John Betancourt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

Mort heard her late father’s executor testify about Patricia’s inheritance. Her attorney swore that she had made an appointment to change her will and disinherit her husband. She died before she could keep it.

He saw the prosecution’s photos of the scratches on Decameron’s hands and arms. Poor little Patricia had fought like a wildcat before her husband threw her out the window. It was terrible. They found his skin under her broken nails.

But more terrible were the explanations of the defense. The crafty Cowell had a psychiatrist testify that it was “not uncommon to commit suicide within six weeks of losing a family member.” Patricia’s father had been dead for one month. The shrink also said that two-thirds of all suicides did not leave a note. Patricia had left no note.

Cowell produced a prescription for Prozac from her family doctor. Mort wished the good doctor did not look so much like a water rat, from his beady eyes to his shaggy gray suit. The man was hostile to the defense, insisting Patricia was “not the victim of a major depressive disorder.” When Cowell finished with him, the doctor seemed incompetent.

Then Cowell put the woman Decameron was supposed to be having an affair with on the stand. Hannah Higginsworth looked nothing like her photo in the newspaper. Her mousy brown hair was pulled into an unflattering bun. Her suit was inexpensive brown polyester. It turned her complexion an ugly mud color. Her figure was positively maternal. Her nails were short and unpainted. Hannah said she was a victim of vicious office gossip and wept on the stand.

Mort knew the slick lawyer had pulled another of his tricks. He’d dressed Hannah like a frump and ordered her to gain weight. You could imagine her making cookies for the church bake sale, not hunting husbands.

Especially not Patricia’s husband. On the stand he looked so smooth, so sincere, so handsome, that Mort knew Decameron had been rehearsed better than a Broadway actor.

The prosecutor could not break him. Yes, he had scratches on his hands and arms. He also had them on his back. His wife had made passionate love to him on the last morning of her life, then said, “Hold me one more time.” Decameron thought she meant, “Hold me before I leave for work.” He did not realize he was listening to her last wish.

A single manly tear made its way down his face. Decameron bravely ignored it. He loved his wife, he insisted. He would never kill her. He could not imagine having an affair with that woman, Hannah. He said her name with a sneer.

Cowell introduced photos of Decameron’s back, slashed with scratches. Cowell claimed these were passion scars made by Patricia. She’d also scratched his hands and arms. Decameron said he did not tell the police about them when he was arrested because he was in shock. How could he remember a few scratches when his beloved wife was dead?

Mort thought that argument was clever, but flawed. The defense couldn’t prove the scratches on Decameron’s back were made by Patricia. Any woman could have made them any time — even Hannah before she cut her nails. Surely no one was buying that story?

Mort glanced at the jury. The women were smiling at Decameron. The men were nodding their heads in agreement.

At that moment, Mort knew there would be no justice for Patricia or for himself. The prosecutor’s inept cross examination guaranteed it. Mort would never again have a peaceful night’s sleep. He had lost his exceptional job, his desirable wife, and his handsome house, all because Decameron had tossed tiny Patricia out a window. One splat! and Mort’s own dreams were dashed.

Mort did not wait around the courthouse for the not guilty verdict. He did not want to see the smile of triumph on Decameron’s face. As it was, he saw it in the newspaper the next morning.

Mort spent the next month in a cigarette-and-scotch fog, but even these could not blot out the Technicolor re-enactments of Patricia’s last moments. Somehow, he held onto his pizza delivery job. When the debauched fog cleared, he decided if the law could not provide justice, then he would deliver it to Decameron’s door.

He spent another month watching Decameron and learning his habits. The killer still lived in the same co-op on the twenty-first floor, but not alone. A lush blonde went in and out as if she lived there too. It took awhile before Decameron recognized her as the maternal mud-colored brunette who cried on the witness stand. Hannah had lost weight, so that her figure was now curvaceous. Her curves were cuddled in colorful Escada suits. He knew the designer, because his own curvaceous ex-wife used to wear the same suits. Hannah’s hair was now a stylish blonde. Her sensible shoes were replaced by spike heels. Hannah was definitely homewrecker material.

She stuck close by her man. Hannah rarely went out without Decameron. She wore him on her arm as if he was another flashy accessory. Mort noticed only one pattern. Every Tuesday night, without fail, Hannah left the apartment at eight P.M. and did not return until midnight. That was Mort’s window of opportunity.

He decided Decameron would die next Tuesday night. He was not going to enjoy Patricia’s money and Hannah’s splendors much longer. Mort would see to that. He would have justice in four days.

Once he decided to kill Decameron, Mort slept better. In fact, for the first time since poor Patricia died, he began sleeping all night through, without that awful splat!

He gave up the booze and cigarettes. He wanted his mind clear the moment he killed Decameron. He wanted his wonderful olfactory apparatus to be working again. He wanted to smell Decameron’s fear. He wanted to taste his triumph as the body went out the window.

Mort carefully plotted every detail. On Tuesday night, he drove into Manhattan, dressed in his pizza delivery uniform, which made him virtually invisible. He even found a legal parking space, which he took as a sign that God had smiled on his mission. He saw Hannah leave at eight o’clock. At eight fifteen, the bored doorman buzzed in Mort. He went up to the twenty-first floor and knocked on Decameron’s door.

“Pizza!” he said.

Decameron came to his door and looked out the peephole at the balding, mild-looking man holding the pizza box.

He opened the door and said, “I didn’t order—”

Mort had been made ox-strong by months of carrying pizzas in heavy insulated bags up to fourth-floor walkups. He hit Decameron with the full force of his rage and misery.

A stunned Decameron landed flat on the floor. Mort slammed the door and pulled out the tire iron from the pizza box. He broke Decameron’s arms and legs with swift strokes. Decameron screamed in pain and terror.

Mort could taste his fear. It was bitter. Very bitter. And sweet. So very sweet.

“At the trial, the pathologist said your wife fought like a wildcat to live,” Mort said. “You won’t be able to fight me off. You can’t kick me, either. And these broken bones won’t be noticed at your autopsy, because all your bones will be broken in another moment, Decameron. You’re going to join your wife.”

Mort flung open the living room window while Decameron tried to scoot toward the door. He didn’t get far. Mort dragged him across the polished wood floor toward the open window. He was careful to hold Decameron by his shoes, so there were no drag marks on the parquet.

Decameron moaned. “Why are you doing this?” he said, sounding like a dead man already.

“Because when your wife went out the window, so did my career,” Mort said. “I was the man on the street when Patricia landed. The innocent bystander who was drenched with her blood. The horror that I saw cost me my job, my marriage, and my house. There was no justice for me in court. But I will have justice now.”