The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye

I just thought I'd post the story I serialised last week in one post.  Hope you enjoy it.

The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye

by Annie Bell

“Aye Aye! What's going on 'ere then?” Inspector Bailey's voice boomed into the waiting room. Completely inappropriate, in the circumstances. As he took in the scene, he began to wish the ground would open up and swallow him.

When Jones had called him, at the station, to say there had been an 'unfortunate incident' in the local doctor's surgery, involving a glass eye, he couldn't prevent his inner comedian from dancing the foxtrot in the darkest recesses of his mind. Thus, he had wandered, unbidden, into the worst social faux pas of his career to date.

Before him, was a scene of absolute horror. Two elderly ladies sat on one side of the room, clutching their handbags with both hands – hands, which he noticed, were much shakier than you would expect – even from the elderly. As he made the observation, Bailey made a mental note to put his name down for that course he had seen advertised back at the station – 'Banishing your prejudice – open minded policing for a more peaceful community.”

Again, that evil, foxtrotting comedian reared his waxy moustached head. “Imagine a version of the London riots,” he leered, “where pensioners tore round the city, burning things because of some terrible police related injustice – probably involving tea and biscuits.” Bailey shut him out, focusing on the task at hand; two old ladies shaking, their eyes focused glassily on the centre of the room, where a pool of blood was slowly congealing, forming a sticky crust on the parquet flooring. In the pool, lay a man – or at least, he used to be – slim build; might have been six feet tall, had it not been for the unfortunate absence of his head. His sharp pinstripe suit was a write off; his glossy shoes – redeemable.

“Bailey!” He yelled at himself. “Never mind the suit or the shoes. Where the Hell is the man's head?”

Looking around him, the answer was obvious. It was sprayed all over the wall adjacent to the old ladies – and all over a poor teenager and a little boy seated in front of the wall. Their silhouettes formed white figures within the fine spatter marks. It looked like a graffiti artist had spray painted the man's brains onto the wall. Both youngsters stared vacantly at the headless corpse, their jaws hanging open in disbelief. This was going to cost psychiatric a lot.

At that moment, Jones walked in, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

“Ah, Bailey,” he beamed. “What do you make of all this?”

Bailey paused a moment. “Different.”

“Just had a chat with the receptionist,” Jones revealed. “She's a hottie and the only witness who's not catatonic. Did you know she met one of the men from her little black book at the weekend? Apparently, she was on a spa weekend and he just walked in with his big ...”

“The case, Jones!” Bailey snapped.

“Right. Sorry. She reckons it was the weirdest thing. This guy – the headless horseman over there – walks in, demanding to see a doctor. He's not a patient here so she pesters him for his details and he just shouts at her – all aggressive like – and demands to see a doctor. She notices he has a glass eye which has a light blinking in it. He screams this bloodcurdling scream and his head explodes – just like them fembot things in Austin Powers, only ...” Jones indicated the carnage behind him, “bit messier.”

Bailey was incredulous. “You telling me his glass eye blew his head off?”

“Cool huh!” Jones loved a gruesome crime scene.

“Hmm...” Bailey grunted. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and tugged them onto his hands, satisfaction filling him as the flexible material snapped against his skin. He examined the reception desk and noticed a small, circular object. Pulling a pair of tweezers from his inside pocket, he picked it up and dropped it into a transparent evidence bag. He glanced at it. It glanced back. Bailey jumped. It was a hazel iris with a minute circuit board on the reverse side. “Jones!” Bailey yelled. “I've found the detonator!”

A few minutes later, uniform and forensics arrived on the scene, taking statements and details from all five witnesses, before allowing each to go home.

Suddenly, one of the forensics team handed Jones a wallet.

“Found it in his pocket,” the young man proclaimed as though he expected a medal or something. Bailey sniggered to himself. Bloody newbies and their damned enthusiasm. They'd learn.

Jones thanked the young officer and examined the wallet, which contained a driving license with an address in London and a receipt from a B & B down the road. The man's name, it seemed, was Victor Cyclops. Bailey's inner comedian sniggered and twirled his moustache. Bailey kicked him aside. It was a starting point, at least.

Leaving forensics to work their magic, Bailey and Jones left. It was a relief to be out in the fresh air, even if the ominous sky was pregnant with rain.

Once comfortably installed in Jones' BMW, they drove the short distance to Castle House - the B & B. Pulling up outside, both officers climbed out of the car. The street was eerily still. Nothing moved. Even the wind had ceased blowing. Bailey looked at the building – A Victorian house with serious delusions of grandeur. Did a house really need battlements where the fascias should be? Bailey realised he needed to get his grumpy side under control. He was in danger of giving Victor Meldrew a run for his money.

Opening the red gate, Bailey padded sharply down the concrete path, straightening his jacket before rapping smartly on the door. A bit of muffled chat went on, from within, before a slender lady opened it. She was only in her early forties, Bailey guessed, but her old fashioned attire and perfectly set pensioner's perm suggested she was much older.

“Good morning. Welcome to Castle House,” her parrot-like voice pealed into the street. “I'm Mrs Bray.”

“Good morning, Mrs Bray.” Bailey responded. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Yes.” she announced, indignantly.

“Excellent. Detective Inspector Bailey,” he flashed his badge, “and this is DI Jones.” At the mention of his name, Jones ceased picking moss off the garden wall, inexpertly brushed the dirt from his hands and flashed his badge at Mrs Bray. She raised a cursory eyebrow at him, before turning her attention back on Bailey, who continued speaking. “Did you have a customer recently by the name of Cyclops?” She thought for a moment.

“Cyclops … Cy...clops ... yes. Left this morning in a hurry. Had three more days booked in but paid and rushed off. Weird coincidence, that … man with a glass eye called Cyclops. He was a weird one, wasn't he Gavin? Gavin!” she yelled. “Come in, Officers.” They both stepped into the hallway feeling as if a world of chintz was swallowing them. A shrew-like man poked his head out of one of the rooms. He looked nervous and, Bailey assumed, a bit henpecked.

“Yes dear?”

“Gavin – that man – Mr Cyclops,” she looked, pointedly at Gavin. “Odd, wasn't he?” she nudged Gavin, a tinge of frustration leaking from beneath her cool exterior. “Tell them, Gavin – about his eye. So strange.” Gavin opened his mouth to speak. “Glass eye!” she went on. Gavin closed his mouth, his shoulders slumping. “Right odd it was. Looked … wrong – all still and unnatural. Never seen one before, never want to again.” Gavin trudged back into the room he had just come from. Jones followed him, giving Bailey a nod.

“What do you know about him?” Bailey asked, pulling his notebook and pen from his pocket.

“Well,” she thought out loud. “He comes from London, drives a beaten up car and he likes four spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee in the morning!” she shuddered with disgust.

“Have you cleaned his room yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Can I have a look?” Bailey interrupted her, eager to get on.

“Course. Room 3, just on the left as you go up the stairs. Make sure you've wiped your feet.” She reached up to a rack of keys and handed him one. “Officer?”

“Mmm?” Bailey's patience was growing thin.

“What's he done?”

“Can't tell you, Madam.” Bailey headed up the stairs, trying not to look too closely at the giant floral pattern on the wallpaper, which clashed horribly with the magenta woodwork. The entire upstairs smelled like a tart's boudoir.

Reaching room 3, Bailey turned the key in the lock and the lurid door swung open. A musty aroma of sweat and feet assaulted his nose afresh. He flicked on the light and looked around. None of Cyclops' possessions were there. The bed linen was rumpled and the curtains were still closed.

Checking the avocado en suite, Bailey resigned himself to the fact that some people would never develop good taste. The Brays were stuck somewhere between 1975 and old age, they would never change. The bathroom was empty of Cyclops' belongings as well. Before leaving, Bailey looked in the bin, where he found an empty Vaseline jar. Unbidden, all manner of unpleasant thoughts entered his mind. Pushing them, and his inner comedian to one side, he popped the jar in an evidence bag and headed downstairs. Jones was chatting with Mrs Bray. He saw Bailey and nodded. They were both ready to go. Bailey handed Mrs Bray his card before heading for the car. As they climbed in, Bailey grinned at Jones.

“What did old Battered Husband have to say for himself then?”

“Not much,” Jones replied. “Reckons Cyclops worked for some advanced prosthetics company, developing tools to help the disabled or some sort of lark. Very noble, I'm sure.”

“Interesting,” Bailey smirked. “I found a massive empty Vaseline jar in his en suite.”

“Bloody Vaseline,” Jones snorted. “Wife makes me buy vats of that stuff for her chapped hands. Loves it. Bloody chemist sniggers every time I go in. I 'ate the stuff. 'ate it!”

Chatting away, the two headed for the police station. As they walked through the blue doors, Bailey nodded to Sadie, who was manning reception. She winked back. He liked her. Since Shona had left him, his daily exchanges with Sadie had been the only thing keeping him sane.

Snapping out of his daydream, Bailey realised Jones had been talking to him.

“Huh?” he muttered.

“Knew you weren't listening,” Jones proclaimed, mock offence colouring his tone. “I said we need to chat with Ruddles about this one.”

“S'pose we do,” Bailey agreed, reluctantly. They turned left and knocked on Ruddles' office door.

“Come in!” a strained voice called out. Jones glanced at Bailey, who pushed the door open. Chief Superintendent Ruddles sat behind his large desk, glaring at the two DIs, who had just disturbed his peace. He raised a heavy set arm to indicate that they should take a seat.

“Bailey, Jones,” he shook their hands as they sat, his gravelly voice echoing in their ears. “I heard from uniform about the headless man. Nasty business, I'm sure. What do you know so far?”

“Well ...” Jones began, twiddling his fingers nervously. “Um...”

“We know he's not from round here,” Bailey jumped in. “We have an address for him in London but there are no other leads.”

“So strange,” Ruddles glanced up as if imagining something, his furrowed brow accentuated by the harsh strip lighting. “Blowing a man's head off with his own glass eye. Not what you'd call subtle. Our murderer must be an evil genius. Check his place out. I'll call the Met to smooth things over with them.” Jones and Bailey took this as their cue to leave. They nodded to Ruddles and walked towards the door.

“What's wrong with you, Jones?” Bailey hissed, once safely back in the corridor.

“I'm a coward, and Ruddles scares me,” he muttered, putting on a squeaky, girlish voice. Bailey chuckled.

“You're an idiot,” he replied, affectionately.

* * *

Two hours later, both men stood outside an impressive four storey town house. They climbed the steps and knocked on the glossy blue front door. A moment later, it swung open and a slender, elegant lady peered out, tucking a smooth blonde curl behind her ear.

“Can I help you?” she asked, confusion lining her pretty face.

“Detective Inspectors Jones and Bailey,” Jones beamed. Bailey elbowed him viciously. He hated it when Jones got all excited over pretty girls. It distracted him from his work.

“May we come in, Madam?” Bailey asked, flashing his badge.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“We have reason to believe that a Victor Cyclops resides at this address.”

“Yes,” she replied. “He's my brother,” she looked worried. “Is he OK?”

“I think we need to come in,” Bailey said softly. He hated this part of his job.

A few minutes later, the news had been broken, tears had been shed and now, questions were being asked.

“How did he die, Inspector? Can I see him?” This made Bailey's knees itch. He had never before dealt with a situation quite like this. How do you tell a mourning woman that her brother has, quite literally, lost his head? He decided to avoid the issue for the moment.

“Could we have a look around, please, Miss Cyclops?” he replied.

“Kerry,” she corrected him.

“'Scuse me?”

“Miss Kerry,” she clarified. “After he lost his eye, Victor changed his name by deed poll, for a laugh. I never did get it,” tears welled up in her eyes. Taken aback, Bailey glanced at Miss Kerry. Jones, winking, handed her a tissue.

“Look wherever you want,” she murmured miserably. “Find out what happened to poor Victor.”

Jones and Bailey wandered around the house. Everything was in its place. The trail was drying up. As they were about to leave, Miss Kerry approached them.

“Have you checked the attic?” she asked. “Victor spent a lot of time up there.”

“Thanks,” Bailey muttered. He and Jones climbed up through all three upper floors before reaching the loft hatch. He pushed it open, pulling the fixed ladder down. Jones went up first.

“Wow!” he announced. “Cool!” Bailey followed. As he clambered into the attic space, he was astounded. Cyclops had a complete laboratory in his roof! Casting his eye around the room, Bailey was mesmerised by sections of pipe interlinking with beakers and test tubes. Post-it notes were stuck everywhere.

“Look!” yelled Jones. Bailey went over and saw what Jones had found – a leather bound volume. Together, they flicked through it. Neat handwriting was interspersed with well drawn diagrams of various experiments. About halfway through the volume, Bailey noticed an exploded diagram of what looked like an eyeball, only it had various micro circuits within it. He pushed the book into an evidence bag and nodded to Jones. They had what they needed. Now they had to get it back to the lab for analysis. They said their goodbyes to Miss Kelly and left.

* * *

The next day, Ruddles called Bailey and Jones into his office.

“Forensics got back to us, lads.” he announced. “Had a look through that book you discovered.”

“And?” Bailey asked.

“Apparently old Cyclops was an experimental scientist,” Ruddles explained. “He'd found a way to restore vision to people who had lost their eyes. His glass eye was a prototype. Although it worked perfectly, he couldn't get the medical companies to take it on on Health and Safety grounds.”

“How so?” Jones was intrigued.

“Well …” Ruddles went on. “Turns out that in order to work, the glass eye had to be filled with nitro-glycerine. It was sealed within the eye and seemed stable. The flaw in the design was that there needed to be some conductivity between the prosthesis and the optic nerve. Lining the back of the prosthesis with magnesium worked best. You know about magnesium, right?” Bailey vaguely remembered science lessons when he was fourteen; his teacher pulling strips of magnesium from a jar of oil and then holding them in the air, only to watch them burst into blinding white flames.

“Vaseline!” Jones called out. “That's what the Vaseline was for.”

“I don't follow,” Ruddles answered, irritated.

Bailey nodded. “Magnesium bursts into flames upon contact with the air, right?” Jones went on. “Vaseline would be the perfect material to exclude the air from the magnesium, whilst allowing the electrical signals to be conducted to the optic nerve. It's perfect.”

“Ah.” Bailey added, the penny finally dropping. “The jar of Vaseline I found in the B and B was empty. He must've woken up that morning but couldn't scrape quite enough out of the pot. He was probably on his way to the chemist's when the magnesium started to burn.”

“And he ran into the doctor's in the hopes that they could help him,” Jones added. “I don't s'pose he was thinking logically by that point.”

“No,” Bailey went on. “The magnesium heated the nitroglycerine to the point where an explosion was inevitable. He literally lost his head.”

The End.

 

©  Annie Bell 2012