by Maria Siopis
“Yes, when I have the time.”
“It’s an excellent invention. As a matter of fact, my son was the first experimental recipient, and I performed the operation. I haven’t stopped installing the devices. Dr. Timothy Taylor is a good friend of mine, and he recommended the procedure. I’m grateful. My son leads a normal life now. He has a noble profession, and he functions in social settings.”
“How does it work?” she inquired although she knew the basics. She was trying to buy time, so she could think of something else to ask about the murder in Central Park ... anything to trigger his proclaimed forgotten memory.
“Here is the brochure, Detective. I’m sorry. That’s all the time I can devote to your questions. I have surgery in an hour.”
“Thank you. So, you can’t recall anything else about the murder?” she pleaded.
“No, Detective. Please, come this way.” He pointed towards his office door.
“If you remember anything of relevance to the case, would you please call me? Even if you think it’s an unimportant detail.” She offered her card.
* * *
As soon as the door soundlessly returned to its previous position, and the detective disappeared, panic mode kicked in with all its majestic feelings of triviality. The twenty-year-old event that changed his whole life had come back to rip his soul apart and obliterate his accomplishments.
“Damn her.” He slammed his fist on the desk and his pen rolled over his papers.
If he had acted right away, nothing would have happened. But he had brushed his whole life under the rug, caring only about his son. He prioritized his responsibilities and minimized the trivial ones altogether. He caressed the telephone with his fingers, contemplating dialing the number. He picked up the receiver and then placed it right back in its cradle. He would not bother Dr. Timothy Taylor, reassuring himself that the detective’s visit was random.
Dr. Kaufman tried to relax, occupying his mind with work and patients. The detective’s visit pushed him over a cliff’s edge. He mulled the situation over in his head again, seeking elucidation with minimal consequences for him and his son. He concluded that if the detective came back, he would make the phone call and talk to his colleague, Dr. Taylor. Perhaps, together they could come up with a solution? He was still shocked that a case that old was lingering like a bad dream. He told the detective that he couldn’t recall any details of the crime, though the day was committed to his memory with all its nauseating details ... because he knew the killer well.
It all started suddenly and without any warning signs. Did he ignore his wife’s strange behavior because he feared to face the truth? Perhaps he fancied that his wife’s oddities were produced by her genius mind. He lived with this belief until he saw the crime scene, and he was finally convinced that something more sinister was in the making, causing him to react. He contacted Dr. Taylor, who was treating his wife, and disclosed his findings in the park. They both agreed that Andrea was the perpetrator. He had never considered the possibility that his spouse, whom he loved more than anyone in life, could engage in a violent crime. He wanted to dispute the evidence. Yet, the makeup found on the victim was unique to his wife. The red lipstick, the green eyeliner, and the black eye pencil were the tools of her distorted perception of beauty. She used them on portraits that crossed her path and in pictures and art that were displayed in their house. It became evident to him that her mental capacities were worsening when she applied the makeup to their son’s face. He could no longer ignore her mental instability, and he had contacted Dr. Taylor. He had thought with treatment he would save her and his son.
The treatment had begun the same day he called, and seemingly, his wife’s mental capacities had returned to normal; the peculiar makeup occurrences had stopped entirely. After examining her brain activity, Dr. Taylor had recommended the installation of a new device. He insisted she was a good candidate for it. Dr. Kaufman utterly refused such an anathema. Medication was working fine, and besides, the Device was in an experimental stage. Dr. Kaufman became even more furious when Dr. Taylor suggested examining his son because he said he had detected an abnormality in his brain as well. For days, the idea sat dormant in Dr. Kaufman’s mind, dully occupying space. At the end, when the murder occurred, he agreed that the experimental treatment was the only way to save his son. He committed his wife to the institution under the care of Dr. Taylor, and he personally installed two cranial devices. He further deceived his then, thirteen-year-old son by telling him his mother had left them for another man; she was gone for good.
He shook his head in disappointment now, not for the false statements he had generated throughout the years, but for the recent developments of the detective’s inquisition. He didn’t even feel remorse for the murder victim. She was a homeless girl, and he felt her death had saved her from a life that was not worth living. In any case, he would never give up his secret, even if he had to create even more erroneous stories.
Chapter Twelve
Fiona eventually gave up any thought of the doctor’s involvement. In the end, she felt she was overreaching. There was no clear connection between the doctor and the homeless girl that had perished. She unlocked her door and entered her apartment, the frustration reaching deep in her soul. She saw the file she’d left unattended on her coffee table and took a closer look at the pictures. There was no doubt the victim was brutally attacked, at least physically. Strangely, there was no sexual abuse present, only the grotesque makeup that had been applied on the victim’s face. The red lipstick didn’t follow the outline of the lips; it resembled strokes of modern art on canvas. The green eye shadow covered the eyelids, reaching right up to the brows, and the black eyeliner was thick and inconsistent. She was going back to talk to the doctor, she decided. She would inquire about “the Device” and why speaking of it was supposedly making him uncomfortable. Perhaps, she could also talk about his son and his noble profession. The doctor seemed highly sensitive about his son.
The rest of the day, she laid back on her red sofa watching all sort of criminals on the Investigation Discovery channel ... as if her own cases were not enough to occupy her mind. At six o’clock, she forced herself off the sofa and got ready. There was plenty of time to put herself together and then pick up Sophie, yet she felt like she was forgetting something important. After a few minutes of searching her memory and trying to pin down the elusive thought, she gave up. She glanced at the clock again and urgently entered her bedroom. Her mother was not fond of people arriving late.
But Fiona never made it to her mother’s for dinner that night. Her course was interrupted en route to Sophie’s house at seven fifteen when a new homicide was uncovered, presumably committed by their serial killer. She followed the sign to the next exit. It was impossible to make a U-turn on Grand Central Parkway. She wanted to make the illegal turn, but of course, the middle wall that kept the traffic flowing in its respective directions was an enormous obstacle. She was trapped. She observed the traffic with resentment while the urgency to reach the scene was building. The first forty-eight hours were crucial in the collection of evidence for both the CSI team and the detectives, who had to search for witnesses. Fiona’s vexation was intensifying, and she almost drove directly into the wall. She cursed a few times when a slowdown occurred near the exit. The killer was approaching an apotheosis now, playing God. The killer could give and take life at her or his discretion, she thought and cursed some more. Finally, she was able to head in an eastbound direction toward the address Sophie had provided.
She reached the new location within fifteen minutes, and the familiar scene unfolded in front of her. People, curious about the police presence, crowded the street. The activity was evident: cruisers were parked in front of the crime scene, the CSI truck was present, and the detectives were going in and out. As soon as Fiona faced the victim, the sick feeling sitting in her middle section moved upwards. Bile reached up her throat, and she swallowed hard a few times.
“Fuck!” he
r outburst couldn’t be contained any longer. “Time of death?”
“Between nine and twelve last night, if I had to guess. The M.E. would undoubtedly be more specific,” Sam replied as he scanned the scene for evidence.
Fiona gazed directly at the victim while her peripheral vision registered Sam’s activities. He was a good forensic investigator, there was no doubt. She scrutinized the bed and realized how extraordinary everything was. There were two candles on each side of the bed, each burned halfway and then snuffed out. It was a sacrifice; she was certain now. The fourth victim was an elderly woman, lean where her ribs were visible, and she was cut precisely in the middle. Her arms stretched out and her legs were placed one on top of the other. She looked ... She looked ... Could it possibly be? She looked like Christ after he was crucified. She checked for the markings of the nails on the palms and on the dorsal section of the feet, but they were missing. The killer was getting progressively worse—not that the previous scenes were any easier to swallow, particularly the demise of the little girl—but now a clarity was forming. She turned around, scanning for Sophie. Sophie was talking to Phil, who was working on his laptop and occasionally making eye contact with her. Fiona moved toward them.
“There are two more victims out there, or there will be soon ... most likely blonds.” Was Fiona overreacting, trying to make connections? “This is a sacrifice,” she continued, pointing toward the bedroom. “The killer is moving slowly until the scene is complete. New items will be added. The victims are the personification of Christ. I saw this before, many years ago, while in school. The killer is a copycat. I’ll have to do a bit of research. I will go back and study that case.”
Sophie and Phil stared at her. They were trying to digest what was being said and follow her argument’s logic.
“I wouldn’t disclose a conclusion prematurely, if I wasn’t certain.” She tried desperately to make them see it.
“Why do you think there are two more victims? We don’t have enough information to discern a pattern. The killings stopped suddenly for almost six months, and the new victim is a blond, not a redhead,” Phil asserted.
“Don’t you see? It’s all based on the bible. The killer will collect a variety of victims. It’s all a fantasy, a distorted fantasy that becomes a reality. The number three is symbolic as well. Christ was risen on the third day and so on and so on.”
“Okay, let’s say that I get it. However, there is nothing we can do to locate the other two potential victims, if your theory is true.” Sophie broke her silence, looking intently at Fiona.
“Well, not necessarily. Are you familiar with Horton’s Spatial Positioning?” Phil asked, not expecting a reply. “Horton, an FBI agent, developed a program that interconnects the crime scenes in a spatial sequence. Also, it retrieves data that is known about each victim and makes new connections.”
“Why didn’t you use it sooner?” Fiona’s voice was a pitch higher. Why was she irritated with him?
“I just received the program recently. Besides, it takes a day before the results are furnished. The program will search billions of threats, analyze them, make the connections, and then provide the results. Keep in mind that this is a new program and glitches are expected. I’ll input the data and let you know.”
“Do it. Whatever we can retrieve will be helpful. Right now, we have nothing.” Fiona placed her hands in her pants’ pockets before she threw something at the wall. “Let’s go. There is nothing we can do here. CSI needs to collect the evidence.” She guided Sophie and Phil toward the entrance door.
They had been outside discussing a new approach for less than ten minutes when Gregory arrived. He was briefed and willingly accepted the assignment of investigating leads by going door to door. Phil appeared busy with the Horton’s Spatial Positioning program and excused himself. He was going back to the precinct to analyze the results and organize possible connections. Fiona and Sophie observed the outside structure of the house, and both seemed lost in the labyrinth of their own thoughts. Fiona’s ecclesiastical notion emerged again, and the whys, wheres, and whens danced around in no consistent pattern, creating more bewilderment than she really needed. She gazed at Sophie, and the inconsistent patterns in her mind formed a steady stream of thoughts and plans. Suddenly, she knew what she wanted.
“Follow me.”
Fiona didn’t disclose their destination to Sophie, who was too tired to argue with her. Fiona checked her mirrors to confirm she was following the route, and then, she dialed the number of her parking garage to reserve a spot. They reached the 59th Street bridge within twenty-five minutes. The road was wrapped around in a half of circle before the stretch of straight road took over and heaven opened its doors. Midtown Manhattan appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The sight was breathtaking. The 59th Street bridge, now named Ed Koch Bridge in honor of his mayorship, provided the best view of midtown. As soon as the turn came to an end, thousands of dazzling lights emerged. Their artificiality did not dim the astonishment that overtook the viewer. Fiona was witnessing humanity’s arrogance, superciliousness, and cockiness, but the result was grand. The east river below was hosting the event of lights as it did every night when darkness whispered from above. Viscerally, she slowed down to inhale the sight before the image disappeared behind her and the magic was gone.
They made it to Fiona’s fortieth-floor apartment, using silliness and joking to mask a nervousness that grew within. A synthesis of colors and sounds rushed into Fiona’s mind as she was stroked by a specific desire. She pulled Sophie into her arms and began kissing her in the elevator, knowing the cameras were probing both inside the elevator and outside her apartment. She couldn’t remember if she was ever soft and tender with her, and now, she was pressing her lips into Sophie’s with velocity and passion. She pushed harder and harder until she took full possession of Sophie’s mouth; it was hers to claim. Fiona’s fingers were working hard attempting to unzip Sophie’s pants.
“Let’s take a break.” Sophie breathed heavily in her ear.
“What for?” Fiona whispered, her lips caressing Sophie’s smooth neck. “I want you. I’ve wanted you from the first time we met. You are on my mind all the time, and you make me smile. I don’t think I can wait any longer.” Fiona took Sophie’s hand and guided her to the bedroom. They both realized there would be no going back. Their desire was greater than the trivialities of life and death, or was their coping mechanism simply kicking in at full force to protect them from what they had witnessed? Whatever it was, they both accepted it and frantically unraveled themselves. Their interaction was different on all levels as their emotions overtook their whole existence. They both engaged in the most spectacular lovemaking, slowing everything down and savoring the passing seconds. Their goal wasn’t to simply reach one great moment, it was to cherish the nanoseconds they experienced on the journey in Fiona’s bedroom. They kissed each other’s bodies with lips that were red hot, and when their souls were ready, they broke into pieces and became particles in the open air. They saw themselves rise and fall, colliding with each other, drinking each other’s essence, and then collapsing next to each other. Their perfect fit was revealed, but they were too afraid to acknowledge it.
Chapter Thirteen
December 3, 2017
The person next to Fiona was the personification of the Goddess Artemis with the hunting bow and arrows. She had the feeling that Sophie hid behind the same vigorous attitude of never allowing herself to be conquered by love. Yet, all of Sophie’s defenses had been down the night before and she had allowed Fiona to reach deep into her soul and devour her. It was the most exhilarating connection Fiona had experienced in her entire life. Was that possible, or was she blinded? She pulled down the duvet cover to marvel at Sophie, her desire beginning to surface again. She wanted to touch her; her need was unlike anything she had felt before.
“What are you doing?” Sophie’s voice was playful and sweet as she pulled the cover back up.
“I’m looking at
the phenomenon in my bed,” she joked. She kissed Sophie’s exposed back while she caressed her breast. She would have dived in again, devouring Sophie’s pleasantries. Her own body was screaming with desire so unbearable and hot. Dejectedly, she grabbed Sophie’s hand and pulled her out of her bed. Their schedule was tight, and death would not wait for their arrival. Sophie lazily rested in the curve of Fiona’s neck before she moved toward the bathroom.
“I guess I’ll get ready.”
“And I’ll have breakfast ready for you. Is cereal okay?”
“Perfect,” she replied without turning her head.
She was grateful they felt no weirdness about their lovemaking the night before. It felt natural, like they belonged together. But here she was once more, making assumptions about her. Fiona unquestionably felt comfortable loving Sophie, and she was expecting the same in return. She wondered if Sophie was as comfortable. She seemed to like being with her. Their lovemaking was explosive, and she blushed at the vivid images that entered her mind. Fiona felt she had seen Sophie’s soul as if it was diaphanous, transparent and vast like the Mediterranean Sea.
She walked to the kitchen, prepared the coffee machine, and placed two bowls on the table along with milk and cereal, waiting for Sophie to get ready. She looked through the glass door of her balcony while standing in front of it. A film of clouds covered the sky, the light and dark grays intermingled in an unlikely union and created a synergy of shapes. The buildings, in co-operation with nature, reflected their dullness and monotony. When Sophie’s hands wrapped around her waist, her feelings became as real as the view before her, ready to infuse her whole being with simple happiness. She saw only harmony unfolding for miles. Was it possible?
“Are you admiring the view or thinking?”