by Lotta Smith
Chapter 22
The assembly was held in a moderate-sized church just three blocks away from Karen’s address. Several dozens of reporters frocked at the entrance, asking questions to anyone with a pulse, trying to squeeze out quotes. They probably intended to use them for nine o’clock news.
I tried to observe those who attended the vigil with as much intensity as possible. Considering that Archangel was so eager to come to this gathering, something should be happening tonight, though I had no idea what that particular something was. Maybe Eyeball Snatcher was discreetly attending the vigil like an innocent well-wisher, secretly laughing at the people praying for something they had no control over.
Many people, including the pastor of the church, the high school principal, teachers, and friends and classmates shared words to the crowd. I wished Karen was there listened to their speeches so she could be assured that everybody loved her and wanted her back unharmed. Even though Karen never mentioned it, she was seriously in need of assurance that she was beautiful and perfect as she was. I was no genius like her, but I had my share of going through high school.
The highlight of the event was the speech by Karen’s mother. It was touching and many people, including myself, had to fish a hankie out of their purse. I knew it’s highly unprofessional to get too emotionally involved with a certain case, but I couldn’t help it. She even offered her daughter a whole summer trip to Disney World. When her husband mentioned that his wife was trying to be funny, she literally smacked Karen’s stepfather square in the nose. Spewing blood from both nostrils, he shouted, “Hey, that’s an assault!” Henderson and the police officer in charge exchanged a few words, and they told the alleged assault victim that no one saw anything. Again, Karen should have been there.
Other than that, it seemed like nothing major or significant was happening. It was a night of prayers that peace, happiness, and normal life be restored to Karen, her family, and the community.
At that moment, I didn’t know it was the fatal night that Frederick Reynolds, a.k.a. Yves, was found dead at his music studio in Arlington, Virginia. He left a suicide note confessing he had murdered Leonie Ganong, Alice Sinclair, and Julia Stewart…
And Karen Andrews.
Chapter 23
Deceptively delicious was everything.
Everything went easily, so smoothly. No one cast doubt.
In retrospect, what happened so unexpectedly and inconveniently turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
No one, not a soul, questioned the legitimacy of Yves’s suicide note confessing to quadruple murders. No one gave a damn about the eyeballs poked out of the victims. When you were caught red-handed and dead, it was hard to argue against the accusation, how wrong and stupid it may be.
It is a solid fact that Frederick Reynolds, a.k.a. Yves, was the serial killer with the notorious nickname ‘Eyeball Snatcher’ who had killed three women and a little girl who could have been a great asset to the entire world.
What a shame.
No one dared to argue with the “fact” that Reynolds was responsible for all the crimes.
His corpse was found in the basement music studio of his house in Arlington. He was found dead sitting at the mahogany bar. Beside his corpse was a note about his fascination with the eyeballs, which ended with “I can’t take it anymore” jotted down on crumpled paper. There was also a kids’ size sock soaked with the blood of Karen Andrews and other incriminating evidence of the murders, such as a victim’s wedding ring. Also, an assortment of illicit drugs—including but not limited to old-fashioned cocaine, heroin, LSD; also newer stuff like bath salt, Smile, etc.—were found by his corpse. Mixed overdose of chemicals was determined to be the cause of death.
It was crystal clear he had committed suicide.
I couldn’t help laughing my head off when I heard the police and the FBI intended to continue to investigate Reynolds’s motives for his crimes, but downsized the task force.
Investigate the motives? Huh. What difference did that make? Could it resuscitate the dead women?
Anyway, everything was fine and dandy with me and my project.
I had finally found and identified her.
I knew it. I knew she could save my loved one and myself.
She was my savior.
She was my Dragon.
More importantly, she was still alive.
She was so full of life.
Unbelievable…
I couldn’t believe it when I first learned about her past. The Bitch.
Initially, I just felt a vague familiarity from the way she gave a hard stare to the camera.
Indeed, it was a hard stare. I thought I saw fire in her eyes.
A fire that screamed of burning anger, dissatisfaction, and desire…
A desire to correct the wrong and make it right.
Now that I learned about her, I had to take her.
Whatever it took, I had to get her.
And she was my Dragon Lady, a.k.a. Kelly Kinki.
Maybe I was in love with her.
Catching her was my game and mission.
You had to enjoy it when you played a game.
I hadn’t yet come across the best method of obtaining her.
But, one thing was sure: We were meant to be together.
Seriously.
She was my destiny.
Chapter 24
Finally, the identity of Eyeball Snatcher was unveiled. After all, it was Frederick Reynolds, a.k.a. the musician known as Yves. The driver’s license of Leonie Ganong’s, Alice Sinclair’s notebook and wedding ring, and Julia Stewart’s wedding band were found by the side of his lifeless corpse. Along with those items was a large butcher knife and a trace of blood was found in the music studio where he was found dead. The knife was determined to be the murder weapon. The blood on the knife matched victims’ DNA.
The young and emerging musician had grabbed all headlines in the worst possible way. He had allegedly killed himself after all the nasty crimes he had committed, without so much as an explanation.
So he left a suicide note, but he didn’t bother to confide the whereabouts of the eyeballs poked out of the victims or Karen. The SOB knew how to be offensive, or what?
All in all, things were not pretty. No, not pretty was an understatement.
Police and the FBI were taking full-blown criticism from all over the nation for failing to arrest Reynolds before he killed himself. Also, Michael Archangel couldn’t dodge his own share of being accused and ridiculed. On top of all that, his consulting contract with the FBI had been revoked.
Bitchtricia Warshawsky, the congresswoman, was having a field day appearing on every talk show to shame Archangel and the FBI publicly. She described Archangel as “a civilian who offers nothing but dressing silly” and accused the FBI for wasting taxpayers’ hard-earned money on a skirt-wearing freak. One middle-aged talk show host with a giant beer belly described Archangel as ‘That worthless creep who claims to be a great detective even though the best he can do is appear like a pathetic faggot,’ and while attending this show, Bitchtricia gave a hearty laugh.
I was so infuriated with their nasty comments, I tried to call the show to make a point that I truly detested his toupee, which he claimed to be his own real hair. But unfortunately, the line was busy with other angry viewers defending LGBT rights and many individuals and groups of gentlemen expressing pride in their English and/or Scottish heritage, and/or the culture of wearing kilts, with/without makeup; that included but was not limited to Axl Rose, who used to wear a kilt during Guns N’ Roses shows decades ago.
Archangel argued that Reynolds was just a convenient scapegoat; that the current turn of events was merely a little piece of a storyline plotted by the true culprit—the mastermind of the crime. There should be someone who framed Reynolds the puppet. Archangel’s theory was partly based on his analysis that whoever committed those horrible murders was a virtuoso of controlling and manipulating others. Considering Reynolds had
allegedly been abusing recreational drugs with psychological effects, he was deemed to be a puppet.
He also appealed that the MO of the case involving Karen was completely different from others. Albeit Reynolds had scribbled that he’d done ‘a horrible thing’ to the girl, her body was not found. Besides that, the amount of her blood on the sock was so little. Those factors seemed like strong indicators someone used Reynolds as a frame.
In my opinion, Archangel’s argument sounded plausible enough to warrant further investigation to nail the true culprit behind the killing spree. But this time, law enforcement didn’t fancy taking a risk to expose themselves to additional ridicule and accusations, like they are wasting taxpayers’ money. So they took the most conservative next step; they declared Reynolds as the murderer of four women, including Karen Andrews. As if the fact that Karen’s status still being ‘missing’ wasn’t important.
Henderson mumbled that it was still possible the feds could re-launch further investigation if anything new supporting Archangel’s point of view came out. His words totally bewildered me. Hello, FBI, isn’t it the law enforcement folks who are supposed to find the evidence? Talk about an injustice. Still, it didn’t help that the alleged murder weapon was covered with Reynolds’s finger prints.
This afternoon, Archangel was summoned to the FBI headquarters on Capitol Hill. I had an eerie feeling about the meeting. When I saw Deputy Director Robert Barlow was with Henderson, I knew it wasn’t good. Barlow told Archangel he was officially sidelined and, after careful evaluation, the feds had reached a conclusion to cancel their contract with him.
Again, Bitchtricia Warshawsky proved her thick skin by crashing the meeting so she could insult her ex-fiancé and discard Archangel’s opinion in person without even giving ears to him. The only upside of the event was that we’d managed to witness the congresswoman getting hit by raw eggs thrown by several onlookers camping outside of the FBI building. The egg-throwing guys wore Lolita-inspired Betsy Johnson dresses and were immediately apprehended on site, but they had done her a favor. Technically speaking, getting egg stains was not kind to the fabric, but an addition of a bright color—yellow, to be precise—practically perked up the otherwise boring and depressing Chanel suit in funeral black.
Later that day following a massive number of angry emails and calls, the office of Patricia Washawsky released a statement in which the congresswoman apologized for her inappropriate choice of words. In addition, she spoke her opinion as an earnest advocate of people’s right to express themselves, regardless of gender, creed, or heritage.
Chapter 25
Archangel’s response to the suspension was subtle. As subtle as a slight raise of an eyebrow. Still yet, it didn’t mean he was blasé about the turn of events.
Since returning to the office, he had been flat on the chaise longue for over two hours. With his arms and legs crossed, he was frowning at the imaginary dust on the ceiling. Did I mention it was a record-breaking silence with him?
To be honest, I was not happy with the circumstances. Hell no, not at all.
I had to do something. I’d had my share of difference with Michael Archangel. He’s sarcastic. His sense of humor is often too wacked out to share a hearty laugh with, and he showed a bad tendency of treating me like a laughing stock now and then. Okay, that was a lot of flaws.
Still, he was never wrong when it came to a criminal investigation.
Besides that, I needed my current job as his personal assistant. Just because he was wealthy didn’t mean he would keep a personal assistant employed, especially when he didn’t need her anymore. Fortunately, his contracts with other domestic and foreign law enforcement were still active. Then again, his reputation needed a facelift in order to keep them.
I hated to be unemployed, and I was getting kind of fond of my current job. I couldn’t just sit around seeing Michael Archangel’s reputation nosedive.
“How about some tea?” I brought in tea and assorted pastries on a tray with a hint of lightheartedness—or at least, that’s the spirit I hoped for—in my voice. I might not be an expert in criminal investigation, but I knew one thing for sure: a nice, hot cup of tea helped a lot when coping with difficulties and hardships life cast your way. I had tea when my ex left me for a new woman, when I encountered ill-mannered paparazzi, and when I obtained an inelegant nickname, which was still sticking to me. Every time, tea and pastries somehow helped me cope with the situation.
“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 depression often come in a cryptic way to those who act fine, and Mom once mentioned that it’s the vivacious and hilarious ones you need to watch 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 if their ex-fiancée called them 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 stuff 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, I don’t care. Whatever happens following their negligence is not my problem.” He snorted.
All right, so he was mad. No, make it pissed-off, and he was POed big time. On top of all that, 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 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. 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 the Kentucky Derby would be just as good.”
“I’ve never seen the 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 I used to see Henderson as a man whom you could trust, someone who fought against the evil and pursued truth so that justice would be served. I’ve even sympathized a little with him when I heard about his divorce. Now it seemed justifiable that his ex-wife ran 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 and licking ass is written in a bureaucrats’ job description,” Archangel muttered. “Don’t take it personally.”
“Still, what happened to his cojones? Where have they gone?”
“I’ve n
o 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 won’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.” Do I know how to be supportive or what?
“A goat?” His eyebrows rose. Casting an alarming glance at his crotch, he grabbed a file from 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, either. Still, I don’t hate him that much. Oh, and don’t put a hex on me, okay?”
“Speaking of body parts, what happened to the eyeballs taken from the victims?” I asked.
“At the moment, it seems like nobody gives a damn about the missing eyeballs. And I bet the feds won’t find even a stray eyeball at Reynolds’s place if they actually tried to locate them.” 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 his so-called suicide note, that doesn’t make sense. When you’re so obsessed with something, it’s hard to part with it, especially when this special something happens 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; 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.”