The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

“AAAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!”
I started to shriek like a banshee. “I’m hearing voice, I’m hearing voice! I
must leave here, right, now. Beelzee-bubb has a devil put aside for meeee!”

I stood up. “About
your previous question: yes, people often tell me that I have strong
imagination, however, that’s not the case. It’s only that I hear voices other
people don’t hear and it’s not my problem but theirs.”

I was hoping that the
part of mentioning the
voices
had stunned the shrink, and I had earned
enough time to escape. In addition, I hate it when they tried to convince me
with
It’s-not-you-it’s-me
logic so I decided to go with
It’s-not-me-it’s-them
cliché.

I was expecting something in line
of a shock in his part, however, which wasn’t the case.

He literally burst
out laughing. A bark of laughter with a howl, guffaw and roar. It seemed as if
he was about to start rolling on the floor at any moment.

“Holy crap! Ms. Kinki,
I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years, and you’re the most hilarious
patient that I’ve ever met in my entire career.” He said between fits of
laughter, and tossed the spoon on the desk.

“Pardon me?” Now it
was my turn to furrow my eyebrows. Something was wrong, though, in a good way. The
shrink’s response didn’t fit the stereotype of a serial killer about to kill
another prey. A merry doctor hit hard by laughing gas was more like it.

“No offence,” he
choked. “I was just trying to play along with you. And I thought it might be funny
if I manage to scare you a little bit and see your response, you know, but you’ve
so surpassed my expectations. Anyway, who could have thought that you start acting
like a head case?”

“Excuse me? Were you
just playing with me?” I gasped. I didn’t know whether to be glad or insulted. Maybe,
the right answer was the both.

“You can’t blame
me. In my line of work, I rarely get to have entertainment on the job.” He
shrugged.

“What’s the spoon
for, if you don’t poke eyeballs out of people?” I squinted my eyes.

“This is my
favorite spoon. I usually scratch my back with this silver baby when I get itchy.
Some of my patients are real germaphobes and they simply can’t stand the
thought that I might have scratched my back with my bare hands prior to shaking
hands with them.” He grinned. “But don’t tell my patients that this spoon’s
only for a cover and I actually scratch my back with my bare hands. Or that I
often forget to wash my hands after scratching my back.”

I regretted that I
shook hands with him. “So, I suppose it was some kind of a payback on your part
on the account that I’d suggested that you might be the true culprit behind the
serial eyeballs poking murders?” I gave out a groan with mixed feelings of a disappointment,
annoyance and embarrassment. I made a mental note to myself: wash hands as soon
as I’m done with this session.

“A payback is not
my choice of word, I’m afraid. It was more like a trial and observation.” He
kept on grinning. “Besides that, you should be grateful, Ms. Kinki. You’re a
dead woman if your accusation turned out to be right.”

He had a point.
And again, he addressed me as Ms. Kinki.

Then suddenly, his
expression turned serious. “As a psychiatrist, I have never used hypnosis as a
method to manipulate my patients. And as a matter of fact, it’s not viable to
use hypnotic method as a weapon of murder. So as humans, we all have a
subconscious, but the subconscious generally works in order to
preserve
its host’s life, not to
destruct
it. So technically, it’s impossible to
force
the subject to kill him- or herself. I use hypnotic methods in therapeutic
processes, but the sole purpose of using this method is to help my patients
feel better. Not to aggravate their conditions. Manipulating the patient to
take eyeballs out of women I don’t even know; to kill them; to kidnap a young
girl; and then to commit a suicide, that’s beyond my means. And you know what? We
mental health professionals are constantly struggling not to be controlled or
manipulated by our own patients.”

“Is that so?” I
opened my eyes wide with a surprise.

“Unfortunately, it
is. We deal with a smorgasbord of mental and psychological problems each day
and believe me, some patients are practically comfortable with their problems
albeit their family, neighbors and coworkers are not. For example, patients
with personality disorders often try to control
everyone
including the
therapists and I mean, especially the therapists. They start from getting a
grip of little things like trying to alter their appointment times, then they
seek special treatments from us, and if you’re not firm or careful, you’ll be
sorry. The next thing, you are their little pet and your misery is written in
The
Nightmares of Mental Health Professionals.
”

Now it looked like
I had to reconsider my investigation strategy, I decided. Still yet, I had
things to check out and
asking-doesn’t-hurt
happened to be my motto.

“Okay, so I
understand that under normal circumstances, even skilled therapists cannot
implant destructive thoughts or ideas on patients. Then again, as late Mr.
Reynolds was allegedly using recreational drugs, does it by any chance alter
his reactions to whatever is done under hypnosis?”

“Well, I’m not
really sure but…” He crossed his arms and furrowed eyebrows, as if he had to think
a lot before uttering another word.

I looked him
expectantly.

After taking deep
breaths and groaning several times, Dr. Springer had finally opened up. “Actually,
there was a very disturbing something about my late patient, he had once
mentioned about haunting dreams.” He described the details of the dreams and
Reynolds’s frustration, confusion and fear that it might have been a reflection
of the reality, and his struggle to find a truth about it.

“Wow…” I gasped, “Assuming
that the part about ransacking his own place in order to locate the eyeballs
was true, doesn’t it make my theory somewhat acceptable?”

“I’m afraid so, at
least a part of that.” He said bitterly. “At that time, I thought it was merely
a byproduct of watching, reading and hearing news of gruesome murders on
various media. So after clarifying that in reality, it didn’t happen in his
life, I just advised him not to expose himself to violent, murderous, or creepy
stuffs; real or virtual. I believed that his dreams were just bad dreams. I had
never took his nightmares as something reflected events that had happened in
real life. You know what, now it looks like my turn to feel eerie.”

“Was he worried
about the possibility of being a serial killer and he tried to find the truth?
Well, it doesn’t make a sense,” I said while I thought. “For one thing, if I
deliberately killed someone, I
know
that I did it and I don’t need to
find the truth about whatever I’d committed because...after all, I know if I
really killed someone.”

“I get your point,”
he said. “And that’s why I didn’t dig much about his dreams. If he did it, he
would have either made a complete confession to me or never had mentioned it,
just like all or nothing.” He sighed. “Seriously, now it’s my turn to be eerie.”

“No offence, but what
do you think about your initial impression? Do you still believe that your
diagnosis was right?”

“None taken,” he
said. “I still believe that he is… no, he was not responsible for murders or
taking eyeballs out of women. Then again, the alleged suicide note he has left
is bugging me. Actually, to be honest with you, I was taken aback when you came
here and dropped that particular bomb on me. Still yet, I’m not real
comfortable with your theory that someone I don’t know was messing my patient’s
mind, possibly using hallucinogenic drugs.”

“I agree with you,”
I nodded. “Suppose someone uses such drugs, does it enable one to brainwash
other person more easily?”

“Hell, yes. But please
note that I would never do such an evil thing to my patients. It’s totally
against Hippocratic Oath, not to mention it’s a crime against humanity. And
believe me, if I was such an evil doctor, I should be a filthy rich retiree in
Caymans by now. I don’t even know the victims of Eyeball Snatcher cases, so if
I could really brainwash my patients, I’d do something to drive the patients to
drain their bank accounts and donate everything to me. That’ll be a perfect
crime, except that’s not acceptable from all standpoints. Still, it’s far
better than having my patient kill total strangers.”

He sounded serious.

But he had a
point. If I were a really bad person with the means to get whatever I want,
ending up as a filthy rich retiree in Caymans sounds a better idea than becoming
the master of a killing puppet.

“And did I mention
that he was afraid of blood?” Dr. Springer continued.

“Excuse me? He was
afraid of blood?” My eyebrows hit the north.

“Yes. Maybe you’ve
heard of the tragic accident which killed not only his career as a pianist, but
his fiancée and unborn baby.” He described the accident.

“It’s hard for
someone who’s afraid of blood to poke the eyeballs out of people. Because that
involves seeing, touching, and feeling the blood. Lots of it.” I cocked my
head.

“Exactly,” he
nodded. “That’s why I oversaw the comments about his bad dreams. I took his
dreams just as a manifestation of his past trauma.”

“Did he mention
the name of the person who provided drugs to him?” I asked, not that I was
expecting much. But I didn’t want to miss anything.

“No, unfortunately
not.” He shook his head. “I knew that he was using something and I kept on
trying to convince him to go to rehab and receive proper treatment regimen that
is targeted to addictions. But no, he didn’t even admit that he was destroying
his career, his life, and even his soul by using drugs; all he kept on saying
was
No rehab, please.
”

Dr. Springer looked
genuinely disappointed. Frustrated, even; for what he could have done but
didn’t. I wanted to tell something comforting to him, but nothing other than sympathetic
sounds came out.

“I don’t know if I
could have saved him from his very own self or not, and I have no idea of the
plausibility of your theory. My point is that I’m still having a hard time accepting
the course of events that had occurred around him. I don’t believe that he was
the evil, cold blooded, perverted serial killer who not only resorted to poking
the eyeballs out of them, and murdering them. Then again, does it make any
difference if I voice my opinion? I’m afraid not.”

He shook his head
as if to shake off the bad memory right now, right here so he can move on. “I
suppose your appointed time’s up.” He said. He didn’t offer me to call him if I
had further questions or concerns.

“Not much appetite this morning?”

Archangel’s fork
was reaching my plate before I answered.

“Hasn’t your mom
ever told you it’s rude to take food from your dining companion’s plate before politely
asking first?”

“No, she hasn’t. We
rarely dined together as she had been a busy socialite so far as I remember.”
He shrugged, cutting my uneaten sausage into two halves. “Though she once told
me that it’s a sacrilege to waste perfectly good food to rot. How sweet of her
to enlighten me when she was oh-so-busy man hopping.”

“I’m sorry.” And I
meant it. Both of his parents have Greek heritage but they have long been known
to be in a typical French marriage in which both parties are engaged in one
affair after another with the third parties. That might be a part of the reason
for his Kentucky Darby invitation going straight to trash, I suspected.

“What for?”
Archangel said.

“My remark about
your mother. It was insensitive.”

“No problemo,” he
shrugged. “Every household has its own lifestyle. Your mom always kept an eye
on you while mine had arranged a former Four Seasons chef to come to the house and
feed me regularly. Not to mention I had nannies and housekeepers. My childhood
wasn’t bad.”

I felt worse
hearing his clarification. It’s not like home cooked meals are the only perfect
diet. Still yet, growing up in a wealthy family but without home-cooked food or
cozy family moments was a different story. Maybe I shouldn’t judge other
people’s childhood, but—

I still remembered
the first time when he ate breakfast I’ve cooked when I was a maid in the
island. It was just a basic, no-frills breakfast pancakes, fried eggs, sausages
and sautéed tomatoes, but he said that was better than the one he had at a Mandarin
Oriental. I never really understood the reason for his initial compliment and
just assumed that he was in a mood to hire a personal cook. I now had a gut
feeling that it was his unmitigated opinion. It was not a complement for
convenience that he could hire just one-woman chef/driver/secretary for a
moderate but much cheaper rate than hiring them separately.  

I supposed he had
a craving for home cooked food and he wasn’t even aware of it. My mother might
have been a husband-hopper, but I was always well-fed with home-cooked food
that I enjoyed and loved. Though in the retrospect, had it not been her
delicious meals, there might have been a better chance that I could be a slim
girl.

“Where’s your
chipperness this morning?” Archangel said nonchalantly. “How did your
investigation go?”

I told him about
my encounter with the shrink yesterday, except for the part that I acted like a
basket case.

“So, you confirmed
that the shrink has nothing to do with this case.” He said.

“Excuse me, but it
sounds like you knew that Dr. Springer was not responsible for either brain
washing Yves or killing women.”

“Yes, as a matter
of fact, I did.” He cocked his head. “Still, it’s always nice to fact check my
knowledge.”

I frowned.

Stealing a piece
of sautéed tomato from my plate, he continued. “You know what? That’s the part I
didn’t like being an investigator with a badge: too much leg work, time-wasting
and ruins your good shoes quickly.”

“Why don’t you
trade your high heels with trekking shoes? The latter comes with much more
durable soles.” I groaned between my gritted teeth. “Besides that, it’s far
more creative than idly sitting around all day.”

“Ax the idly part,”
he shrugged. “I’ve got a lead which requires some waiting for updates. And I
want to be ready for an action at the right time.”

“Oh really?” I
said, half of me was excited with an anticipation of coming across a
breakthrough, but the other half was doubtful and ready to yawn and say “duh.”

“What kind of a
lead?”

“What do you think
is the reason for visiting London?”

“Oh?” I arched my
right eyebrow in confusion, hoping some intelligent remarks would pop out of
me. Obviously, “giving a lecture” was not the right answer with this context,
so I said. “Aside from giving a lecture, you had something related to the
current case, right?”

“Correct,” he said.
“Yet I haven’t collected all the pieces of the puzzle though. It takes some
waiting, I guess.” He shrugged. “If you’re tired and fed up with being mocked
at by an innocent shrink with a wicked humor and ruining your shoes, you can
stay here and do more creative work such as grocery shopping, shining the
silverware and watering the plants, just to name a few.”

“What a lovely
offer, I’m touched. But I’ve got a plan today.” I shrugged, hoping that I was
as nonchalant as him. “A plan not only to ID the killer but actually catching
the culprit. Let’s see who catches the killer first.”

“Very funny,”
Archangel said with a wide grin, like he has just heard a joke with good
punchline; which added a further annoyance to my already pissy-offy mood.

Waving at me with
one hand, he said. “Good luck with your project today. Don’t forget to call in
to check with the progress.”

“Consider it to be
done,” I said, thinking
assuming there’s actually a progress on your side.

I didn’t know why I
started competing against my employer. I knew for the fact that however hard I tried,
I wouldn’t be able to beat Michael Archangel when it comes to detecting. Still,
I didn’t like the current situation in which he didn’t even try to accelerate
the process of finding and nailing the killer part. Especially, considering
that Karen was still missing. Also, as he has mentioned, having been ridiculed
by Dr. Springer the shrink had something to do with my crankiness.

Anyway, I was
determined to find the killer before he or anyone did. I was ready to run for
the Next Top (Amateur) Sleuth contest, if only such a contest existed.

“Hey, will you
consider giving me a raise in case if I reached the killer first?” I said.

I was feeling the
urge and desperation to prove myself, maybe for the first time in my entire life.
The mysterious part was I had no idea who I was trying to impress.

“A raise? Oh yeah,
I’ll give you a 20% base salary raise in a rare case that you reach the killer
first.” He shrugged. “But that will likely to happen only when pigs start to
fly.”