James Heneghan - Fit to kill

So much of the success of the news business, Casey thought, seemed built on the misfortunes of others.

Casey quit work early, donned raingear and took a walk on the seawall, his mind clenched on the three murders.

A light oyster-gray rain laid a mist over the beach and the ocean. The freighters anchored offshore looked like ghost ships, their riding lights flickering in the gloom.

Casey thought about dates.

Murder dates.

Julia Dagg was butchered on Monday, November 6. Corinne Wakabayashi thirteen days later, on Sunday, November 19. Roseanne Agostino thirteen days later, on Saturday, December 2.

If the killer kept to his thirteen-day timetable, then the next murder, if there was one, would be on Friday, December 15.

One week from now.

He told Jack Wexler.

Jack called his buddy Detective Sergeant Fraser in homicide.

Emma Shaughnessy asked Casey if he would walk her home from the gym when they were through. “It’s this damned killer,” she said. “I’m only five blocks away, but I’d feel safer with an Irishman.”

“I’d be happy to see you home.”

She felt safe with this quiet man. There was something about his blue eyes, lazy smile and rumpled appearance that invited confidence and trust. She was sure that Casey would understand her need for what it was: safety and protection. Simple friendship. He would expect no favors and imagine no subtext, of that she felt certain.

It was raining, as usual.

Emma said, “This rain would wash the ears off a donkey, aren’t I right?”

“A cup of coffee might warm you.”

“I don’t drink coffee at night. But Devlin’s tea would be good.”

“Devlin’s it is then.”

They found a table. Casey brought coffee for himself and tea for Emma. Emma had to listen carefully over the loud buzz of conversation, for Casey spoke quietly, never raising his voice.

“How are your colleagues at school taking these murders?” he asked.

“Just as you’d expect,” she said. “The women leave the school as soon as the three o’clock bell rings. Home before dark. What do you know about this latest murder?”

“Nothing really, except she was killed on the thirteenth day, just like the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was playing with the numbers and noticed that each of the three murders is thirteen days apart.”

“There’s a murder every thirteen days?”

“Looks like it so far.”

“Do the police know this?”

“I told Wexler, who told his police friend.”

“So now they know. Did they know before Wexler told them?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Do you know why it’s always the thirteenth day?”

Casey shook his head. “No idea.”

He walked her home through the wind and the rain to her apartment at Killarney Place.

“Thanks, Casey,” she said with a grateful smile. She didn’t ask him in.

The Quiet Man, she thought as she watched him walk off in the rain.

It was almost as though the killer had been reading Casey’s mind. An open letter to the police appeared in Friday’s morning’s Province: Maggoty: A word from the Angel of Death I am chosen to destroy, to kill and to cause to perish upon the thirteenth day all women which are harlots. Esther 3:12.

Today was the day.

She was ready.

The meat was pink and angry-looking toward the center. When she held it under her nose and sniffed, there was definitely a nasty odor. Thousands of nasty bacteria marching about in the bloody fibers of the pork. Though perhaps marching was the wrong word. Exploding might be more like it because, according to her library book, Clostridium botulinum was a sporulating bacillus, like mushroom spores exploding. Albert would swallow them down in the spoiled meat. Once they invaded his bloodstream, still sporulating like fireworks, Matty supposed, they would cause neurological and vision problems, fatigue, vomiting, diarrhea and death.

According to the book.

Today was Sunday, Albert’s birthday. Not that they ever wished each other happy birthdays anymore. For years, birthdays had come and gone with zero recognition, like Christmas and Easter. But Albert would be getting Clostridium botulinum for his birthday this year. And by tonight or tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest, Matty would be living alone in her own home once again.

She popped the two chops into the oven.

A short time later, they sat down to dinner. She served Albert his chops covered in apple sauce.

She watched him brandish knife and fork.

That was when she knew she couldn’t do it.

As much as she longed for freedom, and for the house to belong to her again, she simply could not go through with it.

Albert started cutting into his chop.

She wanted him dead and gone, but she was not a murderer.

She threw down her knife and fork with a loud clatter that caused Albert to wince.

He stopped sawing at his chop and stared at her.

“This meat isn’t right. I had my suspicions when I put it under the grill, but now I’m certain.” She reached over and whisked Albert’s plate away from him.

“What!”

“The meat’s off. No sense in making ourselves sick.” Before he could protest further, she quickly scraped the food off both plates into the garbage. “You can’t be too careful with pork. Wait till I see that butcher at the market! I’ll give him what for! I’ll do you some scrambled eggs instead. You like those. And we can still eat the vegetables.”

His face was red. He stood and hurled his napkin onto the table. His voice loaded with loathing and contempt, he said, “Call me when you decide that dinner is ready.”

Matty’s legs felt wobbly. She took the knives and forks off the table, then gripped the counter and collapsed onto her high stool in the corner of the kitchen, trembling uncontrollably and weeping into the tea towel.

Rusty Carlson had always walked to the gym, only two blocks away. But nowadays she drove her car. A woman couldn’t be too careful, not with a homicidal maniac in the West End. Lance had volunteered to escort her, but she told him she could manage perfectly well on her own. She hadn’t got to where she was in life by depending on any man. Besides, Lance was hardly ever home in the evenings.

So three evenings a week, she took the elevator down from her Lagoon Drive penthouse apartment to her secured underground parking. She then drove her BMW a few blocks to the underground parking underneath the fitness center and rode the elevator up to the gym. And simply reversed the procedure when she had finished her workout. It was foolproof: not a single step onto the perilous street.

On Friday evening she drove out of her garage into torrential rain and wind. She turned on the wipers as she cleared the gate and headed for the fitness center.

Rusty Carlson hadn’t become the president of Canadian Woman magazine by taking chances. She was a professional who had planned her career patiently and carefully. Making sacrifices, avoiding distractions and accepting success as her due after so many years of single-mindedness and hard work. Taking chances was the gambler’s way of life. Rusty Carlson was no gambler.

She drove into the fitness center garage off Haro Street. Plenty of parking spaces. She picked a slot near the elevator.

All those years of sacrifice and hard work had paid off. Now that she had reached her goal, she was starting to take more time for fun and relaxation. She was starting to make changes and define her own personal lifestyle. Part of that new lifestyle was regular fitness workouts. Another part was her new love life, something she would prefer husband Lance to know nothing about.