The Collector

“It killed somebody, didn’t it?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Gia said. “Maybe lots of somebodies.”

Gia didn’t bother to try to hide things from Stella. She’d learned a long time ago the futility of that—nor did Stella appreciate her efforts at protecting her. Gia chose instead to try and explain what her daughter saw. But even then, she fell short. Half the time it was Stella who told Gia the meaning behind her art, such was her daughter’s talent.

The painting didn’t show Mimi Tran’s lifeless body. Gia rarely painted death, choosing instead to objectify such things.

Mimi’s symbol was the red eye. It faced the beast, ready to do battle. But the monster proved too powerful. Part of the eye melted down the side of the canvas, the heavy red paint flowing like a river of blood off the edge.

Gia used her paintings to make sense of the images that came to her in dreams. Sometimes it worked, other times she just had macabre works of art to show for her efforts.

“They didn’t believe you, did they?”

“The police? No, darling,” she said. “They didn’t.”

She didn’t ask Stella how she knew about the police. Gia hadn’t told her about her trip to the precinct or the conversation she’d had with the detectives there. Her daughter preferred to pretend her ability was a fluke, or a figment of their imagination. She did the ostrich thing, getting angry whenever her mother pointed out the obvious.

I don’t want to be a freak like you! That’s what she’d screamed the first time her abilities came shining through.

There’d been a time when Gia, too, had said those very words to her own mother.

Stella gave a sigh that sounded much too old for her years. “I don’t know why you even try.”

“Because I was supposed to.”

“Your guides,” Stella said, in the voice of a supreme skeptic.

In the world of psychic phenomena, often times guides from the other side would help a medium make contact. They served almost as an umbilical line to the dead spirits trying to communicate. While many had names, Gia’s own guides chose to remain anonymous.

She bit her lip and stared at the simple business card propped on the easel. Detective Seven Bushard. City of Westminster. Homicide.

She remembered the electric shock of his touch.

She’d felt his sadness like a blow to her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She’d seen his story like a movie in her head. His brother and the man he’d killed. The vision had been dark and murky and without a lot of details, but grisly nonetheless.

From the moment the detective had walked in to that interview, he’d been watching her with an almost hungry stare. Gia knew what it meant to have people want something from her.

You say you had a dream?

That was the other detective. The woman, Erika Cabral. Gia recognized that tone. The freak…the nut job. It only made her smile, because she could clearly see an entity standing next to Erika, shedding a protective white light.

Gia never argued with a disbeliever. Sometimes she wondered if that’s not what she wanted. Don’t believe me. I did my duty. My conscience is clear. If you don’t make use of my knowledge, that’s not my concern.

Only, she couldn’t really say that now. Mimi Tran was different. This time, Gia wasn’t the uninvolved observer.

She might very well be responsible for that woman’s death.

She looked back at the card, remembering Seven Bushard’s words on parting.

“Call if you have another…dream,” he’d told her.

“The man. Is he going to hurt you, Mommy?”

The question came from nowhere, as they often did. Gia always forgot how connected she was to her child.

She’d been thinking about the detective when her daughter asked the question. But Stephen Bushard wasn’t who she feared.

She answered, “No, sweetie.” She kissed her daughter again, giving them both the pabulum. “I’ll be fine. We both will.”

9

The county coroner’s office was located in Santa Ana, a city that touted itself as the financial and political center for Orange County. It was over seventy-five percent Hispanic, originating with a Spanish land grant—seventy acres of which had been purchased from the Yorba family by William H. Spurgeon. Driving up the road from Westminster, Seven was always amazed how quickly the signs changed from Pho 54 to Taqueria.

Seven had grown up in nearby Huntington Beach, graduating from Marina High School. Go Vikings! With Little Saigon so close, the school’s Asian population was double that of the state average.

Even back then, there was this idea that Asian students were ruining the public school system, making it too hard for your red, white and blue American to succeed. How could Patty or Jake compete against someone who lived in the library, for God’s sake, tanking up on Top Ramen and green tea for another all-nighter of studying?

Whenever he heard someone spouting that crap, Seven always asked if maybe Asians were inherently more intelligent? No? So it’s all about good old-fashioned hard work? Well, there you go.

People made choices. They sacrificed. So quit bitching and just compete, right? God knows Ricky, his brother, hadn’t been the hit of the party scene. That had been Seven’s job in life.

Back in high school, Seven managed to get into enough hot water that his mom had threatened military school. It was a kind of periodic thing, like Easter or Christmas. Military school, Seven. I will do it! Once, she’d even taken him to tour a couple of places. Seven smiled at the memory, because the tactic had actually worked. Suddenly, he was passing all his classes.

But Ricky…it was the sweat of his brow that got him a full-ride scholarship to the college of his choice.

Still, Seven had to admit, the county coroner, Alice Wang, was the poster child for the Asians-are-hard-to-beat argument.

Alice was in her early fifties. She wore glasses and styled her hair in a sensible pageboy—Alice wasn’t spending a ton of time in front of the mirror. She had places to go, people to cut open.

Alice had a gift. Best damn medical examiner he’d ever worked with.

Mimi Tran lay on a metal table with paper draped strategically over her lower body—an attempt at dignity sabotaged by the fact that half her insides were on display and a tag hung from her big toe like a Christmas present.

Your average Joe didn’t know that it was the smells you remembered most from your first autopsy: body odors and the scent of half-digested food. Seven figured Alice and her crew must be used to it. Him, he was breathing through his mouth.

Alice Wang stood over the body of Mimi Tran. With the scalpel, she’d made a Y incision, from shoulder to shoulder and down to the lower abdomen. She’d already removed the breastplate using the circular saw waiting with other instruments next to the body, exposing the internal organs, which had all been weighed. The quickest way to know if there was something wrong was through weight.

Now she was in the process of ladling the stomach contents into a plastic container, like soup. She used tweezers to examine the particulate matter.

Apparently, Mimi Tran had had a light lunch before dying.

“Jellyfish,” Alice said, holding up a rubbery string with the tweezers.

“Not the sort of thing you keep in the fridge from the local deli?” Seven asked.

“I’m guessing not this time,” Alice said, pulling up a small, brown lump with her magic tweezers. “Escargot.”

“Jellyfish and snails?” Erika made a face. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“This from a woman who has no doubt tickled her palate with the likes of calves’ brains and cow tongue?” Alice asked, making Seven wonder how many stomach contents from the local taqueria Alice had examined.

“Calves’ brains.” Erika stuck out her tongue in disgust. “Mi abuelita made me eat them. But now tongue isn’t half-bad when it’s prepared right.”

“Well, the Vietnamese love their French food,” Alice said. “You’d be surprised how many Vietnamese view the hundred-year French occupation with fondness. Go to any expensive Little Saigon restaurant or club and you’re going to hear French music or see pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe hanging on the walls. Ever been to La Veranda?”

Seven had heard of the place. It had the reputation of being one of the best restaurants in Little Saigon. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Marble pillars, sparkling fountains…looks like a plantation right out of the colonial past. They serve escargot and frog legs right alongside pickled daikon, nuoc mam and rice paper. But I think what the victim ate was less traditionally prepared, a more innovative kind of fusion.”

“Who knew you were such a foodie, Alice?”

“Everette and I have been members of the same gourmet club for years.”

Seven tried to imagine. Maybe if you studied enough stomach contents, food became a hobby.

“Three hours after eating, ninety-five percent of your stomach contents will end up in the small intestine,” Alice continued. “The process stops at the time of death. Given what I’m seeing here—” she nodded toward the plastic container “—I’d say a power lunch at some chi-chi restaurant just before she died. I’d look for something high-end. That was a real nice St. John she had on.”

“Ah, come on, Alice,” Erika said. “We know you have a closetful of those. Isn’t Everette an anesthesiologist?”

“With three kids to put through college,” Alice reminded her. Then, looking thoughtful, she added, “The victim was a psychic?”

“Well-known, from what people in the area say,” Seven stated.

Alice nodded. “Not that it’s relevant to the cause of death, but I found some unique cell damage in the prefrontal cortex of her brain.”

“You want to dumb that down for my partner, Alice?” Erika said, managing to keep a straight face.

“The prefrontal cortex, that’s the area just behind your forehead. It has the ability to control activity in other parts of the brain. Think of it as a kind of volume-control switch. When I examined the victim’s brain, I saw significant atrophy in the prefrontal cortex. The tissue samples I looked at under the microscope showed axonal damage.”

“English, Alice,” Erika reminded her. “English.”

“Cell damage, necrosis. The victim’s brain had an old injury.”

Seven frowned. “Not that I believe in this stuff, but are you saying she was damaged goods? That she couldn’t have psychic ability because her brain was messed up?”

Alice shook her head. “Quite the opposite. I’m saying our victim might have thought she was psychic because of the damage to her brain. There are studies that show religious beliefs reside in the temporal lobes, the part of the brain near your ears. When a temporal lobe is stimulated, the person can experience a presence associated with God or a spirit, depending on their personal beliefs. Some researchers in the area claim that humans are programmed for spiritual experiences.”

“But in our victim, you said it was the prefrontal cortex that was damaged, not the temporal lobe,” Erika said, confused.

“Exactly,” Alice declared, as if she’d just made her point. “The part that controls activity in the temporal lobe was damaged. It’s a leap, but I wonder, what if the injury in your victim’s brain caused the temporal lobe to become excited, giving her what she thought were psychic experiences?” When Erika and Seven stood in confused silence, Alice added, “There’s a condition called temporal lobe epilepsy. The seizures stimulate the temporal lobe.”

“The part that experiences religion?” Seven asked.

“Correct. During a seizure, the patient experiences smells and sees things that aren’t there—they hallucinate. She was a psychic, right? I wonder if the damage to her brain caused the temporal lobes to become excited, just like those of an epileptic. Your victim could very well believe she was having a psychic occurrence, when in fact she was having seizures.”

Erika looked at Seven. Neither knew what to make of the new information.

“But again, I digress,” Alice said. “You’ll be more interested in the cause of death.”

“That seems pretty obvious,” Erika said.

Alice smiled. Not something you saw every day, the coroner smiling.

“So you would think—the cause of death, exsanguinations. But that’s where it gets interesting.”

Alice leaned over the body, motioning the detectives closer. Like any good M.E., Alice didn’t have any problem with the dead.

She lifted the torso. “Here, she was stabbed from behind. Probably while she was running away, given the angle.” She let the corpse settle back on the table, and glanced up. “We know from the defensive wounds on her hands that she tried to fight off her attacker. And the eyes, they were removed cleanly, using something very sharp. Have you found the murder weapon?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s a seven-inch blade. Very sharp. I’m thinking one of those Japanese chef’s knives.”

“Weapon of opportunity?” Seven asked. “We’ll check the kitchen to see if anything is missing.”

“I prefer the Santoku myself,” Alice said. “Those things are a dream for mincing and dicing.”

Again, Seven held off a shudder, trying not to think about the coroner preparing food items. He glanced back at the Y incision, imagining Alice with a chef’s knife instead of her scalpel.

“And here—” she pointed to the next wound, at the victim’s side “—here the knife didn’t penetrate as deeply. She managed to get away. But this one?” She pointed to the heart. “That would have been fatal.”

“Would have?” Erika asked. “She looks pretty dead to me, Alice.”

“Not the point. She didn’t die from her wounds.”

Erika glanced at Seven, both remembering the words of the psychic, Gia Moon. She didn’t die the way you think.

Again, Alice flashed that elusive smile. “Along with the damage to the brain, your victim had a heart condition. Probably undiagnosed. Happens a lot with women. She had a ninety percent occlusion to the left coronary artery, the main pump to the heart,” Alice explained. “For someone like that, if the heart starts beating faster, the blood flow is insufficient to feed the muscle. Basically, her heart stopped before she could bleed out.”

Alice looked up at both detectives. “She had a heart attack. Given the circumstances, I’d say something scared your victim to death.”

In the parking lot, Erika was carrying on like a hamster in distress.

“It’s bullshit, Seven, and you know it. ‘She didn’t die the way you think,’” she said, repeating Gia Moon’s prediction. “If she didn’t do it, Gia Moon knows who did—and not because she had some woo-woo vision, like she wants us to believe. You ask me? She’s looking awfully good for the murder.”

“You don’t think you’re jumping the gun just a little here, Erika? What do we really have on this psychic?”

Erika crossed her arms and gave him that look—right between the eyes.

“Of course.” She slapped her palm to her forehead as if to say, What was I thinking? “She’s just a really good guesser. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong—”

“And that name, Gia Moon. Come on! Sounds like a freaking X-Files episode.”

“I admit the name is a little too cute.”

“Cute? Did you know Gaia is one of several names used for the Earth Goddess?”

“Okay, sure. But—”

“Gia Moon. Earth—moon. She freaking made it up.”

“So I have a cousin who her changed her name to Comedy, for God’s sake. Jesus, Erika. She’s a psychic. Maybe that’s what they do. Become Madam Zelda or Sunshine. She came down to the station. Why would she do that if she’s involved?” he asked. “She wants to get caught?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe she needs the attention? Or suffers from a guilty conscience? Only she tries to cover up with her hocus-pocus crap.”

“Hocus-pocus crap?” He grabbed his partner’s wrist, showing the gold bracelet with its jet stone. “Sounds kind of harsh coming from a woman who carries an ass-your-watch-it.”

“Azabache,” she corrected, talking about the amulet. “And it was a gift.” She twisted her hand away. “It’s just a silly superstition. This chick wants us to believe she’s in touch with the powers-that-be. That some demon killed Mimi Tran and now she’s next.”

Erika stepped right up to him. It still surprised him how someone five foot two could look so intimidating. But Erika had it going on, the stance—the stare.

“Are you tell me that you’re buying her story?”

“You know how this goes down, Erika. Once you start believing you know who the perp is, that’s when the righteous work stops. You lead the evidence rather than letting the evidence lead you. So maybe I’m not ready to slap on the cuffs just yet.”

He started toward the car, forcing her to do the same.

Truth be told, he didn’t know what to make of Gia Moon. At first, sure, he’d chalked her up as another nutcase. It happened all the time at the station. A provocative case such as the Tran murder brought out the crazies like a full moon.

But what his partner said was true. The stone in the bird’s mouth, the fact that she knew it changed color, the painting in the foyer. And now, the cause of death. She didn’t die like you think…It was a little close to the mark.

Walking to the vehicle, he could still see Gia clearly in his head. He had a good memory for things like that, but this was different. He pictured her eyes, so blue in contrast to her sleek black hair. How alluring she looked in just a plain T-shirt and jeans. During the interview, she’d seemed almost resigned to the fact that no one would believe her. She was doing her duty, coming forward like a good psychic citizen…knowing all along she’d be ridiculed. He remembered how badly he’d wanted to tell her she was wrong, that no matter what, he’d give her a fair shot.

He opened the car door and sat down on the hot passenger seat, waiting for Erika to start the engine. He just couldn’t imagine Gia involved in the bloodbath he’d seen…and maybe not for the reasons he’d given Erika.

Because Seven had another reaction to Gia Moon. One he hoped his partner hadn’t tuned in to with her Latina sixth sense.

He told himself he was vulnerable. Hell, the last few months, he didn’t know where his head was at—that night with Erika being a prime example of his lack of judgment.

And that call from his ex, Laurin. The breakup of his marriage hadn’t exactly been a high point. Talking to Laurin only reminded him of past mistakes. Big ones.

He hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t noticed the changes in Laurin. And maybe that’s why she left. He’d made her feel invisible, when another man made her feel loved.

She’d left a note: I don’t love you anymore, Seven.

Short and sweet.

Maybe that’s when he’d felt the big slap across the face. That call from Laurin about her shiny new life. And here he was, stuck in a spot where time stood still, because his brother had changed the rules.

Bad guy—good guy. Seven couldn’t tell anymore.

“Look, the case is bizarre enough,” he told his partner as they made their way down Bolsa Avenue. “Let’s just play this one straight, okay? Cross our t’s and dot our i’s.”

“Oh, sure. Sit around and wait for a suspect to fall into our laps? Or, God forbid, wait for someone else to die.” She kept her eyes on the road. “Come on, you haven’t thought about it? The whole serial killer scenario?”

Like his partner, he stared straight ahead, watching Little Saigon pass in a wash of color. Red-tiled roofs, Vietnamese signs, painted shop windows in strip malls advertising supermarkets, nail salons and gift stores. A rice rocket—a Honda Civic tricked up with fancy spoiler and audio equipment—cruised past.

A serial killer. Of course he’d thought about it. Everything about the death of Mimi Tran evoked the possibility of a twisted mind.

“I’m betting our little Miss Moon knows more than she’s letting on,” Erika said. “Like that stuff about checking private collections and museums. She gave me an idea.”

“Museums?” He shook his head. “I’m moving around the rabbit ears, Erika, but I’m still not getting any reception.”

“Meaning,” she said, “we need to do a little research. You in for a drive, partner?”

This, as she flipped on the turn signal and headed for the on-ramp for the 22 Freeway.

He was thinking, Like I have a choice?

He said, “Lead on, Drummer.”

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