The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

As soon as I went out of the visits
room, the same security officer who brought me here asked me to come and meet
the resident psychiatrist. I followed him to the doctor’s office. As much as the
doctor wanted to speak to me, I needed to speak to that doctor. After all, I’d
promised Warren to talk to the shrink.

The psychiatrist
named Dr. Ted Arlington, burst out laughing when I told him about Warren’s
memory loss.

“Don’t get me
wrong, ma’am, I’m not laughing at you.” He said. “But that’s what he tells
every visitor including his lawyer-slash-current-wife.”

The young
psychiatrist, who looks like one of One Direction chuckled.

His quote about
Warren lying was nothing new to me, but the part about his current wife was
very new to me.

“His current wife?
If I recall right, he’s separated from Maria-Diana.” Frowning, I realized that
I was referring her as a person with a name, instead of a Brazilian dancer.

“Oh no, I meant he’s
gotten married after he came here.”

“Wh…” I lost my
word.

“You didn’t know?
And Ms. Kinki, your relationship to this inmate is…?” He pronounced my surname
as “kinky.”

“I’m one of his
former wives.” I told him. “And I appreciate it if you call me simply as
Kelly.”

“Oh, now I
remember! You’re Kelly and you used to be...” he wondered off before finishing
the sentence. Then again, his enthusiasm to finish the sentence was obvious for
he suddenly had a fit of cough that barely concealed not-so-nice words he
intended to utter.

“You want to say the
b-word.” I mentioned.

“Oh no, that’s not
what I was thinking.” He shook his head. “I was intending to say a fire
breather with Iron Dragon. I really liked your performance by the way. I went
to the Wembley Stadium gig, you know. I loved it, simply loved it.”

“Why, thank you.”

“By the way, did
you get to talk to Dragon members?” The psychiatrist was earnest and excited.

“Well, yes.” I
nodded.

“Oh my God! Oh my
Gawd!” The doctor shrieked, his eyes wide open and gleaming. “So, what was Mickey
Saturn like? Is he like, like, that enigmatic and cool always?”

“Oh, Mickey the
guitarist? Yes, he is enigmatic and cool. Not to mention being one of the most
talented guitarists of this universe.”

“Wow! So, how’s Nick
like? Tom the drummer? And of course, Vince? Can you tell me a bit about them? No,
I mean, everything about them!”

I did a mental eye
roll. Okay, he is a fan of the band. A hard-core Dragonhead, I guess. Not that
there’s anything wrong with that. But, I sensed something was not very appropriate.
Perhaps it had something to do with us being in the prison and he was supposed
to be a professional psychiatrist, not an overexcited Iron Dragon fan.

I told him. “They’re
AWESOME. Just like you’re thinking of them.” 

“Cool,” he
muttered longingly. “About your performance, I especially liked your dancing
when they covered Motley Crue’s
Ten Seconds to Love.
”

“Um…thanks,” I
mumbled. That part he mentioned was where I did supposedly-sexy-dancing in
fishnet stockings and lingerie with fellow female performers, playing our roles
as lesbian strippers. Whether to be flattered or offended by his comment, I
didn’t know.

“Well, speaking of
love.” The doctor continued, leaning in. “Did you encounter any…you know,
romantic situations with any of Dragon members?”

Hell no.
I
thought. Also,
I’m thinking of suing your ass off for sexual harassment
.
But I managed to flash an enigmatic smile. “You know Doctor, since I have
signed the confidentiality clause, I really cannot talk about that topic. I’m
sorry about it.”

Also, I didn’t
have a heart to tell him about the intimate six-hours that Nick Valentine the
bassist and I had spent together. Both of us were fully clothed and we talked
about gardening, his passion de jour back in the time over Assam tea and
cucumber sandwiches. In addition, he had once been chosen as one of the sexiest
musicians alive. With his good looks, musical talent, and attitude, he had it
all. Throw in the fact that as the lead composer, he’s got rights for most of
Iron Dragon’s hit songs. Royalty from karaoke alone was presumed to be large
enough to run a small nation, such as Belgium.

“Oh, I understand.”
A conspiratorial smile was pasted on his face. Like he knew it all, and keeping
this as a dirty little secret between the two of us.

“You know, they’re
rockers after all.” I shrugged nonchalantly to Dr. Arlington, who was nodding
like a broken bobble-head.

It was my attempt
to
avoid
a scandal.

In the world of
rock n’ roll, being quoted as a good guy who’s stoic for his music and his life
is generally frowned upon. They prefer to be called womanizing, bat-eating, Satan-worshipping
kind of bastards. I couldn’t possibly tell Dr. Arlington the truth.

After feeding the
psychiatrist with enough entertainment for the day, I asked. “So, about Warren’s
new marriage, can you tell me a bit about it?” Partly I wanted to change the
subject.

“Are you sure you
want to know?” He stopped nodding like a bobble-head and furrowed his thick,
sort of bushy eyebrows.

“I recall that you
mentioned that she’s a lawyer.”

“Yes, Warren
married his new lawyer.” Then he added sympathetically. “Sorry if that hurts
you.”

“I’m okay. Thank
you for the information.” I said. “Surely that was a shocker, but it’s good to
know it than not. It makes a good closure.”

“I’m glad you’re
taking it with a positive attitude.” Finally, he was sounding like a
psychiatrist. “And it looks like you’re living a good life. Like, you finally
found someone who truly understands and cares for you.”

“You think so?” I
decided he wasn’t such a good psychiatrist anyway. “One thing I don’t really
understand is why a lawyer marries him. He’s a pathological liar, he has no
money, and even if he has money that has to be used to pay off to his former
clients.”

“I’ve no concrete
evidence.” He shrugged. “My guess is that the old fart is a bloody good talker.
I sometimes get envious, imagining like: Hey, what if I can smooth-talk like
him? I might be able to convince Taylor Swift into marrying me
.
”

I wanted to start
singing
“Ooh, like never, never, never…”
 

Instead, I
suggested. “So, in short, his mental status is pretty good, albeit crooked?” I
pretended that I didn’t catch his comment about Taylor.

“That’s correct. As
you say crooked, he lies like breathing, which makes his words saying that his
memory’s ailing is a downright lie. Even we, supposedly psychiatric
professionals, get often conned by him, only to find it later and it’s kind of
like
Clusterfuck!
Pardon my French.”

“Your French’s
nothing compared to colorful expletives I’m thinking about right now.” But I
couldn’t help chuckling.

“Besides that
about his supposedly ailing memory, what else did he tell you?” He took up a
pen, clutching a yellow legal pad.

I told him about
the foot-fetish murderer Warren had told me about. The doctor compulsively
wrote every word I said on his note pad, saying that he was working on a book
about personality disorders and compulsive lying.

“Get out!” He gave
a hearty laugh. “It’s impossible for Warren to speak to that foot collecting
murderer. First off, it’s been almost fifteen years since the killer had died
of cancer. So maybe he has heard about this man from other inmates, but I’m
skeptical. Anyway, he’s doing quite fine if you interpret lying happily in a
jail as
fine
. And probably, now you understand what I wanted to tell you
about his lying problem.”

“I suppose so.” I
managed to smile, suppressing my urge to pull out my hair and shriek like a
hysterical toddler.

Lovely. Just
lovely. Things keep on going lovelier and lovelier as the more lies of Warren’s
get spotted on. “Do you think it’s possible for him to feel guilt or remorse,
if any at all?”

“Depends on which
answer you want, the sweet little fairytale one, or the bitter reality.”

“I’d prefer the
latter.”

“Reality often
hurts.”

“I know, but maybe
not as much as jumping onto a bicycle with the seat missing.”

“Hmm…I liked Naked
Gun movies. Okay then, the answer is no.”

I closed my eyes
and I was silent for 10 seconds. “I knew.”

“I’m sorry. But
that guy is a typical case of a sociopath with a trait of compulsive lying. Or
a psychopath, those terms are often regarded to be interchangeable.”

Neither term had
warm feelings.

“Can I ask you
something?”

“Yep, go ahead.”
He nodded.

“When you say
someone is a compulsive liar, are they really free of feelings such as guilt
and remorse, or are they just excellent at hiding their feelings?”

“That’s a good
question.” He stopping scribbling. “And I agree it’s debatable if one can actually
learn what other people are truly feeling, or thinking in the deep inside. My
guess is that so-called psychopaths/sociopaths are free of remorse, also they’re
exceptionally good at hiding their feelings.”

“I see.” I gave
out a sigh. I felt numb.

“Anyway, it’s hard
for anyone to change the behavioral pattern. By the way, when you lived with
him, has he ever physically hurt you?”

“No, he never even
raised a hand.” I shook my head. Warren was a lying, cheating, jilting, and
womanizing bastard, however, he seemed to have had a standard. “He was always a
gentleman and I believe he still is, if you don’t count his compulsive lying as
an abuse.”

“Okay. Now I must
say you’re damn lucky. People lacking emotions such as remorse often get physically
violent as to abusing their spouses and significant others, sometimes to death.
If that makes a difference.”

“It does. Dr.
Arlington, one more thing, when a serial killer takes eyeballs from the
victims, what do you think is his purpose, or motive?”

My motto: It doesn’t
hurt to ask.

“It’s easy to list
a series of possible motives for the behavior, but it’s very embarrassing when
nothing hits the reality, even marginally.” He shrugged. “In short, I have no
idea and the best measure is meeting the murderer face to face, however, even
if you do so, there’s no guarantee that this murderer tells you the truth.”

The longer I
talked to him, the more he started to look like Cheshire Cat from Alice in
Wonderland rather than Harry Styles lookalike.

“How about the late
foot-fetish inmate? What was his motive?”

“Oh, he cut off
women’s right feet, stored them in freezers. According to the record, he chewed
it occasionally. But he never really opened up when asked about why he cut only
the right foot.”

He started rubbing
his jaw, as if it was the first time he had seriously thought about the late
serial murderer. “I’m not sure, but maybe even the guy himself didn’t know his
purpose?”

I thanked him and
got the hell out of the prison.

I walked toward northeast past the
train station, past rows of little old apartments and shops. I headed down the
cramped street that lead to the riverside of the Thames, as if I was channeling
a waterbug allured to not-so-clean water. The thick clouds that were earlier
covering the sky had cleared away, and the sun was shining.  

I glanced at the muddy,
murky, brownish water. The river was notorious for cholera outbreak in mid-19
^th
century, and its water was not at all alluring. But I liked the interpretation
that even filthy water gets to flow into the ocean, evaporate, and later return
to the river as raindrops. Clean, clear, and full of innocence. For me, this
perspective suggested a happy scenario that any sins can be cleansed somehow, someday.

I leaned on the
fence by the river and recalled my encounter with Warren. I went to the prison
to quit being the dump-
ee
and become the dump-
er
, but after the
visit, I was still the dump-
ee
. It didn’t bode very well with me. No,
disturbing was more like the word. In fact, disturbing was an understatement.

Even more outrageous
was that after all those years, Warren still managed to remain being as a lying,
cheating, jilting bastard. His lying style hadn’t changed a bit, and I was
positive that he was still absolutely guilt-free.

I looked down at
the Thames. Today, the river was flat and glassy even though the water was muddy
brown as usual. I started to smile. I didn’t know the reason why I was smiling
and I didn’t even care. My head was too messed up to think. Anyway, my smile
got wider and wider and finally, I broke into a fit of a giggle.

Not that I was
happy to find him still trying to get what he wanted by using me.

It was the nerve
of the weasel that made me laugh. His lying, cheating, and no apologizing
policy was outrageous, but somehow, I wasn’t shocked, infuriated, or saddened. On
the contrary, I felt somehow contented to see him so unchanged. During our
marriage, he used to lie like breathing and I didn’t catch his lies until after
divorce. For me, seeing him still lying through the teeth was something like
watching Jerry and George plotting a little scheme about nothing in
Seinfeld
reruns. Besides that, he even had the audacity to pick up a new wife. Poor
thing, I totally sympathized for the new wife. I hate to sound sour grape, but she
must be dense for a lawyer.

As I giggled, I
found that my feelings towards my ex was neutral. Deep in my heart, I knew he
had already moved on, leaving me behind. And I had no hard feelings about it. I
had so moved on

—Okay, that’s so
not true.

Actually, my
feelings towards Warren the bastard wasn’t neutral. I had hard feelings towards
him. I was still taking it personal. No, I was taking everything personal.

I still remembered
that night so vividly. It was one night after finalizing the divorce. I called Warren
out of post-divorce blue. At that point, he was still a financial tycoon
without a care in the world. The phone ringed eight times until he took my
call. I didn’t have specific topics to discuss, but when I heard his voice, I
lost it. I ended up bursting out crying. He told me not to cry and before I knew,
I was brawling like an idiot. He whispered consoling words that meant nothing
and everything. At the end of conversation, I clumsily said take-care. Then he
said those words:
‘By the way, Kelly, can we make it our last private
conversation? It was nice talking to you still, it’s not like we’re married
anymore. And we’ve chosen to go separate ways, you know—
.’

I caught a female
voice in the background. I demanded to know who she was, after feeding me with
the reason for the divorce as having to deal with a personal issue on his own,
and denying the presence of other women. But it was too late. The next thing,
he hung up. I learned about Maria-Diana the Brazilian dancer in the tabloid.

It was a dark,
humiliating memory I’d buried in the deep bottom of my memory landfill.

As I recollected
that dark memory, it was pretty clear that taking time to visit him was a huge
mistake. I wanted to see him serving 300-plus years as a prisoner, not as a happy,
laid back, and remarried man who had moved to a Spartan-themed minimalist condo
with maximum security wasn’t what I hoped to see.  

I started to feel a
gigantic wave of self-pity coming on my way. I tried to convince myself that I
just wanted a closure. And I wished I was proud enough to keep my chin up so
that I could save myself from drowning in a deep, dark hole of self-pity.

Speaking of
self-pity, it was hard to indulge yourself in one of them when someone in the
apartment was a-blasting
“Friggin’ in the riggin’”
by Sex Pistols at
full volume. Somehow, the words of the song about ship called Venus with the
whore-in-bed shaped figurehead and a rampant-penis shaped mast
seriously
interfering
with my self-pity process.

That was something
that let me know the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Okay, so I still
had grudge on him but at least I wasn’t jealous of his new wife. Hell no, not
at all. 

After all those
years that I hoped to be still with him, and after pathetically waiting for him
to call my old cell phone, I was glad that I didn’t have anything to do with
him anymore.

On top of all
that, now I was not even sure if I
ever
really, really loved him.

Gosh, what was I
thinking? Who was I kidding?

My giggle had
escalated to a full-brown howling. I was laughing uncontrollably. Had it been a
posh residential area, someone would be phoning the police already, notifying they
are having “this crazy woman probably on drug, laughing her head off.”

“For your
information.”

I sensed a
familiar deep voice coming from the sideway, and a subtle scent of Aqua di Gio.

“Today’s
temperature is 12 degrees in Celsius, which is only 54 in Fahrenheit and if I
were you, I wouldn’t jump into the water.”

“Is that so? What
a shame. Jumping into the river was exactly what I was intending to do.” I was
still laughing so hard that I was almost choking. “I was so looking forward to
swimming in the Thames. Though the water looks a tad bit muddy, it sure would
be lovely. Believe me, I swim like a dolphin, I was once invited to join the
national swim team to train for the Olympics.”

“Pants on fire. You’re
not a much of a swimmer.”

“Is it a
coincidence that we met here, or…?” I turned and looked up at Michael Archangel,
who was standing by my side.

“It looked like
you’re having a good time. And I thought like, why not crash and boost the fun?”

“Boosting the
fun?” I said incredulously. That was a reply which I was not expecting. In
fact, it would have been less surprising if he had admitted to coming there to
make fun of me.

“Yeah. Don’t tell
me you didn’t know I’m a born entertainer.” He cocked his head.

“A born
entertainer who happens to look good in a men’s suit. Very interesting.” I said.
Today, he was wearing a light gray Hugo Boss suit, light blue shirt, a tie in indigo
and a pair of black leather boots from Alexander McQueen. The funny thing was
that he looked positively good in men’s attire.

“Sometimes you’ve
got to play dress up, I guess.” He shrugged nonchalantly as if the drastic
change in the choice of attire was unimportant for him.

He didn’t look
uncomfortable in men’s attire, so it was true that he used to wear men’s
clothes in the past. I was tempted to ask him why he bothered to wear women’s
attire when he looked great in men’s garments, but I backed out of it. I didn’t
want to ask him personal questions on an account that doing that would give him
the right to ask me personal questions.

“How was the case?”
I said.

“It was a piece of
cake. At a university hospital, the professor of cardiology had dropped dead
while performing a coronary artery bypass surgery. Initially, his death was
presumed to be a heart attack but one of the fellow professors, an associate of
Mickelson, called him, just in case. The killer was one of the nurses assisting
the operation. It turned out her target wasn’t just the male professor but the
female patient on the operation table as well. This female patient was the head
nurse of the surgical unit. Both the professor and the head nurse were allergic
to peanuts, and the weapon used in was a small portion of peanut oil. Basically,
it was the byproduct of a messy love triangle. According to the killer, the
patient on the operation table was her former lover, and the professor had just
butted in and stole her lover. The last straw was that the two of them had
announced an engagement. She was pretty much insulted, so she decided to kill
them both by poisoning them with peanut oil.”

“That sounds
complicated.” I widened my eyes.

“I know.”
Archangel rolled his eyes.

Sex Pistols track
ended and Ozzy Osbourne’s
‘Crazy Train’
started playing. We snorted out
laughing in unison.

“So, how did the
killer poison the victim with peanut oil?”

“She manipulated
the top of overshoe foot covers with the known allergen. In hospital surgical
area, they have doors operated by kicking and it’s mandatory for everyone
entering the area, save for the patients, to put on a pair of overshoe foot
covers. So, the victim puts on peanut-contaminated foot covers and it touched
the skin around the ankles; in addition to that, he’s inhaled peanut-oil fumes.
That resulted in the victim dropping dead in the middle of surgery. The
vaporized fume of peanut oil had almost killed the patient as well, not to
mention having your surgeon dying when your chest’s being cut open isn’t a favorable
factor. Fortunately, she survived.”

“The more I learn,
the crazier it sounds.”

“I know. How’s
your ex doing?” Archangel said casually.

I thought about pointing
out just because I’m in this neighborhood didn’t mean I came here to see
Warren, but I knew that would make me look more pathetic. After all, this here
wasn’t a neighborhood you’d come by just to enjoy walking.

So I said. “He’s
very well. Still lying like breathing. And, oh, he’s married a new wife. She’s
a lawyer.”

“A lawyer marries
an imprisoned swindler?” His hands went up in the air. “He’s getting better and
better.”

“At what?”

“At lying and
manipulating people. I saw it coming. Now he’s targeting every living person.”

“By the way, how
did you figure out I was here?”

“Are you sure you
want to hear that?” He tilted his head to one side, answering my question with
another question.

“Well, I guess I’ll
pass that at this moment.” I shrugged.  “Did you miss me?”

“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.”