James Heneghan - Fit to kill

“Eight-oh-eight Broughton, apartment ten-oh-four?”

“Go away.”

He sounded worried. “Please, you sign paper for me that I come to right place, same address on bill? Otherwise boss, he make me pay for pizza myself.”

She hesitated. He looked harmless enough. She felt sorry for him. All she needed to do was sign his bill.

She unlocked and opened the door.

Casey spent the morning at City Hall going over city business reports, including brief summaries on what had come to be known as the hens-in-the-backyard issue. Tame stuff compared to murder. He often wished he had the police beat. But Wexler had been doing that job since before Homer wrote the Iliad.

He phoned the office and left a message for Wexler and Ozeroff to meet him at Hegel’s for lunch if they could make it.

It was raining hard.

On the way he picked up a copy of the Province. Banner headlines screamed:

Headless Corpse Number Two!

He sat in the bus and read the lead story.

The body of a young Japanese-Canadian female was found in her Broughton Street apartment at 7:20 am by her husband when he returned home from working the night shift. Police believe that the woman let the killer into her apartment, that it may have been someone she knew. Names are being withheld for the time being. It is the second brutal murder in the West End in two weeks. Police are advising women to use extra caution. They should not under any circumstances open their doors to strangers.

Wexler and Ozeroff had already grabbed three window seats. Ozeroff seemed excited.

Their wet raincoats hung dripping on pegs near the door. Casey hung his beside theirs, ordered a vegetarian bagel sandwich with a glass of water and sat down.

“You read about the murder, Casey?” said Ozeroff, excited. “Murder number two? He’s a serial killer all right. Now we know for sure.”

“So tell,” Casey said to Wexler.

Wexler shrugged. “Nothing you haven’t already read in the Province. This one is in the victim’s apartment, otherwise it’s pretty much the same mo as the first murder. Female, naked torso, raped, cuff marks, decapitated. Obviously the same crazy man. No further details. End of story.”

Ozeroff broke in impatiently. “But it’s not the same. This guy butchered the woman in her own place, not on the street. He’s unusual. Serial killers always use the same mo. Which means they always work in the same way, use the same methods. Take Ted Bundy, for example. He always picked up girls from college campuses. Didn’t go looking for them in singles bars or fitness clubs. A serial killer doesn’t usually kill someone in the street and then break into a person’s home to kill a second.”

“Well, this one did,” said Wexler.

“Which is what I meant when I said he’s unusual,” said Ozeroff.

“More creative, Deb?” said Casey. “That what you’re saying?”

Ozeroff nodded. “Yeah. Creative. And more of a gamble for him. If he has already murdered successfully, then it makes sense for him to murder the same way next time. Use the same methods and the same scenario. But this guy tries something different. He gambles. For murder number two he gets into a secured building. And, without breaking in, as far as we know, makes it through a solid apartment door to his victim.” Ozeroff ran her hands through her hair. “He knows that criminals stick to the same MO. It’s his way of telling us he’s not like anyone else. He’s different. He’s smart. Holy fuckoly-they’d better catch this bastard real soon!”

“According to the Province,” said Wexler, “the victim might have let him in because she knew him.”

“What about checking the fitness center sign-in sheets for last night?” said Ozeroff.

Wexler wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Police already thought of that. She was there all right, but her husband picked her up. He’s a cop.”

Wexler and Ozeroff talked, but Casey was no longer listening. He was thinking of the husband coming home and finding his wife’s headless body. And the blood. There would be blood. Lots of it. Then he thought of Emma Shaughnessy living alone. Did she live alone? He really knew nothing about her.

“Casey?” said Ozeroff.

“Huh?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Deb.”

“You seem kinda out of it. And you didn’t finish your sandwich.”

“Not so hungry today.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Ozeroff said to Wexler, “I’d say Casey’s in love.”

A Message from the Angel of Death Maggoty: I have proved that I can do what I like when I like, and there is nothing you can do about it. Beware! Harlots are everywhere! I deal with them in fury. You cannot stop me. I am the avenger, and my hand will not be stayed. Turn away your eyes from a shapely woman. Sirach 9:8. And behold, there met him a woman with the attire of a harlot, and wily of heart. Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths. For she hath cast down many wounded: Yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell. Proverbs 7:10–27. I shall strip her naked and make her like a wilderness and slay her. I will uncover her lewdness and no one shall rescue her out of my hand. Hosea 2:10.

Casey ran in the morning rain.

Later, when he got to work, Percy called for a lineup meeting. He was wearing a brown suit that looked like it had been found in a dumpster. His eyes seemed more prominent than usual.

“I’ll be doing a short piece on the second murder victim,” Wexler said.

“Whaddya know about her?” said Percy.

“Japanese-Canadian, born in Vancouver, thirty-one years old, married to a policeman, no children. Worked in a duty-free shop on Alberni Street, where the Japanese tourists off the cruise ships go to spend their yen.” Wexler glanced at his notes. “Husband picked her up from the gym, took her home, left for the night shift soon after. She let someone into their apartment. The first murder was committed in the street, which raises the question as to whether there’s a second killer on the loose. Talked to a few of the residents in the building. One man saw a pizza delivery man that night. I got an interview lined up with the victim’s mother. Lives in Richmond. That’s it for me this week, except I’ll help Casey cover some of the face-to-faces after the Liberal nomination meeting.”

“Good work, Jack,” said Percy. He turned his head. “Deb?”

Ozeroff looked smart in a high-necked maroon wool dress with matching enameled crescent earrings. She glanced at her appointment book. “Movie review. Then a piece on the Mole Hill heritage houses that the city plans to bulldoze so they can let the developers in to erect another phallic tower. It’s the last goddamn complete block of turn-ofthe-century houses left. Not just in the West End, but in the whole goddamn city. And the cretins want ’em down, can you believe it?”

“Save the speeches, Deb,” said Percy, rubbing his dark eyebrows.

“You’re just like the rest of ’em, Perce. You don’t care if the goddamn philistines win.”

Percy sighed. “Is that your lineup, Deb?”

“There’s more. I’ll try to cover designer Rosemarie Kwan’s spring collection in Gastown. Also, there’s the Joico Hair Competition and a short piece on the Vancouver Opera. That’s it for now.”

“Thanks, Deb. Casey?”

Casey nodded. “Follow-up piece on trustees playing hooky at the school board. City council update on the wards system. Whether council will allow it to go to the taxpayers in a referendum in the spring. Then there’s the expected infighting at the Liberal nomination meeting, which promises to be fierce. Jack’s with me on that. And there might be something new on the Save the Whales bunch and the dismantling of the Stanley Park Zoo, which is taking too long, according to the Friends of the Park Society.”