The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (15 page)

The assembly was held in a moderate
sized church just three blocks away from Karen’s address. Several dozens of reporters
were frocking at the entrance, asking questions to anyone with a pulse, trying
to squeeze out quotes, probably they intended to use quotes for nine o’clock
news.

I tried to observe
those who attended the vigil with as much intensity as possible. Considering
that Archangel was so eager to come to this gathering, something should be
happening tonight, though I had no idea what that particular
something
was. Maybe there’s Eyeball Snatcher discreetly attending the vigil like an
innocent well-wisher, secretly laughing at people pray for something they have
no control.

Many people
including the pastor of the church, the high school principal, teachers, and friends
and classmates gave words to the crowd. I wished Karen was there and listened
to their speeches so that she can be assured that everybody loves her and wants
her back unharmed. Even though Karen never mentioned but I felt that she was
seriously in need of assurance that she is beautiful and perfect as she was. I’m
no genius like her, but I had my share of going through high school.

The highlight of
the event was the speech by Karen’s mother. It was touching and many people
including myself had to fish a hankie out of the purse. I know it’s highly
unprofessional to get too emotional with a certain case. But I couldn’t help
it. She even offered her daughter a whole summer trip to Disney World. When her
husband tried to lighten up the mood by mentioning that his wife was trying to
be funny, she literally smacked Karen’s father-in-law square in the jaw,
knocking him out. Again, Karen should have been here.

Other than that,
it seemed like nothing major or significant was happening. It was a night of prayers
that peace, happiness and normal life be restored to Karen, her family, and the
community.

At that moment, I
didn’t know it was a fatal night that Frederick Reynolds, a.k.a. Yves the
musician had was found dead at his music studio in Arlington, Virginia. He left
a suicide note confessing he had murdered Leonie Ganong, Alice Sinclair, and
Julia Stewart…

And Karen Andrews.

Deceptively delicious was
everything.

Everything went
easily, so smoothly. No one casts doubt.

In retrospect,
what happened so unexpectedly and inconvenient turned out to be a blessing in
disguise.

No one, not
even a soul questions the legitimacy of Yves’s suicide note confessing of
quadruple murders. No one gives a damn about eyeballs poked out of the victims.
When you’re caught red-handed and dead, it’s hard to argue against the
accusation, how wrong and stupid it may be.

Now it is a
solid fact that Frederick Reynolds a.k.a. Yves was the serial killer with the
notorious nickname ‘Eyeball Snatcher’ who had killed three women and a little
girl who could have been a great asset to the entire world.

What a shame.

No one dares to
argue with the “fact” that Reynolds is responsible for all the crimes.

His corpse was
found in the basement music studio of the house in Arlington. He was found dead
sitting at the mahogany bar. By the side of his corpse was a note about his fascination
with the eyeballs, which ends with
“can’t take it anymore”
jotted down
on crumpled paper.  There was also a kids’ size sock soaked with blood of
Karen Andrews and other incriminating evidence of murders, such as victim’s
wedding ring. Also, an assortment of illicit drugs including but not limited to
old fashioned cocaine, heroin, LSD, but newer stuffs like Bath-salt, Smile etc.
were found by his corpse. Mixed overdose of chemicals was determined to be the
cause of death.

It was crystal clear
he had committed a suicide.  

I couldn’t help
laughing my head off when I heard about the police and the FBI intend to
continue to investigate Reynolds’ motives for his crimes, but downsize the task
force.

Investigate the
motives? Huh. What the difference does that make? Could it resuscitate the dead
women?

Anyway,
everything is fine and dandy with me and my project.

I had finally
found and identified her.

I knew it. I knew
it was her who could save my loved one and myself.

She is my
savior.

She is my
Dragon.

More
importantly, she is still alive.

She is so full
of life.

Unbelievable…

I couldn’t
believe it when I first learned about her past. The Bitch.

Initially, I
just felt a vague familiarity from the way she gave a hard stare to the camera.

Indeed, it was
a hard stare. I thought I saw a fire in her eyes.

A fire that
screams of burning anger, dissatisfaction, and a desire…

A desire to
correct wrong and make it right.

Now that I
learned about her, I had to take her.

Whatever it
takes, I have to get her.

And she is my
Dragon Lady, a.k.a. Kelly Kinki.

Maybe I was in love
with her.

Catching her is
my game and mission.

You have to
enjoy it when you play a game.

I haven’t yet
come across the best method of obtaining her.

But, one thing
was sure: WE ARE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER.

Seriously.

She is my
destiny.

Finally, the identity of Eyeball Snatcher
was unveiled. After all, it was Frederick Reynolds, a.k.a. the musician known
as Yves. Driver’s license of Leonie Ganong’s, Alice Sinclair’s notebook and
wedding ring, and Julia Stewart’s wedding band were found by the side of his
lifeless corpse. Along with those items, a large butcher knife with a trace of
blood was found in the music studio where he was found dead. The knife was determined
to be the murder weapon. The blood on the knife matched victims’ DNA.

The young and
emerging musician had grabbed all headlines in the worst possible way. He had
allegedly killed himself after all the nasty things he had allegedly committed
without so much as an explanation.

So he left a
suicide note but he didn’t even bother to confide in the whereabouts of the
eyeballs poked out of the victims, or that about Karen. The SOB knows how to be
offensive, or what?

All in all, things
were not pretty. No,
not pretty
was an understatement.

Police and the FBI
were taking full-blown criticism from all over the nation for failing to arrest
Reynolds before he killed himself. Also, Michael Archangel couldn’t dodge his
own share of being accused and ridiculed. On top of all that, his consulting
contract with the FBI had been just revoked.

Bitchtricia
Warshawsky the congresswoman was having a field day, appearing in every talk
show to shame Archangel and the FBI publicly. She described Archangel as “a
civilian who offers nothing but dressing up silly” and accused the FBI for
wasting taxpayer’s hard-earned money on a skirt-wearing freak. One middle-aged talk
show host with a giant beer-belly described Archangel as ‘That worthless creep
who claims to be a great detective even though the best he can do is appearing
like a pathetic faggot,’ and while attending this show, Bitchtricia gave a
hearty laugh.

I was so
infuriated with their nasty comments so I tried to call the show to make a
point that I truly detested his toupee which he claims to be his own real hair.
But unfortunately, the line was busy with other angry viewers defending LGBT
rights and many individuals and groups of gentlemen expressing pride in their
English and/or Scottish heritage, and/or the culture of wearing kilts,
with/without makeup; that included but not limited to Axl Rose, who used to
wear a quilt on Guns N’ Roses shows decades ago.

Archangel argued
that Reynolds was just a convenient scapegoat; that the current turn of events was
merely a little piece of a storyline plotted by the true culprit—the mastermind
of the crime. There should be someone who framed Reynolds the puppet. Archangel’s
theory was partly based on his analysis that whoever committed those horrible
murders was a virtuoso of controlling and manipulating others. Considering
Reynolds had allegedly been abusing recreational drugs with psychological
effects, he was deemed to be a puppet.  

He also appealed
that the MO of the case involving Karen was completely different from others. Albeit
Reynolds had scribbled that he’d done ‘a horrible thing’ to the girl, her body
was not found. Besides that, the amount of her blood on the sock was so little.
Those factors seemed like strong indicators that there should be someone who
used Reynolds as a frame.

In my opinion,
Archangel’s argument sounded plausible enough to warrant further investigation to
nail the true culprit behind the killing spree. But this time, law enforcement
didn’t fancy taking a risk to expose themselves to additional ridicules and
accusations like they are wasting taxpayer’s money. So they took the most
conservative next step; they declared dead Reynolds as the murderer of four women
including Karen Andrew. As if the fact that Karen’s status still being missing in
action wasn’t important.

Henderson mumbled
that it was still possible that feds could re-launch further investigation if
anything new that supported Archangel’s point of view came out. His words
totally bewildered me.
Hello, FBI, isn’t it the law enforcement folks who
are supposed to find the evidence?
Talk about an injustice. Still, it
didn’t help that alleged murder weapon was covered with Reynolds’s finger prints
all over.

This afternoon,
Archangel was summoned to the FBI headquarters in the Capitol Hill. I had an eerie
feeling for the meeting. When I saw Deputy Director Robert Barlow was with
Henderson, I knew it wasn’t good. Barlow told Archangel that he was officially
sidelined and after careful evaluation, the feds have reached a conclusion to
cancel their contract with him.

Again, Bitchtricia
Warshawsky proved her thick skin by crashing the meeting so that she could insult
her ex-fiancé and discard Archangel’s opinion in person without even giving
ears to him. The only upside of the event was that we’d managed to witness the
congresswoman getting hit by raw eggs thrown by several onlookers camping outside
of the FBI building. The egg-throwing guys wearing Lolita-inspired Betsy
Johnson dresses were immediately apprehended on site, but they had done her a
favor. Technically speaking, getting egg stain is not kind to the fabric, but an
addition of a bright color (yellow, to be precise) practically perked up the
otherwise boring and depressing Chanel suit in funeral black.

Later that day
following a massive number of angry emails and calls, the office of Patricia
Washawsky released a statement in which the congresswoman apologized for her inappropriate
choice of words. In addition, she had expressed herself as an earnest advocate
of people’s right to express themselves, regardless of gender, creed, or heritage.

Archangel’s response to the
suspension was subtle. As subtle as a slight raise of one-eyebrow. Still yet,
it didn’t mean he was blasé with the turn of the event.

Since returning to
the office, he had been flat on the chaise longue for over two hours. With his arms
and legs crossed, he was frowning at an imaginary dust on the ceiling. Did I
mention that it was a record-breaking silence with him?

To be honest, I
was not happy with the circumstances. Hell no, not at all.  

I had to do
something. I’d had my share of difference with Michael Archangel. He’s
sarcastic. His sense of humor is often too wacked out to share a hearty laugh
with, and he shows this bad tendency of treating me like a laughing stock now
and then. (OK, that’s a lot of flaws, indeed.)

Still, he was
never wrong when it comes to criminal investigation.

Besides that,
I
needed my current job as his personal assistant. Just because he’s wealthy
didn’t mean that he would keep a personal assistant employed, especially when
he didn’t need her anymore. Fortunately, his contracts with other domestic and
foreign law enforcement were still active. Then again, his reputation needed a
facelift in order to keep other contracts active.

As much as I hated
to be unemployed, I was getting kind of like fond of my current job. I couldn’t
just sit around seeing Michael Archangel’s reputation nosedive.

“How about some
tea?” I brought in tea and assorted pastries on a tray, with a hint of
lightheartedness (or at least, that’s the spirit I hoped for) in my voice. I
might not be an expert in criminal investigation, but I knew one thing for
sure: a hot and nice cup of tea helps you a lot when coping with difficulties and
hardships life casts in your way. I had a tea when my ex left me for a new
woman, when I encountered ill-mannered paparazzi, and when I obtained an
inelegant nickname which was still sticking to me. Every time, tea and pastries
somehow helped me cope with the situation. 

“Thanks,” he sat
up, and took a tea cup paired with a saucer in one hand.

“Mr. Archangel, are
you okay?” I asked, serving him tea and a raspberry cupcake.

“Of course I’m
fine. Can’t you see I’m peachy?” He took a sip of tea and nibbled on the cupcake.

“Well, you looked
a little bit…down.” I said. I’ve read somewhere that major depressions often
come in a cryptic way and those who acts fine, and Mom has once mentioned that
it’s the vivacious and hilarious ones you need to watch out for a true mental
breakdown. I was tempted to dish on Bitchtricia but didn’t. I was afraid of
discouraging my employer furthermore, and I wasn’t sure if he would appreciate
my nasty nickname of his ex-fiancée.

“Down? Who? Me?”
Archangel gave a dry chuckle, curving his crimson lips into a smirk.

“Not that feeling
down is bad, you know,” I said. “It’s totally normal. Anyone would be
discouraged when your ex-fiancée calls you a skirt-wearing schmuck.”

Without a word, he
gave me an icy stare. I thought he was going to turn me into a chunk of rock. Just
like Medusa.

“You know what,
I’m not the one who said that.” Additional subzero glaring. So I added, “Okay, I
shouldn’t have mentioned the last sentence, my bad.”

Archangel took a gulp
of tea. “For your information, I am not saddened, depressed or disappointed. So
Reynolds had stuffs taken from the victims, a memo that appears to be a suicide
note, and the murder weapon. But hey, where are the eyeballs when he doesn’t
have them? Anyway, now that they don’t give a damn about my opinion, have it
their way. Whatever happens following their negligence is not my problem.” And
he snorted.

Alright, so he was
mad. No, make it pissed-off, and he was POed a big time. On top of all, he was
not happy to admit his feelings.

“I know,” I said. “I
can’t believe the nerve of Henderson. After using so much of your help in
solving cases, he can’t just sideline you from the case like Chad Ochocinco. Rude
is an understatement.” I spat.

“For your
information, Ochocinco was not sidelined, just booted out from Dolphins after getting
arrested for allegedly assaulting his wife. And it happened years ago. Nothing
to do with bureaucracy, if that makes a difference.”

“Well, I don’t
know much about basketball anyway,” I shrugged. “The only sport I’ve ever seen
in person is Royal Ascot Race.”

“That horse race
where all visiting women wear a ridiculously large hat?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yup. Royal Ascot
is fun even if you have zero interest in horse racing. And I suppose Kentucky
Derby would be just as good.”

“I’ve never seen
Kentucky Derby myself.”

“What a shame. You
received an invitation for the coming derby, but you threw it away. Talk about
a sacrilege.”

“I’m more like an
NFL, NBA and MLB kind of a guy.”

I shook off his
comment and continued my little speech. “I can’t believe that I used to see
Henderson as a man whom you can trust, someone who fights against the evil and
pursues truth so that justice will be served. I’ve even sympathized a little
for him when I heard about his divorce. Now it seemed like justifiable that his
ex-wife had run away with the deli cook. I can’t believe he didn’t stand up for
you after all the contributions you’ve made.”

“Can’t blame him. He’s
with the feds. Following his superiors’ orders, licking ass is written in
bureaucrats’ job description,” Archangel muttered. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Still, what has
happened to his cojones? Where have they gone?”

“I’ve no idea,” he
chuckled. “And I don’t really fancy thinking about them.”

I fumed. “I can’t
believe his gall and I mean it. Hey, now I don’t feel much remorse if I put a
hex on him so that one of his cojones mysteriously gets severed and fed to a
goat.” I know how to be supportive or what?

“A goat?” His
eyebrows went up to the north. Casting an alarming glance at his crotch, he grabbed
a file on the low table and put it on his lap, covering his own private area. “Having
his body part ripped off and fed to a goat sounds… well, too harsh a punishment.
Okay, so I don’t like him firing me, neither. Still yet I don’t hate him that
much. Oh, and don’t put a hex on me, okay?”

“Speaking of body
parts, what had happened to the eyeballs taken out of the victims?” I said.

“At the moment, it
seems like nobody gives a damn about the missing eyeballs. And I bet that the
feds wouldn’t find even a stray eyeball at Reynolds’s place if they actually
try to locate the eyeballs.” He snorted. “Reynolds is not capable of killing
people unnoticed. He was busy as an emerging musician, not to mention this
guy’s head was pretty much messed up with heavy dope use. So the feds may argue
Reynolds had gotten rid of the eyeballs. Then again, considering his obsession
with eyeballs was big enough to mention in so-called suicide note, that doesn’t
make sense. When you’re so obsessed with something, it’s hard to part with this
special something. Especially when this special something happened to be a hard
earned treasure.”

“Hmm, sounds like
Reynolds as a frame theory’s getting more and more plausible, but then, why did
the real culprit
close
the case now? Reynolds was not in the suspects
list or anything, practically no one was going after him. Assuming the true culprit
had planned to use Reynolds as a frame, why do it now? I’m afraid whoever did
it closed the case out of necessity.”

“That’s the point that
the FBI seriously need to consider.” He frowned and massaged the temples.

“What about Karen?
Is she still alive?”

“I believe so. Though
a part of me wants to go all skeptical about it. Then again, Tasha the psychic
sent me a text saying Karen’s still alive, and she was commanding that I keep
on searching and all.”

“Good. I have a
plan.”

“What?” His frown
deepened.

“We’ll keep on digging
on from
Sam
angle. I mean, the Sam angle. Perhaps Karen has gone
following that lead. Think about it, no one’s seen her dead body, which makes
it possible that she’s still alive, isn’t it?” I looked him in the eyes.

“Theoretically, maybe,
but don’t hold high expectations.” He told me. His baby blues were hard to
read, but at least he didn’t deny it completely.

“In that case, it’s
worth trying, isn’t it? Let’s keep positive attitudes, you know.”

“For your
information, I’m not all that legs and muscles work of a detective. Usually
someone with a badge does that kinds of work for me, but not this time, I guess.”

“I know.” I said. “But
it happens that I trust in you.”

“What?” he looked
perplexed. For the first time that I’ve known him so far. “Are you serious?”

“I am serious. And
do you remember that I’m your personal assistant?”

“As a matter of a
fact, I do remember that,” he replied. I could sense skepticism in his voice.

“I’ll do legs and
muscles work for you. So let’s start rolling, we’ll find the real killer and we’ll
nail him on our own.”
Just like personal assistants in fictions,
I thought.

“Guess what? The FBI’s
not paying us for this case anymore.” He crossed his arms.

“I suppose they’d
be more than happy to pay us, assuming we find and capture the true killer. If they
refuse to pay us, we can always call news media, hop TV stations, appear in
talk shows and collect what deserves our hard work.”

Archangel squinted.
“Sounds like a plan that’s screaming for a kamikaze.”

“Good. Kamikazes
are the best ally when they blow in your favor, you know. After all, when the
Mongolians attempted to invade Japan several times, a series of kamikazes
always blew, sank enemy battle-ships, killing ‘em all. Seriously, that’s what
we need right now.”

“I didn’t mean it
that way,” he sighed. “You’re inconceivable sometimes.” He said, shaking his
head.

“I’ll take it as a
compliment,” I beamed a smile.