by Lotta Smith
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I think the body… I mean, her body is missing the eyes?” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
“I can see that, Doctor,” the man in plain clothes with The Simpsons tie said.
“I mean, did you bring them with her?” the doctor asked.
“No, Doc,” the plain-clothed Latino answered, shaking his head.
“So, the eyes are really missing? I mean, as in missing missing, not misplaced?”
“I believe so,” Simpsons confirmed in a serious tone, but when the doctor turned away, he rolled his eyes.
“She’s a substitute,” Henderson stage-whispered to us. “She’s used to dealing with people who die of natural causes, such as cancer, stroke, and heart attack. The former ME suddenly decided to retire in Scottsdale. She happens to the only pathologist in this district available to work temp on short notice.”
“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 the Latino.
“All right.” She nodded. “Now I’m wondering how they’ve gotten out of the orbits.”
“It’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 the missing parts of her body?”
Considering the background of the body’s discovery, her reply sounded plausible to me. My understanding of campsites was that they had 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 to full advantage.
He continued. “Look at the endings of the optic nerve where the eyeballs used to be attached to. The edges are sharp and the 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 had been grilling the temporary coroner stepped aside, Archangel moved forward 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 belong to a human,” Archangel told her. “Generally speaking, wild animals aren’t crazy about table manners.”
“I see, you have a point.” She turned to face him. “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 a genius when it comes to detail orientation and observation.” In Archangel’s 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 as he observed the deceased while the officers in uniforms fed him more details.
I took a quick peek at the deceased and wished I hadn’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 nor did I 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 tissue was not lovely. It was a completely different experience from watching gruesome scenes in TV cop shows. Hell, I was getting really sick.
“Are you okay?” asked Dr. Stewart. She had stepped away from the dissecting table.
“I’m terribly disturbed, but I think I’ll live. Thanks for asking,” I answered, managing not to puke.
“I know,” she sighed. “Disturbing is an understatement. You know, I was totally convinced 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 campsite to die is nice, but it feels better to imagine raccoons or some animals had feasted on that poor dead woman, rather than the depressing possibility that some kind of human freak poked 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 the deceased was murdered?”
“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 has sustained tremendous damage, and 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 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 account that this is 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 their league and confused about criminal investigations as myself. In general, people I encountered in the job were very confident about what they did and who they were, and I was the only clueless tourist.
“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 the 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 rather say adieu to this job than demand a pay increase.”
“Oh, so you’re taking time off for a while, that’s nice,” I
said.
“Nope, I’m saying adios muchachos to medicine, as in forever. 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 the concept of withdrawing from a challenging, albeit lucrative, profession for good—add that little green-eyed monster raising its head for effect. For me, having a serious career that you called your own sounded like a real privilege. Not to mention a profession in which you got to cut people open with scalpels and everything sounded pretty cool.
“Yeah, I know my decision won’t be considered a smart one by everyone, but at least I’m determined to quit and live a little. I’m positive I won’t regret this decision.”
“Wow,” I said, partly because “wow” was the best my clueless-self was able to come up with. “That’s nice.”
“The truth is, it really bothers me I couldn’t even find the stuff the tall guy in a dress had pointed out so easily,” Dr. Stewart admitted.
“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 beat even the most seasoned investigators. Please don’t feel bad about missing something he found first. It could happen 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, when I was still a medical student.” She grimaced. “As soon as I started clinical rotations, I realized I was afraid of catching whatever germs the patients have. In addition, I totally sucked at providing care. I seriously thought about quitting medical school, but listening to my folks proudly bragging about their wonderful ‘doctor’ daughter, I just couldn’t tell them ‘Hey, Mom, Dad, I can’t breathe around sick and potentially sick people, for fear of catching their illnesses and/or misery. Can I quit medical school?’ Anyway, I managed to endure pathology residency mostly because the patients were dead and they didn’t cough, sneeze or vomit. I took this substitute ME position, in hopes of being needed for a change. But nooo, even now I’m as useful as a giant gallstone. So finally, I’ve come to terms with myself and I’m quitting 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 in his or her own way. Her story had me convinced 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. Her brown eyes were 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 kept on chattering until she got summoned back to the corpse and started actual dissecting. We promised to say hi to each other if we ever crossed paths again. As I saw her opening the cadaver’s abdomen and hesitantly taking out the liver, which was measured and weighed by the lab technician, I could assume why she hated her job.
That was the first and last time I ever talked to her.
Chapter 3
That’s it? That’s how I feel?
I was unexpectedly calm.
It was strange.
The shabby alley reeked of stale beer and urine.
I didn’t know how I dared to go there.
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 rattled 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 was peaceful.
Perhaps what I was feeling was…love…
Chapter 4
The next day started normally except Henderson crushed our breakfast.
Just like every day, I got up around seven thirty, groomed myself, and walked to my workplace—the nineteenth-century Greek revival house on Bradley Drive, McLean, Virginia.
I opened the entrance door and 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 the white calla lilies were doing well.
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.
Archangel was already in his full gear—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 the Mr. Coffee and launched into cooking. It wouldn’t require much effort for him to switch the coffee machine on while he got dressed in the wardrobe that involved a miniskirt and heavy makeup. But it was a ritual, and considering I was paying only a hundred bucks a month, utilities included, for the nice, spacious two-bedroom apartment 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. Archangel, who’d been hanging around in the kitchen, answered the phone and I watched his jaw slightly harden as he got the notification another woman’s body—missing the eyes—was discovered in a forest park in Maryland. After disconnecting, he told me Henderson was bringing in further detail of the case, which meant the FBI agent secured his share of breakfast.
Henderson, Archangel and I were gathered 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, which were spread like a patchwork centerpiece. Each photograph featured a bloody corpse minus the eyeballs.
“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. This is a necessary step to illustrate the mode of killing. Anyway, look at the fried eggs.”
“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 appétit.”
I had no idea why I was apologetic.
“Okay, eggs benedict, not fried eggs.” He dug in.
“What’s the latest on the case?” Archangel asked.
“According to the Chief Medical Examiner’s findings,” Hender
son replied, “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. “The point is, the killer compressed the vic’s throat with just enough force 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 his knife on the asparagus in a 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 the hole just like blood filling in the empty eye socket after the eyeball had been poked out.
“This killer’s got a knack for some kind of craftsmanship. He kept his cool while working on the eyeballs. An eyeball is protected by the sclera on the surface. It tends to rupture when handled without caution,” Archangel explained.
“Exactly. On both occasions, the killer poked the eyeballs out of the victims without breaking them. That isn’t easy, especially adding in that the victims were still alive when it happened,” said Henderson, cutting his bacon egg benedict. Unhardened egg yolk ran into the Hollandaise sauce, and he dipped the above mentioned abused asparagus into the mixture of egg yolk and sauce, savoring 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.
Richard Henderson was in his forties. As long as I’d known him, he was always wearing a dark suit and his hair was set in the same Ivy League style.
In general, Henderson didn’t exhibit much facial expressions other than stern-faced scowling. He had an extremely serious exterior whenever he was surprised, pissed off, disappointed, and relatively-happy. I assumed a part of the reason for his demeanor was his line of work, where showing emotions was often frowned upon.