by Lotta Smith
“Anyway, let me interpret your persistent dream. It is a mixed reflection of your inner love, loathe, remorse, and the lack of self-esteem, that’s causing conflicts within your subconscious. And I see your inner conflict as the source of the bad dream in which you end up killing your mother, your late fiancée and the baby. At the moment, I strongly recommend that you cut yourself some slack.”
“That’s impossible, Dr. Springer.” I cracked a dry laugh.
“Mind you, anything is possible.” Doctor smiled assuredly. “First, you need to believe in yourself. Also, I strongly recommend that you cut off media like TV and internet that come with violence, murders and other creepy things from your life. Shall we get started?”
For the millionth time I nodded, reclined the couch, and then I lay flat on my back.
“Close your eyes, take a deep breath, relax your muscles.” The shrink started with his signature deep voice that induced sleepiness. “Imagine a peaceful, warm, and calm place. You are completely relaxed…”
Following his instruction, I felt my body gradually relaxing.
—It’s better than the chairs at Mandarin Oriental…
Thinking about the couch, my consciousness sank into the deeper place.
The session has just begun.
Chapter 11
Four days later, we went to a posh, Beaux Arts-style condo in Kalorama Triangle, Washington DC. The second victim had been identified this morning, and Henderson summoned Archangel to see her residence. In hopes of him picking up anything about the murderer.
At the entrance of the condo complex, there was a doorman—a big guy in his mid-fifties with white hair—who gave a well-concealed but apprehensive once-over on us. He looked like all the doormen I’d interacted in the past. I greeted him and explained the purpose of our visit. He led us into the entrance hall where we were met by the concierges, then the beautiful Nordic woman made a phone call. Thirty seconds later, she showed us to the elevator to go up to the 13th floor.
“Hey, you have something in common with the victim.” Archangel said to Henderson as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. He was waiting for us in front of the room #1313, which was the same number as his office in the Capitol Hill. “Maybe that gives you some big clue to solve the case pronto.”
“Unfortunately, it’s just a coincidence and what we share in common is limited to the room number.” Henderson replied with his signature scowl. Today, he seemed extra-grumpy.
“I don’t think the room number is the only thing the late victim shared with you.” Archangel said. “She’s divorced, just like you, and just like I said.”
“What are you, a psychic?”
“No, you’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re extra grumpy by tasting regurgitated bitter memory of your past on an account something reminds you of your bitter divorce. So, what do we know about this newly identified victim?”
Henderson gave out a sigh. “Her name was Alice Sinclair, a thirty-three-year-old columnist, leisure and travel writer. Her work had appeared in publications including Vogue, New York, Marie Claire, Travel and Leisure, and a various newspaper. And indeed, she got divorced just a month ago. The former husband Anthony Klein is a hedge fund manager. Right now, Klein is based in Manhattan. She obtained this condo and a handsome asset division through the divorce settlement. Her parents are living in Orange County, California, and she lived here alone. It was only this morning that a local dentist reported to that the second victim’s dental records matches to that of his patient Alice Sinclair’s.”
He led us inside the second victim’s residence.
It was a gorgeous, four-bedroom property with marble floorings and modern designer furniture. The interior décor was mostly finished with soft gold and different shades of blues, giving the place a touch of an upscale hotel air.
The rooms were embellished with numerous pieces of contemporary art pieces, most of which were abstract paintings. The place looked more like a gallery than a residence. If only somebody had taken time to remove the cheap-looking knickknacks scattering the collection, the condo might have looked like a small museum. Maybe she had intended to mix and match, but it didn’t seem to be working nicely. Anyway, she was so into warm colors. Most of her collection was in either red, pink, orange, or a mixture of those colors. One of her red paintings of the sunset caught my eyes. Obviously, it was one of the knickknacks, but it looked much cheaper and much poorly composed even for knickknacks’ standards.
On the mantelpiece, there was a photograph of late Alice Sinclair, smiling with a handsome man in his early forties. They were standing on the pier at Hilton Hawaiian Village. The vast blue ocean spread behind them, with Diamond Head in the far back. In the photo, they were both smiling. Alice looked happy, carefree, and radiant.
That made her premature death seem even more painful and tragic, but at the same time, learning that she had her happy moments had a somewhat soothing effect. I know you can never estimate, much less understand, a total stranger’s life just peeking it from outside. Then again, Alice Sinclair seemed to have lived in a posh apartment without much inconvenience and she was surrounded by artwork she liked.
I recalled the no-frills, minimalist rental apartment Leonie Ganong, the first Eyeball Snatcher victim had lived, and that cute dollhouse of Dr. Julia Stewart’s. Compared to them, the grandeur of this upscale condo was something exceptional. The bathroom alone seemed to be able to accommodate Leonie Ganong’s entire apartment.
They lived entirely different lives in entirely different settings. Their personal, financial, and professional lives were not even remotely related. Then again, all of them ended up dead, having their eyeballs taken out of the body while they were still alive. So perhaps, differences in their lifestyles mean little or nothing.
Looking around the living room, Archangel said. “I suppose she had regular cleaning services but the cleaner hasn’t come here for a while. What’s the explanation for that?”
As he mentioned, the place was kept exquisitely clean and spotless just like his place following his cleaner Johanna’s visit every Tuesday. It was obvious that Alice Sinclair had a cleaning service on a regular basis. The only thing indicating this room has been left untouched was scattered petals of dead flowers in a Baccarat vase placed in the center of the low table.
“As for the cleaner, she took two weeks off in order to attend her sister’s wedding in El Salvador.” Replied Henderson. “This condo has a number of staff like the doorman and concierge people, but none of them thought twice about her absence because as a travel writer, she often traveled for a long period of time. Those factors had contributed to the delayed timespan to identify the victim. Everyone including her immediate family had assumed she was traveling somewhere exotic or luxurious. In addition, she had already completed and submitted columns and articles for the next three months, so there was no editors or publishers giving her calls, desperate to catch her.”
“How was the split from her ex?” Archangel inquired.
“According to her family and the ex-hubby, it was an amicable divorce. Indeed, the person smiling with her in the photo is our guy.” Henderson indicated the photo from Hawaii. “In addition, he was in Singapore at the time of her death and her body was abandoned in that forest in Maryland, making a solid alibi. I know that doesn’t exclude the possibility of ex-hubby hiring a contract killer but he has no plausible reason to kill her. They have no kids, so no custody war or child support to pay for. And he’s not receiving Alice’s life insurance upon her death and all. Not to mention that generally, contract killers don’t take eyeballs out of the targets. Catches too much attention.”
“I see.” Archangel nodded as he cast a glance at a red pumpkin sculpture covered with black eyeballish polka-dot patterns, a piece by Yayoi Kusama. “Considering he gave this up without a fight, I guess he wasn’t so passionate about patterns that incur images of eyeballs.”
“I
suppose I got your point,” said Henderson. “According to her divorce attorney, the husband was more than happy to give every pieces of art to her. The hubbie paid for those pieces but it was Alice who took initiative to obtain them. Giving them up to the ex-wife saved him much cash.”
“Some people don’t care for art, even when the work they detest scores big bucks.” Archangel commented. “By the way, was she engaged in some kind of religious or spiritual group that worship the eyeballs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You want to check it out.” Archangel said matter-of-factly. “Look, just about every piece of her collection features multiple round shapes, it might be just that she had peculiar attraction to round shapes, but at the same time, eyeballs are round.”
“Will do.” Henderson nodded.
There were large bay windows that offered stunning views of Rock Creek Park. I pictured her enjoying afternoon tea, taking in all this stunning vista, comfortably sitting at the Italian leather sofa set with a low glass top table.
“Do you see anything in common between her and other victims so far?” Asked Henderson, rather desperately.
“Other than all of them are women of average built with dark hair and relatively big, dark eyes, ages around 30, and having their eyeballs poked out alive?” said Archangel.
“Yes. Other things.”
“That’s hard to tell.” Archangel frowned.
“So, the killer’s picking up victims who share his type of physical profiles randomly?”
“It seems random to us, but the killer should have his or her own reason and/or method to pick up the victims, poking the eyeballs out of them alive. It’s not yet clear what this killer does to the eyeballs, though. Anyway, there should be something that links all three women which we haven’t recognized yet.”
“Alright. Personally, I have no fucking idea what those women had in common.” Henderson cursed, shaking his head. “Leonie Ganong was a single sexy dancer lived in Maryland. Working hard, always seeing multiple men for cash. Julia Stewart was a doctor and a pregnant housewife in suburban Virginia, and Alice Sinclair was a DC based rich divorcee with a glamorous job.”
“Yeah. It’s certain that they had something in common,” said Archangel. “The problem is we’re not aware of this special something.”
Chapter 12
After some more surveillance of the place, we left while Henderson stayed in with forensic photographers and the officers, and walked out of the room #1313 door.
Just outside the door, a very young girl—age around eight, dark blonde in a ponytail, a little on the chubby side, and big hazel eyes that sparkled with brightness and curiosity—stood. She was leaning on the wall with crossed legs, like a mini-teenager waiting for someone while pretending not to be waiting for anyone.
“I like your shoes.” She commented.
“Thank you.” I replied, smiling. We were the only ones walking down the corridor and I was the only woman, so I assumed she complimented my footwear. It’s a girl thing. Usually, a girl compliments other girl’s footwear, right?
“Not yours,” she shook her head and addressing to Archangel’s shoes with the palm of her hand. “I was talking about his shoes.”
“Oh…” I took a glance at Archangel’s footwear. They were red platform shoes with shiny studs embedded on the back of the heels while mine consisted of a boring pair of black chunky-heeled pumps from the comfort shoes shelves at Macy’s.
“Thanks, Fashionista.”
Archangel gleamed at the kid in a pink Juicy Couture hoodies, a white V-neck tee from Calvin Klein Kids, a pair of black jeans from True Religion, and a pair of black Sketchers with shiny studs on the toes.
Then she turned to me. “You know, the best statement a woman can make begins with the shoes she puts on her feet, you know.” She added, “No offence.”
“None taken.” I said, though I did a mental eye-rolling. Telling her that I was so past making-fashion-statement phase after all those hooker shoes in my previous job with Iron Dragon and the days of Manolos and Jimmy Choo shoes when I was Mrs. Estevez was easy and tempting, but I opted out. I didn’t come up with suitable words to replace words such as hooker, prostitute, or ‘ho.
I added, “For your information, my shoes are comfortable and affordable, you know.” Fully aware that she’d take me as one of those sagging old grandmother who’s been around since stone ages.
“I’ll keep that in my mind for the time I hit the old age and start having arthritis.” She said with such earnestness that I couldn’t help laughing out loud.
“What’s so funny?” She furrowed her eyebrows.
“Well, in general, a girl of your age considers yourself to be immortal and age-resistant existence.”
“Well, the thing is I’m not a usual child, which is a blessing and a curse.” She shrugged.
Then looking up at Archangel, she said nervously. “Has anything happened to Alice?”
“What makes you say so?” He asked, squatting to lower his eye level to match hers.
“First, you’re Michael Archangel the giant brilliant detective who wears women’s clothes and helps the law enforcement; second, that means you people do not visit her just for fun or drop in to say hi; and third, I haven’t seen her for ages even though she’d totally promised that we go to Sicily in June. She also told me she wouldn’t be going on the road until then. Basically, we’re a team.”
“And you are?” Archangel asked.
“My current name is Karen Zwerg Tycon Andrews, meaning I’m likely to have some minor changes with my last names when my mother splits from her current husband and remarries with a new guy.” She introduced herself sounding more like a fifty-year-old lady than a child. “I’m the BFF of Alice and her next door neighbor. So, what happened to her?”
Archangel crossed his arms. He didn’t tell anything.
“Oh my God, it must be bad, is she missing, or worse yet…?” she furrowed her eyebrows.
“I didn’t say anything.” Archangel muttered.
“Sometimes, silence and gestures are more telling than millions of words.” She retorted. “Did you know crossing your arms indicates your reluctance to communicate?”
Standing as tall as physically possible, she said. “So, how bad is the situation?”
“Have you ever heard of a saying that says ‘Don’t ask a question to the answer you don’t want to know?’”
“Come on,” she snorted. “If you think you can get away by treating me like your typical, ordinary baby girl, then you are dead wrong. Okay, so physically, I’m merely an eight-year old child, but...”
“And legally, you’re an eight-year-old child, period. The end of discussion.” Archangel interrupted her and rose up.
But she didn’t give away without putting on a fight.
“I’m in the sophomore year of high school, got an IQ of 200, and multiple pediatric psychiatry specialists had certified that I have a mature mind which is more mature than most adults. I can cope with most things adults conceal from ordinary kids of our age.”
“That doesn’t mean you have the same legal lights as an adult. Wait until your twenty-first birthday. Besides that, most adults are a bunch of idiots and jerks which casts agnosticism to the hypothesis that you are genius.”
Turning his heels, he started taking long strides. “Goodbye, Fashionista. Go home and have some cookies and milk.”
“I can’t believe you treated her like that! I’m very disappointed.” I hissed, following his back. “Can’t you be a little nicer to her? As the BFF, she deserves to know things that she’d eventually learn from six o’clock news.”
He replied with a snort.
“I’m not a child, I’m even going to the prom! Alright,” she yelled from behind. “I’ll Tweet that Michael Archangel is a truly crappy detective! And I’ll write you’re not only a freak but a jerk too! I’m gonna trash you on every SNS, comment sections in news and gossip sites.”
Archangel the
crappy detective continued power walking.
“I’ll also write that you totally ignored someone who’s about to offer an invaluable information just because she is a minor! Being a minor doesn’t mean the information he or she carries is worthless, but this supposedly top detective so doesn’t understand. Come on, he deserves to be called a narrow-minded-cross-dresser rather than a badass-detective!”
Archangel stopped, turned back, and I thought he would bitch-slap the little girl. With pouted lips and pink cheeks, her initial façade of a bored teenager had completely fallen off.
“Tell me about the invaluable information you know.” Archangel said. With tight jaw and bulging veins in the neck, he didn’t look happy but his voice was calm.
“Has she been…” she started in a quivering voice, stopped for a moment, but managed to continue, “Murdered?”
“Yes,” Archangel replied through gritted teeth. “And there’s no place for misidentification of the corpse. Multiple forensic evidence had confirmed that the body was hers.”
Without a word, she buried her face in her hands.
“I told you not to ask a question to the answer you don’t want to know,” Archangel extended his hand and patted her head.
“I know.” She nodded, her voice shaky and muffled. “And I knew you two are here for that Eyeball Snatcher case investigation. I’ve seen you, Mr. Archangel going into that poor doctor’s house in the evening news. But I still had some hope that Alice is still alive until I find out the truth…just like Schrödinger's cat paradox. The cat can exist as being alive and dead all at once.”
She raised her head and tried to smile, but big, fat tears were running down her cheeks.
I handed her tissues.
“Thank you, Miss...” She quietly blew her nose.
“It’s Kelly,” I said. “You can call me Kelly.”
“Thanks, Kelly.” she sniffed.
“Unfortunately, her death is a solid fact. There’s no blurry, gray-zone like she is dead-and-alive at the same time.” Archangel said. “I’m sorry.”