An Eye for Murder.
Dr. Lockhart sat in the darkened office and watched his wife. Tall and elegant, expensively but tastefully dressed, she drew eyes and started thoughts in men’s minds. Just as she had in his, when they first met. Still the best day of his life, as far as he was concerned. A handsome man himself, the top ophthalmologist in his field, he was considered prey, married or not. Countless women completely disregarded his wedding ring and flirted with him openly. He was charming and engaging, no fault of his, how could he be otherwise? He worked hard to always be the Doctor, rarely the man. It was harder with staff, closer in every way. A daily challenge for him, in his busy, thriving practise. Like walking a tightrope, from the minute he walked in the door until, at last, he was alone at the end of the day and could afford to be himself. Review his day sheets, shut the infernal office music off and play some Lionel Ritchie, watch the day’s security footage.
On Fridays he went down to the building’s security center, greeting the officer on duty with a hearty, loaded handshake. He and Arthur were old friends, he brought a bottle of mead for him and forced himself to drink a glass. Little touches were important, and he never forgot them. Arthur took the rest of the bottle to the glorious rooftop garden that Dr. Lockhart had funded and made available to the public. An expensive detail that reaped him the goodwill of perfect strangers and the smirks of older colleagues in Mercedes with young women. Ah, let the world be what it is, he thought. A creed he held firmly to, until he saw his wife walking across the lobby towards the elevators for the third Friday night in a row.
It was the same sucker punch to the gut. Looking away for a moment, then looking back hoping it was someone else, but it was her, every gorgeous inch of her. His blood rose hot and swept through his mind like a primal wind. He switched his view to her elevator and watched her hit 6, as she had the last times. He watched her pull out a mirror and lipstick and turn herself into the sultry beauty that was his and his alone.
He clenched the chair and willed his heartbeat to slow, he willed himself back into Dr. Lockhart, a dedicated doctor with a problem to solve. He knew where she was going, the 6th floor was strictly accountants, their own was a respected, respectful, mild little man. Hard to imagine she would lush herself up for something like him. It had to be someone else, a horde of eager young accountants, lost in the slow quicksand of their world, it could be all of them. He cursed the gross wealth that enabled them to have their own inhouse security, once she entered the doors, she was lost to him.
Friday night at 7:00, the Professional building long since closed and emptied. The halls haunted by the ubiquitous cleaning crew, kept sweetened by him so the rooms he passed through would be clean. The building was well tended, like everything in his careful, ordered life. He sat in the light of trespass, glowing from a dozen screens, and thought about what his wife could be doing with their accountant.
He cursed his own gross wealth which wasn’t enough to buy him access to 6th floor security footage. He cursed the man who could not be bought, knowing that he himself was such a man. He cursed everything about himself that restrained him from going up there and ripping them apart with his bare hands, then thrashing the man who dared to touch his wife, his life and his mind. Forever become something that mattered to him. How dare he? Keeper of a thousand secrets, liar of exquisite finesse, lover of who knows how many? Living and loving well beyond his means, somehow. Accountant. Close to a crawler, thief, rank profaner of all that was lovely and forbidden to something like him. Miles F. Drummond. Name to hate. Name to spin curses for, in any dark moment. Wish him a thousand ills. Wish him dead.
***
Sonya Lockhart stared at the mincing little man before her. If indeed he was a man, which she doubted since he remained impervious to her beauty and that was ridiculous, laughable and quite humiliating. She closed her eyes and thought of her husband Blake. A different kind of man entirely, if he had the slightest idea that something threatened her, he would save her, destroy the threat and let her feel secure again. So wonderful, so good to her, she lacked for nothing, truly, but she considered the man he was to be her prize.
She knew the kind of temptations he faced; the way women reacted to him. It didn’t concern her, she knew how locked he was to her, as she was to him. It had been that way from the beginning, no, she had no doubts of him, as he had none of her, of that, she was sure. So, she had tried to not to worry when he started working late on Fridays, she tried not to imagine him with a lab tech, or receptionist, all of them were beautiful. Sirena, his assistant, especially so, working closely with him, and him smelling so good. No. Sirena was recently married, her husband picked her up every day still wearing the glazed eye of the newlywed. Who else then?
She heard the accountant say the name Sirena, and she sat up, alert now and ready to listen to Mr. M.F. Drummer, sensing a weak spot. She smiled the gentle, empathetic smile reserved for firing bold and unruly personnel. She focused the jewels of her eyes on his and paid attention. He faltered off, startled and wary, but she encouraged him to repeat the last ten minutes of dialogue- entirely one sided- verbatim. He crawled his way through it again which is how she understood what he wanted, and it had nothing to do with her, or money. Mr. Drumlet was, in fact, in love with her husband’s assistant. At that point she stopped listening, understanding at once what he needed, knowing how impossible it was. She thought of the numbers… The debts slowly being lost in the mists of his making. His magical way with figures, so that a $3000 dress became a $900 dress, a casino debt somehow vanished into thin air.
Small, weedy, painfully shy genius, a mind like a machine, a heart made of simple clay, once fired it lasts forever. Ah, she understood this man finally. Yes, of course she would help him win his heart’s desire, but surely, he knew that Sirena was newly wed and quite content to all appearances. He looked back at her in silence for a long time, his eyes steady and relentless, in them Sirena’s marriage was a trifle, her heart already his.
He said simply, “I need a reason to see her, a reason to have contact with her. You must know enough about eyes to guide me through some sort of affliction that’s unpredictable and can’t be fully diagnosed. Or dealt with. A reason to make the appointment and then keep going back. That’s all I need from you, access. Plausibility.”
She looked down at her nails, uselessly scarlet and perfect, as always. She thought of her latest indulgence, $10,000 pearls, beautifully matched and icily indifferent to her lack of accessible funds. How she loved them, they weighed in her purse like hidden treasure. Snug in their velvet bag, they would only come out if she was alone, when they pressed down on her slender neck deliciously. Hidden, unholy, glistening things. Like secrets. Blake had his, she had hers.
The man before her, she read his name plate, Mr. Miles F. Drummond, had many, no doubt. What was he after all but that most dangerous of snakes, the keeper of men’s souls? The casual handler of their net worth, the silent judge. The savior, or not, at his will. She smiled at him, pleased to have some kind of leverage at last. “While I can’t, in good conscience, assist in any endeavour which could contribute to the destruction of any marriage. It’s against my principles, you understand.”
She leaned in close to him, watching his pupils dilate and his breath quicken. She whispered.
“I can suggest to you that your life among the books and computers has clearly irritated your eyes, they’re extremely dry, I can see it from here. Anything beyond that is beyond me. My husband has people for that, you would need a referral to see him, and Sirena.”
She dropped the name like silk and felt the power it gave her over him, like a charm. She bit her bottom lip and tilted her head, smiling with her eyes, easiest thing to fake. “But he will see you if I ask him to, I’ll make you an appointment with him.” She rose to her feet, her long limbs unfolding like a bloom.
At the door she turned and asked. “Why do you think you can win her from her husband? Why didn’t you try for her before she married?
He didn’t smile, something he seemed incapable of, like all his kind. He looked out at her from his eyes, so relentlessly certain, admitting of no other possibility, he frightened her for a moment, suddenly seeing what she had been dealing with. She was pleased to let the question go and shut the door behind her.
***
Miles Franklin Drummond took a bottle and tissue out of his desk and spent five minutes wiping clean all the surfaces she might have touched. When he was sure no trace of her remained, he rolled the tissues in a tight ball and threw them out. He opened the door to his inner office, three cats swept arrogantly against his leg as they were freed, claimed his chair and window ledge and gave voice to their grievances.
He locked the door, returned to his desk, pulled out a huge hand-rolled joint, from a box full of the same, lit it, picked up a cat and leaned back in his chair. Sonic purred in his lap like a promise. He used his remote and soon Metallica was grinding him where he needed to be ground. He could think dispassionately of the doctor’s wife. Sonya, name for a cream fed cat, with claws and no real heart. Not his kind of cat. No man could deny that she was beautiful, she knew it and maximized it, a trait he could respect in her. No weapon should be disregarded in the pursuit of one’s dreams. Her perfume lingered, even through the cloud of smoke he made. It disturbed him and he couldn’t pinpoint why.
He thought of her face, her long, perfect legs, a discreet tattoo where she thought it couldn’t be seen. Her pale, soft hands, like a mother’s until you saw that the claws were real. Sonic pushed his nose into his face, it was cocktail time. Three martini glasses, Bacardi Gold, three sardines, one olive. He mixed himself a vodka greens, returned to his chair and thought about her. He knew why her perfume disturbed him, he liked it, it was faint, subtle and mildly arousing. Utterly at odds with everything else about her. He knew his client would buy her whatever she wished, forgive her anything. He knew his client was in a position to do so indefinitely, in such a position in fact, that it became impossible to keep his eye on everything, and his lovely wife’s little extravagances could literally go unnoticed. As they had for years, as they always would, but he was not about to tell her that. Let her think she was in danger of being found out, let her think her husband had less than he had. It was useful to cultivate such little precautions, he had an excellent memory, knowledge was always valuable.
In this case it allowed him to find a way to something he wanted, something very rare, it was the only thing he wanted. Nothing else. He could have walked away from his job, his pitiful apartment, his state-of-the-art gaming systems, his mother and his cats. No, not his cats. But literally all he wanted was one thing, how many could say that? How many would be happy with one thing only? In a species that defined itself by consumption, may the gods bless them for that, where would you find any person who could limit himself? He was such a man. Soon he would see the good doctor, he would be sitting in a chair that sacred hands had wiped clean, the door would open, and she would come in. His assistant, and she would smile and go to the computer, and ask him questions…
He would answer reasonably, nothing funny, he was always a serious man, born with a poker face that never left him. Others found this unnerving, he knew, but it mattered little to him what they thought, for the most part he ignored them. Would he frighten her simply by being himself? Impossible. The universe would intervene, his was an unusual case. The important thing was that she would be forced to look into his eyes. They were where he lived, he was most eloquent without speaking. She would see what she meant to him there. It was like a secret that she would come across, unexpectedly, when she looked into them. She would find his naked soul there, she would see him, chained to her in the most permanent way. How could she deny him? The more he smoked, the longer he was left alone with his cats, the darker the night became for him. He was comfortable there, letting edges blur, and twisted things grew rampant in him.
***
Dr. Lockhart sat in the office’s fractured darkness, long after Sonya had left the building. When Arthur came back from his break he was sent away again with a few fine cigars. The screens danced in front of him, but he was busy reliving the last years of his life. He didn’t see his wife re-enter the building, go to the third floor and stand in the dimly lit lobby of his clinic for a long moment. He didn’t see her turn her face so the cameras wouldn’t catch her clearly, make her way to his office and schedule an appointment for their accountant. Not until much later, when he watched the house footage on his laptop, while she slept beside him. Bon Bon, her shitzu-yorkipoo looking up at him with silent outrage, sensing disloyalty being born but not able to account for it or punish it.
His wife lay curled under the blanket, with her feet tucked under his leg, lightly and easily asleep. Somehow her faithlessness drove him to not have faith in her, for the first time. He suffered more than he thought possible, he struggled for breath, for reason, for sanity. He struggled to believe something else, when he already believed the worst. At some point in the night, he rose and moved to the guestroom. Sonya felt his absence and wept quietly in the dark.
And just like that, things started to fall apart for them. They learned new languages, reproach, suspicion, jealousy and silent deceit. They learned how to make love without being present, how to smile and mean it without the slightest idea of it ever meaning anything again. They swam in solitary despair, close enough to touch but worlds apart. He worked like a robot, filling his hours, working late, then stepping out of the office into the nothing of his life. Home at midnight, professional politeness in a very private place, hours awake in the long night, feeling his world spin around him. Out of his control.
***
The doctor treated his new patient, looking in his eyes and seeing nothing but the expected, given the man’s profession. Looking deep into the eyes of an enemy, trying to see evidence of something strong enough to hold his wife, somehow. Trying to forget such unprofessional musings. Wishing he could laser him right out of existence, tell him he has cataracts and accidentally remove his head. Wanting this to be a story of some kind, so it could happen. The doctor regretted many things at this bitter juncture in his life. He was an unhappy man. Thoughts of his wife drove him mad, he drove recklessly and gambled foolishly, the man in his chair would find out, then his wife. His wife. Suddenly he hated these eyes, hated them with all the latent fury of a strong man in torment. Something would be done about these eyes.
But not by him. Eyes were sacred to him; he would as soon cut off his own finger as harm a healthy eye. They were his game, his groove, his thing. He quite literally brought sight to the blind. For a living. If he came to think of himself as a god of some kind, who could blame him? Seeing the endless rows of chairs, filled with supplicants willing to wait hours for the privilege of seeing him. For a few moments in his company, as close as any of them would get to something like a god. Who would disagree? How could the universe even object? If he brought himself to believe that he had the power of life and death over others, if he somehow crossed the line, surely it would have shown somehow?
That’s how it would work in a story, traces would be left, mistakes made, but if a man like Blake Lockhart went bad, how would anyone even know? How could anyone imagine him taking sealed bottles of saline and steroids and poisoning someone that way?
Who would ever imagine an assistant hiding such evil in herself? Young, beautiful, happily married, hers the only hands to have touched the bottles that killed him, footage of her breaking the seals is produced. She shows the accountant how to put them in his eyes, he drops them in with a shaky hand. How does such a serpent hide in the bosom of his carefully constructed world? The doctor is devastated, surgeries are cancelled indefinitely, the operatory is torn down, the waiting room enlarged, his wife never leaves his side. Condolences come with business cards, flowers to and from the 6th floor.
Searching Drummond’s office, police find evidence of what they consider a ‘shrine’ to Sirena. Pictures and notes going back for several years, inelegant love poetry, personal items somehow taken from her, traces of a true obsession. This evidence is produced at her trial, she is heartrendingly lovely in white, her lawyer is excellent. She is given a reduced sentence. Drummond, Macintyre and Fyfe become MacIntye/Fyfe, #accountants at large. Or something like it. Fyfe inherits three cats who show his own two how it’s done. Suddenly his life has meaning and purpose, he serves. His world narrows and he edges closer to the dark side.
On the roof the vines in Lockhart’s Garden climb vigorously and give shade to the doctor and his beautiful wife. She lies with her head in his lap, he opens his copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince” and picks up his coffee. Bon Bon lies close, her face to the sun, finding that all is well with the world.