Fit to kill

by James Heneghan

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27

  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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 28

  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.

  “Is someone picking you up?” Lucy asked the woman after she emerged from the shower.

  “Pick up? No.”

  She was attractive and had an accent, eastern European by the sounds of it. “I was asking because of the murders,” said Lucy. “The West End isn’t safe for walking after dark.”

  The woman smiled. “Hotel not so far.”

  “My dad picks me up,” said Lucy. “We could drop you off.”

  “Thank you, but I am okay.”

  Lucy tried again. “You know that today is the thirteenth day, don’t you? It’s dangerous out there.”

  “Bayshore Hotel only short walk.”

  Lucy toweled and dressed. The other woman was taking her time. Before she left, Lucy said, “Are you sure you don’t want a ride? It’s no trouble.”

  The woman shook her head, smiling.

  “I be fine.”

  Lucy skipped down the stairs. She could see her dad’s car through the rain-spattered glass doors.

  “Hello, sweetheart!” Alan Lambert opened the car door for his daughter.

  “Hi, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed his rough cheek as he started the car and moved off.

  She couldn’t help thinking about the woman with the lovebirds, hoping she’d make it to her hotel all right.

  Marta Poljansek dressed and dropped her towel and skimpy exercise outfit into her bag. Marta liked to travel light. Happily unmarried at the age of forty-two-though looking only thirty-she traveled the world for a Prague pharmaceutical company. She had been to Vancouver several times before and preferred this local gym to the one in her hotel. Tomorrow she was due to make a presentation. The convention went to Sunday. She was looking forward to it. Especially if there were any good-looking men. When possible, Marta liked to combine business with pleasure.

  She hurried out of the West End Fitness Center and bumped into a man standing outside the door with his gym bag.

  “So sorry,” she said.

  “No problem,” said the man with a smile, rubbing an elbow where the edge of the door had assaulted him.

  “Is my fault.”

  “No, no. I’m fine,” he said. “No problem. Let me walk you home. It’s dangerous for a woman alone at night.”

  She smiled. “Am okay. Is only the short walk.”

  “But I insist,” he said courteously. “I have an umbrella, see?”

  “You are nice gentleman.” She allowed him to fall into step beside her.

  Canadians were such kind people.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 29

  A Dumpster diver discovered a body in the lane behind the sushi restaurant on Robson Street, Wexler reported to his colleagues. “White female, no clothing, no id.” Wexler sounded weary.

  “And no head,” mumbled Doug Duchesne, who was fiddling with his cameras, his back to them.

  Ozeroff glared at him.

  Wexler nodded. “Number five.”

  “In the garbage,” murmured Ozeroff, about to cry.

  Casey and Wexler watched her.

  Ozeroff sat, elbows on knees, face hidden in her hands.

  Silence.

  “You okay, Deb?” Casey placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said in a small voice.

  Wexler said, “Let’s go eat.”

  Casey helped Ozeroff on with her raincoat. “You coming, Doug?”

  “No, go ahead. Things I gotta do.”

  The threesome headed down the hill to Hegel’s. Today it wasn’t raining and the air was mild. The tide was out at English Bay, exposing the beach strewn with the usual debris. The water glinted green under a light gray sky.

  “Thirteen days since number four,” said Wexler once they’d found seats.

  All Ozeroff wanted was a cup of coffee.

  Casey said, “Look, Deb, if something comes up at night, call me or Jack and we’ll cover for you. Right, Jack?”

  “Right,” said Wexler. “No problem.”

  Ozeroff
gave a hard laugh. “What about ballet? Or opera? I can’t always expect Vera to drop what she’s doing to come with me.”

  “Ballet! Yuck!” said Wexler.

  “Or what if I have to cover a fashion show?” said Ozeroff. “What then?”

  “No problem,” said Wexler. “One of us will go with you, same as when you went to the pussy concert with Casey, right?”

  “That’s Debussy, Jack, not pussy,” Casey whispered.

  “That’s what I said.” Wexler sounded indignant.

  Casey couldn’t tell whether Ozeroff was laughing or crying.

  When Lucy Lambert’s father picked her up from the gym the next day, she told him about the woman in the shower. “Do you think it could be the same one?”

  Alan Lambert shrugged. “Could be, Lucy, it was the thirteenth night. But maybe we’ll never know. It’s hard to identify a person who has no…” He stopped.

  “That’s okay, say it. No head. But what about a tattoo?”

  “She had a tattoo?”

  “A pair of lovebirds. On her bum.” Lucy laughed nervously.

  “You saw it?”

  “I couldn’t help it. She was in the shower right across from me. And it was a big tattoo.”

  “Hmmn. You realize, Lucy, if you tell the police, they’ll expect you to take a look at the body.”

  “I already thought of that. If they keep her covered except for her behind, then maybe I could do it.”

  “Body’ll be in the morgue. Not a nice place. You sure you want to go through all that?”

  Lucy said, “If it will help catch this creep, I’ll do anything.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  She went alone.

  It was the same woman all right. There was no mistaking the two lovebirds on her left buttock.

  Lucy had never seen a dead person before. Though she didn’t see this one, not really. They slid open a huge drawer, and the woman was in it, like a slab of meat, covered with a sheet. One of the men flipped back the edge of the part that covered her behind.

  Afterward, they took Lucy outside into the gray daylight and walked her across the lane into the Public Safety Building. Then upstairs to an office where they had her help an artist draw a picture of the woman from a special identity kit.

  Lucy felt just fine.

  But when she got home, the place seemed empty and cold. She checked the thermostat: normal. Though it was the middle of the day, she climbed into bed, pulled up the covers and wept.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 31

  “According to Ozeroff, serial killers think they’re smarter than the police,” said Casey.

  “Perhaps they are,” said Emma.

  “So they leave deliberate clues. The killer’s letters to the papers, for example. Or revealing that he kills every thirteen days, mocking police efforts to catch him.”

  Emma said, “So other than the letters to the police, what other clues has he been leaving?”

  “No others as far as I know. The police don’t tell us. Knowing that the killings occur every thirteen days hasn’t helped either, even with extra police everywhere on the night.”

  They walked. She was very aware of him beside her. His bulk and height. The dark tracksuit, the canvas gym bag in his hand. The tweed cap, the red hair curling at the neck. And his blue eyes looking calmly down at her.

  She pulled his head down and kissed him.

  They didn’t go to Devlin’s. They went to her place instead. Emma made Irish tea, sent by her mother.

  Emma said, “When’s the next one-the thirteenth day, I mean?”

  “January tenth, a Wednesday.”

  “That’s my Parents’ Night. Seven to nine.”

  “I’ll walk you there and pick you up- wait-Wednesday’s bad for me too. I have a parks board meeting. It’s my job. The Stanley Park Zoo is on the agenda. They’ll be discussing the whale pool. Big issue.” He shrugged. “Can’t miss that.”

  “That’s okay. I’m only a couple of blocks from the school. What can happen in two blocks?” She smiled. “I’ll be quite all right.”

  “You could have a taxicab take you there and pick you up.”

  “I will do no such thing. Two blocks? That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous, Emma. Look, this maniac targets his victims, I’m certain of it. You’re a regular at the gym. He’s sure to have seen you there. What if you’re on his list?”

  “Holy Mother of God! Don’t say that! Why would I be on his list?”

  “I’m not saying you are. But think of those letters he sends the police and the newspapers about harlots. About the way they dress. You’ve got to admit you look… pretty stunning in those tights and things!”

  “Things, is it? All I wear is exercise clothing! Usually a very unrevealing extra-large T-shirt over my leotards. What about the men in their skimpy tight shorts? It’s all right for them to be parading around showing off their family jewels, is it?”

  “Och, all I’m saying-”

  “I’ve finished my tea. You can kiss me now if you like.”

  “Well, I haven’t, so you’ll just have to wait.”

  A little while later, he had kissed her several times. Then he made his way home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 10

  The thirteenth day.

  Wexler called Casey at home and reported that the West End was wall-to-wall cops, most of them in plainclothes.

  Casey telephoned Emma at six thirty, on his way out, and she promised him, for the second time, she would take a taxi.

  “I’ll not be able to concentrate on a thing they say at the parks board meeting unless I know you’re safe.”

  “Casey, I promise. I’ve already ordered Yellow Cab. It’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “What about when you get through at nine?”

  “The same Yellow will pick me up.”

  She wore her jungle outfit, which was what she called her green-yellow-black camouflage-design cotton skirt and matching jacket. It was smart and stylish, yet not too stylish that it would bother the moms and dads. She pushed her stocking feet into a pair of comfortable black pumps and hung a warm ski jacket with hood over her shoulders against the cold rain. She felt ridiculous riding two blocks, but the driver didn’t seem to mind.

  “I am hating to say it, miss, but West End killer very good for business.” He smiled apologetically. “I come for you later, yes? Nine o’clock?”

  “Make it nine fifteen, okay?”

  She joined a thin stream of parents moving into the school.

  The rain had stopped when she finally got out, late, delayed by a mother intent on making Emma fully informed of her son’s history since the day of his birth.

  The same taxi driver was waiting. He seemed surprised to see her, as though surviving a parents’ night was an accomplishment deserving of congratulation. Which it was, thought Emma. Perhaps that was why she had unconsciously chosen the jungle outfit. There had been a good turnout tonight, but now all the parents had gone.

  The driver let her off at Killarney Place. She overtipped him.

  “Thank you, miss.” He gave a friendly wave and drove off. She looked about her. The street was empty and quiet. Traffic activity had ceased.

  Key in hand, Emma approached the lobby door, breathing a sigh of relief that she was home. She pushed her key into the lock. She didn’t see the man in black step from the bushes. She was only aware that she’d been ambushed when his arm snaked about her neck and dragged her into the shrubbery.

  She screamed.

  Casey heard the scream.

  He had been standing on the opposite side of the street from Emma’s apartment, having arrived just in time to see her alight from the taxi. He watched her walk to the lobby door. And saw the dark figure attack her.

  Casey raced across the street, dove into the shrubbery. He leaped onto the man’s back. But the killer smashed his left eye with his elbow, and Casey saw stars. He fell beside Emma, daz
ed with pain.

  The attacker ran away. Casey rose groggily to his feet and tried to run after him. But, half blind with pain, he lost him in the darkness.

  He returned to Emma, still lying on the ground, and kneeled beside her. “Emma, it’s me, Casey. Can you stand if I help you up?”

  “Casey?” Her voice was a croak.

  “Let’s get you inside.” He took her weight on his shoulders. “I need your keys.”

  “In the door…”

  The keys were in the lock. Casey opened the door and eased Emma into the lobby.

  From there he helped her into her ground-floor apartment. She collapsed, half conscious, onto the couch.

  Then she struggled, trying to get up.

  “Stay where you are, Emma. Relax. He’s gone. You’re safe.”

  “Where…?”

  “He got away.”

  “Did you…get a look at his face?”

  He shook his head. “No. Did you?”

  “No.” She noticed his eye, already swollen.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Your meeting…?”

  “Didn’t go. Had a feeling about you… Jack covered for me. Close your eyes and relax.”

  When her breathing settled, he called the police. Then he looked at his eye in the bathroom mirror. Swollen, closed, already discolored. But not too bad. Could be worse. He made an ice pack with one of Emma’s tea towels and waited for the police to arrive.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 11

  Emma had nightmares.

  The killer with his knife. Her headless body in a dumpster.

  At dawn she crept quietly out for a run, leaving Casey asleep.

  The rain lashed down. She headed off into the wind, toward the park. She was soaked before she had run three hundred yards. But it didn’t matter. The rain and wind were what she needed to banish the images from her mind. Exorcise the devils. Wrench back the power that had been stolen from her.

  She ran hard, pushing herself until her muscles, lungs and heart protested. She moaned loudly, exulting in the pain. Running like a wounded animal-feral, wild, fierce. She attacked the hill up to Brockton Point, running recklessly, savagely. The rain lashed her with whips of ice, the wind tore at her face and hair. She cried tears and raged down the Siwash trail to the seawall, splashing through leaves and mud. Finally, an hour later, totally spent, she emerged from her own private storm.