Victor stood with his hands in his pockets and stared out the long glass windows of his office, into the inner courtyard.
No one was in the office. Everything had been rescheduled—who could expect a grieving bridegroom to see patients so soon after his young bride was brutally murdered.
He sighed.
It was an annoying delay in his work after such an important breakthrough. But he would catch up. Normal patient hours would resume two weeks after the anniversary of her death. Who would expect him to pack up and close shop forever?
He turned from the window, his gaze falling on Lize’s face on the wall, her image now a judging goddess staring down from martyrs heaven. He had commissioned the portrait when he’d taken these offices, making sure the photographer knew exactly where the image was to hang, so as to ensure it fit with the rest of the décor. Lize had been the inspiration for the entire design theme. Elegantly simple. A calla lily. She was not a contemporary artist’s muse, with her too-traditional beauty, but she was a prototype of feminine purity. The perfect model.
And now she was dead. The prototype gone. But the ideals she represented were now even more powerful in her absence. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a piloerection of fear and judgment.
Victor left the window and went to a cupboard where his personal supplies were kept. He found what he wanted under a stack of folded white lab coats. When he turned back, he felt Liza’s eyes, as if they had refocused from the distant future she would never reach, and found him. Lasered in on him.
He closed the cupboard and went to her.
Standing below her, he realized as if for the first time how high the portrait hung. He pulled over a chair from the visitor side of his desk, slipped off his shoes to keep the white leather pristine, and stepped up. He shook out the white sheet he’d taken from the cupboard and in one swift motion, draped it over the portrait, letting the sterile cotton hang to the ground. He returned to the glass desk and sat down.
It had been Victor’s idea to marry quickly after the engagement. She had been surprised at his change of opinion, but made no move to dissuade him since it was something she had always wished for. He had always said it was no business of the state whether or not they were in a committed relationship. So he had needed a convincing argument to defend his change of heart. There were legal reasons, he argued now, for why it made sense to marry. If anything should happen to him, she would have the benefit of his assets. He had wanted the vitality of their commitment legally recognized.
Now, the narrative of her death was stronger. More dramatic. It shielded him, he was certain. It allowed him to be the mourning bridegroom, the love of his life ripped from his grasp on their wedding night. It was a true romantic tragedy.
He’d intended the engagement to distract her from questions about the masked man. Something to keep her busy and preoccupied. But it had only made her more obsessed. It had been a mistake to allow the attack to occur on the same night that he asked her to marry him. The two events had become indelibly linked in her mind. Instead of busying herself with preparations for an elaborate wedding in the middle-distance future and leaving him alone to his work, which had been the entire purpose of the event, she had become more obsessed. The attack had, at first, convinced her that he had nothing to do with the masked attacks—that it really was a coincidence the same mask had been in his possession—but almost immediately, she had begun to question him again, unconvinced by simple coincidence.
His whole plan to distract her with months of wedding planning had been for naught. He had over-calculated the impact of confronting the monster in the flesh. All he had wanted was proof that he was the victim. But the very next morning, after a long night at the police station making their statements, Eliza became fixated on the topic. He had tried to draw her attention to her ring and the preparations that would need to be made, but she had no head for it. Only when the mystery of the daemon was solved, she said, could she focus on happier topics.
It was her own undoing. He had tried to warn her—he had done his best to convince her it wasn’t something she should dig into. But she hadn’t listened. He became convinced that, in her obsession, it was only a matter of days before she uncovered something that would prove his connection. Every incident already pointed to him in some way or another. He should have hired the bum to attack some random person at another corner of Plainpalais at exactly the time they were at dinner together. That would have been better. It would have put to rest that he was connected and there would have been plenty of witnesses, including Eliza, that proved he was otherwise engaged. It had been too much to let him attack the two of them. But the incident pushed the topic too hard—made her personally involved.
Well, fine. Mistakes had been made. But those mistakes came at a cost. Eliza had proved to be a better detective than he’d expected. She started looking up everything she could find on the attacks. She became glued to her laptop, and when one avenue had been exhausted, she had revisited all the known attack sites.
He’d had to stop her. She was the only person living who knew he still had the mask. And that information had to disappear. His work was too important. He was on the verge of changing the way the human body developed, disease was fought, perhaps even changing the limits of human cognition and the physical boundaries of intelligence. The applications were endless. But if she got him tied down in the scandal of one boy’s death, or the attack of others in Geneva, he’d never finish. His gift to humanity was far more important than the error of foible.
At one time, he had loved Eliza. She had been a light, a diversion when his moods plummeted, the way a child plays with their puppy after a tearful squabble in the school yard. She had put up with his reclusive tendencies and demands for privacy when his work needed his complete attention. And was always there when he emerged from the cave of his work.
But mistakes had their cost.
He sighed deeply, then used his thumbs to comb his eyebrows, palms heavenward, and pulled himself back to present.
He was expecting a visitor.
Sometimes it’s hard to keep in touch with distant friends — share story and you’ll have at least one thing to talk about ;)
Chapter 27 - “Size Issues”
The interior waiting room door of number 6, Rue d’Amiel hung ajar like an abandoned martian laboratory, as if the medical experts and patients had not merely quit the premises, but flown from the planet. Nathan passed through the hall door to find a space glaringly empty.
The medical office he entered was as reminiscent of the place he had visited twice before as the dead body of an old woman is reminiscent of one’s own grandmother. The rooms were the same, but the human presence was gone and in its place, a glaring, fluorescent lifelessness took over.
Nathan only now realized that the waiting room had no external window. This fact had previously been masked by expensive lighting and fresh flowers. Now, the crystal vase in the center of the glass table was devoid of flowers and the only light came from the communicating window of the receptionist’s office, grayly lit by a lone neon tube-bulb—the sort of utilitarian light that is left on after hours when humans don’t inhabit a space.
Nathan weaved his way toward the doctor's office and was overwhelmed by the sense of walking through an abandoned 19th-century psychiatric ward in some godforsaken outpost. The place smelled stale and dusty, though it couldn’t have been more than a few days since it had been full of staff and small children receiving treatment.
Nathan came to the doctor’s private door and knocked. A raspy voice answered, audible but not understandable, and he pushed the door open. His eyes were immediately drawn to the sheet that draped across Liza’s portrait]
“You said you had something for me,” Nathan said, going straight to the point. He felt incredibly vulnerable, like the naive movie character descending alone down the basement stairs of a haunted house.
“Yes,” the doctor said, the word hanging alone in the air, like a Canadian Goose flying south in an icy February wind, not out of place but somehow insufficient on its own .
Nathan stood at the door, making no move to take off his hat or coat. The doctor remained seated, He didn’t invite Nathan into the room, or wave him to a seat, nor did he approach the office door. After a dramatic pause, he shifted, leaned forward, picked up a white file envelope from the table, and stood up.
“I have this for you.” He didn’t extend his arm to give it to Nathan, just looked at the envelope in his hands. Nathan saw, even from ten feet away, new, dark circles under the doctor’s eyes and the empty cheekbones of someone who’s been fasting on black coffee.
Dr. Wollstonecraft turned the envelope over slowly in his hands and slid open the back flap with a boney finger.
“I assume the Genevan police are pursuing the lunatic with the mask to the best of their abilities—” the doctor’s blended accent gave the words a cynical cast, somehow pulling the German influences of Switzerland into a French intonation. “—but their capacity is limited.” He pulled a handful of glossy photos from the envelope. “I’ve decided to open my own investigation.”
Nathan stepped into the office, more curious than he intended to be about the content of the photos.
“I’m not sure why you’d call me—”
The doctor stopped what he was doing, the stack of photos in his hand still partially obscured within the envelope. Without pulling them fully from the paper sleeve, he set the envelope back on his desk, and put both hands palms-down on the glass table, as if the weight of his upper body were too heavy for his spine alone. He looked Nathan directly in the eye. Every motion he made felt methodically staged, as if each gesture had been precisely blocked and coordinated.
“Mr. Troy—” Nathan was surprised. He had used a pseudonym when he’d come to the doctor under the pretense of helping his imaginary son. As far as he knew, he hadn’t given any identifying information that could have been used to trace him. “—my work is very sensitive. When we first spoke, I told you I’d been having issues with activists who would like to see my research entirely stopped. I even intimated to you the presence of a more radical person who had begun harassing my clients.” Nathan nodded. “You can forgive me for taking extra care then, when I interview potential clients. I would never infringe on a person’s privacy or do anything illegal, but I have begun the practice of vetting my patients. I run my own background checks.” He raised his hands off the table and laced the fingers together in front of his stomach, a diplomat accustomed to making speaches. “When no personage seemed to exist for your pseudonym, it took a minimal amount of effort to find Nathan Troy, journalist and blogger, recent import from Beijing, who voluntarily fled after uncovering a shocking story about a less than ethical bioweapon project backed by the Chinese government.”
Nathan was again surprised. After leaving Beijing, he had published an exposé on the bioweapon he’d uncovered, but had done so, also under pseudonym–an unusual move for a journalist, but a minimal precaution against the Chinese government. Nathan's face must have betrayed his surprise, because the doctor continued, “Of course not every person who walks through my door gets so much notice. But the absence of any reasonable person by the name you gave set off some alarm bells. So you received more attention.” He smiled and finally gestured Nathan to one of the visitor chairs on the other side of the desk. There was something about the office that continually kept Nathan on his guard, but was not about to walk out now. He took three steps to the first chair and sat down.
“It seems you’re quite the self-taught investigator. I’m not entirely sure why you set your sights on me, though I have my theories. But now—” he picked up the envelope he’d momentarily abandoned on his desk and finished removing the photographs, “—now I would like to invite you to refocus your sights.” He spread out the photos in a series. Nathan realized they weren’t black and white, as much as they were taken at night. “I told you I suspected one of the activists to be behind the mask. I think now it is someone who must have read a newspaper article or something on the internet about my work and was already mentally unstable.” Nathan leaned forward to peer at the dark images.
“How did you get these?”
“When I realized the person did not seem to shake focus, I decided to hire someone to trail me. Since this began, I’ve kept a very low profile, not going downtown in the city or walking about any more than absolutely necessary. I am a natural recluse to begin with, but as my work has become more sensitive, I cut off many distractions from my life. Then, when I began to feel in danger—” he leaned back in his chair to allow Nathan space to study the pictures, “—I made my life even more ascetic. When I hired the camera, I planned a couple of outings where a crazy person might see a window of opportunity. I had my secretary put a written notice on the door downstairs that I would be leaving the office early for an event in the city—thus, someone who wished to corner me might choose this as their moment. I also scheduled the cameraman to trail me a few evenings after work, as I went for a walk slowly around the neighborhood, hoping we might become lucky.”
“And you did.”
“Unfortunately.” He sat back up in his chair. “I had hoped he would strike when I was alone—but it was an important anniversary for Eliza, my late wife, and I.”
“That’s when he struck?”
“Yes, quite literally.” The doctor rubbed his thigh. “He had a knife. He threatened Eliza. I have no idea what he would have done if I hadn’t been able to distract him long enough for us to run. Of course, he made as though he wanted our money—”
“But that was only a cover.”
“Obviously.”
Nathan picked up one of the blown up images.
“This is your fiancée?” Nathan looked at the doctor’s face, and saw him wipe a tear away from a dry eye.
The doctor nodded silently.
“Where did he attack you, exactly?”
The doctor described the location of the secluded park, with its two separate stairwells, one hidden and collonaded, the other obvious.
“And what, exactly, do you want me for, Dr. Wollstonecraft?”
“I want him caught. I don’t have the impression the police are actively doing anything. He’s been menacing my patients and myself for months. And now–” he paused and dropped his eyes to the photos on the table, one finger trailing the outline of a womans silhouette in the dark gloss of the image, “he’s killed my wife.” His voice caught and broke off. The doctor looked up and brought himself back. “I need you to find him. To make the work of the police so easy, they can’t help but close the case. You need to find the mad man who did this and get evidence he killed William and my dear wife.”
“Do you have any ideas which of your activists it might be?”
“I think it is a sick man who lives on the street. The night he found us in the park, I could smell him from ten feet away. He could be living in one of the squats around this area. I’m not sure how he became obsessed with me, but he’s not right. From the way he acts and dresses, I think it impossible he has any sort of normal life.”
Nathan nodded.
“I will pay you for your time. I have resources. But I can’t do it myself. I’m far too busy. And quite honestly, I don’t want my patients or their families at risk of exposure.”
“You want any connection between yourself and the findings to be scrubbed.”
“Precisely.”
“And when I have incontrovertible proof of who it is and that it was him all along, I will take it to the police, and hopefully you’ll never hear any of it again.
“May I take these with me?” Nathan gestured to the photos.
“Of course.”
“I’ll look into it. But I don’t want your money. I won’t open a formal contract with you, or agreement. If I find anything, I’ll go to the police, and if I don’t, then you’ll have to resolve the issue another way.”
The doctor seemed to stall for a moment. He didn’t like the idea, but Nathan could see he didn’t have a convincing argument why not. “Fine. But then in exchange for the photos, I would like to be kept informed on what you find.”
Nathan nodded. “Fair enough.”
“And please, contact me under this email,” he extended boney fingers, holding a slip of paper, "I'd prefer to avoid you coming to my office again.”
Nathan took the paper. “Understood.”
The doctor gingerly stacked the photos and slipped them back into the envelope, then handed it across the desk to Nathan without rising from his seat.
“Good luck.”
Nathan nodded, and turned to leave, closing the office door behind him.
***
The American was relieved to make it back to the street. And particularly relieved he didn’t need to worry about another attack from the masked daemon —at least for the moment. He pulled out his phone and dialed the inspector’s cell phone. After two rings, Nathan hung up. His first instinct had been to hand over the photos, after making his own copy. But on second thought, he decided against it. The Swiss inspector had made it clear he wanted Nathan away from the case and had not actually seemed to appreciated Nathan’s involvement. Perhaps he might even think Nathan had been stalking the doctor himself and made the photos, only to hand them over under this story of a third party.
Nathan walked slowly down the sidewalk and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. He wasn’t yet sure if he was obligated to turn over the photos directly. He would, eventually–but in his own time. A moment later, he turned resolutely down a side street, adjusting on impulse his destination. He needed a measuring tape.
He found his way to the Manor Genève shopping mall, and took the escalators to the floor with stationary and writing equipment. He purchased the cheapest measuring tape he could find—still the most expensive one he would probably ever own. Twenty minutes later, he had walked from the shopping center, across the river, through the fashion shopping street of Bel Aire, and up the steep hill to where Dr. Wollstonecraft and his fiancée had been attacked.
Nathan was a bit over six feet. Not exceptional for a Caucasian male, but above average. The person who had attacked him at Plainpalais had been a tall figure–at least as tall as himself. Assuming the masked man hadn’t misrepresented his height with inserts or platform shoes, his height could be estimated by measuring the height of the architectural features in the photos.
But after measuring different walls and arches a half-dozen times and comparing with the photos the doctor had given him, Nathan concluded that the attacker must have lost a good ten inches of height. The American had spread the photos out on the stone pavers, and now he sat back on his heals. It was possible that in the moment, the beast had appeared taller to him, because of the feeling of fear. Surely there was a ballooning effect to both the incident and his memory of the incident. Fear makes things larger than life. But even if the man pictured next to the stairwell in Dr. Wollstonecraft’s photo had been caught in a slouch, he would never make up ten full inches.
Shoe inserts or not.
“It’s not the same guy,” he said to no one in the park.
Absolutely, definitely, not. The person who wore the mask to attack the doctor wasn’t the same figure who surprised Nathan at Plainpalais.
When he had first glanced at the doctor’s photos, he had sensed something was off, but hadn’t immediately figured out what. The doctor, who stood in the photo with his back turned to the camera, was significantly taller than the attacker. It wasn’t a surprise. Dr. Wollstonecraft was a striking figure. Taller than Nathan, and good-looking in a poindexter sharp sort of way. The attacker was the perfect contrast, under the costume—the short side of average, unkempt with his baggy black rags and asymmetrical in posture.
Damn, Nathan thought as another possibility came to him.
Author Notes :
Not sure if I should leave chapter 26. It feels a little indulgent — something the writer might enjoy writing, but doesn’t necessarily bring that much to the story. We already know Victor is the bad guy, we already know why he killed Lize. Sometimes there’s something of an indulgent feeling of satisfaction to sit in his head for a moment, and absorb the setting. But it’s more of a film scene, not as much for a book. Books read faster these days, and the style is much more to keep the movement up. In a film you’d have the pleasure of a moment’s pause as the camera pan’s his empty office, the doctor standing at the window, then throwing the sheet over his late wife’s portrait, and turning slowly as he returns to his desk and sets up the scene to receive Nathan.
Older crime novels allow this methodical think-through and scene setting. Modern crimes not as much.
I’m torn.
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