by Lotta Smith
In addition, what if I have ended up working in a dark, vulgar, dirty place that involves bed sheets with suspicious stains, instead of Archangel’s deceptively stylish ivory and beige office with expensive furniture?
Without a doubt, my current lifestyle was a paradise compared to the depressing scenario that could have happened to me.
I could have ended up as one of them—a hard working girl desperate to get out of the unfortunate situation.
Or worse, it could have been me who was choked, deprived of sight, and left in the woods suffering painful and slow death.
I thanked my guardian angel and muttered a silent ‘Thank you’ to Archangel. I knew it was better to voice my appreciation directly to him, however, he tended to take advantage of it and come up with extra errands such as fetching his Halloween costume from drycleaner’s when I went way too soft and fluffy.
“By the way, there’s something that doesn’t make sense.”
Archangel’s words grabbed me back to the real world.
“What’s that?” I asked my employer, who was at his mahogany desk with leather upholstered swivel chair.
“If you killed a person and you want to get rid of the body so that you don’t get caught, what would you do?”
“For your information, killing is not my favorite pastime. Especially when it involves killing humans.”
“It’s just a hypothesis, what would you do?”
“Dump the body somewhere people wouldn’t come and find, if I intend to get away from getting arrested, prosecuted and such.” I replied. “Or else, I’d push the victim into an active volcanic crater like Kilauea and let the hot lava do the job. Though this option is kind of risky on the account that I might end up melting in the magma as the victim.”
Then I added. “Oh, suppose I was a real psychopath and I had no fear or remorse for doing just about anything, then dumping the body into a fish farm would be just as good, I guess. I’ve heard the eels are especially aggressive and they’d eat up everything including the bones of moderate to large mammals. In that case, the fishes would devour the body, which is the most important evidence of the murder, then they would be sold and probably served at restaurants all over the nation, or the world for the better, to be eaten by unsuspecting patrons. That makes it even harder to track down the corpse.”
Open-mouthed, Michael Archangel gave me a blank stare.
Then he shook his head and said. “Sometimes, you scare the hell out of me, Kelly.”
“You know what, Mr. Archangel, I was just talking hypothetically.”
“Okay. Suppose you see a lake at the site where you came to dump the body, which makes you more comfortable, dumping the body on the ground with a quick cover with the leaves, or sinking it into the water, at least temporarily?”
“Dump the body into the water?” I said, not quite sure where we were headed for. “If I want to conceal it, or get rid of it forever, that seems like a better idea.”
“Except the body ripens, gas accumulates in the body cavities, and bloated body may be found floating. Still, there are basses and gills in those lakes that would fasten breaking down the corpse by eating. It’s worth the effort, like you have mentioned previously, seeking help from aquatic nature may even conceal taking away the eyeballs part. Not to mention in the water, it’s more likely that any residual incriminating evidence sticking to the body dissolves into the water. If you get lucky, the body might disappear for a long while.”
“Then, why didn’t he dump the body into the water?” I grimaced as I said. With his words describing the disgusting outcomes awaiting the abandoned bodies, I couldn’t help having disturbing images in my mind.
“That’s the tricky part. In general, killers try their best to conceal the corpse in an attempt to get away with the crime.” Archangel crossed his arms.
“Maybe, with all the damages he’s caused, he was confident that the victims won’t be identified.” I suggested. “Maybe he was too tired to carry her to the lake and dump into the water. Maybe he wasn’t a macho, strong kind of a man. Or maybe, he’s water phobic.” I knew many people manifest irrational fear for many things that are not particularly dangerous. My former employer Estella was phobic to sea urchins, sea cucumbers, and sands, however she lived in a private island in the Caribbean.
“Oh yeah, maybe that may indicate a little something about the killer’s behavioral pattern.”
“Still, this particular behavior of him with just leaving the body with an imperfect cover and so on might have occurred just spontaneously, like out of the blue. In that case, does this behavioral pattern thing apply?”
“Theoretically speaking, the possibility is literally infinite. Then again, it’s hard for anyone to change a person’s behavioral pattern so the killer should be moving according to the behavioral pattern.” Archangel remarked. “By the way, Kelly, why do you keep on referring the killer as a man, not a woman?”
“Because at least one of the victims was in a profession that served to fulfill men’s sexual fantasy. Doesn’t it imply that the killer is a man?”
“That’s shallow, not to mention judgmental,” he snorted. “So far, no sperm or male cell was found from the crime scene, the possibility of the killer being a woman cannot be ruled out yet.”
“Hmm...” I thought. “Then, it’s still possible that a man with an erectile dysfunction or a transsexual who used to be a man but had a sexual adjustment surgery has committed the murders.”
“You’ve got a point,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “Except that even feminization surgery does not change the Y chromosome into an X chromosome. Besides that, clients are not the only people she had met.”
“That makes a gazillion of suspects, literally.”
“I know.”
“So, the possibility of the killer being a woman is as high as that of being a man?”
“Theoretically so, perhaps. At the same time, there’s this piece of statistics which goes that a murderer being a man is considerably higher than that of a woman. Still, exceptions do exist.”
Then he flicked on the remote and switched on the 72-inch flat screen TV sitting on the file cabinet by the side wall. Daytime TV show was going on. A female reporter was feeding on updates of Eyeball Snatcher murders in a rather breathless tone.
Back in the studio, the talk show host, a middle aged man with grey hair was speaking to his assistant-in-the-show. ‘By the way, Mellissa, what do you think is the killer’s purpose of taking away the eyeballs from the victims?’ The assistant, a young blonde with I’m-too-professional-to-smile-like-a-moronic-woman stern expression went ‘I have no idea, and personally, I don’t even want to know. It’s way gruesome.’
“She’s trying to appear ‘Oh, I’m so innocent, and I’m too good a girl to imagine hurting someone,’ or a total airhead with nothing between the ears,” snorted Archangel.
“Isn’t that a little too harsh?” I said. “It’s normal for being clueless of the motive for taking the eyeballs out of other people. I can completely agree with her that even imagining the reason for poking out someone’s eyeballs is too gross. It makes most people sick.”
“Says a woman who has this daring idea to push someone into an active volcanic crater, or feed this special someone to fishes.”
“I said those were just theories. Besides that, as for the motive for stealing the eyeballs part, I’m assuming you’re as clueless as the rest of the world.”
“Clueless? Who? Me?” He said with a fake shock. “On the contrary, my head’s full of possible reasons for the killer’s behavior. For example, the eyeballs might have been carrying some critical information to ID the killer, or as they say the eye is the window to the soul, and the killer had taken them in an attempt to get their souls so that the killer can feel closer, more intimate to the victims. I guess I can hear them at BAU seriously discussing those staffs. It totally lacks originality but it’s the standard theory to be considered first thing in behavioral analysis.”
I recalled that Archangel himself once used to be an FBI agent. He started a career with the feds in the department of art crimes, and his area of expertise had expanded into homicide as well. It was easy to imagine him working with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The hard to imagine part was a giant transvestite working as a feds agent. I didn’t know when he started to wear women’s attire, but so far, I’d only known him as a giant transvestite. If he ever appears in front of me clad in a men’s suit that screams “serious business,” I might burst out laughing.
Archangel continued. “The problem is, there’re too many possible explanations for the reason the killer poked the eyeballs out of the victims. Maybe it’s the killer’s special ritual to avoid getting caught. For instance, assuming there was no eyewitness save for the victim, taking the eyeballs out of the corpses might have worked just fine for that purpose, perhaps it gave the killer a sense of security. People, whether labeled normal or abnormal, often have peculiar obsessions. So maybe taking the eyeballs out of the victims might be something equivalent of a sex for the killer. And here’s another one, maybe the killer’s purpose is just to collect the eyeballs. Or maybe, the killer has taken eyeballs for interior decoration of the house. Basically, nothing is impossible.”
Imagining the killer showing off eyeballs in a gold fish bowl, I shivered. “The last speculation was the sickest of all.”
“Not as bad as the possibility of the killer eating the eyeballs out of the victims.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped, “Eating the eyeballs? Like a cannibal? That’s…outrageous. You can’t be serious.”
“What’s wrong with eating the eyeballs? I’ve met a Japanese guy who regularly eats eyeballs out of tuna and red snappers. You can’t possibly criticize the culinary culture of other people’s heritage especially when you share the same heritage.”
“Eating human eyeballs is a completely different story!” I protested. “You’re just making fun of me with a theory that’s too-grossy-to-be-true.”
For someone with an angel in his name, Michael Archangel often came up with demonic ideas, totally going the opposite direction from what his surname implied. According to him, when his ancestor Archmepapadopoulas from Greece came to Ellis Island back in 1899, the officer at immigrant inspection station told him “You’re an Archangel from now on,” and issued a new passport with Archangel written as the surname and that was it.
This officer should have been called Mr. Cynic, I guess.
“Okay, so it’s true that sometimes you’re so funny to try a prank or two. But the thing is, cannibals do exist. Remember Rudy Eugene, Miami Cannibal? Though it turned out he had just bit off the poor man’s face rather than eating the victim.” He said, munching on a piece of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
“How can you eat cookies while talking about cannibalism?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Practice. You get used to seeing corpses, then you’ll be eating while thinking, visualizing, and talking about cadavers.”
“I don’t think I’d ever get used to seeing murdered corpses.” I said bitterly.
“Lucky you,” Archangel shrugged. “You can shed off extra pounds without starving yourself.” Then he gave me the onceover. “Maybe in your case, that’s not working.”
“Excuse me?” I demanded. “Did you just say I’m fat?”
“Well, I didn’t say the f-word, you know.” He said, suddenly showing a very keen interest in wood grain of the desk.
I sighed, feeling a bit inclined to shake him hard until the teeth fell off. “Anyway, I really hope the killer gets caught ASAP. It’s not right for someone who kills and takes eyeballs from other people to walk free.”
“I know.” Then he squinted at the TV screen. “Who’s he?”
A cute blonde guy was performing one of his hit songs with the piano.
“That’s Yves, he’s a singer, song writer, and multi-instrumental player. Right now he’s one of the most emerging new stars in the pop music scene.” I said.
“He’s weird,” he said, furrowing.
“You said the same thing about Justin Bieber before.”
“No. I said Justin Bieber is a stupid brat and a pothead, weird is not the word I used.”
“I don’t see much difference. You’re just dissing them both.”
Ignoring my remark, he muttered. “Yves sounds and looks very unstable. I think he has some serious problem within himself.”
Then the phone rang. It was Henderson requesting Archangel to come to a new crime scene where a new body minus the eyeballs was discovered.
Chapter 6
When I looked into her eyes, I felt her intense gaze on me.
“I hope you love it here,” I whispered.
Honey, I love you—she whispered back. She didn’t make a sound but I knew she said so.
“Are you tired?” I asked her. She didn’t say anything, but the silence was telling more than words.
Again, I stared at her. She looked me back straight. As if she was enjoying a game.
Still, there was something more than just a game.
There was…acceptance.
No need to talk so fast. No need to pretend my confidence. Not anymore…
I felt hot tears rolling my face. I also sensed her smiling gently, with an assurance.
I started to smile and broke into a laughter.
On the TV, they were airing the latest news.
The reporter was talking fast. Lots of words with little meanings. It was a complete waste of time.
I reached for the TV remote to flip it off. Then I froze.
“Darling, how about that woman?”
She said nothing.
But I knew she wanted to meet her.
Badly.
But how?—I wondered. Then I observed her carefully.
The woman in the screen was insecure. Every move of her was telling it.
I saluted my champagne glass.
In the glass was clear, golden liquid.
Delicate bubbles were dancing around the two human eyeballs soaking in the liquid.
I knew one thing—I was going to get her.
Julia Stewart, MD, the woman on TV positively shared major physical features with Dragon Lady.
Chapter 7
Russel Street was a typical good neighborhood in northern Virginia. Quiet streets lined with large to moderate size houses, with each house accentuated with charming exterior and manicured lawn. If it was not for the yellow crime scene tape that said ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS’ wrapped around a dollhouse-like structure like a sick joke, it would have appeared nice. Picturesque, even.
Due to the relative closeness to the D.C. metro area and/or the growing attention to Eyeball Snatcher cases, media-type people were already flocking to the area. Cameras, satellite trucks and everything were gathering on the sidewalk, as if they were awaiting for an action or something.
It was the place that the latest case had just occurred. In addition to TV networks, various journalists including those from newspaper, magazines and even blogs were there.
I parked Archangel’s Machomobile (my secret nickname for the black Chevy Camaro) at the closest possible place to the house, slapped the FBI parking permit on the back of the front glass, and hurried after my employer who was walking fast with long strides in front of the cameras and reporters.
I felt a little macho, too. Coming out of the Machomobile has that effect on me. I’ve got my own set of wheels but my Cadillac came in a loud metallic purple with gold hues and whenever I came out of the purple car, it made me feel like a pimp, or a gangsta. Then again, the Pimp car was a freebie, it was functioning, and scared away other cars at the mall’s parking lot, I couldn’t complain.
The sun was starting to sink under the horizon. It was a beautiful spring evening. Maybe too beautiful for a horrible murder to take place.
Amid the buzz, I caught a couple of men engaged in a heated discussion about seeing some woman.
&
nbsp; “If you’re so bloody sure it’s her, why don’t you go ask?”
“Oh yes. I will.”
I heard the exchange but I wasn’t listening carefully.
As I walked past, a voice called me from behind. “Hey, is that you, Kelly?”
For once, I stopped breathing. Cold sweat trickled down from the back of my neck all the way down to the nucleus of the earth. Or hell. I was vaguely familiar with that voice. And that British accent. Not to mention Americans usually don’t say ‘bloody’ for emphasis purposes. I should have just ignored and kept on walking, but by reflex, I looked back, and consequently, my eyes got blinded by camera flash.
—Hey Kelly, is that true that Warren the big swindler did a double-penetration with you and his new girl on finalizing the divorce?
In my head, the paparazzo’s voice replayed over and over. Baz was his name, now I remembered. Clearly.
I was reliving the exact moment that this dynamite of hate-Kelly campaign got ignited. It was in my post-divorce days. The divorce itself was a real quickie but before the ink on the divorce paper dried, Warren got arrested. The scandal that erupted following his arrest was huge and messy. After all, it had turned out that Warren Bernadoff Estevez—the obscenely successful financial tycoon, the man referred to as the King of the City—in truth, had never been a legitimate businessman. The supposedly successful business he’d been running for decades was nothing but a massive Ponzi-scheme which, indeed, was the biggest Ponzi-scheme in British history. The money he’d collected from investors were thoroughly used to support the glamorous, extravagant, jet-setting, partying, super-rich lifestyle he’d fully indulged for a long, long time. Though no ordinary, hardworking people were victimized in this bad case of fraud on the account the minimum amount to participate in his fund required a lot of money, public opinion, especially that coming from the media was pretty harsh. Warren was well-connected and had many friends in the media industry, so the majority of big fishes in the industry had smartly entrusted their money to his Ponzi-scheme, anticipating to boost up their already humongous net worth. When those media big fishes realized they’d just kissed their millions goodbye, they were not thrilled. At all. What had ultimately ticked them off was that Kelly the ex-wife of the big swindler, had cunningly managed to walk without even a slap on the wrist.