by Maria Siopis
She went to the control room to bring all her memories back first. Her contact would have to wait until she was done with her personal dealings. Finally, all the incoherent pictures that entered her mind would make perfect sense. Why did I not think of it before? She checked her individual chart; the report hundreds of pages long. She clicked on the top menu under extras, and a new window formed requesting an ID and password. She typed them, and the command screen was released in front of her. She pressed the key. Instantaneously, she felt the jolt of memories invading her brain in a sequential order. She closed her eyes and welcomed them as familiarity began building again. She recalled how it all began. It was the calling within that begged for her submission to the urge, and she capitulated without a fight. The portraits and pictures were disorderly abominations, and she tried to make them appear pretty. Even her son was lacking harmonic features since he looked like his father. The painting was exhilarating, and it felt like her inner self was floating above, approving of the sighting. Just then, the voice asked for more. It asked for her son’s life. She quarreled strenuously, disputing the beast’s authority. She offered to paint on her son’s face. Then, the voice began to berate her, suggesting it was easier to paint the faces when the objects were lifeless. Yet, she still resisted. Killing she would not do, and she continued to paint everything in the house. That was the time she first met Dr. Taylor, when she was in the midst of arguing with the voice. Of course, she kept it secret. There was no need to disclose the capabilities of her inner self or the entity that lived deep inside her. The voice kept quiet in the session as well, fearing its demise since Dr. Taylor’s powers seemed beyond comprehension. When the session was done, the beast surfaced again, but it became more guarded. There were no more demands to paint the faces, at least for a while. She almost forgot that it lived within her, but when the medication began, the voice became enraged, pushing her over her limits. That was when she killed the homeless girl that crossed her path in the park. It happened in the early evening after her session with Dr. Taylor, while she was on her way to her husband’s office. She knifed the homeless girl a hundred times, only stopping because her arm could not sustain her movement. The voice continued screaming for more. She was lucky not to be caught. The victim screamed but it was getting dark, and she was able to muffle the sounds with her hand. The girl was tiny and easily submitted to her control. She left as soon as she made her look pretty, going home to clean up and prepare lies for her husband to explain her failure to pick him up. She assured the beast within that she wouldn’t do it again.
And she hadn’t explored those desires since. Dr. Taylor’s device captured and destroyed the entity, at least until the contact pressured her and funneled the energy. Then, the voice was reawakened, and the smell of blood called her again.
Chapter Eighteen
The 103rd precinct had the charm of the 1920s. It was a two-story, brick building that used to have two bay windows on the first floor, but they were replaced as soon as the building became New York City’s property. Now, heavy steel bars showcased the front of the rectangular windows, destroying the charm that the rest of the structure evoked. The building was passed on to the city by a widow, who lost her husband to a homicide. In her will she detailed her gratitude to the police department for finding the killer. Her kids protested her will but to no avail; the building remained in the custody of the New York Police Department.
Fiona crossed the entrance, and the guarding officer buzzed her in. Her face was known. She walked toward the stairway and ascended to the second floor where all the detectives congregated. Sophie was in her office sitting across from Phil, who Fiona had secretly begun to dislike a little. It was ironic, in a majestic way. When Fiona met both detectives on the first crime scene in Queens, Phil’s quiet demeanor captured her attention and she even liked him. Now, his friendliness towards Sophie was annoying her. Was she being overprotective or jealous?
“Hi, everyone,” she stated as though she had not been with Sophie the night before and had not tasted every inch of her body that morning.
She sat down next to Phil and analyzed his characteristics. He reminded her of someone. She wracked her brain as if it was important, almost as if someone’s life depended upon it. Stasis, she declared in her mind. Other issues were more important than Phil’s resemblance to another person.
“Did we get any leads after the media coverage?” Fiona hoped for something tenable.
“We received a phone call from a man who lives across the street from Kelly ... our first victim,” she corrected herself. “I’m going with Phil. Do you want to come along?” Sophie’s soft voice made the harsh precinct appear warm and more pleasant.
“No, I’m going to try and figure out why the FDA link disappeared from Horton’s list as fast as it appeared.” Both Phil and Sophie looked at her, puzzled. “Either someone is fucking with the files, or it was a glitch in the system. I would have believed that some anomaly caused the connection–” she stopped suddenly. Clarity was approaching substance now. “Okay, if it was a glitch, we wouldn’t have found the other two victims. The Horton’s list provided a connection between our fourth murdered victim and twelve individuals, and amongst them we discovered the two other murder victims. That translates to one thing, the surviving ten have a commonality, which I intending to discover. I’ll interview each one until I determine the common thread.” She eagerly pushed herself up as a new pathway appeared before her.
She glared at Sophie, wanting to approach and kiss her. “I’ll call you if anything comes up,” she mumbled and looked elsewhere to hush the desire.
The wind was picking up, and the debris that was nestled in corners and angles was lifted, circulating it in the air in a hurried way. When the airstream died down, the wasteful fragments identified new resting spots and lay there until a new gust disturbed them again. Fiona found dry leaves and a plastic supermarket bag caught on her windshield and cleared them before she entered her vehicle. She started the engine, waiting for it to warm up before she left the parking lot. It seemed to her that Queens was becoming her second home, and her directional bearings had sharpened to the point that she ceased using her GPS. She was impressed with herself when she took just a few swift turns to find the highway going eastbound on Grand Central towards the address of the first name on her list.
She rang the bell once with anticipation, hoping for a breakthrough. She was determined to get the killer. She turned around, looking at the front yard as a single bird landed seeking food. Its orangey beak was searching for anything to sustain life. The winter was taking a toll on the creatures that were exposed to nature’s conditions. She felt just like the black bird with the orangey beak, who was searching desperately for food. When she heard the click of the door unlocking, she spun around to face the first person on her list.
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t open your door without inquiring who it is.”
“Detective, this is a safe neighborhood.” Didn’t they just have this same conversation only a couple of days ago?
“Could you give me a few minutes of your time? I need your help with a case I’m working on.”
“Sure, please come in.”
The hallway was narrow. There was a table along the wall, and she almost collided with it as she was looking at the art hanging on the wall. They entered the dining room, and the old woman pulled out a chair suggesting Fiona sit down. There were uncovered boxes with Christmas decorations spilling out, and Fiona felt compelled to excuse her intrusion. She knew that soon her mother’s phone call would come to remind her of her responsibility for bringing the Christmas decorations up from the basement to her living room.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you again. It seems that you are preparing for holiday decorating.”
“It’s fine, Detective. Now, how I can possibly help you?”
“Right to the point then. I’m investigating a group of people, who are involved in a placebo or a trial for a possible new medication. Your nam
e appeared on a list, and I was wondering if you’re indeed part of a trial?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. It’s not a medication though. It’s a device that is inserted into your brain and corrects any chemical imbalances. I was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to commit suicide a few times. I’m grateful to my doctor for suggesting this course of action.”
“Is Andrew Kaufman your doctor?”
“No, Dr. Taylor is my doctor, but Dr. Kaufman performed the operation.”
Her heart quickened. The device was moving to the forefront of her investigation. Dr. Kaufman and Dr. Taylor held the answers.
“Am I in some type of danger?” She became alarmed, and it was Fiona’s fault.
“No, you are not.” Fiona took the woman’s hand in hers, perhaps holding it for more than a second to reassure her. “You are not in any kind of danger. Thank you.” Noah’s ark was full of blonds and redheads, she thought as she got up to make her way out.
“And please, in the future, don’t open your door before you ask who it is.”
“Okay, Detective. I won’t,” she finally agreed.
Fiona descended the stairs, looking for the bird with the orangey beak. She hoped the creature would survive the winter. She wasn’t even sure why she was thinking about it. What had triggered her concern? Perhaps, because it was defenseless against the power of nature and a violent, wintery blast was coming soon? Like the victims she encountered in her career, they were defenseless to the violent discharge of humans’ distorted natures. She should have asked the woman more questions, but she had become overly excited to follow the lead from sources that were directly involved. She would visit Dr. Kaufman first.
Chapter Nineteen
The memories of the makeup applied to her victims flooded Andrea’s mind, and her inner self was becoming more demanding. The anticipation of the smell of new blood carried her until the reports for Dr. Taylor were done. As soon as she recorded the last entry, she grabbed her bag and headed to his office. She knew he would be there late.
She knocked and entered before he had a chance to answer. She didn’t have time to spare if she wanted to implement the plan that had recently taken shape. She placed the report on his desk and studied his face, pondering for a second on the idea of killing him.
“It’s getting late. You should go home to your family,” she proposed, full of concern.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes. Thank you for your help and putting up with me. I’m truly appreciative to have you on my team.”
“Good night, Dr. Taylor. See you tomorrow,” she gazed at her watch as if time was working against her.
She took the subway uptown. A cab would be too time-consuming with the late, rush-hour traffic. There were no train delays, so she hopped on the number six with many other people she found unpalatable, feeling their mannerisms deserved obliteration. She was thankful there were only a few stops before she exited the train. She hated the thought of sharing the enclosed space with them for a longer period; she would have vomited.
The train violently jolted, and she lost her balance. Surely, she was going to hit the floor, but a gentle soul, a sweet, young, African-American boy grabbed her just in time and supported her. Not all of them were unpalatable. Some were worth knowing, she thought. The image of a few other youths that had crossed her path previously doused her with doubts again. They had cursed her unmercifully and shown her their middle fingers. She continued recalling the images and personal events to keep her mind occupied instead of observing the crowd that squeezed towards the doors like there was no other space where they could park their bodies. When the train arrived on Seventy-seventh Street, she pushed her way through and was relieved that she was out in the open air and no longer caged under the earth. The wintery night fit her mood. The chilled air penetrated her bones, and no matter how well she was dressed, she felt the gust of wind taking her breath away. She walked the two blocks’ distance and made a right on Fifth Avenue, going north toward Seventy-ninth Street and stopping in front of the building she knew too well. She peeked through the glass door. The doorman wasn’t there to either stop her or open the door for her. Nevertheless, she thought it was a good omen as she rang the doctor’s bell.
She was buzzed in, filled with excitement and thinking how easy it was to infiltrate the enemy’s territory. The building was magnificent, and she easily remembered the space that hosted his office; she had been there many times. The carpet was soft under her boots and absorbed any sounds her movements made. She went down the corridor, knowing the exact location since her memory had returned. It was highly probable that the door was unlocked, it always had been. She gave the door a shove, and she entered the waiting area which, not surprisingly, looked exactly as it had twenty years ago. The same antique chairs, for which he had paid a ridiculous amount of money, were still there. The coffee table with its arched legs and the secretarial station were still there, to the far right, concealed and safe. His secretary was long gone, and she wondered if he had kept the same one. She quietly closed the door and listened for sounds. She heard him fussing in his office, and her beast happily whistled. He was alone. She contemplated for a second ... should she wait until he came out to see his visitor or go directly into his office and deal him his fate? But the door swung open before she made her decision.
“Can I help you?” he questioned, a bit puzzled.
“I’m actually here to help you.”
She observed the doctor’s face to see if her voice sounded familiar to him or if it was removed from his memory years ago. He appeared unaware of who she was. She showed him the palm of her right hand where the star birthmark rested, just like their son’s. She was expecting he would now recall who she was. Of course, she was a little heavier, a little older, and looked a lot different with her hair cut painfully short. Nevertheless, the birthmark was unchanged.
“I missed life because of you,” she accused him.
“You missed life because of your illness. You were dangerous to yourself and others, including our son.”
“I missed life because of you,” she repeated as if she didn’t hear what the doctor had uttered. She pulled a knife that was tucked deep in the inside pocket of her coat, closing the distance between them.
She leapt toward him, missing him as he moved to the right. She charged again, pushing forward, finding his body and throwing him to the floor. He was undeniably shocked by the speed of the shove, and he used his arms for support, placing them on the floor and pushing his body upwards. She approached him quickly again, lowering her body over him. She was still holding the knife when it penetrated his middle section. She felt when the blade traveled deep inside him, and she made sure it was impossible for him to break free. She was on top of him, bolting her strong legs to his side as he tried to grab her left wrist with his two hands to stop the third assault. She slapped him with the back of her right hand, ripping his glasses from his face. In retrospect, that was a defining moment. The blade entered him again, just above the other penetrations, and she didn’t stop stabbing him until her arm became heavy. It wasn’t one hundred thrusts like the first time with the girl in the park, but it was enough to strip him of his life.
“I missed life because of you.” She gazed at his dead body underneath her with hatred. “I missed life,” she repeated, her voice was low and accusatory.
She got up slowly, her clothes covered in blood. She was fully aware that she couldn’t possibly wander the streets the way she looked. She approached the door and looked out. The doorman had returned. Her luck was turning around. She had to clean up before she left. All evidence of the blood had to be scrubbed away, so she proceeded toward the bathroom. The blood trickled down the drain, losing its brightness as the water mixed with it. This substance of life was disappearing before her eyes. She washed and scrubbed off the blood although she really did not mind having it on her. She would love to bathe in blood one day; perhaps in a Jacuzzi tub as the jet stre
ams bubbled it around her. She finally inspected her image. Her black clothing concealed the battle that had unfolded minutes ago, her uncovered skin was unsoiled except for the red droplets beneath her nails.
Do it, the voice within demanded.
She tried unsuccessfully to force her tongue between the skin and the nail to reach the red specks. Possibly, it would be easier to lick the doctor’s wounds.
She undid his shirt, sniffed him as though he was perfume, and licked him. Her tongue pressed flat to his skin, then curled, collecting the red juice and drawing it into her mouth. Finally, she swallowed.
Your DNA, the inner voice laughed.
“Hush, you fool. A conclusion is coming soon. Wait until you see what I’m going to do to you.”
Chapter Twenty
Fiona wasn’t ready to embrace the Christmas that was coming soon. Her life and mind were consumed with the killer. Tonight, she had intended to visit Dr. Kaufman, but her mother had called and intercepted her. She needed help with Christmas decorations, so Fiona changed direction. Besides, she hadn’t seen her mother for a long time; her weekly visits abruptly stopped with her busy schedule. Her mother didn’t complain or press guilt on her, and she was grateful. Sometimes though, she detected her desires in the tone of her voice.
The task took more than a couple hours, and afraid she might miss any new developments, she called Sophie and invited her over. Probably, she unconsciously desired to introduce her love interest to her mother, since her previous attempt to bring her mother and her girlfriend together had to be aborted. She carried all the boxes labeled Christmas decorations from the basement to the first floor and then retreated to the garage. She left her mother and Joe in the coziness created by the fireplace. They would probably argue a bit before she was finished. She was convinced that if she stayed, she would be forced to become more involved than she wished to be, so in a quick decision before they settled down, she slipped out the back door to the stillness of the garage. She grabbed the containers with the lights without even using the ladder. She uncovered them and spent thirty minutes untangling them, cursing the careless way she had stored them the year before. She gathered the supplies she thought she might need and crossed the driveway. It did not feel as cold today as the day before. Fiona took few breaths, filling her lungs with the chilly air before she started her task.