her head. The images frightened her, but she persevered through each horrific scene. Each photo brought another image of the dead girl and the man behind the wheel, but none of them revealed any new information about the identity of the thin man or the dismembered girl in the suitcase.

  Nicole rubbed and closed her eyes against the bri
ght overhead light sending a dull ache flowing across her forehead, "Can I take a nap?"

  Without saying a word, Paul stood and took Nicole by the arm, helping her stand. With her eyes still closed, she blindly reached around, took hold of Paul's hand, squeezed it tightly as he led her to the bedroom. He sat her on the edge of the bed, removed her shoes, laid her down as she instinctively curled up in the fetal position for comfort. Paul pulled the comforter over her, kissed the top of her head, shut off the lights and closed the door as he walked out.

  Paul went to the living room, laid down on the couch, rubbed his eyes, then placed both arms behind his head, deciding an hour of sleep was well deserved. Paul could feel his mind drifting, images of the dead girl in the suitcase began to slip in and out of his thoughts as he began to fall asleep. He shifted his position on the couch hoping his mind would release it's hold of the murder scene. Instead, his mind filled with the various photographs he had taken and the sight of the milky white pelvic bone pushing against the old green lining of the suitcase, sent waves of nausea through him. Paul squirmed as he thought about what it would take to dismember a young girl and hoped she was dead long before the killer decided to remove her limbs. And her head. Paul clenched his teeth and felt the pressure of his jaw biting hard as he thought about how she died. The room was white, sterile white. A bright light came from all directions eliminating all the shadows. Paul saw the thin armed man place his hand on the girl's forehead and with a sharp curved knife, cut into her skin just above where the collar bones meet the sternum. The blade sunk into the skin and began to separate the tissue. Blood oozed out from the incision. No, he thought. If the wound bled, she would be alive; she was dead, she had to be dead. Paul hoped the girl was dead before she was dismembered. His mind went into reverse, the knife cut into the skin, but this time, there was no blood. The knife plunged deeper into the wound cutting through the esophagus and trachea, the arteries and when the thin man reached the spine, he sawed at the neck, cutting between the vertebrae, separating the neck from the body. The thin man pulled the head back and cut the skin at the back of the neck. He grasped the girl's hair and lifted the head up high. The eyes were open, looking forward, seeing nothing. As the thin man held the head up, he looked down to see the headless body at his feet.

  The body would have to be cleaned somehow, placed in a shower, hosed down, even in death, there would be fluids dripping, leaking from the areas where the limbs and head were removed. Blood and other body fluids would drain. How long would it take to drain a body of all it's fluids? Otherwise, the body would lose any fluids from the core and fill the suitcase. Paul imagined a side of beef hung from a hook in a cooler as it bled out. Was the victim killed days before and hung to let the fluids drain before being disposed of like garbage? That was a question for the coroner.

  Paul pulled one arm out from behind his head and looked at his watch. He stretched out, yawned and sat on the end of the couch. He went to the bedroom, cracked the door open to see Nicole still sleeping in his bed. Twenty-four hours ago, he couldn't imagine having a girl in his bed again; now he was letting her sleep while he went back to work.

  *****

  Paul stood alone in the medical examiner's office, looking over the autopsy table. The girl's torso found in the suitcase lay on the stainless-steel table, with nothing to rest on the black rubber head block. The open sections around each armpit, the neck and legs were now apparent. Normally, fluids would leak from the body and drain through the tiny holes in the table and disappear somewhere below. Paul never questioned where the fluid went, and he didn't want to know.

  Paul hunched low, slowly walked around the table and peered into the sections of the body where the limbs and head were removed. He kept his hands behind his back, fingers interlaced, to quell the urge to reach inside and touch the soft tissue around the openings. He examined the skin around the openings and was amazed how clean the edges of the wounds were. The skin was cut cleanly, no hesitation marks, no sign skinny arms, if it was skinny arms who did this, thought twice about what he was doing. He was oddly impressed at the skill involved to surgically cut through a body without hacking at it.

  "Nice job, huh?"

  Paul knew the voice of the medical examiner. He remained bent forward;

  his focus remained on the body and wounds.

  "This guy is a surgeon or should be. He has skill."

  Paul stood, turned to see the medical examiner. She was young and beautiful, unlike the cliché coroners on TV that are usually grumpy old men with total disregard for the living.

  "I bet she was a looker. I mean look at that alabaster skin," she ran her gloved finger along the side of the torso, "smooth, no blemishes. I doubt this girl had a zit anywhere on her body in her entire life."

  Paul grimaced at the thought of touching the body with such a sensual touch. "Maura, that is disgusting."

  Maura laughed off Paul's comments, "I appreciate the human body in all forms, alive or dead. The body is a marvelous machine, complex yet simplistic in its design, strong and often delicate. This is one delicate girl. I hate seeing victims on my tables; it makes me wonder how one person could possibly hurt another."

  "You picked an odd choice of careers," Paul offered.

  Maura walked around the table, her gaze never leaving the torso on the table. "On the contrary. I've always found it fascinating why we simply can't keep someone alive when an organ fails or is invaded by mutated cells? What causes the body to change and turn on itself? What causes the cascade of system failures as one organ is damaged, or malfunctions and the body compensates to keep it alive? Why can't we take the brain from one person, put it into another body and retain the essence of who that person was alive?"

  Paul began to chuckle as Maura ranted about the anatomy and physiology of life, never once taking her eyes off the torso. "If memory serves, there was another doctor who thought the same as you."

  Maura slowly pulled her stare away from the body to look at Paul, "And who might that be?"

  "I believe they called him Dr. Victor Frankenstein." They both laughed. "That's so funny you mention that. That was my favorite book as a kid.

  Mary Shelley, the author, was a visionary. It is an original story. There was nothing like it at the time. Do you know the history behind Frankenstein?" Paul didn't want to get into this conversation but shook his head indicating he hadn't. He realized shortly after that he had made a mistake. He placed his hand on the cold stainless-steel autopsy table to support himself then quickly pulled his hand away and wiped imaginary germs on his jacket while Maura went on one of her famous long rants.

  "Did you know that the book was written because of a bet?" Paul shook his head again.

  "It's true. Three authors made a bet who could write the scariest story or something about two-hundred years ago, well maybe not that long ago, but it was a fuck of a long time ago. Anyway, Mary Shelly wrote this thing when she was in her twenties, I think. Pretty original for the time when the thought of transplants didn't even exist. Frankenstein is not the name of the monster you know but the man who created him. The monster was referred to "it" or "thing" but never had a name. It was only after that the public started to associate the monster as Frankenstein. Can you imagine the ideas floating around in that young girl's head at a time when women didn't even have the right to vote?"

  "Yeah." Paul was trying not to show how annoyed he was.

  "Now my favorite movie about Frankenstein had to be "Young Frankenstein". Have you seen it?" Paul nodded hoping Maura would stop talking. "Wasn't that a great movie? I mean, you take something as scary as the original story and turn it into one of the funniest movies of all time." Maura hunched over and let one arm swing loosely, and with a lisp, she attempted to imitate the actor who played Igor or I-Gor as it was pronounced in the movie, "Walk this way," and proceeded to walk around the autopsy table laughing. Paul had a faint smile on his face in case she looked up to see him. He didn't want Maura to think he didn't enjoy her perform
ance, which he didn't.

  As Maura performed her best Igor impersonation, Paul wondered how Maura ever graduated from medical school. She made one full lap around the table, stood before Paul and began to laugh so hard she started to cry. "I'm so sorry." Maura wiped away a tear from laughing so hard. "I just love that movie."

  "I can see that." Paul stood in front of Maura as she composed herself after her performance. "Anyway, can I go over the body with you?"

  Maura wiped her eyes, walked around to the opposite side of the table, donned a fresh pair of nitrile gloves and placed both hands on the girl's belly, "Young, early twenties, cause of death is indeterminate at the moment. She may have died from a variety of things: drug overdose, decapitation, could be suicide by a variety of means. She may have ingested something, cut her wrists, until we run toxicology, check her stomach contents, blood work, if there's any blood left, do some X-rays, maybe a CT-scan, we won't know a thing. All I can tell you at this very moment is that there is no way to determine C.O.D. without more tests. She could've died from natural causes and then she was cut up. There isn't a mark on this body other than she's missing a few parts." Maura stood back and glared at Paul. "We don't have fingerprints, and without the head, we have no idea what she looks like, or teeth to run dental."

  Paul shook his head. His gaze never left the body on the table, "DNA?" "Already took a sample. I'll send it off but it's gonna be a few months before we get a result and unless she's already in the system, we won't get a hit. Once I cut her open, I'll know a lot more than I do now. Hey, did you ever get a DNA hit on that arm?"

  Paul simply shook his head. He had always hated it when the medical examiners used that term, "Cut her/him open" like a roast at Sunday dinner. "Keep me posted," he asked.