The young man leaned up from the dishwasher, saying “It’s almost done, just another few minutes.”
“That’s great. I just despise washing dishes. I suppose that’s ironic, though, since my work involves aquatic organisms.”
“Would you mind my asking just what your work is?” the young man queried, a look of interest crossing his face as he turned towards the scientist.
“I’m a biologist. I study the knife fish, particularly electrophorus Electricus. Like I said, it really is ironic.”
“Well, I think that irony is over, because the thing’s fixed now.” replied the young man.
“How much do I owe you, Dare?” she asked.
“`Umm…about forty dollars. An incorporated dealer would charge about seventy. But I’m cheap. You have to be to make it as an odd-jobber.” said the young man.
The woman handed him the cash, and then he departed, a look of complete satisfaction on his face.
The young scientist sat down to her meal two hours later, and opened her mail as she sipped her glass of wine that she drank before the course. Taxes, letters from biology students, bills…then one she didn’t recognize. It was in a crimson envelope, with no return address. She opened it, and found one page inside, a typewritten message, which stated in bold block letters: “Life will shock you.” She shrugged, thinking it must be a prank from a student. It sounded like a Chinese proverb or something, a sort of superstition that she was skeptical of. Yes, that was it. They were teasing her, her students. Might it be from Frank, or Maxby? Probably, she thought, t. Oh, those college juniors; they were so full of it. She went on sifting through the mountain of mail until the clock chimed seven, and then lit her candle and ate the casserole she had spent part of the afternoon making, as it was a Saturday, with no classes to teach, no pesky freshmen to reprimand. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her students; far from it; just sometimes they liked to be rambunctious, like the boys text messaging the girls. She told them that was sixth grade stuff. It was. But then, some things never changed.
She laid out her clothes for the next day, and then graded term papers for two hours.
After that, she fell gratefully into her bed. The next morning she would work on her research of the eels and do housework for awhile.
The next morning, she awoke, stretched, and turned on the clock radio to the classical music she always listened to while waking up her brain. Music energized her, better than drinking coffee or even a cappuccino. Music awoke her soul; she could feel the intensity of the notes ringing in her blood, connecting energy to her brain. If she believed in power, it was the power of human thought and the power of the intensity of a human’s artistic side. The intensity of the sound never failed to amaze her and yet comfort her with its existence. To hear music was to breathe and think in the same wave as the musician, and gave her the same feeling of security and stability that sitting over her work with the eels, checking chemical compositions in her basement laboratory gave her. It gave her something to roll passion into, to bury herself in.
She could live for the music and chemical compositions in those moments, and savor the tones and complexities and marvel at the intricacies later on; even days afterwards. She drove herself from her bed, into the shower, to awaken her critically thinking brain. Cold water was the best way she knew to engrain reality and strictness into her schedule. As always, the water gave a cold bite, and then slowly felt warmer. She loved extremes. Not emotional extremes, but wide varieties of activities and sensations. They were the color of her life. After her shower, she dressed in sweats and began to cook breakfast. When she was walking to the cabinet, she noticed water standing in the sink. It was dark with food residue. That was odd, she thought, hadn’t she emptied it the last time she’d washed dishes manually? She reached down, undoing the plug, and saw the water ripple, and then a wave of pain jolted up her arm, seeing sparks crackling on the water’s surface, cascading through her body. She would have cried out, but she was too dazed, too paralyzed to do so. She sank down on the floor, her dazed brain grasping the fleeting half-thoughts of terror. Then the world faded to black.
Part two: a body in the kitchen
Shannon Morris stood outside her biology teacher’s house, ringing the doorbell. She was scheduled to have lunch and tutor with Professor Lombarre at noon. She walked by her professor’s car and to the door. Even after several minutes, the door remained unanswered. Shannon became concerned. She went to the kitchen window, which overlooked the sink. As the sight met her eyes, she gave a cry of distress. Her teacher lay on the tiled floor, motionless, a burn scarring the flesh of her right hand. Shannon pulled out her cell phone, and dialed nine-one-one.
“Hello, operator? I have a medical emergency. Not moving. I’m looking in through a window, the woman was unresponsive to the doorbell. Yes, she’s unconscious. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not. I have no idea. She has a burn on her hand. Severe, fourth degree, I’d say. 1985 Araon Street, Weston. Yes, please hurry!” the young woman stuttered breathlessly. In minutes, the paramedics arrived, and went to work. They popped the sliding door off track and rolled in the equipment.
“Breathing weak! Pulse weak!”
“ Get her on oxygen”.
“ Burn on phalanges, metacarpal, carpal. Chem cold pack!”
Within a minute, the professor was on the stretcher and then out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. It was only after the ambulance had left that the young woman noticed the patrol car parked by the road.
“Hello, I’m officer Osenwald,” the man said as he showed his badge. “I’m here to respond to the nine-one-one call that you gave. I understand that it was a medical emergency, but all the same, the department requires a criminal investigation to determine whether or not foul play was a factor. Can you show me the scene?”
Shannon pointed him to the kitchen, and restated her experience. The officer nodded, and began to inspect the scene. He first documented all the locations of objects in the room, or at least the ones in proximity to where the woman fell. He snapped photographs on a digital camera which he considered every bit as useful as his patrol car. He noticed that the spot Shannon had pointed to-where Clavia Lombarre was lying-was located directly in front of the sink. It appeared that she had fallen while standing near or at the sink. When he saw the blender in the sink, he knew at once what had happened. The appliance had fallen into the water, shocking the woman rendering her unconscious. Still, he roped off the area of the kitchen with crime scene tape, just for future reference, if further investigation was necessary.
Part three: from the depths
The next day, Clavia Lombarre had still not responded to the treatment administered by Emergency Room nurses, and was in the Intensive Care Unit of Weston Medical Center. The police had reported their findings and the diagnosis was shock due to high voltage electricity. Clavia was alive, but in a coma. She breathed with assistance due to two plummets in her oxygen level during the first few hours of her stay. The burn on her right hand and wrist was severe, and appeared to have been caused by a voltage much greater than the hundred volts used to run an appliance. But what in a kitchen had higher voltage than a wall socket? No one could answer that.
Her students had been instructed to care for the electric eels that she researched. Since it was a relatively easy job, they simply went in once a day, dumped food into the tanks and left. Tuesday, two days after Clavia’s initial collapse, Officer Osenwald visited the house to again review the evidences that were still present on the scene.
He looked again at the sink, and then at his clipboard with the evidence report, he realized that the drain in the sink had been unpluged. The paramedics wouldn’t have undone the drain, and the detectives that reported to the site as assistance were trained specifically not to erase evidence. Who had done it? Both doors to the kitchen had been padlocked. There was simply no way anyone would’ve accessed the kitchen after the police had set up the perimeter. And no one would’ve done that between the woman collapsing and the arrival of the authorities. So who was it?
It had to have been Clavia Lombarre. The next day, he reported to the station, and showing his detective’s identification badge, he went into the evidence room. The blender in the plastic bag had remained untouched, no one finding any reason to so much as look at it. Now, with latex gloves, Officer Osenwald opened the bag and took out the blender’s base. If he could get this to the forensics department, they’d have a field day. “A blender. Really?” his friend, James, an expert in the genetics section would say, his eyes rolling incredulously behind his protection goggles.
That was precisely what happened. “A blender. You can’t be serious.” James was always one to be blunt. Frank Osenwald knew that, but it stung just the same.
“Well, if it isn’t Detective Osenwald.” Helen, James’s co-worker in the electronics department commented as she stepped up to the table where they sat conversing.
“What is it? You know I am trained in electronics. I’d be glad to investigate this.” She pulled up a chair beside Frank.
“Brilliant,” was the only thing Officer Osenwald could say to that. He was confident that an extensive examination of the appliance would tell the tale of the college professor’s injury.
Yet he did not know where the lead would end.
Part two: Through the Mixture
That evening, when he was eating dinner, the phone rang. It was Helen, at the lab. “Frank, I tested the blender, looking for particles and water molecules, whatnot, like what would be in dishwater, and there is nothing. Nothing, at all.”
“What? There have to be particles of water in the blender, otherwise, where’d the shock come from?” Officer Osenwald asked.
“Frank, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but the results were quite clear. There was no dishwater residue in the electronic components of the blender.”
“ A woman collapsed, sometime last week, and a visitor saw her through the window. The paramedics came, got her. She was unconscious, with a severe burn on her right hand. She fell directly behind the sink. The woman’s been in a coma since then, so far as I know. And that’s the only theory that is at all supported by evidence. Shock to the system indicates, as well as the burns, that it was due to high voltage, at least from what I’ve heard.”
“I’m sorry to ruin your lead, but now you know the truth,” the woman encouraged him.
“Yes, thankyou for testing it for me. Goodbye.”
Part five: unbidden visitors
Janice Taylor, Clavia’s nextdoor neighbor, visited her at five o’clock, bringing along her eight year old son Harker. Janice stood over the hospital bed, seeing the numerous tubes of fluids and various sorts of medications that were inserted in a PIC line in Clavia’s arm.
Her skin was pale and yellowish, her hair lay limp and tangled on the pillow. Everything smelled of antiseptic, and the world was composed of sterile white. Heart and oxygen monitors beeped and flashed, but the unconscious professor sensed none of it.
She was somewhere else, decided the eight year old Harker, maybe inside her mind; maybe Heaven, but definitely not in the room, where her body was. He stared at his neighbor, perturbed by these wonderings.
“But mommy,” he said, “What happened to Ms. Lombarre?”
“She doesn’t hurt any, it’s like she’s asleep, in a coma. But we don’t know how to wake her up. She..went to sleep when her blender fell in the sink and shocked her. That’s why I always tell you to be very careful with electricity.”
“Oh,” he began, but was cut off by the shrill alarm an oxygen monitor emitted. A nurse rushed in and flushed out the visitors, telling them to visit again later.
Early the next morning, Janice was getting up to let the dog out, and heard a bang coming from Clavia’s yard. The floodlight in her back yard revealed a dark figure with a large object aimed at the window. Without hesitation, she grabbed the house phone and dialed the police station.
“Hello, I’d like to report a break in, at 1985 Araon Street, Weston. The landowner isn’t home. She’s actually in a coma. Oh, yes, the scene. I just got up and saw a figure trying to break open the window. Thankyou, goodbye.”
By the time the patrol car arrived, the burglar had vanished, leaving a flapping windowscreen in his wake. The officer, Jim Core, noted this, and radioed his superior for advice. “…Yes, the window’s open, that’s where they got in. Small rear one, all the glass broken out. Oh, I believe I’m capable of fitting through, thankyou for the advice.”
His superior wasn’t superior in his degree of solemnity.
The fit was tighter than he’d anticipated. Nevertheless, after thirty nine seconds of worming his shoulders and arms through, he managed to slip his legs through the frame. Standing in the interior of the college professor’s house, he turned on his flashlight. The police tape stood out neon yellow in the beams, and then he nearly fell to his knees, slipping in something wet.
It glowed red in the dark, and he let out a little yelp. Blood? Whose? The owner was supposed to be in the hospital, in a comatose state! No, he decided noticing the distinct smell of solvents; it was paint. Standing up, he saw a red sheet of paper on the table, and couldn’t help reading what it said: “Life will shock you.”
Then, glancing back at the paint on the floor, he saw that it too revealed letters. He viewed a startling message. The splotches read “Didn’t it?” And there appeared to be crudely painted lightening bolts around the phrase. Shock? The note…red..dated Saturday the seventh-the day before the landowner had been found, collapsed. Wow, the clues were really piling up.
Jim pulled out his radio and dialed Detective Osenwald’s house number. Officer Core felt a little pang of guilt in his gut… he’d sort of overheard a conversation between the chief and Osenwald on Monday.
Part six: an elucidating discovery
“What!”
“Calm down, Frank, it’s not so much of a huge deal. Wait awhile before you come. I mean, it’s just four, barely.”
“Wait awhile? Core, have you ever watched paint dry? Of course, I suppose it won’t go much faster even if I was there. Look, this woman, I think she’s got somebody after her. Honestly. You see….” He went on to spin Clavia’s story, or as completely as he knew it.
“So they didn’t find anything in the blender to prove that it was the source of her..electrocution?”
“Precisely. However, it’s not that simple. Wonder if we could lift any fingerprints from the paint? And dust that note, for Heaven’s sake. Photograph the painted prints. Bag the note as evidence. And this time, try not to destroy all the evidence. Photo all of the paint, and collect the note as evidence. I’ll talk to the chief about this one.”
“Yeah, I will, Osenwald. But I won’t be smearing it again, I can tell you that. It did scare me, though, seeing red..thought for a minute it was another homicide.
I honestly…” Officer Core broke off, a bitter memory hindering his ability to speak.
“I don’t think any of us will ever forget that,” Osenwald agreed grimly.
He shuttered, remembering that particular case, the likes of which he hoped never again surfaced in Weston. A personal, heart and gut wrenching case… but one that he compared to this…for a reason even he couldn’t fathom.
What he felt as he hung up the phone didn’t make sense. A flicker of dread, something elusive, something foreboding. A sort of dark presence. Of course, an accident turned assault case could easily do that.
So who dunnit? That question was beyond apparent. Someone who knew where and how to strike, a very methodical person. Not to mention someone who knew what she did. But what on earth was the weapon? No bullets, only symptoms of shock and a very severely burned hand to go on. And the fact that it fit in the sink, a wet environment, unsuitable for a normal weapon. That was when he called back to Helen in the forensics department.
“Hey, can you analyze the outside of the blender for traces of chemical components, acids, or some sort of chemicals that could trigger a reaction that would have an output of electricity?”
“I don’t see why not, but you realize that would mean asking James, who had the course in chemical components.”
“I know. And tell him, before he laughs, we found graffiti that held threatening messages on the site. I don’t think this was just an accident…”
“I’ll give it to James. From what I’ve heard him say, he’s got today clear after lunch. He should get the analysis back to you at five or so, being that these things take a little time, the molecular analysis and the typing of chemicals and so forth.”
“Thankyou, Helen.”
He hung up the phone, sitting back on his mattress, feeling the empty spot beside him that had been so since the worst case he’d ever had five years before.
Part seven: up to the glass bottom
Osenwald could hardly believe it. This had been it, the last probable lead, and then… well, just what James had said.
“There is nothing. At least no engineered chemicals. I found nothing other than an odd natural compound, similar to algae. I don’t see where that came from if it was really in the woman’s sink, unless of course she hasn’t washed dishes in about a month or so.”
“I’ll have to talk to her neighbors, about her habits, anyone she’s seen before Saturday.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to handle this one. I’m just in forensics, Frank. I hope you don’t get too worried, though. This isn’t like what happened to your Friya. I know, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Frank, I really am. I’m no good to you as a friend. I should have been there for you. But then Colleen graduated and… well, it’s hard when your little girl’s growing up-but I know that’s not an excuse. If I had been there to stop that man…”
“You don’t have to tell me all of this,” Officer Osenwald said, his voice growing flat.
“Bye.”
The officer didn’t return his friend’s farewell. He wanted to get in his truck, burn up the road under its rubber, see if he could outrun himself. Still, he burned to run to the station, start flipping through the chemical analysis, run to Araon street and start an interrogation. He didn’t know what to do. Instead of doing either of these, he sat back in his office chair, burying his face in his hands.
Was James right? Friya had been gone five years; half a decade. Many people were surprised that he was still on the force. Yet he couldn’t leave; his heart wouldn’t let him. The thought of something happening to another woman like it had happened to his wife, that children might be left with only a father, no mother… it was just too much. Regardless of how many times he would look at the file marked unsolved and see a picture of his wife, the victim of a homicide.
He couldn’t let this woman, even a stranger, injured as she was, let her attacker go free. It wasn’t an “if” anymore. It evaded logic to say that the blender was culprit. A woman was nearly brain-dead, and someone was going to be there when the judge banged the gavel. Osenwald would do his best to see that the right person answered.
Part eight: interrogation
The next morning, Officer Osenwald was over what he knew to be an emotional stage of every case. Especially cases concerning female victims. But this was what he did, what he’d chosen. Chosen in his wife’s memory.
The chief had agreed that this incident was now a stealth assault, and assigned it to Osenwald, saying that he was the one with the most knowledge of the situation. Thus Frank sat in his patrol car, scrolling over a list of the residents of Araon Street. Janice Taylor, Erlich Rauss, Smith Mcain. They were the interviewees. He rang the doorbell at the house 1984. Janice Taylor answered, and asked what she could do for him.
“I’m officer Osenwald,” he introduced himself, asking if she’d be willing to help him by answering a few questions.
“Saturday, a visitor went to her house in the afternoon, driving a black hybrid truck with some sort of sign like Odd Jobs by Sam or something.”
“Did she ever mention someone that was hostile to her or disliked her?”
“No, she never really mentioned her past or her acquaintances aside from her students
and parents. She talked a lot about her work as well, but that’s only natural to a scientist I suppose. No one had anything against her, and if they did, I can’t imagine what it would be. As far as someone who would have knowledge of weapons, I haven’t heard of or met anyone.”
“Thankyou. But before I leave, do you believe any of her other neighbors or students would have information on this?”
“I suppose you should talk to Shannon Morris. She was the one that found the professor.”
“Thankyou Ms. Taylor for your assistance.”
He departed to his cruiser and drove across to 1983.
After ringing the doorbell, a tall, grizzled man answered, his voice tinged with a German drawl.
“Allo.”
“I’m Detective Osenwald of the Weston County Police Force. I would like to ask you a few questions, concerning your neighbor, Clavia Lombarre.”
“The professor? Yes, I vill be glad. Come in.” replied Erlich Rauss, opening the door wider to admit the officer.
“Has she ever mentioned to you being afraid of someone, or anyone that had something against her?”
“Vy no, she ‘as not. She ‘as been very discreet with ‘er past. Only spoke of the future. I think she ‘ad something upsetting ‘appen a vile back.”
“Mr. Rauss, have you ever seen anyone suspicious around her property?”
“No, officer, I have not.”
“Do you remember seeing anyone visiting the property on Saturday the seventh?”
“Ah, yes, I do. Someone, male, I think. Tall, brown or blond hair. I saw him driving up to Clavia’s house in a pickup. I’m afraid that’s all I recall about her visitor.”
He rang the other neighbor’s doorbell, but received no reply.
A little disappointed, he recalled Ms. Taylors suggestion and then typed Shannon Morris’s name into the search box on his laptop screen. Her address popped up as well as her telephone number. He dialed the phone number on his phone and waited as it rang.
“Hello?” the nervous voice of a young woman came through his phone.
“Hello, this is detective Osenwald from the Weston county police office. I would just like to ask you a few questions concerning Clavia Lombarre’s injury.”
He noticed the rapidity of her breathing, what he could almost identify as shivers.
“Officer, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go!” Then the line went dead.
Huh! She seemed frightened, much too frightened to have been the level-headed young woman he spoke to on the scene of Clavia’s attack…
Part nine: the second strike
“Hello, chief, this is Detective Osenwald. I telephoned a witness who is present at Thirty two Sailstreet. She seemed to be under stress and replied that she didn’t know anything. I would like permission to visit the residence to insure that there has been no foul play.”
“Permission granted. But don’t tarry. We need you back here for office duty, ASAP.”
“Yes sir.”
He cranked the patrol car and then drove across town to the biology student’s house. More accurately, it was a second story apartment with floor to ceiling windows and thick olive green drapes.
The officer rang the doorbell, and heard a key click in the lock.
“Officer?” Shannon’s hair was tangled, her face red, she looked like she’d been asleep or working hard.
“Miss Morris, if it is fine with you, may I ask a few questions?”
“Officer, i..on the phone I-I got so scared, so scared I thought he might..”
“Who might?”
“The…the man. He was here when I got back, holding a knife. He was in here when I returned from the store, and he held me down, pointing the knife at me, telling me not to tell…” she broke off, tears filling her eyes, threatening to fall.
“Who? Did he assault you, cause any physical harm? Is there anything else about him that I should know?”
“He didn’t rape me…I was so afraid, that he would..he just stood there, with me against the wall..telling me I couldn’t tell. That he would kill me..like-like her.” Shannon covered her face with her hands, sobbing, still standing in the doorway.
“Kill you like who?”
“He-he didn’t say. He just said ‘like her’. I’m so scared. He’ll come for me!”
“No, we won’t let him, Shannon. You’ll be safe. You do know about the Witness Protection Program, don’t you? You can tell us what you saw and heard. Now, please go inside and get ready to leave, because we need you to come to headquarters.”
“I-I want to help. I want to. I think he did it. I think he killed Clavia. But I can’t.
He’ll find out!”
“Miss Morris, please try to stay calm. I am here. As an officer, I carry a revolver equipped with fifty bullets. My patrol car’s windows are bulletproof. You will be safe at headquarters. If you wish, you may ride with me. However, it would be more convenient if you were to drive yourself. The choice is yours. Simply, I urge you to come to headquarters. The more you tell us about this man, the better we are able to protect you.”
“I’ll be ready in five minutes. I’ll ride with you.”
And so she was.
While he waited, officer Osenwald radioed headquarters with the situation. The chief agreed with Osenwald, saying that Shannon should indeed come to headquarters immediately.
When they arrived, Shannon was considerably calmer, although apparently nervous.
She was now more receptive to the officers’ questions, and told them all she could recall.
“A man in black-he was about my height-with big, heavy muscles, pale grayish eyes. Pale, pale skin.That’s all of him I could see because he had on this bandana and sort of a burqa-like thing, pointing a knife at me. It was about four in the morning, and I was coming back from my nightshift at the grocery store. I-I just stood there, and he knocked me down, into the wall and locked the door. So then I had barely gotten up when he just started to walk back and forth, stopping now and then, telling me over and over, ‘I killed her. You won’t tell. I’ll kill you.’ It felt like hours, and then he pointed the knife at me, and told me to get some alcohol, which I did-he followed me step by step, with the knife on my neck, and then made me pour it on the rug and wipe down the walls. Then he opened the door and left. I just lay on the couch until the phone rang and it was Officer Osenwald.”
“Is that all you can remember?”
“No, it seems like there was something else…something..oh, I thought I heard somebody say something when I was on the stairs. It sounded like ‘sting of the…sting of..” sting of something. I couldn’t make out the last part. Oh, and-and there was some sort of algae covered piece of paper in his pocket. I saw it. The paper was red…”
Part ten: mullings
“Red?” Officer Osenwald breathed as he reviewed the interview tape. Red! Like the threat note on Clavia Lombarre’s table, and like the graffiti painted on her floor…and the algae…like the compound in the blender. It all fit together. But still, it didn’t answer the two important questions: who did it, and what they used to do it.
What was the weapon? Officer Osenwald racked his brains, but came up with nothing.
And as to the attacker? How many white men in Weston were five foot five and had grey eyes? More than one would think. But the red paper and paint…no, that would do no good. The analysis told that the paper had been purchased at a printer’s, a local operation, which supplied almost a thousand businesses. They had stopped making that particular paper almost a decade before, and the list of clients from then had been misplaced. So much for that. But the algae…no, nothing was discernable there.
What was there left to go on? The genetic traces and fingerprints had been erased when Sharon swabbed her home with alcohol. Normally, someone who did that would be charged for destruction of evidence. But in this case, Sharon had been forcibly held, and threatened with her life if she didn’t do so. No, she was also victim.
But then the phrase sting of the-played over and over in Osenwald’s mind. Sting of the bee? Sting of the wasp? Sting of the ray? Sting of the jellyfish? None of them sounded right. Sting of the….who cared, and what did it matter? This was probably hallucination, and even if the biology student had really heard it, it hardly qualified as a clue. Even if it was, what use was it of? The woman had been shocked, not stung. It was perfectly irrelevant.
Osenwald sighed and dialed Ms. Taylor’s phone number. He needed to talk to her. About the last person she’d seen leaving Clavia’s house.
Their conversation revealed that she had done a bit of research and discovered that the vehicle she saw leaving Clavia’s property on Saturday had been a work truck for Sammy’s odd jobs, an unincorporated business located in Weston, owned by Dare Cullings.
Osenwald decided he’d pay Dare a visit.
Part eleven: 5595 Pinnacle Street
The detective rapped on the door with his knuckles, sighing impatiently.
The red pickup was parked in the yard, signifying the resident’s presence. The question was when the man would answer the door. This was exasperating. The light in the front room was on, and Osenwald had been standing on the stoop for several minutes already. He gave the door one last whack, when the knob turned and a face appeared in the frame. A man in his mid twenties with dark brown hair answered.
“Hello, Mr. Culling. How are you doing tonight?” Osenwald tried to sound pleasant, but the annoyance of his wait had its effect on his voice.
“Fine, thankyou, officer. Might I ask why you are present?”
“I would like to ask you a few questions about your contact with Clavia Lombarre.”
“Fine. Come in and sit down.” Dare pointed to the sofa.
“How long did you know her?”
“I fixed her dishwasher on the seventh of this month,” the man replied evenly.
“Okay, but did she say anything unusual?”
“Well, she said it was ironic, she didn’t like doing dishes, but she studies knife fish. I thought that was a little interesting, as I myself have researched the creatures.”
“Yes, but did she mention anything odd, about a person, or act like she was afraid of you?”
“Certainly not. She was quite chatty, laid back. A very intelligent woman.”
Then a timer beeped, and Dare scrambled upright, muttering something about a steak he was cooking. As he rushed away, a hatbox clattered to the floor, its contents spilling onto the carpet…
“Mr. Culling!” detective Osenwald shouted above the din of the timer. Then he looked down at the box, and began to pick up its contents. Then he stopped short. A lockpicking kit, complete with files and sets of skeleton keys. And that was not all. A paintbrush lay on the floor along with a scrap of paper. There, on the paper was a phrase that Osenwald instantly recognized, sending chills down his spine:
Sting of the serpent.
“Mr. Culling,” Osenwald called again.
The young man rounded the corner, his meal in hand, then he stopped short frowning.
“I thought officers needed a warrant from a magistrate to search a citizen’s property.” Dare’s voice was layered in cold steel.
“Mr. Cullings, what is this?” Osenwald brandished the hatbox’s contents.
“Those? The skeleton keys? That’s what this is about? I need them to unlock people’s houses and stuff. Odd jobbers get calls for lockpicking too, such as just yesterday, I got a teenager’s keys out of his locked car.”
“No, Dare, I was referring to this.”
The young man’s eyes probed the paper. “Oh that. That’s the title of a novel I‘ve been meaning to return to the library.”
“Really, Culling, why then is it in your box of work equipment. And what on earth is this?”
Now Dare blinked at the wig, and stated nonchalantly. “I’ve been meaning to give that to my cousin who has cancer, chemo making her hair fall out and all.”
“Really, Mr. Culling, really? Because it has dark hair in it, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been wearing it yourself lately.”
“I didn’t…” Dare now began to falter, stepping back a couple of strides. Then he tossed his steak plate aside, brandishing the knife from it. “I didn’t commit any crime, now leave before I have to make you!”
“Mr. Culling! Unhand your weapon!” Osenwald shouted.
“No! I’m innocent! You don’t have a warrant, and I’m defending my property!”
Detective Osenwald was unfazed, and drew what looked like a flashlight from his belt loop, shining it full into the young man’s face. The beams were a luminescent yellow-green, like lasers.
Dare stumbled, dropping the knife, groping around for something.
He was blinded by the light, a trick Osenwald preferred to tasers and certainly to guns.
When the man fell forwards, Osenwald shot forwards, already opening the handcuffs he wore on his belt. “You are now under arrest for threatening a police officer’s life with a deadly weapon. Anything you say may be used against you in the court of law.”
The man’s wrists were soon in the cuffs and Osenwald pulled him out the front door into his patrol car. The man didn’t even struggle, for he was blind, unable to maneuver himself. Once in the cruiser, Osenwald radioed headquarters. “Please send a squad to investigate the residence and set up a perimeter. The man Dare Culling threatened me with a knife, and I was forced to arrest him. I believe he is connected to the attack on Clavia Lombarre. I repeat please send a squad.”
When they arrived at headquarters, there were two officers waiting, ready to escort Dare into the building. The police chief came to Osenwald’s desk as he sat down, and told him, “Fine work, detective. You believe this is connected to the Lombarre case, am I correct?”
“Yes sir, I have sufficient evidence. According to witnesses, there was a pale haired man with grey eyes on the scenes of the crimes. A short man with heavy muscles.”
“Frank, he doesn’t fit that description. I believe you when you tell me why you arrested him, but this connection, I’m not so sure about.”
“He is. I found a wig in his home, a pale blond one that fitted the description of a visitor that a neighbor gave me, and lockpicking tools, along with which I also spotted burglary tools. Also, perhaps most significantly, there was a piece of paper with the phrase
Sting of the serpent written on it. If you don’t recall, Sharon Morris heard someone say ‘sting of the..’ before the man held her at knifepoint. Serpent finishes the phrase. Aside from that, this man was the last person known to see Clavia Lombarre before she collapsed. I have these reasons in mind when I tell you about the connections between these two incidents. I hope that physical evidence will be available, and perhaps even a confession. However, for now, I believe the best thing we can do is have Sharon Morris look at this man to confirm whether or not he was her attacker.”
“That’s a good idea, go through on it.” The chief of police said and left the detective’s office.
Part twelve: confirmation
“Yes, oh my gosh. It’s him! You got him!” Sharon made no attempt to hold back her emotion.
“Thankyou, Miss Morris.” Osenwald’s patience was at the moment, wafer thin.
He had an eyewitness confirmation. To being held hostage and for breaking and entering. But who would believe that much? Only eyewitnesses. No physical evidence. Yet. By then, it was the next day, and a warrant had been obtained.
When searching the Dare Culling’s house, the detectives had expected to find numerous weapons. Upon the contrary, they found little more than personal effects and yard tools. And the most unusual thing: a very ugly, two foot long pet eel. The only things that connected him to Clavia’s collapse was the wig, and the paper scrap. The innocuous at first glance lock picking kit turned out to house burglary tools as well. A chemical analysis of the paper and paint of the threats matched those of remnants found in Dare’s house.
Something that he’d be charged for. And the eel, well, the officers just had a laugh over that. All the officers but Osenwald. He was perturbed, for the young man was despondent, sulking in his cell all day. They tried every legal interrogation method. He didn’t crack even under the strain of their tirades about how much they knew about his plot. Nothing seemed to be working. The phrase “sting of the serpent” became a horrifying and obnoxious riddle, which Frank Osenwald swore he’d solve.
Then, it hit him. Like a load of bricks…no, even more surprising. Like being struck by lightining from a blue sky. Shocked. Of course! The eel, oh, the eel. Clavia studied electricus electrophus, the electric eel, according to multiple sources. And a biologist from the local university identified Dare Culling’s “pet” as such. An electric eel.
I t was so staggeringly simple. Dare must have slipped his “pet” into Clavia’s dishwater. Speaking to her biology students revealed that the eels were capable of surviving in muddy, contaminated and very low oxygenated waters of the Amazon. Surely one could live in her sink for a few hours. That explained everything.
As soon as Osenwald realized this possibility, he leapt from his office chair, fairly sprinting to the cell where Dare sat, still sulking. It was five days prior to his arrest.
He couldn’t pay the bond, and he didn’t want it, he said. Osenwald spoke to the young man through the vent, saying he knew what Dare had done. “You planted an eel in her sink! You planned this. You plotted it out. You fixed her dishwasher, then the next morning you came by, put the eel in the sink, making the water murky so she wouldn’t see it and then once she was shocked, you removed it, washed out the sink, and put the blender in its place. Now she’s next to dead. Dare, all I have to say is why?” Osenwald’s voice was hollow with rage.
“I’ve been waiting for you detectives to catch on. Honestly, you are all so dull. So simple the plot was, I verified her address when I fixed her dishwasher, unlocked the window over her kitchen sink and came back later that night and slipped the eel in.
She took it hook line and sinker. All I had to do was come back and get the eel out at ten o’clock in the morning. And as if its not apparent why I did this?”
“No, it’s not, and if you’ve confessed this far, don’t you spill it about your intent. It may actually help you at your trial.”
“Have you ever seen what she did to those eels? Have you seen? She skinned them alive, trying to harness their power, trying to develop this new, safer kind of taser, trying to torture them!”
“And now you’re about to admit that you’re vegan,” mumbled Osenwald, shocked at the inductee’s excuse for his actions.
“No, I am not! And I am not guilty of murder or even attempted murder or of assaulting anyone!”
“Young man, you have a lot to learn,” Osenwald mumbled, scowling.
seven months later:
The doctors at Weston medical Center were ready to try anything at all to save Clavia. In her living will, she had stated that if she were somehow incapacitated, that she would consent to experimental treatment if it was all that was left. This, the doctors believed, was what she needed.
The process was approved by the necessary boards, but they desperately needed human test subjects. This was one of the few people whom had garaunteed their consent. Thus, the practice was put into action.
A brain surgery, called Deep Brain Stimulation was her only hope of every awakening.
A team of neurosurgeons did scans of her brain, and in a six hour operation, drilled a hole in her skull, implanting thin wires deep in her brain. They ran the wires down her neck, under the skin, and attached a pacemaker to the electrodes.
After a week of healing, the pacemaker was activated, via remote control. The little contraption contained a low-power battery, which sent high-frequency pulses of electricity up the wires and into Clavia’s brain. This was a standard treatment for Parkinson’s patients, but it had only been used for a handful of coma patients.
Three days after the pacemaker had been turned on, a neurologist entered the ICU, ready to see if Clavia was brain-dead.
The doctor and her assistant clapped loudly in the air over Clavia’s head. No sign of life.
Not so much as a jerk of the muscles. They lifted he arm in the air, then dropped it back to the mattress. She didn’t open her eyes, make a sound. An eye dropper full of ice water was injected in her ear. Nothing happened. She checked the patient’s relfexes, noticing that her leg jumped, thumping on the matress when her knee was struck. This was a significant improvement on the coma scale. But the question was, was she really awake?
Then, when the nurse turned away moments later to take her temperature, she stopped short, dropping the thermometer.
“Look!”
The doctor spun around, and stared, shocked, for Clavia was opening her eyes, blinking; welcoming the blinding light after seven months of darkness.
