by Lotta Smith
“Yup.” To my astonishment, he nodded.
“Sweet.” I couldn’t help smiling. Took a day off, and my employer already missed me.
Then he continued, “I’m famished. You know what? A tiny packet of cookies doesn’t make a breakfast.”
“Hello? You followed me here just because you were hungry?”
“Oh yeah. I trust your instinct finding good food, though I’ve zero trust with your taste in men.”
I rolled my eyes. What a compliment.
“Has it ever occurred to you that it’s my day off and I’m expected to enjoy my vacation?”
“Of course,” he said matter-of-factly. “Like I said, I’m very entertaining and my presence is an added bonus to your time off. You’ve gotta thank me.”
I snorted out laughing. Forget about keeping a poker face. Maybe it was his boldness that made me laugh, or realization of that I’m jinxed to be stuck with men lacking modesty and sensibility.
With Archangel mentioning food, I realized I was indeed hungry. Okay, I needed a lunch. And I appreciated a company rather than eating alone.
“How about some jellied eels?” I suggested.
“Get real.” He made a gagging sound. “I’m not in a mood to taste public restroom floor, which totally tastes like jellied eels.”
“I didn’t know you’ve eaten public restroom floor before. Okay, so, how about some pies and mashed potatoes? Or fish and chips? There’s a pub I’ve been to before, it was not offensive.” I meant, three years ago, it was somewhat edible.
“Sounds good.”
“Don’t hold high expectations. We’re in London.” I warned him and started walking to the pub.
The pub was doing business at the same place as the last time I visited London. This is one of the good things about Europe. Unlike in D.C., L.A., or New York City, eateries don’t just come and go on daily basis.
It was a rare sunny day in London, so we took an open café style table outside the pub.
“If I recall it right, a serial murderer called Greg Marshall had been imprisoned there at Belmarsh.” Archangel took out a small packet of ketchup and doused a gush of it on the dish of fish and chips.
“The one who collected women’s right feet?” I asked. “By the way, do you always carry ketchup around?”
“Yes to both.” He nodded, taking out some more packets out of the jacket pocket. “Yes, I’m talking about the right foot fetish, and yeah, things go never wrong with ketchup. You want some?”
The waitress was looking at our direction with a keen interest. Age between twenty-something to fifty-something. When she brought the food to our table she looked pretty much bored. Now she wasn’t blasé, I was sure she disapproved of tourists flooding the entire plate with their made-in-America ketchup.
I declined. And I told him about Dr. Arlington’s opinion, including the part late Greg had never confided in to anyone about the reason for collecting only the right feet.
“Typical,” he snorted. “‘Never opened up’ is a synonym for ‘Couldn’t get that SOB to spill the guts.’ Talk about understatement.”
“Hmm, you’ve got a point, I guess.”
“I’ve always got a point.”
“Still, I’m disappointed that it’s not still very clear about the logics with killers who collect other people’s body parts.” I took a bite of a pie and mush and wished that I didn’t decline his ketchup offer. The food wasn’t all that yucky, but tasteless.
“Don’t let that discourage you.” He shook head. “Researching the past murderer sometimes helps understand the current cases, but sometimes don’t.”
“What causes a person to collect certain body parts?” I frowned, juggling not-so-yummy food with a fork.
“Many factors are listed for the possible etiologies: birth defects in central nervous system, past history of domestic abuse, substance abuse, particular blood-flow-patterns in the brain such as a markedly low blood flow in the prefrontal cortex, hormonal abnormalities—you name it, they call it possible cause for violent crimes. No one’s real certain about it. Even the murderers themselves have no clue as to what had contributed the most to drive them to violence, I’m afraid. Important part is always hidden in the black box.”
I sighed. “I was hoping to get a clue. When I heard about that killer, I thought I could at least grasp some kind of pattern in the thought process of serial killers.”
“Serial killers pick up certain type of victims, then go for the kill. It’s simple. They’ve got their own rules that are hard to understand for the rest of us. Whether they kill for pleasure or other purpose, it’s the same.” He shrugged.
“For your information, I’m hoping to contribute to the investigation. Remember, I happen to be your assistant?”
“For your information, I’ve got a possible lead Mickelson’s associates are going to look in.” Archangel said matter-of-factly. “In addition, I do remember that you’re my assistant and unlike you, I wouldn’t miss important details such as the employer takes breakfast as a very important ritual to charge energy for the long, hard day and that he likes something more nutritious than a tiny packet of cookies and some café latte.”
“Hello? Remember it’s my day off?”
He gave me a get-real look. “I can’t believe you still believe you can have a day off. Cases occur any time of any day. You expect to work 24/7 dedication. In addition, being my personal assistant is not a job. It’s a privilege.”
I gave out a resigned sigh.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” he said.
“Nothing.” I said. “And I’m very curious what would that shrink at Belmarsh would describe your personality assuming you were with me when I had a chat with Dr. Arlington.”
“He’ll say that I’m a model case of a normal, healthy individual with streaks of exceptional intelligence and gentle heart.”
“So, what kind of a lead is Mickelson after?” I ditched the discussion about hits personality.
“At this moment, it’s premature to discuss this matter. Not enough information.” He said, to my dismay.
I tried to be positive. No, I mean, nonchalant, at least. But assuming from Archangel’s next words, it looks like I suck at keeping a poker face.
“Now you look like you need some ketchup. Help yourself.”
“Thank you,” I flooded my plate with the ketchup offered. Now it tasted much better.
“For dinner, we’ll hit a KFC. Their chicken should taste the same all over the world.” Archangel mentioned. No, make it a statement. That was more like it.
“Hey, you’re the Kelly, aren’t you?” the waitress was standing by our table before I was even aware of her approaching here.
Before I could deny her words profusely, she continued. “You know what, Kelly, I really liked it when you breathed fire at the rude reporters.”
“Oh…”
“And guess what? I’m glad that you’re now in a relationship with this hot rocker. Look at him, he’s so sexy!” She did a little finger wave to Archangel, who waved back, smiling like an angel. So unlike him.
“N-n-n…” I choked on my lunch with ketchup. Lots of ketchup.
With a conspiratorial smile, she whispered into my ear. “I know you’ve shagged every member of Iron Dragon and KISS. Still, this bloke here’s the hottest rocker I’ve ever seen. And I mean, atta girl!”
And before I could respond, she held out an open sketchbook and a Sharpie to Archangel. “Hello, I saw your pictures in Kerrang! And I really, really liked your latest song called Insanity, you know. Hope you’re enjoying London. Can I have your autograph please?”
My jaw had dropped down. I had no idea how this could be happening. There were so many things that are not right at many levels.
First off, Archangel was a private investigator, not a rocker; I knew there was some misunderstanding between her and us (I mean, not in the meaning of us “us”, but the usual kind of “us”). Not to mention I’m not in any kind of a relat
ionship with him (at least, not in the way she meant it). I’ve never slept with any band member of Iron Dragon or KISS. Not to mention the bloke I was with himself usually preferred wearing women’s clothes to men’s attire.
Besides that, did I mention that I haven’t even admitted that I was the Kelly?
I puffed my lips like a suffocating goldfish. There was some serious misunderstanding!
“Of course, be my guest,” By my side, Archangel had this enigmatic but gentle smile pasted on his face that could let him pass as a Mr. Nice Guy Rocker for uninformed public and he got the sketchbook and pen.
To Mabel: Michael A.A., XOXO…was what he scribbled on.
I mean, what does he think he is?
A.A.? Excuse me? What does it supposed to mean? American Airlines?
When she glanced at the sketchbook with the signature, she finally realized that the bloke with long hair was NOT who she thought he was.
“Oh…” Obviously, confusion and awkwardness were banging on her door. But she said, “Um, Michael, thank you very much.” Even if she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Moreover, she was polite enough to manage to appear to be indeed happy.
“No problem,” Archangel said. “Cheers.”
There were so many things that went oh-so-wrong and so full of misunderstandings. So many things I wanted to clarify with the two of them. But to my shock, I was smiling.
“You see?” Archangel opened his mouth when the waitress disappeared into the pub. “I said I’m a kind, gentle-hearted guy.”
“I know,” I shrugged. “Maybe you can try being Mr. Nice Guy more often back home.”
“Smartass, you try being Ms. Nice Lady more often.” He stuck out the tongue.
“Mr. Archangel, I’m impressed with your maturity.” I replied him, trying my best to sound indifferent.
Altogether, I was glad and even a bit proud of him. It had begun with a misunderstanding. Still, it’s possible that he had in fact (sort of) made the waitress’s day.
At least, he’s made my day somehow…
I realized I actually loved England, after all the bitter and jaw-clenching memory, for the first time in three years. And I knew that I’d always been in love with England even with the load of bad food and bad press experiences, I’ve never actually hated the country.
It was a genuine, honest feeling of mine.
I was finally convinced that my relationship with Warren was, no, I mean has been, so over. That I wouldn’t be waiting for his call anymore.
It was a change I was being aware of since the day 1 of my divorce. A change I should have already been accustomed to.
Slow learner? Yes, I am.
And speaking of learning, at that moment, I had yet to learn about the persistence of British tabloids and people in general.
“Blood on hands? No, that’s actually ketchup – Lady Dragon Returns to London” was pasted as the headline of the next morning paper, along with pictures of Archangel and me munching on ketchup-laden food. In addition, according to Henderson, this vague headline was featured in a TV show hosted by a British comedian back home.
All this little news indicated that the world was peaceful and perfect place in that all “news” they can come up with consisted of your ordinary Americans get themselves featured in foreign media.
And my perception about this was nothing but a minor nuisance you can shake off and move on.
At that time, it seemed that way.
Chapter 20
One thing I’m sure about every serial killers with notorieties is this: I despise of them.
Whatever motives they had, they’re nothing but a bunch of lowlife scums. And I mean all of them.
Not just because of what they’ve committed. Killing several to tens of innocent people is trivial considering thousands of so-called innocent people are dying in war stricken areas all over the world.
I am aware that killing homo sapiens is generally regarded as a serious offence.
And they take more offence in serial murders, no, I mean, top them with severed body parts and dismemberment. That’s sure to engross and enrage everybody.
Surely, they’ll try to catch the killer. Stop the killing. Bring justice.
…And all that shit.
What’s most disgusting with notorious serial killers is their stupidity of getting caught. Which means they’re all idiot. Smart criminals don’t get caught. Brilliant criminals are simply awesome, they do whatever they do and the people are not even aware of crimes taking place.
So they caught and executed Ted Bundy.
Why?
—Because our Ted was oh-so-dumb.
Failure to pull over for a routine traffic stop? Come on! That’s the stupidest reason to be arrested after killing dozens of women.
I have no intention to follow the path of the predecessors
I won’t be caught. I know I won’t get caught.
I generally do not commit other offences.
I don’t steal. I don’t resort to violence over minor conflicts. I’m an ordinary member of the community. You have to spare violence for special occasions.
I have no interest in animal cruelty.
In my opinion, animal cruelty is for losers who are not able to catch the prey of choice. Or, who can’t make up their minds.
What’s the point of torturing and killing innocent, defenseless animals when you can kill humans?
Ridiculous, huh? Hell, the world is full of crap.
Practice with irrelevant killing, letting the community know about your little pastime, and then getting your ass hauled behind the bars.
Then you’ll end up with a situation where you have no choice but to give up. Or capital G-I-V-E-U-P.
That’s the saddest scenario. No, the worst case scenario.
As for myself, I am confident.
Local police forces in multiple states were totally at a loss. So was the FBI.
So, I was relaxed.
Maybe, way too calm for my own good... and hers.
She came into my world all of a sudden. Also, it seemed as if she appeared out of nowhere.
“Hello,” she smiled.
For her age, she sounded extraordinarily mature.
We exchanged some pleasantries which was fine with me.
Then she started asking me disturbing questions…
Like, where-were-you-on-this-particular-nights/days? The dates she’d mentioned matching exactly when I did something unanswerable.
Besides that, she started taking about her “friends.” Who happened to be my “friends” as well. Only those friends were not breathing anymore. Then she dropped the name “Sam”…
My heart started pounding.
I knew it was not quite right.
I don’t believe in unnecessary violence.
However, there wasn’t much I could do besides resorting to it.
That was the only way I could silence her.
Giving it up is by no means my option.
Everything had just begun.
I had a super important project to accomplish.
Chapter 21
KALORAMA GIRL GOES MISSING, FBI JOINS SEARCH
Kalorama Triangle, Washington DC— The FBI has joined the search for the missing girl last seen leaving her residence to “take a stroll” two days ago.
FBI agents were seen Tuesday night conducting extensive searches in the neighborhood surrounding a condo in Kalorama Triangle where Karen Andrews, 8-year-old lives.
Karen was last seen leaving the condo complex at around 11:00 a.m., Saturday. Police dogs searching for the girl lost scent of her on the way that leads to several bus stops and two metro stations.
She was reported to telling several staff at her condo that she was going to take a stroll because it was such a sunny, beautiful, lovely Saturday.
Karen, an all-time honor student in sophomore year at a local public high school, is described as friendly, outgoing, impeccably intelligent and responsible. She often visited mus
eums and libraries all by herself.
Also, she often visits prestigious universities across the country following invitations from them.
There is currently no person of interest in the case, and police are still treating it as a missing person case.
Family and friends say it is unlikely that Karen ran away. Her Twitter and Instagram accounts also have not been used since Saturday, leading authorities to believe that she did not plan her disappearance.
She lives with her mother and stepfather. Police had inquired her father and former step fathers about her whereabouts but none of them had recent contacts with her.
It is also reported that she has been best friend term with Alice Sinclair, a neighbor of Karen, who had fallen a victim to a serial murder case by ‘Eyeball Snatcher’. Police say that they are also interviewing faculty and friends at school for any clues into her whereabouts.
According to the FBI, it is premature to discuss if Karen’s missing is related to the serial murders.
Karen Andrews is described as 4-feet tall, with blonde hair. She was last seen wearing a green Juicy brand hoodie, pink T-shirt, dark jeans and a pair of Sketchers. She was carrying a black and hot pink Hello Kitty purse.
Anyone with information on the student’s whereabouts is being urged to call the Metropolitan Police or the FBI.
* * *
I sighed.
When we returned from London, the status of Karen was MIA for days. I had a stomach-churning feeling that her missing had something to do with the serial murder. And in the middle of this catastrophe, what Michael Archangel was working on was billiard.
“Will you stop exhaling like an old vacuum cleaner about to blow up? I can’t concentrate with that kind of noise.” Archangel complained, squinting the heavily lined eyes at colorful balls on the pool table.
“Can’t concentrate? All you can say is that you can’t concentrate aiming at friggin’ balls with friggin’ sticks while Karen might be in a friggin’ danger?” I retorted. “She’s been missing for days! Remember? She’s only a girl who happens to be just a teensy tiny bit of an early bloomer. Can you ever imagine how scary and lonely for an eight-year-old to be stranded away from home, school, friends, her beloved family to a complete unknown world? Maybe she’s hungry, maybe she’s crying her eyes out. Maybe she’s…”