The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (14 page)

“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
relationship 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.

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.

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 museums 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…”

I stopped. I
couldn’t continue my little speech. I didn’t have a heart to say she might be
dead. A mere imagination of the worst case scenario scared the bejeezus out of
me.

“Chill,” He said coolly.
“Karen is a smart kid, maybe a bit too smart for her own good. I don’t think
she’s in match of danger. Oh, and why don’t you go to the bathroom and wash your
potty mouth before the British tabloids gets the wind of your latest rant and
start having a field day?”

“Excuse me? When
you’ve got an eight-year-old going MIA, it’s generally considered a helluva
crisis. Has it ever occurred to you that she went to nail Eyeball Snatcher and…?”
 

“I get your point,
but I’ve got some logical explaining to suspect that she has disappeared on her
own will. For starter, she was desperate to avoid going to the summer camp. Secondly,
Karen doesn’t fit the typical victims’ profile Eyeball Snatcher had picked up
so far. None of her physical features including her age, body shape, build,
hair color, eye color doesn’t go with the killer’s type. Also, the MO has
gotten bloodier, violent and more dramatized as the killer’s obtained more
experience in killing.

“Remember the
latest murder of Dr. Stewart? The crime scene was gruesome, nothing short of a
blood bath. There was no attempt to hide, conceal, or cover up the violent atrocity.
These factors are strong indicators that now the killer’s ready to show off and
newly killed corpse would be shown off to the public. It is broadly understood
that most serial killers tend to seek more attention as the body count surges.
So it’s good news that we have no news about Karen, if that makes difference.”

He shot the white
ball with the pool stick. Colorful balls labeled with numbers ‘1’ to ‘15’
scattered and fell into the pockets on the table. Okay, I’m no expert of pool
games. All those pool-related jargons are all Greek to me.

“Are you sure
Karen’s safe?” I asked. “That’s why you’re toying with color balls in this game
room instead of seriously solving Karen’s missing and serial murders in the
office or the field?” So it’s a free country and Archangel has a game room
adjacent to the office, he has every right to play pool, except it didn’t seem
right.

“For your
information, sometimes the best possible option is just to wait.”

“Wow, news flash.”
I rolled my eyes.

For me, his reply
sounded like a big ungrounded excuse. The more relaxed he seemed, the more
jittering I had become. It felt as if he didn’t seem to care about Karen’s
safety because there was not much he could do to save her at this moment.

He put the stick
on the pool table and ambled into the office. 

“In addition, here’s
another someone who supports my point of view.” With a snap of a wrist, he
switched on the flat screen TV with the remote and a recorded program started
running. In the screen, a very old woman with Russian accent was talking to a
middle-aged woman. With teary eyes and blotchy face, this middle-aged woman
seemed hopelessly upset. The old woman was telling the agitated woman that her beloved
daughter was alive and safe, and that she should not torment herself anymore.

“Dahling, I am
sensing her vibe. Shee iiz unhurt.”

“It’s a psychic
show,” I pointed out, “and it looks like one of the phony psychic shows.”

“It’s a psychic
show, but not one of them phony or crappy stuffs. The old lady is Tasha the
psychic and she’s talking with Karen’s mother. Rest assured, as this old lady’s
saying, Karen’s safe.” My employer said proudly.

“Oh my God, you’re
truly stressed out. Give me the phone number of your psychiatrist. I’m calling
the doctor.”

“Forget it, Kelly.
I’m one hundred percent sane and healthy. And don’t judge people solely based
on their occupation. I know more than ninety-nine percent of so called psychics
are fraud but then again, Tasha happens to be one of the real ones.”

“Are you sure?” I
asked, since indeed, I was very unsure.

“Yeah. There were
times I collaborated with her. Okay, so at first, I thought she was just a
fraud when I met her in the past.” He said. “It’s hard to provide logical
explanations about the legitimacy of psychic skills but everything she said
turned out to be correct, and she wasn’t the one responsible for the crime.
Some events do occur with no justifiable reasons.”

I was getting
jittery. Eyeball Snatcher was yet to be captured, Karen’s whereabouts and
whatever or whoever responsible for Karen’s AWOL remained unknown. I didn’t
like the current situation that an eyeball-snatching freak was walking freely while
an eight-year-old girl was missing.

Archangel returned
the cue stick to the holder by the wall. “Feds and the local police are fully
covering the candle gathering tonight. And we’ll be there.”

“Okay,” I gulped,
and hoped that I didn’t make much of a big noise.

I knew Archangel wasn’t
the kind of a person who attends the vigil just to be courteous, and pray that
Karen is safe and returns unharmed. Not that he doesn’t care a missing girl’s
well-being so much as bellybutton lint. It’s just that he’s super-practical and
gets super-fast when seeing an opportunity to nail the killer and close the
case, but refuses to take any action as twitching a muscle otherwise. It’s a
mystery that a guy who goes to gym on a regular basis and conducts all sorts of
physical exercises can be so lazy. The world is indeed full of mysteries.