John Lutz - Serial

“Like you are. But we want the same thing.”

“Which is?”

“Judith Blaney dead.”

The room seemed to have developed its own heartbeat. The Skinner was breathing softly and evenly. Whatever the hell was going on, there was wriggle room. He’d be able to work something out, even if it meant leaving here with two dead bodies in the apartment.

“I was released from prison six months ago after serving time for a rape I didn’t commit,” the man on the sofa said.

“I know who you are now,” the killer said. “Judith Blaney pointed you out as the man who attacked her. Your conviction was overturned because DNA proved you were innocent.”

“And I know who you are,” the man on the sofa said. “I know what you’re doing and I heartily approve of it. I know you need alibis for the… well, for certain nights. I can provide them.”

“Why should you?”

“You’re going to do to Judith Blaney what I was going to do.”

He drew from his pocket not a gun but a theater ticket. He laid it on the sofa arm, snapping it flat as if it were a card he’d pulled from a new deck. “This is a ticket for a play at the Berman Theater, Tables Turned. You seen that play?”

“No. I’m not much for the theater.”

“I bought it at the box office, paid cash. It’s for tonight’s performance. You still have plenty of time to get there before the curtain goes up.”

“Why should I go see a play when I don’t like plays?”

“So if the police question you about Judith Blaney’s murder, and where you were tomorrow night, you’ll know what you’re talking about when you refer to Tables Turned.”

“Aren’t you kind of ahead of events?”

“Yeah. And that’s a good place to be. I did hard time in prison because of Judith Blaney. I want her dead. Obviously I can’t kill her, because the police will be all over me as soon as she turns up not breathing.”

“Then you’re the one who needs an alibi. Not me.”

“And I can have one, when I know for sure what night she’s going to die.”

“ Can you know that?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you been listening? It’s tomorrow night. I’ll be sure and have a solid alibi. Tomorrow evening, you go wait with the ticket holders outside the Berman Theater or in the lobby, and do something to make yourself memorable. Nothing drastic. Maybe pretend to trip over something and almost fall. Or get into a little argument about somebody crowding ahead of you. That kinda thing.”

The man on the sofa paused, waiting for the Skinner to say something more. The Skinner didn’t.

“But you don’t go into the theater auditorium,” said the man on the sofa.

“Why should I? I already saw the play last night. Tonight.”

“Exactly. Instead you filter away without anyone noticing, and come here, and wait for Judith.”

“And?”

“Then you have your fun. Just like you were going to do tonight. Only you can prove you were at the theater. At least a few people from the lobby or waiting outside in line will remember you. You can describe the play. To top it off, you’ll have a ticket stub.”

“I won’t have a ticket stub for tomorrow night’s performance.”

“Yes, you will. I’m going to give you one. If it isn’t a stub, it’ll have a bar code on it. They do that so tickets can’t be counterfeited or used twice. There’s only one bona fide ticket for that seat on that night, and it will have been used, and you’re going to have it or its stub.”

“What about the people that sat next to that seat?”

“They’ll recall that somebody sat there, but they won’t remember who, not by the time the police finally get around to checking on you. They won’t even recall if it was a man or woman. Besides, you’ll have the canceled or torn ticket. And the ticket will have been paid for in cash. There won’t be a record of who bought it.”

“Where you gonna get this canceled or torn ticket?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get it, and you’ll have it. We’ll meet the day after Judith’s murder, and I’ll give it to you.”

“And you get what out of this?”

“Judith dead. As the prospective prime suspect, I can’t kill her myself.”

“But you know I’m going to kill her anyway.”

“That’s true.”

The Skinner studied the man on the sofa for a long time. Then he came to a conclusion and smiled. “You don’t have the balls to kill her.”

“That’s true, too. My years in prison… took a lot out of me.”

“I’ll bet,” the Skinner said. “And I bet I know how. You and Judith Blaney have got something in common now.”

“Never mind that. I’ve been following Judith, trying to scare her, I admit. But she knows I won’t hurt her. I can’t. The police’ll be on me even before her body drops. When I noticed you were watching her, too, I figured out who you must be. I thought of something that’d be good for both of us, and neither of us can talk about it in the future or we’ll mess ourselves up. We’ll both be safe. I won’t have Judith to brood about any longer, and you’ll have an alibi for the time of her death. Not a perfect alibi, but one good enough to hold up if they don’t have much else in the way of evidence. And I’ve been reading about you. You don’t leave a lot of evidence.”

“I don’t leave any.”

“Still…” The smaller man shrugged. “A little insurance…”

“You could simply have let things take their course and made sure you had an alibi for the time Judith left the world.”

“Let’s call having somebody else kill the bitch my insurance. I’m never going back to prison.”

The Skinner thought about it and decided he really didn’t have much choice. He didn’t want to kill this little poof. That would be too messy and complicated. The way to neutralize him was to make him an accomplice.

He walked over to the sofa. The little man might not have balls, but he didn’t look scared, only curious. Maybe it was the look of a guy who’d already lost all he had.

The Skinner picked up the theater ticket from the sofa arm and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“Good,” the man on the sofa said.

The Skinner moved toward the door.

“Enjoy the play. Remember it,” said the man on the sofa. “It’s a musical.”

“God!” said the Skinner, and let himself out of Judith Blaney’s apartment.

Hogart, 1992

Beth Brannigan had never felt so much pain. The contractions were coming closer together, tying her into knots so she could hardly breathe.

The baby is trying to get out. He’s trying to be born.

Beth found herself terrified and astonished, as if this were something she’d never suspected would happen. As if she hadn’t been waddling around all those months with a new life inside her.

A complete surprise.

The bedroom window lit up with a flash of distant lightning. A storm on the way. Just what Beth needed.

Thunder rumbled through the darkness outside. A few large raindrops struck the window, and then came the steady plinking sound of rainwater dripping against the metal elbow of the downspout.

Beth switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the numerals on the clock radio. Two-thirty a.m. Babies picked the damnedest times to be born.

If this was the real thing.

Even if it wasn’t the real thing, what was she going to do to find out? Wait until her water broke before calling for help?

She reached for the landline phone by the bed and considered calling 911. Then she decided that would probably bring Sheriff Westerley or his deputy Billy Noth.

Beth realized it was Westerley she wanted to come, to be by her side.

She put the phone back in its cradle and rooted in the tiny nightstand drawer until she found his number.