by Lotta Smith
Richard Henderson was in his forties. As far as I’d known him, he was always wearing a dark suit and his hair was always set in the same Ivy League style.
In general, Henderson didn’t exhibit much of facial expressions other than stern-faced scowling. He had this extremely serious exterior whenever he was surprised, pissed off, disappointed, and relatively-happy. I assumed a part of the reason for his demeanor is his line of work where showing emotions is often frowned upon.
Sometimes, I find myself almost convinced that he was born this way, except that a scowling newborn baby with Ivy League haircut in a dark suit seems a little bit out of norm. Richard Henderson reminds me of Agent K from Men in Black movies.
Henderson turned to me. “Thank you for a delicious breakfast, Ms. K.”
“My pleasure, Agent Henderson,” I said with a vague smile which I hoped to be polite. “It’s wonderful for you to join our breakfast.”
But I didn’t invite him for further occasions. I had no problem eating with him. Also, it was sweet that he said nice things about my cooking. After all, he was my employer’s regular client, which made him more like a colleague. However, eating with him showing, explaining, and demonstrating ghastly details about murders didn’t exactly fit my concept of pleasurable dining. Talk about an appetite killer.
He continued. “It’s the best meal I’ve ever had since I had separated from my former wife.”
“You used to be married?” Words slipped out before I recalled concepts such as protocol and etiquette.
“Yes,” he nodded very curtly. “Only in the past. Now I’m happily divorced.”
Richard Henderson was not someone you could imagine with a significant other, much less a spouse. Still, I managed to add, “You seem to be holding up very well.”
That was the phrase one certain Christian etiquette website had listed in the ‘Do Tell’ section. Personally, I didn’t hear much of such words in my post-divorce days. But as much as unimaginable Henderson being married, I knew how it feels when your loved one suddenly loses interest in you and moves on, leaving you still wondering what you have or have not done right to keep the relationship fresh and exciting. For me, seeing my ex ditching me and hopping off to the new season of his life with that 21-year-old Brazilian dancer wasn’t a pleasant experience. Anyway, that was so over and learning Henderson and I shared something in common gave me a sense of closeness with him.
“Thanks.” Shaking his head, Henderson said uncertainly. “But actually, I don’t miss her all that much. It’s only the good meals I used to eat with her that I sometimes miss, except she never cooked.”
“So you still miss her company. That’s sad.”
“No way!” He gave out a stern chuckle and I found myself wishing to get the heck out of this awkward situation.
“Dining with a crocodile that was kept unfed for a month would have been far more peaceful than eating with her. Our marriage was nothing but a stupid byproduct of a tequila induced temporal insanity.”
“Oh…”
Now I was confused. Was he trying on a tough guy attitude, or just being honest?
“She ran away to Oahu, Hawaii, with a cook of the deli she frequented and bought food,” Archangel interjected. “That’s how he lost his wife and his favorite meals for good.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing stealing my punchline, Michael?”
Henderson scowled.
“You know what, Ritchie, in comedy, timing is everything.” Archangel said matter-of-factly. “And you were missing the right moment.”
Henderson humphed and continued. “The deli’s still doing business at the same spot, but without Chad the cook, the food is never the same.”
As I made sympathetic noises, Henderson attacked the food.
“By the way, about the strangulation part,” Archangel raised his fork, completely unconcerned of his client’s annoyance. “Is it intentional that the killer choked the victims unconscious but not enough to kill them? Or due to other reasons, such as the killer was not strong enough?”
“That’s yet to be determined.” Henderson shook his head while wolfing down asparagus topped on the Canadian bacon egg benedict. “The Chief Medical Examiner thinks suffocation alone was not the cause of death in neither case. He says the death’s multifactorial, including but not limited to being left in the woods and devoured by wild animals.”
“Getting eaten by the residents of the woods like rats, raccoons, and ravens, without exit, hope, sight, or eyeballs. That’s a nightmarish way to go.” Archangel muttered and took a gulp of black coffee. Then he added, “By the way, Ritchie. The second victim has recently divorced or split from her significant other, if it helps to ID her.”
“How can you tell?” Henderson arched one eyebrow.
“From the slight ring-tan on her left ring finger.”
He said, pointing at a photograph to which Henderson leaned forward to take a better look.
While taking a small sip of tea I impulsively took a glance at the photographs. The images of bloodied women jumped into my eyes, and I ended up coughing like a dog with a distemper.
“Okay, I’ll take that possibility.” Henderson said to Archangel. Then turning to me, “Are you asthmatic or something?”
“No, it’s only that her table manner happens to be taking a sick leave today.” Archangel informed him while I was still coughing and unable to utter a coherent word. “Can you believe she went to one of those fancy finishing schools in Switzerland? No wonder she’s a socialite dropout.”
Between the coughs, I gasped. “Excuse me, but they taught me deaths and murders are not favorable table topics back in Switzerland…”
Sitting at the same table with a feds agent and a private investigator plus murder scene photographs was really icky. Trying to eat while they simulated the killer’s (and the victim’s) moves using food and utensils was simply nauseating.
“For your information, I didn’t drop out of the society. It’s just that I got sick of being superficial and I quit it intentionally. See the difference?” I pointed out to Archangel.
“Oh yeah?” he shrugged.
And I turned to Henderson, “I wasn’t a Park Avenue Princess, but my faux-dad#6, a filthy rich coffee shop mogul who’s originally from Columbia, thought that it was a brilliant idea to send his step-daughter to that finishing school in Switzerland and Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. He really liked the prospect of helping me cultivate my inner elegance and all.” I clarified. I was feeling this ‘A fancy finishing school in Switzerland? Seriously?’ expression desperate to creep out from underneath his poker face.
Back then, going to Europe seemed like a fabulous idea. I wasn’t Ivy League Material, and I didn’t have enough passion to drive my heart and soul to dedicate four years in a certain field of study. Besides that, I wanted to give Mom and her new husband some space to enjoy their adults-only quality time. So Mom has this special knack for scoring one rich husband after another, but her marriages tended to be short-lasting. I was feeling a tiny bit responsible for that. Anyway, it was terribly generous of the faux-dad#6 to cover all the expenses for my pricey education. Especially, considering that he had already been split from Mom before I finished my education. He had even sent me to the Debutante Ball in Paris.
Anyway, going to Switzerland was absolutely life-changing for me. At a café in Zurich, I met Warren, “the King” of the City (I’m talking about the financial district of London. Not everything in this world is about New York, you know.) And the next came the nuptial and The Days of Decadence, which was beyond divine—huge manses with servants and everything, trotting the world on private jets, appearing in posh lifestyle mags and TV shows, shopping at Bergdorf Goodman and vacationing in St. Tropez. Ah, memories…
“The inner elegance? Seriously?” As I was indulging myself in my favorite superficial memory, Michael Archangel was laughing his as…I mean, his head off. “Kelly, why do you keep hiding your cultivated elegance? I absolutely appreci
ate if you show me some, if any.”
“I’m full of elegance from the head to toe. If you can’t see that, it’s your problem. You must be elegance-blind.” I retorted in a very unladylike manner.
“Switzerland is overrated.”
“Says a guy who’s never been there.”
“Actually, I had to spend several summers there when I was a kid.” He snorted.
Henderson, totally blasé with our little feud, cast an expectant glance at my plate of barely touched breakfast. “Are you finished?”
“Oh yes, I don’t have much appetite this morning.” I said, contemplating about adding “thanks to both of you.”
“That’s too bad. Do you mind if I finish it up for you?”
“Not at all, help yourself.”
“Thank you, Kelly.”
“Wait a minute, Henderson,” Archangel blocked the feds agent’s fork reaching my plate with his knife.
“What the hell?” Henderson raised one eyebrow.
“Don’t even think you can have both pieces of eggs benedict. The one with prosciutto is so mine.” Archangel declared.
“What a shame, Archangel,” quietly replied Henderson, pushing Archangel’s knife away. “I also happen to like the one with prosciutto very much.”
“Challenge me,” Archangel said boldly. “All’s fair in love and war. And it’s a war.”
I watched them open-mouthed as those supposedly grown-up men fought over the breakfast leftover. So my employer was fond of my cooking even though he failed to see the elegance in yours truly. I was flattered.
“How about splitting everything in halves and sharing with each other?” I chimed in. Generally, these two men behaved like grownups, but I had read so many online articles about mayhems that rooted in adults fighting over food. I’ve also read somewhere that green has calming effects, so repainting the dining room green from pink had actually crossed my mind. Still, I realized the obvious fact that encouraging them to share took less time and effort than the re-painting job.
“Just like they taught us to do back in kindergarten?” Henderson arched one eyebrow.
“I believe so.” I rolled my eyes. I was having a hard time visualizing them in little smocks.
“Deal!”
After a moment’s thought, they hooted in unison and did a high five. They happily started cutting everything in two pieces.
I felt a familiar throb in my temples. The day has just begun.
Chapter 5
“That’s a murder, not an accident. The victim’s wife did it.”
At the office, Michael Archangel declared to the person at the other end of the phone.
I was sitting at my desk, tête-à-tête with my employer’s long legs that went up to join the derriere that was temporarily parked on top of my desk. I found myself pretending that I wasn’t bothered at all to see his short skirt moving up and down as he crossed and uncrossed the long legs.
I could have just shoved his derriere off the desk just like Provenza did to Flynn in The Closer episodes, or stood up to rearrange the bouquet of flowers in the vase that sat on the coffee table needed no rearrangement (thanks to Jeremy the florist’s fab job,) but I stayed. As an assistant, I couldn’t just push him away and meddle his work, and to tell the truth, I was having a tad bit of a hard time ripping my eyes off of his lower body. As much as I wanted to push him out of my sight, I wanted to keep ogling at him. It’s pretty much complicated, but if you take a moment to recall the last time you saw the movie trailer of Fifty Shades of Grey, you’d grasp what I mean. Even if you had least interest in Mommy Porn and all those kinky stuffs, you found yourself gaping at it anyway. Except that I was looking at a giant transvestite, not naked Jamie Dornan. Anyway, he’s got very nice legs—long, tanned, flawless with toned muscles in all the right places.
“It’s impossible? ‘Coz the wife, an astronaut, was in the outer space and giving a lecture about life without gravity at the moment the explosion occurred? Uh-huh, so your point is that the kids and teachers who attended the lecture are the witnesses to prove her solid alibi. C’mon! That is the critical part of her little scheme; committing a murder while having a solid alibi. Also, don’t forget that the woman had made it clear that the hubby works in that fireworks factory to create a special firework to welcome back herself. Check out her communications; phone, emails, SNS, Craigslist, and her financial transactions. You’ll find out that she had somehow arranged to call the victim’s cell at the time of explosion; which was caused by a minor change in static electricity when the phone rang, igniting a little portion of floating ammunition particle and then Kaboom! That’s about it.”
Archangel told the client (a captain of a European police force) on the other end of the line. Then he stood up, handed me the telephone receiver to return it to the cradle on my desk, and walked back to his desk in the far corner of the office. The office, which originally was a large lounge room, featured floor to ceiling windows that lead to the garden, and had plenty of sun, however Archangel’s desk occupied the corner surrounded by two walls with floor to ceiling book shelves. Just like a vampire avoiding the sun.
An hour later, the phone rang again. This time, the same client had called him to notify that his deduction was correct. He greatly appreciated Archangel’s advice. That they had found out the astronaut had indeed prearranged the phone call to the victim’s cell at the exact time of explosion, by hiring a contract killer. And the contract killer was a college student in Philippines. This diligent and punctual student made that particular phone call believing she was just making a wakeup call for some lazy guy in Europe.
I managed to transfer the call to the phone on Archangel’s desk before he decided to walk back and sit on top of my desk again. Due to the generous size of the room and location of my desk, the distance between our desks far exceeded an arm’s length. Other than that little inconvenience, I was pretty much satisfied with my desk’s location in the office. It was by the doorway that led to the foyer, which made each of my trip to the foyer shorter. As the assistant, I was the one responsible for greeting the clients. Did I mention my employer had no flowers in the foyer or the office before I started working here?
“Wow, that was really quick,” I said, amazed.
“Good,” Archangel nodded absently.
He didn’t look so happy, or satisfied. I assumed it was because he had yet to nail whoever killed two women by poking their eyes out.
Three days (nearing four, it was 4PM) had passed since the second eyeless body was discovered. It was a rare occasion for Archangel to take longer than a day to finger point at the killer. Also, it was the first case of psychopathic serial killing since I had started working for him.
So far, just about everything about these cases was vague at best. The mode of killing (or M.O.—modus operandi—I like to use jargons that helps me seem more professional, don’t you?) was hazily determined as multifactorial; one of the victim’s name, address, and occupation were yet to be identified; and the whereabouts of the eyeballs taken out of the victims (while the victims were still alive and breathing!) were unknown. Not to mention the killer didn’t leave much evidence.
“I think whoever killed those poor women by strangulating, poking the eyeballs out, and abandoned in the woods, is a monstrous animal.” I said.
“Oh yeah?” He said. “I’m really skeptical about it.”
“Are you saying such actions are not monstrous?”
“No, I’m not saying that. The point is that animals are not necessarily monsters. First of all, they do not hunt and kill the prey just for fun, they only kill when necessary. Only the humankind is known to lie, deceive, steal, commit unnecessary killings and inflict pain and sufferings for others, purely out of pleasure.”
“Thanks for a soothing opinion toward the human race.”
“My pleasure,” he said matter-of-factly. Totally missing my sarcasm.
“Mr. Archangel,” I said, “Do you think the other victim was involved in the
same business as Leonie Ganong?”
The victim we saw at the morgue was identified as Leonie Ganong. She had lost her regular office job during the recession, juggled four odd jobs for a while, and then she started a new job as a burlesque dancer at a gentlemen’s club. According to her colleagues, her attitude towards her new job was positive, maybe a tad bit too positive. She started taking “clients” after her shifts to provide her “services” for extra cash. She was heard saying she wanted to make the maximum profit out of her current situation in order to enjoy an early retirement.
“It’s possible,” Archangel said.
“That’s horrible.”
“It is. Falling victim to violence is one of the major risks of working in that line of job. Not everyone ends up like her, but it’s still risky. Another risk is being exposed to a smorgasbord of infections including but not limited to sexually transmitted diseases.” He shrugged. “Still, many people choose to engage themselves in that profession and they do so on their own will.”
“That’s horrible, cruel, and just… just so unjust.” I muttered. I knew that I was not making much sense, but I couldn’t help it.
“I know. In general, murders are everything you’ve just mentioned.”
“That’s sad.” I muttered.
Suddenly, I got this heavy, depressing feeling in the pit of my stomach. There were times I was called a bitch, slut, whore, and prostitute. It happened as soon as I became a not-so-happy-divorcee. Not that I was engaged in sex industry but back in the UK, I was called a bloody bitch. Media, including all tabloids and national TV networks were busy running hate-Kelly campaign. It didn’t take long until total strangers to start openly dissing me on TV and in comment sections of news and gossip websites. Seriously, that was a total disaster.
Recalling my past, I realized that I was taking a series of brutal murders by this brutal killer whom the media now calls Eyeball Snatcher more personal than other cases.
I now knew it was only by a mere luck that I was working in law enforcement-ish field now. I just couldn’t stop thinking about what-ifs. What if Mom was ashamed of the notoriety of her only child, rather than standing up for me? What if Archangel didn’t offer me my current job?