The Collector

“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—”