Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  The woman in the picture was blond and pretty, with a round face and large blue eyes. Hannah guessed she was in her late twenties. Ben Podowski had his arm around her in the photo. They stood in front of a reservoir. Ben hadn’t aged much since the snapshot was taken. His golden hair was now a shade darker and not quite as curly.

  The girl in the photo was Rae Palmer. Ben said the picture was six years old. He’d taken it with a self-timer in Central Park one afternoon. It had been the last time he and Rae had seen each other.

  “I think I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I’ll be damned if I can figure out where.” Hannah handed the photograph back to Ben.

  They sat at a window table in an upscale bohemian coffeehouse called Victrola, down the block from Group Health Hospital. Ben had the folder open on the little cafe table between them.

  “Rae and I were together for eight years,” he explained, gazing at the photo with a trace of sadness in his eyes. He tucked the picture under the papers in his folder. “We started dating in college. She was a good person, very conscientious—socially and politically. She was arrested at least a dozen times while we were together—always some protest march or demonstration to help the downtrodden. She was a champion for the underdog. And underdog, underachiever describes me during my first few years out of college. Then I became an overachiever, and we didn’t really need each other so much anymore. Anyway, in a hundred words or less, that explains Rae’s and my relationship. We stayed friends after the breakup. In fact, since then, she never really got serious with anyone else.”

  Hannah stirred her latte. “Are you trying to tell me you’re irresistible?”

  With a strained smile, Ben shook his head. “No. I just want you to understand that we stayed friends. I felt responsible for her, and I know Rae pretty much considered me one of the most important people in her life—even after I got married, and she moved away.”

  Hannah shifted in her chair. “Are you still married?”

  “That’s a whole other story,” he replied, frowning. “Anyway, Rae and I kept in touch, mostly phone calls and e-mails.”

  “How did your wife feel about that?” Hannah asked.

  “Well, she didn’t feel threatened or anything,” Ben said, fingering the straw to his Italian soda. “It wasn’t as if Rae and I were corresponding every day. It was more like every few weeks. Rae had her own life in Seattle, working as a hotel events coordinator.” He took some of the papers from his folder. “Before I came here last month, I pulled some of her e-mails from my computer records and printed them out. I think you should see them.”

  Ben handed her a printout. He’d circled the date on top: 1/27/02. He’d also drawn brackets around the paragraph he wanted her to read:

  I met someone & I know you won’t approve, Ben, because he’s married & totally unavailable. I decided to take a film class last fall, & he’s the professor. His name is Paul Gulletti. I think every woman in the class has a crush on him. He’s very sexy & charismatic. We started dating in December. It was really sweet. He helped me pick out my Xmas tree & for my present, he gave me roses & we spent the night at a ski lodge. Very romantic. I’m trying not to get too serious, but I think I’m falling in love with him. Don’t be mad, Ben…

  Frowning, Hannah handed the piece of paper back to him. “Why did you think I’d be interested in this?” she asked. “I told you already that I’m not in any way involved with Paul Gulletti.”

  Ben gave her another printout. “Just keep reading, okay?”

  The date on the next e-mail was 4/16/02. Again, he’d marked the section he wanted her to see:

  You’ll be proud of me, because I told Paul I don’t want to see him anymore. In fact, I dropped out of his film class. It was kind of embarrassing. Everybody in the class knew we were seeing each other. Paul doesn’t want to let go, and we’ve had some fights. It’s weird. He keeps saying he’s going to leave his wife for me, but I’ve never asked him to. Anyway, you were right about him. It’s been rough, Ben. I hate the idea that I’ll be alone again…

  Hannah could tell this woman was still in love with Ben, from the way she kept seeking his approval.

  “I’m sorry.” Shrugging, Hannah set down the sheet of paper. “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

  Wordlessly, Ben gave her another e-mail to read. This one was dated 6/7/02:

  Someone keeps calling me & hanging up. I’m convinced it’s Paul. The breakup was so dragged out & I know he’s bitter. Then again, perhaps he has moved on. It’s been a while since we actually talked, so maybe it’s not him. Don’t think I’m paranoid, but someone has also been following me & watching me. I even caught a glimpse of this person videotaping me last week. That’s right, I have a stalker. For the last few years, ever since we broke up, Ben, I’ve always thought nobody cared enough about me. Now I have someone who cares too much. It’s very weird. I can’t prove it, but I have a feeling he’s been in my apartment…

  Neither Ben nor Hannah said a word. He just handed her the next e-mail, dated 6/19/02:

  I took your advice and changed my phone number. It’s been a major pain. I had to tell practically everyone I know about the new number, which, of course, defeats the purpose, especially if this stalker is someone I know. Anyway, the good news is that the calls and hang-ups have stopped.

  Now for the bad news. The strangest thing has happened & it has me very scared. I almost called you about it, but I feel funny calling, especially when I get Jennifer on the phone. She’s perfectly sweet, but I just feel strange.

  Anyway, last week someone broke into my car—in the parking garage at work. They didn’t take anything. They left something. It was a video of that old Hitchcock movie, Strangers on a Train. Have you seen it? I took the video home. It was set to start on this scene that takes place at an amusement park. There’s this boat ride to a little island. Robert Walker follows this pretty woman with glasses to this place & he strangles her. Her glasses fall off & we see her being murdered in the reflection of her glasses.

  I didn’t know what to think. I suspected Paul again, but now I’m not sure. I reported the break-in to the police. Since nothing was stolen & no damage was done to the car, they didn’t think much of it. Of course, it’s no help that they checked on me when I reported this. They mentioned that I’d been arrested four times in the last five years, twice for participating in antipolice demonstrations. I was like, “Well, duh!” Anyway, I guess I’m labeled a troublemaker and a kook. After a few days, nothing else happened & I managed to put it behind me. I’d nearly forgotten about it.

  Then, two days ago, a coworker at the hotel, Lily Abrams, didn’t show up for work. I didn’t give her absence much thought. I’ve never been too fond of her. She’s always been kind of snotty to me. But that doesn’t matter. I found out yesterday that she was murdered. Someone strangled her. They found her body floating in Lake Washington, right by a little patch of land called Foster Island. It’s part of a nature trail near the university district. Lily wore glasses. They found them right near the water’s edge.

  Do you see what happened? Lily got strangled on a little island, just like the woman in the movie. I tried to tell this to the police, and they’re acting like I’m crazy…

  Hannah set down the e-mail printout.

  Ben dug another sheet of paper from his folder. “One of the first things I did when I got to Seattle was go to the library and look up a few things. My wife kept saying Rae was making all this up so I would come out here, but Rae’s not that scheming. Still, I needed to make sure about what she was telling me.”

  Across the table, he slid a copy of a newspaper article, dated June 18. The headline read: “WOMAN FOUND STRANGLED IN ARBORETUM AREA.” There was a map of the nature trail near Seattle’s Arboretum, with an X marking off the tip of Foster Island. Beside it, a casual, blurry photo of Lily Abrams, a thin-faced brunette with glasses and a slightly impish smile.

  Hannah scanned the article, which revealed a bit of i
nside information that must have embarrassed the police. Among the baffled authorities, Lily Abrams had become known as “the Floating Flower.” The name, Lily, had something to do with that epithet, as did, apparently, the position of her body when it was discovered. Lily’s bracelet had gotten caught on some pilings in the shallow water off Foster Island, and she remained there, floating within a few feet of the shore, a floating flower.

  The article also revealed that Lily’s glasses were discovered on Foster Island, not far from the water. The police also found Lily’s purse inside her unlocked car, parked a block away from her apartment building in Seattle’s Eastlake neighborhood. They were examining the possibility that she’d been abducted there and taken to the Arboretum area, where she was strangled.

  “Did you hear about this case?” Ben asked.

  Hannah shook her head. “You’d think I would have.”

  “I looked at the articles. The press made a big thing out of that Floating Flower business. For a week, they made it out like another Black Dahlia case. Rae mentioned in one of her e-mails that the police must have written her off as one of the many nuts that were calling them with inside information about the Floating Flower. They basically blew her off. Anyway, they never solved the case.”

  Hannah set down the newspaper article, then sat back. “What happened to Rae?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m still trying to find out,” Ben replied. He gave her another document from his folder.

  Hannah stared at the e-mail printout, this one dated 8/3/02:

  Thanks again for calling me back the other night. I’m really sorry I woke up Jennifer. I totally forgot about the time difference. Anyway, thanks for caring, Ben.

  I took your advice & went out with Joe Blankenship again. So we’re kind of dating now. He’s a nice guy & so what if his kisses don’t send me to the moon? He really seems to care for me. Besides, I don’t want to be alone right now. This stalker person is back. I’ve seen him videotaping me again. I haven’t seen his face. He’s always too far away. I think I figured out what kind of car he drives—a wine-colored Volvo. He paid me a visit last night.

  The TV woke me up around one A.M. I got scared & grabbed this baseball bat I’ve been keeping near my bed lately. (OK, I know you’re thinking I’m a major loon, but having it there makes me feel safer.) Anyway, I recognized what was on TV before I even reached the living room. It’s one of your favorites, On the Waterfront. As soon as I realized no one was in the apartment, I figured out that the movie was cued at a scene near the beginning when the mobsters throw Eva Marie Saint’s brother off the roof & he’s killed. The character’s name was Joey.

  My Joe lives in a eleven-story apartment building, and I’m certain the same thing will happen to him. He thinks I’m imagining things or vying for more of his attention. He’s almost as bad as the police. He just won’t take me seriously.

  I went to Paul Gulletti, because I figure someone with a film background is behind all this. I confronted him, Ben. He tried to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about. But I could tell he was covering something up, or lying. Unfortunately, I can’t prove anything.

  Ben, I feel so helpless & scared…

  “She called me a few days later,” Ben said, sliding a copy of yet another newspaper article in front of Hannah. It was dated August 8. She glanced at the headline:

  SEATTLE MAN PLUMMETS TO HIS DEATH FROM HIGH-RISE

  Police Probe Rooftop Fall:

  Freak Accident or Suicide?

  Hannah skimmed over the article, which suggested that the victim, Joe Blankenship, had been indulging in some illegal substances at the time of his demise.

  “Did she try talking to the police again?” Hannah asked.

  “Yeah,” Ben said, frowning. “It was pointless.”

  Hannah imagined how the police must have reacted when Rae Palmer once again approached them saying this drug-induced freak accident had been forecast to her in a video.

  “This is the last e-mail,” Ben said, handing her another printout. It was dated 8/29/02:

  You haven’t returned my message from a couple of days ago. I hope I haven’t become a total pain, Ben. It’s just that I have no one else to turn to.

  I found another video, this one in my desk drawer at work. I don’t know how he got in there. This time the movie is Looking for Mr. Goodbar, and it was cued to start up near the very end, the scene where Tom Berenger is having sex with Diane Keaton & suddenly he pulls out a knife and stabs her to death.

  I know a woman named Diane who’s in payroll. But I don’t know her that well. Yet I feel I should warn her. It’s crazy. I don’t know why this is happening. I wonder who could be doing this & I keep coming back to my ex, Paul. But I can’t prove anything.

  Meanwhile, I know sometime soon some woman I know will be stabbed to death in bed.

  I wish I could just run away someplace. I know it’s a lot to ask, but could I come out there & stay with you for a while? Or maybe, better still, you could come out here? I could even put you & Jennifer up at the hotel, give you two a suite at a ridiculously low rate. In fact, I’d pay for you guys. I feel so alone, Ben.

  Anyway, please, think about it & get back to me.

  Hannah set down the e-mail sheet. Her eyes met Ben’s. “Did you find out the identity of this Goodbar victim?” she asked.

  He slowly shook his head. “I tried calling Rae afterward, but there was no answer. I kept trying—on and off—for over a week. Then I came out here.” He straightened the pile of papers and tucked them back inside the folder.

  “Can I see Rae’s picture again, please?” Hannah asked.

  Ben found the photo, then handed it to her.

  She studied Rae’s eyes. Weren’t they the same blue eyes with the dead stare in the Goodbar homage? It had been over two weeks since Hannah had seen the grisly video. She didn’t think she’d ever forget that woman’s face. Obviously, she had—for a while. But looking at Rae Palmer’s picture helped her remember.

  She handed the photo back to Ben. “Do you mind if we get out of here?” she asked quietly.

  “Not at all,” he said, leaving a tip on the table. “Are you okay?”

  “I just need some air,” she said, getting to her feet.

  Hannah headed for the door, with Ben right behind her.

  She’d been right earlier. She had indeed seen Rae Palmer before.

  She’d seen her die.

  Twelve

  He videotaped them sitting at the window table of the coffeeshop. Due to a reflection on the glass, he caught only a few, fleeting, usable close-ups of her with his zoom lens. Still, he knew he had some beautiful shots of Hannah in that twenty-five minutes of footage.

  He put his video camera away as he followed them out of the coffeeshop. He watched them through the trees. Walking side by side, the two of them looked like a couple of lovers. Even from across the street, he could see Hannah was smitten with Ben. The son of a bitch.

  Of course, he knew it would happen. Hell, he’d made it happen, orchestrating their every move. He was pulling the strings.

  Still, he’d expected more from his leading lady. He’d thought she would hold out a bit longer before succumbing to Ben’s charms. He was disappointed in her. Hannah still fascinated and aroused him, but she’d lost his respect.

  He’d been through this before with the others. Once a leading lady fell out of favor with him, he became all the more anxious to realize her death scene.

  Hannah’s demise had already been planned—down to the last detail. Now it was time to put the plan in motion.

  He stopped, and watched Ben and Hannah move on together.

  He smiled, even laughed a little to himself.

  Poor Hannah: so beautiful, so stupid.

  And doomed.

  “You never heard from Rae again after that last e-mail?” Hannah asked.

  “No,” Ben replied, walking alongside her. “Like I said, I wasn’t able to get ahold of her. I wish I’d come to
Seattle earlier, but I was having problems at work—and at home.” He sighed. “Anyway, I came out here the second week in September. But I think I may have been too late.”

  Hannah didn’t say anything.

  They were strolling down the sidewalk by a busy residential street across from Volunteer Park. Through the trees they could catch a peek at the park’s water tower, the art museum, conservatory, and a playground.

  Ben said that when he arrived in Seattle, one of the first things he did was go to the hotel where Rae worked. They hadn’t seen or heard from her in over a week. It was more of the same at Rae’s apartment building, where Ben interviewed her neighbor and the building manager. Rae seemed to have just disappeared.

  Ben knew Paul Gulletti reviewed movies for the local weekly. He tore Paul’s picture out of the paper and showed the photo to Rae’s coworkers and neighbors. Nearly all of them recognized Rae’s married boyfriend, but no one had seen him for months.

  Ben went to the police and reported Rae as a missing person. “It was incredibly unspectacular,” he told Hannah. “You’d think I was applying for a fishing license or something. I tried to tell this cop at the desk what had been happening to Rae the past few months, and he didn’t seem to give a crap. So I filled out a form, and gave them a photo of Rae which I really kind of cherished. The cop said they’d contact me if they came up with anything. In other words, Don’t call us, we’ll call you. And guess what? Big surprise, they haven’t called.”