by Maria Siopis
His mind was rushing, schismatic at times, darting from one thought to the other. He was ecstatic and rapturous at the turn of events. He was thankful for the Italian professors, Cerletti and Bini, who invented the ECT and used it in the second half of the twentieth century. Their first patient, who was unresponsive to any other cure and was in a comatose state after treatment, declared, “What the fuck are you assholes trying to do?” Or was it an anecdote? It didn’t matter. They gave him the idea to search deeper, and he was confident that he would go to the top as the dream of the Nobel prize captured his thoughts.
The US Food and Drug Administration approved the device after all the compliances were met, safety and testing were completed to their satisfaction, and the enforcement of Acts was fully finalized. All the leg work was done and now, it was up to the mental health professionals to endorse it and suggest it to their patients. He knew he had won half the battle. The months ahead would indicate the extent of his success. He was almost certain the sky was the limit. Dr. Taylor had made it at last.
Chapter Nine
December 1, 2017
One more stop and Andrea was done for the night. She parked her car two blocks away from the patient’s house, and although the equipment was heavy, she didn’t mind. She had to be careful. She walked the distance at a fast pace, looking around to make sure no one saw her. And when the most appropriate moment came, she knocked on the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Davis.” She politely asserted, still holding the heavy equipment, “I’m sorry for the delay. It’s so busy in the office. I can never leave before it’s dark out,” she continued as she searched outside with her peripheral vision. She needed to be cautious in case anyone spotted a suspicious behavior and her plot was uncovered.
“Please, come in.” Mrs. Davis moved to the side. “Are you wearing your gloves already?”
“Yes, because I need to protect the equipment. It’s sensitive,” she explained and easily fooled Mrs. Davis. “I also brought these pills for you to take before the discharge. I talked to the doctor, and he concurred that the intensity of treatment is too much to take without the help of painkillers. It’s easier, and I tried it myself, although we have to wait until they take effect.”
Entice her slowly, the beast within demanded. Or was it her own mind? The thrill made her shiver with anticipation, and she could no longer restrain her desires; they were overflowing and taking over. The unerring need was splitting her chest in two. She had never dreamed the pull would be that great.
“Mrs. Davis, you have to relax. I’ll be right here. I’m just preparing the machine.” She hoped the pills had taken effect already as the beast was screaming at her.
She waited, feigning rearranging the machine and calling Mrs. Davis’ name a few times. When there was no response, the beast laughed happily, or was it her humming the sounds of ecstasy? She peered into the bedroom. Mrs. Davis was out, and she looked at her closely to ensure she fit the profile. Yes, she did. The first blond would enter His kingdom shortly. She walked beside her, thinking the task of removing the clothes the hardest. The riotous thoughts were dominating now as she was undressing Mrs. Davis, and they were screaming for complete obliteration. She ignored them and hunted in her purse for the instrument.
She kissed it and then, she began the incision from the belly button upwards. The smell of blood hit her nostrils and she inhaled until no more air could be taken in. Mrs. Davis flickered her eyelashes, trying to overcome the heaviness. Her attempt was almost fruitless.
“Let it go. Let it go,” Andrea whispered as her vocals vibrated.
The last breath came, and that was the moment of pure elation. Oh, she wished she could paint her face and make her pretty, but her contact was obstinate with his orders: no paint and only one incision. The beast was quiet now, satisfied and gloating until the next time. She sensed that it had to be soon as time was running out.
Chapter Ten
December 2, 2017
Fiona stretched in her bed as a lopsided smile crossed her face. She turned her head toward the clock on the night stand and realized that it was still early. She should sleep more, forget all about the weird dreams that came and went and the avaricious thoughts that kept her up. Yet, she could not shake the feeling that something big was coming with the velocity of a tsunami wave. She knew that her actions were imperative, so she re-examined all possible angles of the case, and she re-interviewed probable sources of information. Nevertheless, every minuscule lead led nowhere, and the attacks had stopped. Not that she wished for more violence, but over time, the attackers usually became egotistical, cocky, and arrogant—she could go on and on with more epithets—and usually they became careless and made mistakes. She hoped that the single piece of evidence that was overlooked by the CSI team and discovered by Sophie was the mistake.
Sophie found a pizza box in the oven of their third victim’s home with the receipt attached to the lid. Why did she look in the oven? What had triggered her curiosity? Fiona was so excited at this find that she didn’t even ask. They called CSI in again to examine the box. They hadn’t retrieved it from the oven to avoid contamination and preserve any proof the box might contain. Indeed, when the chemical solution was sprayed on it, the clarity of the prints came into full view. They wished that some of the prints belonged to the attacker, but they both knew they might be disappointed. Not even a partial fingerprint was discovered in the previous two murders. Could the killer be that careless?
In any case, CSI placed the box in an evidence bag and transported it to the labs where a microscopic analysis revealed they were unidentified prints. They didn’t belong to anyone who had handled the box or anyone in the police database. On the other hand, making a colossal mistake at only the second crime scene was too unfathomable to accept. The scene was so carefully presented, and besides, Fiona talked to the delivery man, who assured her that no one else was home. The door, he said, was left wide open when the victim went inside to retrieve her purse, and even though he could not see the back rooms, he stated they conversed about her order of a large pie. Her petite figure prompted his inquisitiveness, and he ventured to ask his question, to which she replied her son was coming back from Germany. He had missed the famous New York pizza while away, so she wanted to surprise him.
The prints still bugged Fiona to no end, and the fact that they didn’t belong to anyone known within the parameters of the case did not make sense. She knew that carelessness and perfection were not closely associated. The killer had been careful so far, and the prints, without a doubt, had been left there intentionally. Was it a game? she wondered. If it was a game, it had ended as abstractly as it started. Was it a cooling off period, or was it a female perpetrator on a killing spree? If it was a cooling off period, the killer would emerge again when the fantasy of the previous murders wore off and the desires were unleashed again like mutinous forces. If it was a female killing spree, then Fiona was fucked in a melodramatic way because there was no lead and no direction to hunt for the killer. But again, the possibility of a killing spree was minimal since it was characteristic of female assailants who attacked family members such as their own kids or other relatives. Both the crime scenes were premeditated and performed like a Shakespearian play. Maybe it was a sacrifice of some sort? She had forgotten about that option. Why did it surface again? Was it significant? The idea that the killer might be a woman claimed importance as well. She reminded herself that these were assumptions she couldn’t substantiate. She finally got out of her bed without having formulated a plan. Her regular routine was set in motion: she prepared coffee, put the news on, and turned on her tablet. As soon as she was done, she would go to the gym and clear her head.
Her attention was held for a few moments by a CNBC reporter’s announcement. He was broadcasting about a major investment in a company that was mass producing a device that tackled mental illness. The established banking institutions were already part of the project, investing millions in the production, and the compan
y’s ticker was voyaging into new highs pre-market.
“Shit,” she mumbled. “I missed another opportunity.”
Fiona had been playing the market for as long as she could remember, and she was good at it. She had picked some winners over the years, which had afforded her both her apartment and car. She noted the information, and as soon as the coffee was ready, she plummeted into her research. She tapped her tablet and logged into her brokerage account, typing in her user ID and password. The virtual keyboard was still a challenge. She accessed the research page where she displayed the ticker, and the results came back in a fraction of a second. She scanned the articles and interviews until her eyes caught an event where Dr. Taylor had received the Excalibur award for innovation. He was the guy who developed the device—a marvel and a breakthrough the commentary was stating—and they were entering a new era, approaching mental health in a revolutionary way. Fiona became curious, read on, and completely immersed herself in the information.
When her phone rang, she was startled and cursed herself for becoming so involved and shutting out the whole world. She gazed at the screen. It was a text message from Sophie. She smiled. Their relationship had improved by miles. They became good friends with an understanding that their working arrangement was more vital than anything else. Fiona developed an admiration and feelings for Sophie that she couldn’t quite understand. That was a lie. She understood them well ... she was attracted to Sophie and there was chemistry. She felt it and she had caught Sophie looking at her differently. Fiona ignored her feelings for now because she couldn’t handle them. Her inane belief in avoiding engagement with any woman serving on the New York police force was one of the reasons she stayed away. Could she date her sometime in the future? Fiona shook her head for even allowing that inappropriate thought to invade her rational mind, yet a diminutive hope found a place in her heart, hiding and waiting for the most appropriate moment to become a solid entity and assert its presence. She dialed Sophie’s number. Hearing her voice in the morning made her whole day transparent; she could see the center of the earth with clarity. There it was, the thought that could destroy her. She knew that it was more than admiration and attraction that she felt for Sophie. It was something more that was still elusive and distant. Or was it a plain and dangerous fear, and admitting it to herself would make it close and real?
“Hello.”
“Hey, Sophie. Good morning.” She sipped her coffee to clear her head and erase the perilous thoughts.
“Did I wake you with my message?”
“I was up long before. Sophie, what kind of a message was that? Are you giving up or losing hope?”
“It’s not that I’m losing hope, but I’m afraid that we are rapidly approaching the status of a cold case. What do we have so far other than random fingerprints, the ingredients of the cocktail that keeps the victims in a comatose state, and the toxicology report indicating that the two ingredients could be purchased with a doctor’s prescription or illegally on the street? And last, we have learned that the scalpel is impossible to trace since Gregory concluded that its purchase could be completed through the internet. Furthermore, he stole a scalpel from a hospital to show how easy it was to do. Should I go on?” she asked as she finally breathed.
“Okay, slow down. Do you know what I do with my spare time?” It was an out of the blue inquiry.
“No, I do not know, and what does that have to do with our urgent issues?”
“I’ll tell you if you promise to come to dinner at my mother’s ...” she paused to gauge her resistance through her breathing, then continued, “tonight.”
“I don’t think your activities hold any relevance to our case.” Was she afraid to meet her mother?
“Promise, and I’ll tell you,” Fiona irrevocably uttered.
“Okay, okay. What do you do in your spare time?” She surrendered, and that put a grin on Fiona’s face.
“I solve cold cases, and if our current case becomes a cold case I’m intending to solve it, and I don’t care how carefully the perpetrator hides.” Her response came out as casual and matter-of-fact.
Sophie laughed, and although Fiona was hurt, she loved that sound. It wasn’t a high-pitched laugh. Her laugher was mixed with air and produced sounds that were lovable.
“Okay, smarty pants. Are you amused because I’m pathetic or because you don’t believe me? And either way, for that you are going to pay a price. You are going to be my girlfriend for tonight, so my mother can stop bugging me about being single.” Sophie’s laughter caught in her throat. “Oh, come on. You are going to enjoy yourself. I’m coming at eight to pick you up. See you then.” Fiona hung up, taking away Sophie’s opportunity to refuse.
Chapter Eleven
The research into the company that produced the unique device had to be done some other time. Fiona realized she needed to clear her mind. She grabbed her gym bag and left in a hurry. Besides, her thoughts were clearer while at the gym. She had told Sophie she solved cold cases in her spare time, and being true to her word, she would pull the last file out of the darkness after her workout routine.
When she returned home, she made another cup of coffee and retrieved that last cold case she had worked on then forgotten for eight months. The last time she opened it was before the murders in Queens, and there was some interesting information she uncovered and wanted to explore. Of course, she was skeptical about the lead, particularly when twenty years had passed. Could anyone remember that far back? She had time to invest and she was going over there today to interview the doctor that offered to assist when the body had been discovered in Central Park. His name was Dr. Andrew Kaufman, and there was nothing significant about him other than the police negligence to properly interview or even ask him the basic questions. She only hoped the doctor’s memories would return. On the other hand, a murder couldn’t be forgotten. She remembered every crime scene she visited. Granted, this was her profession and recording the specifics was a requirement. She rarely let a crime get to her and cloud her investigational skills though. She viewed the bloody scenes and the victims objectively, although lately, the image of the little girl from the first murder popped up in her dreams.
When she reached Dr. Kaufman’s office, his assistant refused to announce Fiona without an appointment, and she insistently pointed towards the exit door.
“I’ll wait. I have time,” she said in a glib way.
“The doctor’s patients will arrive soon.”
“Still, I’m not leaving.” Fiona sat down.
She didn’t intend to come all the way from downtown to the rich part of town without producing some results. She was determined to break the doctor’s assistant’s unwillingness to facilitate her request and gazed at the wealthy environment that was ornamented with the undertones of antiques. The waiting area included eight chairs. The leather upholstery was soft, and the backs designed in browns produced a cohesive result. She was sure they were true antiques. No imitation would look as nice in a space like this, where even the building carried the tones of another era.
“The doctor will see you now,” his assistant majestically announced some time later, which surprised Fiona. Perhaps they both realized she was determined to gain access one way or another.
“Thank you for your help, ma’am.” Fiona would be polite to the aged assistant. She would not disappoint her mother.
The doctor was well into his late fifties, medium height, not more than 5’8’’, and his glasses appeared not to have been changed in the last thirty years. Was the frame too big or was that his adopted style? He had bushy eyebrows, brown eyes, small lips that resembled straight lines, and short hair. He looked familiar. Fiona tried unsuccessfully to remember where she had seen the doctor. Possibly, she had met him recently in the city, yet she couldn’t recall, and she was certain his glasses would have evoked vivid memories. She introduced herself, pardoned her intrusion, and thanked him for his time.
“I was hoping you could help me with a case
that is almost twenty years old.”
“Detective, that is a long time ago.”
“I know, but you were at the crime scene, and a murder is a traumatic event, even for a doctor,” she offered as an explanation.
The doctor’s ghostly face looked intently at Fiona. As soon as she uttered the words ‘crime scene,’ the blood drained from his face. Fiona knew immediately that the doctor was hiding something although he composed himself quickly
“I remember the crime scene. Nothing really specific.”
“Did you see anyone that looked out of place?”
“I recall an old man sitting on one bench, a couple on another bench, and a few runners. As I said before, nothing specific. And I believe that the murder took place hours before I visited the park that morning.”
“Yes, it took place the night before. Sometimes, though, the killer returns to the crime scene. Do you recall anything?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
Fiona wasn’t satisfied. A gut feeling was telling her that the doctor had left out something specific. It was an important and possibly onerous detail, she was certain of it. She wanted to stay and converse. Fuck, her mind was empty. It felt like a thief had stolen all her intelligence. She gazed about the room, thinking she could ask about the décor, and then, she observed a brochure on the corner of his desk where “The Device” was gloriously exhibited. She was saved for a few extra minutes. She pushed herself up, preparing to leave, then unexpectedly pointed to the brochure.
“I heard about the Device this morning. Regretfully, I’m too late to invest.”
“You play the market, Detective?” He was now calm, almost as if he was relieved that the subject of their conversation had changed.