Crime Scenes

by Zane Lovitt

  But I endured, and I laughed at them, and I survived. And for what?

  Two minutes of lucidity. I hear what my children and their spouses think of me.

  What are they doing here?

  Of course, I called them home, to say goodbye.

  I was no kind of father. A drinker who rarely got drunk. A brawler who rarely got hit. A powerful man, in my own world.

  In their world I was less. Distracted, discouraging, given to fits of anger. Not even feared. Merely loathed. Unlike the people I met on the job, my children had no reason to court my favour. Even Sharon, when she was a teenager. Lately she’s learned to care. A credit to her mother, who never stopped caring.

  Who died when I was a dead-man walking. Her death brought me and Sharon back together. And I have brought Sharon back to tell her about my houses, spread across the city, acquired over decades of careful graft. Even my wife didn’t know the extent of my assets. I want Sharon to know.

  I write the name of my accountant down, next to his number. Fold the piece of paper, and write Sharon’s name.

  I hear her defending me, the man she rediscovered after her mother’s death. The real me, perhaps. Vulnerable and lonely and desperate, like any man. Charming and funny, too, she told me.

  And yet dropped by my friends and enemies alike. The day I stepped over the line, I didn’t even know my mind was going. I shot them dead, the four patched members, at their clubhouse. Then I sat in my car for ten minutes. Forgot where I was or what I was doing or had done. Then suddenly I was home, washing my hands in orange juice to remove the gunshot residue.

  I got away with it. But I’d crossed the line.

  Some lives take a tragic arc. Not my wife, who was loved. Not Sharon, who is successful. And who is loved.

  Not my sons, who have never risen above pitiable, despite the brave eyes and fierce words. I have known men just like them. The damaged majority.

  And me?

  Perhaps.

  I was a prince, privy to the ways and the means – the truth behind the charade. Feared when I wasn’t admired. Being admired was never enough.

  It was the stories and their telling that set me apart, to the select few. In bars and brothels and casinos.

  But never secret stories.

  Never.

  To the grave.

  Five minutes of lucidity.

  I should write that down.

  I hear Sharon defending me. I sense Greg lurking outside the door. The shadows of the marri tree, ghostly on the venetians. The wind in the eaves, a ghostly voice.

  My secrets.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I croak. Loud enough for Greg to hear, although he does not enter, or return to the others, to tell them that I’m awake.

  I sense him there.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say again.

  The lamplight, illuminating my old arm as I press home the plunger; the ghosts rising upon me as I fall.

  David Whish-Wilson

  I Hate Crime Fiction

  I was at my favourite diner, chowing down on a burger with my offsider, Jimmy, when I got a call about a murder. A big-time crime novelist, Miss Tory, had been shot in her hotel room. I polished off my burger in the car as we made for The Grand Incubus, keen to make good time. It was about 10am when I got the call and by 10.15 the hotel was swarming with fans, sticky beaks and the press. Some bellhop had tweeted the whole world before the first cops arrived.

  A constable showed us to the victim’s body. She was dressed in a nightie and dressing-gown (the victim, not the constable), seated at the desk, slumped over a laptop, exit wound in the back of the head. A funny thing for a crime novelist to be murdered, like she’d been tempting fate or something. Of course, this kind of hubris happened all the time in crime fiction, but in real life it was rare. And this is a true story.

  ‘I bet she ain’t wrote about this one,’ Jimmy joked.

  ‘But maybe she did, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘Maybe she did.’

  The dame was bent forward like she’d been propped there so the blood could saturate the keyboard. Like the killer was hoping to destroy whatever was on the computer. Had Miss Tory written something the crook was crook about?

  Me and Jimmy inspected the scene and got a picture of how it must have gone down. The door to her suite hadn’t been forced so we figured the murderer pulled a gun on her when she answered the door. He must have told her his big idea about wanting her to die at her desk, and when she protested, he shot her. Or maybe he was having trouble keeping her quiet so he shut her mouth with a bullet. Then again, maybe it was someone she knew – someone who didn’t need a gun to gain admittance. A jilted lover, perhaps, or maybe he had jilted her. Maybe she tried to shoot him, but he turned the gun on her by accident. Maybe she had a habit of inviting people to her room just so she could kill them. What a sicko.

  It seemed this case was far from open-and-shut, on account of my imagination. I had more imagination in my pinky finger than a dozen crime novelists mulched together in a big concrete blender. But I suppose that’s pretty obvious.

  Once we were done with the crime scene, we interviewed the neighbouring guests, as well as the bellhop who found the body. I yelled at her (the bellhop, not the body) for tweeting everyone.

  ‘This place is a damn circus!’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, Sir. But it’s such a crime what happened to Miss Story.’

  ‘What happened to Mystery?’

  ‘It’s such a crime!’

  ‘Not necessarily, lass. A mystery could be a thriller, a story of the supernatural or sci-fi. It doesn’t have to be crime fiction. I hate crime fiction. I don’t mean any disrespect to the dead, but the world’s hardly any worse off with one less crime writer, is it?’

  ‘Ouch!’

  Well, I ditched the conversation then. The kid wasn’t making any sense. Neither the bellhop nor the hotel guests had seen or heard anything. I figured the killer must have used a silencer rather than, say, a pillow. There were lots of feathers around Miss Story’s suite but we attributed that to her well-known thing for chickens.

  The manager showed us recent video surveillance footage. She set us up in a cosy room but we had hardly put our feet up before we spotted the killer – someone dressed as an old man with (blah blah).

  [I will omit the less-interesting particulars of this investigation. Readers of crime fiction would no doubt find them riveting but, as I have stated, this is a true story.]

  Having thus gained these valuable insights, we then started interviewing (blah blah). We got the staff of the hotel’s posh restaurant to assemble in the kitchen. They were a shady-looking bunch. It looked like a police line-up.

  ‘Everyone looks suspicious when you think about it,’ said the maître d’. ‘During the quieter periods, I occupy myself with sinister thoughts – just a game I play to while away the hours, but you get to wondering about the secret thoughts people are keeping. For example, I might be trying to will someone to stab their husband with a fork, but you’d never think it to look at me. I surprise myself sometimes with the horrors that fill my head, but that’s how you have to be when you’re a maître d’, always polite despite my disgust for the clientele. Take it from me – fancy restaurants are a breeding ground for murderers.’

  God, the dame could prattle on. Talk the ears off a brass turd. But I gave her my card and me and Jimmy continued our rounds.

  One of the maids said he saw the old man while he was walking along the passage away from the writer’s suite.

  ‘There was long auburn hair sticking out from under his wig,’ he said. ‘But it was definitely a man for I could see stubble on his cheek that wasn’t obscured by the fake beard. Judging by the lack of creases around his eyes he must have been under thirty. Oh, and he dropped this hanky.’

  The maid shoved the snot rag in my face. ‘It has blood on it. I think he had a blo
od nose.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that.’ I waved it aside. ‘Contact me when you find some real leads!’ Damn amateur detectives!

  We went back to the office to study up on Miss Tory and sift through case files. Later that day the girls at forensics got back to us. They’d analysed a strand of hair, a bit of dead skin (blah blah), managed to open the computer’s hard drive (blah blah).

  ‘The death of Miss Story’s a real mystery, boss,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘The Miss Story mystery.’

  ‘Jesus, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘Since when did you start stuttering?’

  It seemed the case was really getting to him. And he weren’t the only one. Cases like this really busted my balls. I was tired of the rigmarole but the tough ones still busted them big-time. Always the same routine: searching for clues, chasing leads (blah blah). I was so bored I started to wish it were me who copped the bullet. But I found consolation in the fact that it was a crime writer who’d copped it.

  Such were my feelings at the time – harsh sentiments maybe, and they came back to haunt me soon enough. Another crime novelist was killed, then another and another. Here was a killer who hated cri-fi almost as much as me. At least it cured Jimmy of his stuttering – well, reduced it, anyway. Yet you’d have to do a lot of killing to make a dint in the crime writing industry. Kill a few writers and you only gave the others more to write about. Make mincemeat of the whole industry and there’d be enough material for a dozen new publishing houses. Hundreds even. You’d have to make people afraid not only to write and publish it but to read it as well.

  That got me thinking there might be other crimes we could link to the killer – unsolved cases that didn’t seem to have a motive, like someone getting shot while reading a book, or for something less serious, like punching a part-time copy editor or perhaps even a florist who just happened to be a closet crime-fiction fan. But there was one hitch: if these crimes were meant to scare, the motive would have to be known. The public would need to know that all these crimes were happening because people actually read that crap.

  Me and Jimmy started making a list of likely victims. I rattled off a few from the top of my head: authors, readers, editors, publishers, printers, binders, paper suppliers, ink suppliers, computer manufacturers, book sellers, libraries and librarians, literary agents, publicists, critics and reviewers, book launch venues, book launch caterers, makers of wines, cheeses, crackers, olives and cocktail onions, plus anyone who might have helped or inspired an author, directly or indirectly.

  I looked to Jimmy for suggestions. But it seemed like there wasn’t much going on upstairs. ‘Going too fast for you, am I, Jimmy?’

  ‘No, boss. Me, I was just thinkin’ of someone else we could add.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me? Phooey! Open your eyes, Jimmy boy. This ain’t no fiction. Anyway, who told you you could think?’

  We could have thrown around hypotheses all night but it was time we got to studying the unsolved case files. It was a time-consuming business. There was no end to it, particularly since we knew this guy was good at disguises. It made no difference if we had a description of the offender. He could have been African or Chinese, young or old.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said to Jimmy. ‘This guy could be responsible for every unsolved case in the last ten years!’

  ‘What about this robbery of a convenience store?’

  ‘Ain’t you got no imagination? They always stock books. There would have been a few crime books for sure.’

  ‘What about this bike theft?’

  ‘Look where it was stolen from, Jimmy – a train station. The owner probably reads crime novels every time she rides a train.’

  ‘But that ain’t the type of crime that’s gonna make people afraid of buying books. Who’s gonna know?’

  ‘Jesus, Jimmy! That was just a hypothesis. Look at the facts. And who told you you could think?’

  Jimmy was getting on my nerves. Sometimes you had to wonder whose side he was on – the side of justice or the side of some lunatic trying to obliterate crime fiction from the face of the earth. Well, I was on the lunatic’s side on that score, but you can’t just go around committing felonies, justifiably or not. It ain’t legal.

  I took to the streets, leaving Jimmy crashed out on the office sofa. The night was dark and misty with rain but I didn’t mind – it was the perfect time for some quiet contemplation. With my trench coat collar turned up I dodged a flooded gutter or two then kicked a tin can for a spell, stopped beneath an awning and lit myself a fag. It was a lonely business, being a dick sometimes. Well, I was a dick all the time... What I mean is that it got lonely sometimes, or would have if not for Jimmy. Walking the streets at night was my only chance to escape.

  I quit the awning and wandered aimlessly. Soon I found myself in the vicinity of a familiar window, her window – my old flame. The light was on – entertaining guests, no doubt. That dame was trouble with a capital ‘T’. She made an hour-glass look pregnant. She had legs up to her armpits and beyond; it would take an entire hosiery factory, working in shifts, to fit them. And she had everyone in town after her. But I had no regrets. We had some fun times. It gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling (in my groin) just thinking about it. Yet now weren’t the time for thinking ’bout dames. Not while I was on a case. I doffed my hat and disappeared into the night.

  The next day me and Jimmy looked through some solved cases, being the last thing our killer would expect. It seemed that every crime had been committed by our man, especially when you considered that so many of his victims could have been closet readers. Hundreds of different crimes and hundreds of different felons – thousands, even. There was no way this one guy committed them all, but one thing was certain – I wasn’t ruling that out.

  I made a list of likely suspects and looked to Jimmy for suggestions but it seemed like there wasn’t much going on upstairs.

  ‘Too much for you to take in, hey, Jimmy?’

  ‘No, boss. I was just thinkin’ of someone else we could add.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You hate crime writers so much, maybe you killed Miss Story and the others. Maybe you’re behind the whole crime spree!’

  ‘You’re kidding! I didn’t kill her. I’m the sap spending all his time trying to catch the guy!’

  ‘But maybe that’s why we can’t find him – because you killed them and you don’t want no-one to know.’

  ‘What’s your angle, Jimmy? You gonna tell the Chief you think I’m the killer?’

  ‘Oh, no, boss. I wouldn’t tell her nothin’. I just thought since we was tryin’ to work out who did them killings—’

  ‘You thought it might help me solve the case if I suspected myself.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it, boss. That’s what I was thinkin’.’

  ‘Well, keep it to yourself, Jimmy-boy. If anyone else thought the same, it might hamper our investigation somewhat.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  That crazy kid. He had a point, though. I could have been a suspect. Half the force must have heard me mouthing off on how much I hated crime fiction. My motivation would have been the same as the killer’s. There were no signs he’d been personally wronged – he just hated that stuff too.

  Did I have alibis? Well, some murders had been committed while I was asleep, but people can do strange things when they sleepwalk. I wouldn’t hurt a flea when conscious but what about my unconscious? Was it capable of murder? Well, I wasn’t asleep during all the murders, but perhaps there was more than one killer. In any case, it was high time I saw a hypnotherapist and got to the bottom of it. Cases like this really busted my balls.

  But before I had a chance to make the appointment we got our first big break. We’d been going through
case files late one night when Jimmy popped out for a soft drink; when he came back he threw me a letter.

  ‘Must have been delivered late,’ he said. ‘Might be important.’

  It had my name on the envelope, spelt with letters cut out of newspapers. The note inside was likewise.

  I am the killer of crime novelists. It may interest you to know that among the many other crimes I have committed, I was recently convicted for indecent exposure at a book signing.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘It must have taken ages to cut out and stick down all them letters. He’d have to be unemployed or casually employed or else he’d never find the time – unless he shirks on other things, like doing laundry. My guess is that he works in a job where it don’t matter how much he stinks, like cleaning stables or selling real estate.’

  Meanwhile, Jimmy was fiddling with the envelope.

  ‘Get your head out of the clouds, Jimmy,’ I barked. ‘You’ve got to be on the ball if you want to get anywhere in this game!’

  ‘But boss. The killer put his name on the back of the envelope.’

  He handed it to me and there was the sender’s name, sure enough, written with the same cut-out lettering – Mr Iyhait Krymphixshon. It was surrounded with arrows pointing to it. ‘A queer name but it sounds legit,’ I said. ‘Who’d make up a name like Iyhait Krymphixshon?’

  I searched the files and sure enough he’d been convicted of half-a-dozen misdemeanours over the last few months, including the flashing incident. The reports said he had appeared increasingly agitated at each hearing and he always made a big issue of the wig and fake beard he wore. ‘I wear the same wig and beard for every crime I commit!’ he stated. There were photos of the wig and beard among the various photographed items of evidence, as well as photos of him wearing them.