The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

The next day at three o’clock, I
was at Dr. Bob Springer’s practice in Georgetown, where late Frederick Reynolds
used to have psychiatric help including hypnotherapy.

My plan was to
look for clues about true Eyeball Snatcher’s identity by searching around
Reynolds. Assuming that Reynolds was used as a scapegoat, the real culprit
should have contacted him. So all in all, asking his shrink seemed like a
decent place to start.

Generally
speaking, psyche patients tend to share
lots
of personal information
including but not limited to their dirty little secrets with the shrink, and I
was positive that dealing with a serial murderer was genuinely distressing to
the late patient hence the shrink must have known it.

The problem was
that shrinks are not supposed to share their patients’ dirty little secrets
with others, especially when this someone happens to be a total stranger.

Anyway, I called
his office in the morning to make an appointment, as a patient. I thought about
impersonating someone like a researcher, psychology student, or nonfiction
author specializing in criminal psychology/psychiatry, but opted out. First of
all, I was lacking confidence to discuss complicated scientific topics.

Even if I had
confidence, then
the shrink
might not like to share his patient’s
personal information with other professionals in related fields. Suppose he’s
ashamed of himself for not being able to help his patient from killing himself?
Suppose he was
the one
behind the scenes who’s responsible for manipulating
Reynolds? Not to mention that he would unveil my cover without breaking a sweat.
I didn’t want to risk having myself sued and appearing in headlines in the UK.
Not again. Better safe than sorry. Am I considerate or what?

Okay, so there was
no plausible reason that he would talk about his dead patient to a non-professional
total stranger. Still, as far as I have an appointment as a patient, he just can’t
kick me out like a stray raccoon with a possible rabies infection, can he?

I did an
eagle-eyed inspection of Dr. Springer’s clinic while I spent some time in the
waiting room. I found his waiting room to be very clean, comfortable, and
divided.
Unlike the regular family doctor’s office where you meet coughing guys,
feverish women, wailing babies and shrieking kids running around with runny
noses. Here, the waiting room was completely divvied into four cubicles so that
patients didn’t need to see, much less interact with, fellow patients. Which meant
that your risk of picking up new bugs while waiting to have existing illness
treated was significantly lower than at an average medical facility. And the
chances of my milking information about Reynolds and Dr. Springer from the fellow
patients was slim to none.

At least,
considering that I didn’t hear patients shriek or Dr. Springer chanting mantras
to brainwash his patients, his practice itself seemed very appropriate and
highly professional.

After waiting for
about five minutes, I was called into the psychiatrist’s office.

Hello, Ms. Kinki. I’m
Dr. Springer, nice to meet you.”

Dr. Springer was a
large man with short, frizzy blonde hair, and presumably in his early 50s. His handshake
was firm and confident. Not a bone crusher or a cold, limp fish. The office was
decorated in a theme that reminds of a moderately good room at a five star
hotel, but not lavish enough to score six or seven stars.

I told him that I
was having eeriness for days and I was nervous. I needed to provide him with a
chief complaint as a patient.

“Can you tell me
more about your eeriness? Like the timing it started, for instance?”

“Oh, I can tell
you exactly when it started,” I said, “I started having this eerie feeling as
soon as I heard in the news that the police had found this famous musician Yves
dead in his house, with what appears to be a suicide note that says he was that
Eyeball Snatcher.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Kinki,
but…” Dr. Springer furrowed the eyebrows skeptically, “is that why you’re here?
 I’m not quite grasping the situation, I’m afraid. For starter, can you
tell me what it has to do with your feelings?”

“Doctor, please
call me Kelly,” I said. “Well, I can’t help having odd, stomach-churning
feelings when I hear something that doesn’t quite make sense, you know.” I
shrugged helplessly in an attempt to drive the doctor want to help me, though
he didn’t seem to buy it.

“Kelly, are you a
reporter or something?” he said, staring me hard with his hazel eyes. “I’ve
made it clear that I decline to provide any comment, quote, or whatever crap to
any kinds of media.”

“No, I’m not a
journalist. Indeed, I detest the media.” I shook my head profusely. “I’m just a
concerned citizen who, at the same time, happens to be a friend of Karen’s.” At
least,
I
considered Karen as a friend of mine. “And I just cannot
believe that the police and the FBI act like as if they have given up finding
Karen, just because a guy who claims to be this serial killer Eyeball Snatcher dies,
leaving a confession note. I thought maybe you’d know something about him—like,
if he’s really a serial killer, or not. I know it’s like a wild-goose chase,
but I can’t help feeling that my little friend is still alive. I want to try something,
anything that might help her.” The latter part of my little speech was true.

The shrink’s frown
had deepened. “I’m not supposed to discuss my patient’s personal matters with
the third party.”

“I know, but a desperate
time calls for desperate measures, doesn’t it? Besides that, Good Samaritan
laws state that you can waiver doctor-patient confidentiality.” For an emphasis,
I added, “Whatever we discuss in this room stays in this room. Scout’s honor.”
Though I didn’t mention that I happen to be a Girl Scouts reject.

“That sounds quite
a stretch to me,” he gave out a resigned sigh. “So, what do you want to know?”

“For starter, how
about your opinion about late Mr. Reynolds? Like, whether he seemed like a
violent killer?”

“No, he never seemed
to be a killer-type patient. As far as I know, the worst case scenario I had in
my mind was the patient committing a suicide, which was later realized,
unfortunately. But, murdering multiple women? No way, it’s ridiculous. And I’m
not saying this just because I
failed
to save him from himself.”

“I see,” I nodded.
At least, Dr. Springer’s words sounded to be his genuine feelings to me.

“As a physician, I
know I was supposed to help him from himself and whatever demon within himself,
which I’ve failed. Then again, I’m not an amateur in forensic psychiatry. I’ve
had my share of meeting serial killers and psychopaths, but he wasn’t anything
like them. On the contrary, he was completely different from them. Unlike other
violent individuals, he was lacking the confidence and narcissism. How could I have
predict that he would commit such brutal crimes?”

I made sympathetic
sounds. “Besides the lack of confidence and narcissism, how different was he compared
to other serial killers and psychopaths?”

“First off, he was
possessed with a guilt and remorse for years, which was the reason he came to
me to seek help in the first place.”

He told me about
Reynolds’s long-lasting guilt and remorse over losing his fiancée and his
child-to-be in a car crash in which he was the driver. According to Dr.
Springer, Reynolds’s upbringing was quite normal. So his mother got a little
strict and head-on when it comes to piano lessons, but nothing abusive. Unlike other
psychopaths, he was not one of those “You got to suck it up feelings and get
over it” kind of patients. That made a sense. If he could just suck up and get
over his feelings, there’s no point seeking psychiatric help.

Especially, when a
real psychiatrist comes with a big price tag.

“I Googled that
you do hypnotic therapy. What was he like under hypnosis?” I asked.  

“I don’t know what
you are assuming but I can assure you that he didn’t become violent, demonic or
monstrous.” He said. “He was very calm, just like his usual self, and
cooperative to the point of obedient. And I tell you, you can wear whatever
persona you choose to when you’re alert, but your subconscious never lets you
disguise yourself into something you’re not. So when you see a calm and gentle
person under the hypnotic influence, he or she is most likely to be calm and
gentle.”

“I understand,” I
nodded. He had a point. But at the same time, that might be a clever excuse to
avoid further questions about his involvement with his patient’s crimes.

“By the way, I saw
a hypnosis show in TV that the therapist manipulates the subject,” I mentioned
nonchalantly, “like
planting
a thought or belief, say…that he is a
chicken and then suddenly, the subject starts clucking and tries to lay eggs
albeit the subject was a man. Does it mean a therapist can control the patient
to the extreme like making him to write a note implying that he’s responsible
for the crimes he didn’t commit, and kill himself?”

“Excuse me, Ms.
Kinki…umm, Kelly, but has anyone ever mentioned that you have an overactive
imagination?” Dr. Springer asked.

“Are you trying to
dodge my question by answering with a question to my question?” I asked back,
eyes squinting. I was under the influence of interrogation high.

The shrink rubbed
the bridge of his nose. “I suppose now I know where you’re heading for. You are
about to accuse me of controlling and manipulating my patient to kill innocent
people, is that correct?” Then he flashed a toothy grin, which was
a little
creepy.

“Well…” I
hesitated. Maybe I had just hit the right button assuming that Dr. Springer the
shrink was the true culprit. Maybe this was the moment where I uncover
everything like a brilliant detective from classical mystery novels. The
problem was: I wasn’t really sure if it was smart, or even marginally sane to
accuse someone of quintuple murders face-to-face.

Especially, when
you’re alone with the suspect in a secluded place.

“Well, what should
I do with you?” Dr. Springer muttered and I noted he didn’t say
what-can-I-do-for-you?—
like
all the people in healthcare industry tell you like a mantra.

“E-excuse me?” I
felt my voice quiver. The current situation was not what I’d anticipated for
today’s meeting with the shrink.

“No worries Ms. Kinki,
you’re in good hands.” He opened one of the desk drawers, put one hand inside,
as if he was trying to fish out something. “I will fix your problem in no time,
Ms. Kinki. Oh, I know you prefer to be addressed as Kelly, but informality
doesn’t bode very well with me, you know.” He took a shiny metal kiwi spoon out
of the drawer and he started to rub it with a cloth. “But I’m positive how I
address you wouldn’t bother you for a long time. I would never, ever let you
leave here still feeling eerie and anxious.”

I realized that it
was unusual for a shrink to say ‘fix’ something. Commonly, It was a common
understanding among mental health professionals that one couldn’t just ‘fix’
other people’s problem like fixing a broken toaster or vacuum cleaner.

Besides that, with
a close look, the tip of the metal spoon indeed looked sharp. It looked so
sharp that the device seemed good enough
for
other purposes
besides
eating kiwi fruits…such as, poking eyeballs out of yours truly.

“Well…” I gulped. “I
appreciate your kindness and your passion to help and cure patients and…you
know what? I don’t have eeriness any more. Thank you very much. You cured my
problem already!” I smiled and managed to produce a light chuckle, except my
voice sounded more like a squeak of a squirrel high on caffeine after chugalugging
leftover Starbucks espresso.

“Ms. Kinki,” Dr.
Springer shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t let you walk out here still feeling
eerie that I may be the mastermind of such violent serial killings.”

Then he smiled
like Hannibal Lector.

Ewwwww…
my
jaw dropped on the ground.
Oh My God!
was an understatement. Obviously,
I had hit the jackpot with my theory, which might be good if it was not that
my
very own life
and
my eyeballs
that were in danger.

“Oh my goodness,” I
said with a fake lightheartedness. “I suppose I must leave now, I don’t want to
waste your time anymore.”

“You’re not
wasting my time,” Dr. Springer flashed the spoon, still sporting that Hannibal
Lector smile. “With the unfinished business, you’re doing me favor by staying
here.”

Then he added, “As
in forever.”

“Un-unfinished
business?” I couldn’t help stuttering.
Like WHAT?
—I wanted to ask, but
my voice failed. Stupid voice, stupid mouth, stupid me…

“Don’t worry, it wouldn’t
hurt that much, and it’ll be over in minutes.” Dr. Springer juggled the spoon.

I froze. It seemed
like he wouldn’t let me go.

Holy crap. I
started to hear Freddie Mercury singing in my head. Oh, no. Now I was stuck with
the worst case scenario. I just couldn’t lose my eyeballs and get myself killed.
I had to get out of here. Yes, I had to get the hell out of here.

I thought and I
thought fast. Here’s Plan A: Mention people such as a private investigator
knows where I was and who I was with, just to let him know that he couldn’t
simply off me and get away with it. Then again, if I was the killer, I didn’t
want to let a person who accused me of murders go. By letting this person go,
this special someone might brag about his/her theory. And Plan B: Behave
profoundly weird and dumb bordering on crazy. That was not my favorite plan,
but this one seemed better than Plan A.

All I needed to do
was acting like a certified lunatic. Who would listen to a crazed woman, much
less take her words seriously?