John Lutz - Chill of Night

“I much prefer you,” Martin said, guessing what she was thinking.

Tina leaned toward him and pecked his cheek. “Bastard.”

Grinning, he stood up and slung the strap of his carry-on over his shoulder. “They’ll be boarding pretty soon.”

Tina also stood. “I’ll walk with you to security.”

“You want to sit on my lap on the plane?”

“If I didn’t have such a workload, maybe I would.”

“You make me feel as if I don’t have life insurance.”

“Bad joke, baby.”

He shrugged with his unburdened shoulder. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” As they began walking toward the security check point, he said, “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be turning tail if I didn’t share your premonition of doom.”

“You’re not turning tail.”

“Showing the white feather.”

“You’re showing good sense,” Tina insisted.

As he joined the end of the security line, Martin kissed her goodbye on the lips. “That’s what all us cowards say.”

“Live cowards,” Tina corrected.

She stood and watched the line move along. Martin had to remove his wristwatch and go through the metal detector twice. Good, Tina thought, Security has the device fine-tuned. Maybe there was some sort of terror alert. That would be ironic, if she talked Martin into leaving town so he’d be safe, and he boarded a plane that was commandeered by terrorists. Martin’s black carry-on made its way along the conveyor belt and through the fluoroscope. No one opened it or had him remove his shoes.

He glanced back at her, smiled, and waved as he blended in with the other passengers beyond Security and moved along the concourse. What if I’m seeing him for the last time?

When he was out of sight, Tina felt unaccountably lonely as well as relieved. She was sure that, later, relief would win out. They were doing the right thing, whatever Martin’s inner conflict. Men were bullheaded and carefully nurtured their egos, and he was no exception.

She returned to short-term parking and got into the Saab.

As she was about to fit the key into the ignition, the light seemed to flicker, for less than a second, almost beyond her notice. Though she did notice, she thought nothing of it. She didn’t know the brief interference with her vision was the passing of an extremely fine, extremely strong wire before her face.

At each end of the wire were affixed four-inch wooden handles fashioned from a sawed-off broomstick, so the Justice Killer would have a firm grip with each and wouldn’t suffer any cuts or scrapes. As he straightened up in the back seat of the Saab, he yanked hard on the wire then crossed and twisted it at the back of the front seat’s headrest. Tina’s head and neck were immediately pinned to the headrest. As the Justice Killer applied more strength, Tina’s hands rose and flailed briefly. She tried to cry out but managed only a high, choking screech, almost exactly like the alarmed caw of a crow, before the wire sliced into her larynx, then her carotid arteries, and blood spurted forward onto the dash and windshield.

The Justice Killer left the wire embedded in Tina’s neck-he wore gloves and didn’t worry about fingerprints-then reached forward between the front seats and ran the tip of his forefinger in small circles through the blood covering Tina’s right nipple. He glanced around to be sure no one was nearby, then he scrawled a red capital J on the inside of the car’s left rear window. He opened the door, climbed out, and closed the door without slamming it.

Strolling away from the car, he quickly peeled off the gloves, leaving them inside out, and slipped them into a pocket. It took less than a minute for him to walk along the row of cars to where his own was parked, get in, and drive away.

He drove slowly, satisfied. More than just an erection this time.

Half an hour passed before a family with vacation tickets for Florida noticed the pale, horrified looking woman seated bolt upright behind the steering wheel of her parked car and gaping wide-eyed at nothing.

Beam, Nell, and Looper watched as Tina Flitt’s body was removed from behind the steering wheel of the Saab. The medical examiner and crime scene unit had done their preliminary work, so Tina was no longer needed. One of the techs used tiny snips to sever the wire on both sides of her neck. They’d wait until the autopsy to remove the length of wire deeply imbedded in her throat. The ends of the wire, with their small wooden handles, were bagged as evidence. It had already been determined that there were no fingerprints on the handles.

“Our guy wore gloves again,” Nell said. “There won’t be any usable prints anywhere on or in the car, either.”

“If he’s our guy,” Looper said. “Jeez, I wish I had a cigarette.”

“This is the airport,” Nell said. “They shoot you if you light a cigarette at the airport.”

“The J written on the rear side window looks exactly like the others left by JK,” Beam said.

“They’ve been all over the papers and TV,” Nell pointed out. “Could be a copycat.”

“Could be,” Beam agreed, but didn’t believe it. It wasn’t what his gut was telling him.

Nell’s cell phone chirped, and she walked away about twenty feet. Beam and Looper watched as she had a brief conversation, then returned, stuffing the phone back in her blazer pocket. “Computer check showed no Tina Flitt on our jury foreperson list,” Nell said. “But a letter in her purse indicates she’s an attorney.”

“Part of the system,” Looper said.

Beam rubbed his chin. “Different part, though. Different weapon, too.”

“Same red letter J, though.”

“Address on her driver’s license has her on the Upper East Side,” Nell said.

Beam made it a point not to look at Tina Flitt’s small, still form as it was loaded into the ambulance. Her head had been almost severed, and he’d seen enough of death lately.

Irv Minskoff from the ME’s office walked over. Beam saw that since the last murder he’d been attempting to grow a mustache. It was coming in gray and bushy, and along with his gnarly features and thick-lensed glasses, made him look like a country-town general practitioner who mostly gave flu shots and birthed babies. Didn’t talk that way, though. “Poor bitch was damn near decapitated.”

“What kind of wire was it?” Beam asked.

“Hard to say. Very thin but with lots of tensile strength, like dental floss or fishing line leader.”

“But it wasn’t either of those?”

“No, it was wire. Maybe piano wire. She died quickly, probably didn’t make much noise.” Minskoff used a forefinger to smooth both sides of his mustache. “Nice car, but it’s not gonna be worth anything after this, what with all the blood and what came out when her sphincter relaxed. Smell just about knocks you out when you stick your head in there.” He turned to watch the silent ambulance pull away. “Probably a looker when she was alive. Slender body, good enough rack. Not much tit but terrific nipples. Killer noticed that, too. Looks like he ran whatever he wrote with-his finger, probably-over her right nipple to get his blood ink.” He shook his head. “I see a waste like that, it saddens me. Know anything about her?”

“I thought you might tell me,” Beam said.

“I make her out to be in her mid-forties. Fashion label clothes to go with the new car. Married.”

“How do you know she was married?” Beam asked, almost dreading the answer from the callous little medical examiner.

“Wedding ring,” Minskoff said with a smile. “Looks reasonably expensive. More to the point, she’s been dead less than an hour. So if she came here to catch a plane, it either left not long ago or it’s still here. You might wanna hurry.”