James Heneghan - Fit to kill

“How’d you hear so soon, Jack?”

“Fraser called me.”

Detective Sergeant Fraser, Wexler’s old buddy.

“You call Ozeroff?”

“Not yet.” Wexler grunted and hung up.

Casey was no sooner out of the shower than his phone rang again. It was Ozeroff.

She was angry.

“Did you hear, Casey?”

“Yeah, Deb, I heard.”

“Goddamn maniac! Four women slaughtered and we can’t do a thing about it!”

“Everyone feels helpless, Deb.”

“I’m supposed to write a piece on tonight’s concert. I can’t go out. I’m terrified. Vera’s away at an acupuncture conference in Seattle.”

“Won’t be another killing for thirteen days, Deb. You’re safe.”

“Makes no difference. No woman is safe. I can’t risk it.”

“Stay home, Deb. I’ll cover for you. What kind of concert is it?”

“Vancouver Symphony. All Debussy. Orpheum Theater, eight o’clock.”

Casey groaned. “Any chance there’s two seats? We could go together.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. You sure you don’t mind?”

“It’ll raise my cultural quotient.”

“You’re a pal, Casey. I’m just sick about this latest killing.”

“Everyone’s sick, Deb.”

Casey and Ozeroff were working in their cramped office when Wexler arrived from Cop Shop.

“They got a make on number four,” he said. “Cops didn’t even need to call Victoria for id. Her insurance papers were in the glove compartment of her car.”

“Who was she, Jack?” asked Casey.

“Lorraine Carlson, thirty-nine, magazine publisher, married, no kids, lived on Lagoon Drive, fitness center member. Car was swimming in blood.” Wexler sounded tired. “I tried to get a statement from the husband, but he’s in a state of shock. Couldn’t talk to me.”

Ozeroff leaned her elbows on her desk, head in hands.

“My turn this time,” said Emma Shaughnessy.

They pushed into Devlin’s out of the rain and found a seat, sharing with another couple, two men.

She brought the drinks, coffee for him, steamed cider for herself, nodded at their companions and sat down.

“Do you usually go away at Christmas?” asked Casey.

“Christmas Day. To my cousin’s family in Port Moody. You?”

He shook his head. Her dark brown hair had chestnut highlights, he noticed. It invited fingers. And looking into her eyes was like looking at a clear blue mountain lake. Or into a glacial crevasse, which he thought should have been a cold experience, but Emma’s personality was warmth itself.

“Do you like Christmas?” she asked, flushing slightly under his scrutiny.

He shrugged. “You?”

“Parts of it I like. It’s nostalgia really. What made you come to Canada, Casey?”

He shrugged again. “A Belfast bomb killed eight innocent victims in a shopping center. Three of them were my parents and my only sibling, a brother. His name was Eamon. I was twenty-five. Eamon was twenty-two. I should have been with them, but I was late. I decided I could no longer live in a city of barbarians.” He sipped his coffee. “What about you?”

“I came to the same conclusion. A Protestant bullet killed my kid sister in the crossfire on the main street of Derry. Annie was only seventeen.”

They sat in silence for a minute, remembering, thinking their own thoughts.

At Killarney Place, Casey watched Emma let herself into the lobby, then turn and wave.

He waved back and then headed home.

It rained on Christmas Day. The Wexlers had invited Casey to have dinner with them, Midge insisting that he come. But he had turned them down, telling a white lie about a previous engagement. He ate Christmas dinner alone, his preference- drunken prawns at the Thai House. He sat at his table for almost an hour after his meal, drinking Thai tea and reading Ozeroff ’s Christmas gift, Walking the Dog, a collection of short stories by fellow Irishman Bernard MacLaverty. In this way he enjoyed his Christmas. No small talk, no dressing up, no false sentiment.

Emma asked him if there was any news on the West End killer. They were in a crowded Devlin’s, their wet raincoats hanging near the door.

“Nothing.”

“I read a report in your paper by Wexler- is that his name?”

He nodded. “Jack Wexler.”

“He mentions that all the victims are linked to the fitness center. They all worked out in the gym on the nights they were murdered. He thinks the killer could be a member who goes to the gym regularly.”

“It looks that way.”

“That’s scary.”

Casey nodded.

Emma said, “Wexler interprets the words flaunted her nakedness in the killer’s letter to refer to women’s tights and bodysuits. Women who flaunt their bodies. Harlots.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s one thing your friend Wexler fails to mention.”

“What’s that?”

“The killer takes liberties with scripture. He uses several versions of the Bible-the King James, the New International and the New Revised Standard-because his quotation, the one printed in the paper, is a mixture of two or three versions. Understand what I mean?”

“He reads the different versions and then chooses the bits he likes best.”

“Right. He could have something like The New Layman’s Parallel Bible, which compares several versions, all laid out on the page so you can see the differences. The second thing he does is, he edits scripture.”

“He leaves words out?”

“No, but he adds his own words.”

“He does?”

“Do you remember the bit ‘I will cut off her nose and her ears’?”

“I do.”

“Well, he adds, ‘and yea her very head.’”

“That isn’t in Ezekiel?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Tell Wexler he can check it for himself.”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

“I don’t suppose knowing that the killer tampers with the written word will help much in catching him though.”

“He can pass it on to the police. You never know. Every little bit helps.”

Emma turned her head toward the window and gave a frightened gasp.

Casey followed her glance. Pope was outside, standing in the rain, his face pressed up against the window as he stared in at them. When he saw that they had seen him, he grinned, waved and hurried off.

Emma shivered. “He scared me.”

“Likes to joke around. He’s okay.”

“I don’t like him.”

They talked about Christmas.

“How was Christmas with your cousins in Port Moody?”

Emma smiled happily. “It was good. How was yours?”

“Quiet.”

“That’s it?”

Casey smiled. “That’s it.”

Emma smiled back at him, saying nothing for a while. Then she said, “You’re a quiet man.”

“I am?”

“Yes.” Emma looked directly into his eyes. “You don’t talk a lot.”

Casey smiled at her. “Don’t have a lot to say, that’s all. Drink up and I’ll walk you home.”

When they got outside, a bitterly cold wind was sweeping up from English Bay and bringing the rain with it. They hurried across the road and around the corner onto Pendrell.

She didn’t ask him in.

The thirteenth day.

Police were everywhere. Police cars, motorbikes, uniformed men, plainclothesmen, inspectors, chief inspectors, superintendents, even the police chief himself.

At the fitness center, Lucy Lambert wore her aerobics outfit-gray tights, midriff bare, white T-shirt. The center would be closing soon. She headed for the showers. There was only one woman there, and the room was steamy, but not so steamy that Lucy couldn’t see the lovebirds tattoo on the woman’s left buttock.