by Lotta Smith
“Except it’s lacking the punchline.”
“Wow, so it means you’re a straight guy?” I muttered.
“Excuse me? You thought I was gay? That’s a shocker.” He grunted through clenched teeth. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being you know what. But hey, you could have asked me before making such a wild assumption.”
“Asking you about your sexual orientation? I don’t think so, that’s so rude and insensitive.” I shrugged. “By the way, when you courted her were you wearing a Vera Wang gown or something like that?”
“No. I was wearing a darkish suit from Giorgio Armani, with trousers, a dress shirt and a tie.”
“You, in a suit? Wow, funny that it’s so hard to imagine you in a suit.”
“My attire back then is not supposed to be the point of amusement. Okay, so let’s get back to the present issues.” He raised a hand and snapped fingers as if working to make the past disappear.
He turned to Henderson. “How about letting us see Jane Doe for a change?”
“Come in, take a look,” then, turning to me, Henderson said. “This time, the body’s way more gruesome than the previous cases, I must warn you.”
“Oh, that bad?” I said. For a moment, offering to wait in the foyer, with a safe distance away from the murdered corpse crossed my mind. After all, they didn’t teach me proper ways to observe corpses in Switzerland. But then again, sharing what the detective’s going through should be a very important part of the job for an assistant extraordinaire, right? Add that I didn’t like the concept that I couldn’t look straight at the corpse with which Bitchtricia had no problem observing.
So I said, “Don’t worry, I’m a professional. I’m not going to cry, or puke. I promise.” Somewhere in my mind, I was competing with that ex-feds agent turned the Congresswoman for an unknown reason.
“Okay,” Henderson nodded.
“Add drooling and fire-breathing to the no-no list,” Archangel said, putting on rubber gloves.
“I’m not that crooked.”
“Oh yeah?” Giving a little shrug to my reply, Archangel asked Henderson, “What do we know about the victim?”
“The name’s Julia Stewart. She’s thirty-one years old, currently a housewife married to Jonathan Stewart, an accountant. The ME puts the time of death around ten this morning.”
Then turning to me, he added, “She was the ME we met at the morgue previously, and she was seven months pregnant.”
I lost words and just gasped.
“Are you still sure you want to see her body?”
“Yes.” I made a clear reply before giving it any more thoughts. Henderson’s frown deepened, but he nodded.
He led us to the room in downstairs where the body was discovered.
It was a dining room with a table that sits four. In the center of the table was a vase with fresh tulips in assorted colors. The room was mostly decorated in baby pink and ivory, sort of like country-style dollhouse. It should have felt nice—relaxing, even, if you didn’t see the blood spattering all over the place.
On the table, there also was barely-eaten breakfast for one. A piece of rye bread, ham and eggs, and some green salad with sliced tomato sat on a white plate. Everything had completely dried up. The whole place smelled like caked blood, vomit, and God-knows-what-else. Besides that, there was not only one, but two corpses dumped like rag dolls in the corner of the room. Plus…
“No…”I gasped, not believing what I saw, or rather, not wanting to believe what I saw.
Bloodbath was an understatement.
“Dr. Julia Stewart was a pathologist who has worked as a medical examiner.” The ME in a white lab coat informed us. Archangel acknowledged by nodding and muttering “I know. We met just a couple of days ago.”
“Just like the previous cases, the killer had poked out the eyeballs from the victim.” Henderson said and corrected himself, “I mean, the victims.”
“Looks like the killer got more violent this time,” Archangel commented.
I was at a total loss of words.
As a personal assistant to a detective, I have seen my fair share of horrific deaths and dead bodies, but believe me, this was the worst case I have ever witnessed.
I couldn’t believe that Dr. Julia Stewart, with whom I’d quickly bonded just a few days ago, had fallen victim to this atrocious violence. She was one of the people trying to ID and catch this eyeball-snatching killer. She was on our side. The severity of damage to the body was so horrible. Just like previous cases, eyeballs were taken out and all that remaining in the empty eye sockets was caked blood. In addition, the face was slashed beyond recognition. Her lower abdomen was ripped open. Blood was everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on the furniture, even on the white ceilings. Who could have thought so much blood was stored in a human body? It was an astounding sight. Various innards were jumbled on the floor like scattered toys.
As if to maximize the shock, a very little baby’s body was abandoned on the floor. It was a baby girl. Obviously, she was supposed to spend some more quality time in mommy’s uterus. The umbilical cord was dangling from her and it was still attached to Dr. Stewart’s cadaver. On top of all, both of the baby’s eyes were taken out. As if taking the mother’s eyeballs was not enough.
“You may want to inspect and analyze Dr. Stewart’s hands and arms very carefully.”
Archangel said to the ME.
“The killer took her wedding band. The damages with her upper limbs show that she tried her best to protect her child.”
Her hands and arms were bloody with a numerous cuts.
“Will do,” ME nodded, “She’s a fighter. I’m proud of her.”
His voice was slightly trembling.
Chapter 9
After Archangel had finished observing the corpses and the house, and spoke with Henderson and forensic techs, we came out of the house. The sun had disappeared underneath the horizon but with street lamps and lights from media vehicles, it wasn’t dark.
Reporters threw questions at Archangel but he ignored all of them, and ambled fast to the Camaro.
The British tabloid reporters, still mean and now pretty much pissed off, were also there. They were carrying another camera. They kept on throwing questions at me—about my personal life and my feelings toward my ex-hubby now serving three hundred and five years in the maximum security prison in the UK. When they asked me about the relation with this rude giant bloke in women’s clothes, I gave them a look implying don’t-mess-up-with-him-‘coz-you’ll-be-very-sorry. Archangel simply gave them a finger.
“Give me the key, I’ll drive.” Archangel declared.
“Why? Is anything wrong?” I asked. He usually lets me drive the Machomobile without complaining.
“You’re upset.” He said matter-of-factly.
“No I’m not,” I retorted, a little too defiantly.
“Oh yeah?” He raised one eyebrow casting an inquisitive look at my right hand.
In my hand, Camaro’s key and other keys dangling from the key fob were chattering and clattering. My hand was visibly shaking.
I handed him the keys, he took it with a slight nod.
While I sat in the passenger’s seat, I kept on thinking about Dr. Stewart. I remembered how sheepishly she spoke when she confided in me about feeling out of place at the morgue. I recalled how excitedly she rubbed her belly, when she told me the great news. Then I remembered how happy and radiant she looked.
Also, I realized that I didn’t cry. Whether I was proud of myself or not, I didn’t know.
“Are you cold?” Archangel said, driving in the scarcely lit road in a steady pace. “You’re shaking.”
“Am I?”
My voice was quivering and my teeth were clattering.
“Yes, you are.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m cold, I guess.” Then I added, “And I’m shocked, disgusted, scared. I suppose I’m just overreacting. I used to believe I’m not easily shocked with any usual crime scenes
because I have seen worse cases before. Now I’m quite embarrassed, shaking like this. I wish I could be someone who’s cool at any murder scenes, someday. You know, just like a seasoned professional.”
“You wouldn’t be someone cool with murder scenes,” Archangel said matter-of-factly.
“Because I’m unskilled, untrained, unofficial, unprofessional, long story cut short, an amateur?” Besides that, Bitchtricia Warshawsky’s face was completely dry; I added in my head, not knowing why I was competing with a former-feds-turned-a-Congresswoman.
Is it because Archangel mentored her? Or that she was engaged to him? I was confused and clueless. So everyone including myself was fully aware of the complete lack of credentials on my part, but I was totally obsessing with that for totally unknown reasons. And I had no fucking idea why I was comparing myself to Archangel’s former fiancée. Talk about a frustration.
“Yes and no. But your reaction wasn’t all that bad considering you didn’t puke, or cry like a drunken idiot shedding bodily fluids all over the place. Or collapsing on the spot, potentially ruining forensic evidence. It just indicates you’re normal, at least marginally.” He said. “As far as I know, I’ve never met anyone who’s indeed cool at murder scenes except for some murderers.”
“But you can look at the corpses without a twitch of a facial muscle.” I pointed out. “And Agent Henderson’s always well-composed in front of the corpses. Even baby faced officers who looked as if they just came out of the police academy were better composed than me.”
Archangel gave out a low chuckle. “Detaching yourself from the murder and the corpses, and keeping the emotions inside is the first thing they teach at any law enforcement academy, so the officers were only following the protocol. They may be pokerfaced, but inside, they’re freaking out as much as you are, maybe, more than you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In addition, even though Henderson keeps the same scowl, he cries at night.”
“You are making that up, right?”
“Not really, it’s just that I haven’t yet checked. You’d never know, it might turn out that I was right.” He shrugged. “About that Congresswoman, she had to be literally resuscitated by paramedics at the first crime scene she attended. She puked inside her mouth, got choked and had almost died. That was not a pretty sight. Besides that, did I mention you’re the first person that I’ve met who, with no military or police procedural training, had managed to eat dinner just after discovering the first corpse of lifetime?”
“No, that’s a total news flash. And, am I?” I asked, recalling the first time I encountered Michael Archangel. It was before becoming his personal assistant and after touring the globe as a fire breather with Iron Dragon. Back then, I was a live-in maid at a manse in a private island in the Caribbean. My last employer was a nice, if a little bit temperamental, elderly lady. The island had a great privacy and I used to take a stroll on the white sands and evening skinny dips in the sea. When a large number of outsiders came to the island, so did troubles. Plenty of troubles including murders.
“Yes, you’re the first person who had no problem eating roast beef after witnessing a murdered corpse. That made it pretty much difficult to ditch the theory that you might the killer.”
That fiasco in the island was promptly solved by Archangel, just like usual. In addition, he saved my behind by loaning his pink summer jacket to me (my clothes were stolen while I was skinny dipping in the sea) and nailing the killer who was planning to kill me as well. The P.I. wasn’t all that eager with the part of saving me, though, anyway, he liked my pancakes and Japanese style sweet omelet with a hint of soy sauce.
“Thank you,” I said. And I meant for everything.
“For what?”
“For your assurance that I’m normal. I was beginning to hate myself for being a terrible person.”
“You hate yourself just because getting frightened by horrible deaths? Then you must be coming with lots of reasons to loathe yourself every day.”
“No, I mean, I hated myself because I was being a jealous bitch,” I confessed. “When I met Dr. Stewart back in the morgue, she was so happy, radiant, and, and…so mother-to-be. I said congratulations for her coming motherhood, and I meant it. I was indeed happy for her, and happy for her baby, too. But at the same time, a jealous, vicious, and obnoxious bitch was crawling in the bottom of my heart, wondering why I wasn’t the one to be a happy mother-to-be.” I gulped in the air to help prevent my voice from cracking. “Maybe those mean Brits were right that I’m a poisonous bitch deep inside.”
Archangel kept on driving without saying a word.
“First of all, I fancied the idea of shooting the tabloid guys from UK with an automatic weapon just to quiet them. And as much as I was happy for her, I was envious of Dr. Stewart. I knew she had chosen to marry someone who doesn’t lie, jilt, or conduct a Ponzi-scheme while I chose to marry someone who does anything to get what he wants without hesitation or remorse. Plus, my ex was capable of withholding vital information such as that he’d undergone vasectomy to keep the wives from getting pregnant. That bastard. I know the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence and I know it was my own decision and stupidity for being such a blind not to see his dark, lying, criminal, pathological side. I’m fully aware of that. But I couldn’t… just couldn’t stop imagining what ifs—like if I had a child with Warren and so on. I know it’s ridiculous and useless to daydream such a thing. And the saddest part was that he never told me about having the vasectomy. It was only after the divorce settlement that he finally came clean that he loathed the concept of having children and building a family. He had the audacity to tell me that he regarded children nothing but rivals he has to compete to get the wife’s attention.”
I felt warmth on my shoulder.
“Don’t get all tensed up.” Archangel whispered, patting my shoulder. “The last thing you want right now is a stroke.” His face was unreadable.
“Sorry,” I said, “maybe I’m boring you to tears.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Your story wasn’t boring and as a matter of fact, shooting the shit out of those media cretins was somewhat tempting except that’s illegal. In addition, you’ve finally confirmed my speculation was right.”
“What speculation?”
“You’re idiot who still has feelings for that pathological liar after everything.” His words were harsh, but his tone was soft. “But you’re normal for the most part.”
“I might be an idiot, but I’m normal. Lovely, just lovely.” I gave a light chuckle then I realized my cheeks were all wet with tears. Oh yeah, I was an idiot. What kind of a smart person still kept their ancient flip phone from the past marriage? How pathetic was I to cling to the same old cell phone number, awaiting the ex in prison to call? I was one step away from wailing and sobbing.
“Besides that, just being a teensy bit envious of someone is a whole lot different from wishing that special someone to death.” Archangel tossed a tiny box of tissues on my lap. “It was nothing more than a short lasting emotion. Your envy didn’t kill her or her baby, regardless of your point of view toward the universe, karma, kabala, feng-shui, or whatever psychobabble you’re into, understand?”
“Mr. Archangel, sometimes you are really sweet.” Blowing my nose in an unladylike manner, I said.
“I’m sweet, gentle, sensible, and considerate for 24/7. Didn’t you know that? Another red flag for your silliness.” He shrugged. “What we can do now is help catch the killer ASAP. It doesn’t bring the victims back to life, but at least, securing the killer behind the bars can relieve the loss, pain, and sufferings of the victims’ families and loved ones, if only a little. On top of all, by capturing the killer, we can stop any more killing. So, personally, I believe it would be more constructive to think about whodunit than crying over imaginary spilt milk.”
“I agree with you, especially getting more constructive part.” I said between sobs.
“Hey, look
on the bright side. Unlike your ex-hubby who’s got three-hundred-plus-year prison time left to serve, you’re a free person. This fact alone tells that you’re a lot better than him. If there’s a loser that’s him, not you. Maybe you can find new romances, even a new hubby or two.”
“New romances? I don’t think so.” I shrugged. “New relationships, much less new husbands are not part of the things I’m anticipating for my life.”
“Why not?” He asked curiously. “Is that because of the British paparazzi?”
Five o’clock shadow had started to appear on his jaw line. But somehow that looked rather nice, even though he was wearing heavy makeup and women’s clothes. So he was eccentric, but it was not bad eccentric. It was nice eccentricity. Just like a glam rocker.
“No,” I shook my head, “They’re annoying but they have nothing to do with my life in general. I know they’ll keep on calling me Kelly the Bitch forever and there’s nothing I can do with that.”
I tried to smile but I wasn’t very sure if that worked very well.
I continued. “I’ve promised myself to change and spend my life doing something meaningful. And living my life as a man-hopper isn’t a part of my plan, you know. I don’t want to live like my mother.”
“Kelly, what’s wrong with you? Your mom’s great. Throwing parties to save dying museums from closing is meaningful, if I may say.” Archangel shook his head, as if I had mentioned something outrageously foolish. He had once met Mom years before we got acquainted, and he stayed a big fan of her up to now.
“I know. Mom’s great both as a huge supporter of art and as a mother. Her taste in men has been mostly good except she had this tendency to pick up husbands with short attention spans, such as my biological father. Not to mention that she’s got this short attention span issue herself as well. But at least, none of her former husbands was convicted of anything criminal. That’s fabulous. It’s not like I don’t appreciate her lifestyle, but following her path is not my best interest.”
If you define smartness as an ability to stay rich, my Mom—the Countess of a village in Scotland (she became officially a lady by her ninth marriage) is a pure genius. Basically, she’s a poster-woman for a rich-husband-magnet. I hate to sound superficial but most of supposedly smart people were living in small and barely-decorated houses despite hard work and everything. On the other hand, Mom’s been constantly living in manses decorated by designers from maisons such as Versace and Hermes. Anyway, I suppose it’s quite something that she’s never really worked but has been living in nice manses that often come with real Matisse, Renoir, or even Da Vinci paintings.