The Craigslist Murders

by Brenda Cullerton

  “DON’T LOOK DOW(N)!”

  Her mind skittered around like a car on a patch of slick ice. The market had plunged 900 points overnight.

  Christ! she thought. It was bad enough being alone and broke. But being one among millions … Where the fuck was the comfort in that?

  Eyes pinned on phrases like “Uncertainty Spreads! Global Anxiety,” Charlotte blindly grabbed the checkbook next to the answering machine and flipped through the tidily written sum, in search of her balance. Balance? There was no balance. She was running on fumes. Drying off her sweaty palms on a paper napkin, she struggled halfheartedly to make sense of it all.

  Sure. There had been the collapse of Lehman Brothers and the fire sale at Merrill Lynch back in September. But neither had seemed to affect her clients. Subprime loans weren’t exactly an issue for people building $50,000 swimming pools for their puggles, either. As for Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac … “They sound like country western singers!” is all Rita had said.

  Hiding the checkbook under a pile of shelter magazines, Charlotte placed her palms on her temples and squeezed. Why, oh why, did the entire world have to panic and fall apart at the seams when she was scrambling so desperately to hold herself together and to fend off chaos? It was crazy.

  Turning the pages of the Business section, she did find an uncanny irony in the news about a Wall Street crash. When was it she had first started her own personal crusade “cleaning house”? Had the gods finally heard her? Were they wreaking their own vengeance up there in her kill zone on the Upper East Side? Perhaps New York’s trophy wives were about to become an even more endangered species.

  She actually chuckled before pressing Play. There were three hang-ups and a woman’s voice. It sounded tiny and distant.

  “Charlotte. This is Lola. We’ve been trying to get you for two days. Your mother’s had a series of small strokes. Call me in Alpine.”

  Charlotte hadn’t spoken to her mother’s housekeeper, Lola, in twenty years. They’d never liked each other. Even when she was a kid, the woman looked ancient—all hunched over and wrinkled. But maybe the strokes explained that strange moment when her mother had fumbled for words on her last visit? She shrugged. Not even strokes could excuse the cruelty of the gift. Charlotte began scratching at the bumps on her neck. The more she thought about her mother as an invalid, about taking care of her, about spending her own money (what money?) on nurses and doctors, the harder she scratched. In that last phone call, her mother had whined about feeling dizzy, light-headed.

  Reaching for the phone, she picked up the receiver and speed-dialed home. Home? she sneered. What home? The bumps had spread from her neck to her chest. The itching was intolerable. The press conference on the murders was still thirty minutes away.

  43

  Hunkering down in the house, Charlotte drank cup after cup of neat espresso. Philip had left another message. But she hadn’t returned his call. The Ativans had left a weird coppery taste in her mouth and her head felt leaden. When the newscaster on Channel 1 announced the beginning of the live press conference, she barely noticed when her Herend cup slipped from her fingers and crashed into pieces on the floor. Perched on the edge of her chair, she increased the volume and watched as the police commissioner took his place in front of a microphone. The mayor stood to his left along with several other men and a woman.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. Just a word of warning before I bring you up to date on our investigation. I will not be taking any questions until after I have finished speaking. So please, do not interrupt me.”

  “As you are no doubt aware, Mrs. Gina Craven survived a vicious attack in her Tribeca loft on Tuesday afternoon and is currently in intensive care at Beth Israel Hospital. Doctors believe that she will make a full recovery but that she is in no condition for police questioning at this time …”

  Charlotte could hear the buzz from reporters as the commissioner raised his hand for silence.

  “I can tell you, however, that she was able to share a few significant details about her alleged attacker. Described as a female—”

  An ear-splitting chorus of voices rose in the room as reporters leapt to their feet shouting, “Commissioner!” “Commissioner!”

  “Sit! Sit!” the commissioner said in the firm no-nonsense voice used by dog trainers.

  “Sit and I will finish. Otherwise …”

  The reporters sat.

  “As I was saying, the suspect is described as a Caucasian female with green eyes, between 5′ 7″ and 5′ 10″ tall and weighing approximately 130 pounds. She was last seen wearing black workout attire, a quilted black parka, a fur hat, and carrying a green yoga mat. A sketch of this suspect will be circulated around the city later this afternoon.”

  A reporter in the front row bolted to his feet.

  The commissioner’s command: “Heel, Ben, heel!” brought raucous laughter from the room. “What is it?”

  “Sorry, commissioner. But half the women in this town walk around in workout attire, carrying yoga mats. What about the kid? Wasn’t there a kid at the house?”

  “The victim’s son is four years old. He has just witnessed the attempted murder of his mother.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” came the flippant response from Ben Volpone. “But surely …”

  “When the child’s family determines that the he is ready to help, we will proceed. Next question,” the commissioner added, making a point of ignoring Ben’s wild arm-waving and nodding at a woman from the Times. “Go ahead, Jill.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d like to ask about the Craigslist connection. Was Mrs. Craven selling something?”

  “Yes, she had posted an ad for some Tiffany silver …”

  “Can you tell us anything about the other victims? Do you have specific evidence or proof that links them with Craigslist and the attack on Mrs. Webb?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation, Jill. So I’m not going to comment at length on that. Suffice it to say, there is a definite connection between Craigslist and the other murders. For more information, I’m sure the Post’s unnamed sources will be able to fill you in.”

  There were snorts of quiet laughter throughout the room.

  The mayor took the mic. “I would just like to add that I am certain members of the press,” he cast a laser-like stare at Ben Volpone, “will respect the family and the victim’s need for privacy at this time.”

  Eager to have the last word, Volpone leapt to his feet. “Sir, sir! Why wasn’t the public informed about the Craigslist connection, earlier? It might have saved …”

  “We had posted our own ad, Ben. We were monitoring the site.”

  “Still …”

  “No further questions,” the mayor said, turning to the commissioner and touching his arm.

  “I am sure you, Ben, join all of us in offering the family our heartfelt prayers for Mrs. Craven’s speedy recovery. Thank you.”

  The remote reporter, tweaking his earphone, nodded at the anchorwoman on the screen. “Well, Joan, as you’ve just seen … this is fairly astonishing news. Not just that there is a female serial killer loose on the streets of Manhattan, but that the killer is using a popular online shopping site to get into women’s homes.”

  “It certainly is, Richard. Let’s hope this reminds viewers to take extra special precautions when shopping or selling on the Internet. Just a quick question for you, Richard.”

  “Sure, Joan. Go ahead.”

  “Have you heard any talk down there about the housekeeper who called in with information after the killing of Amy Webb?”

  “No, Joan. There was nothing said here. Maybe the police are waiting to locate the suspect before releasing her information. I’ll try and follow up on that and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Richard,” said Joan, shifting to her left and addressing the camera. “And now we’re switching to our health correspondent for some alarming news about the silent symptoms of female heart attacks.”

  Charlo
tte pushed the Off button on her remote control. Her cell phone was vibrating. Reading the caller ID, she recognized Vicky and Phil’s home number. “No way!” she whispered as she stood up and walked towards her bedroom. “Shit!” she shouted. Hopping around on the balls of her feet, she looked down at the trickle of blood. There was a shard of Herend porcelain embedded in her right heel. Plucking it out from her flesh, she wiped away her tears as blood gushed all over the freshly washed floor.

  Twenty minutes later, her foot swathed in a homemade sock bandage, the phone vibrated again. It was her car service. Charlotte limped out of the apartment.

  44

  As the Town Car sped up the West Side Highway towards the hospital, she struggled to control her heart palpitations. She was having trouble breathing. Charlotte was used to instilling fear in others. This fear was different. It sat on her like a swelteringly hot and humid summer day, soaking into her pores and hanging heavy on her skin. It clutched her in the belly. The close call with Gina, the press conference, the news about her mother … It all seemed irrelevant, somehow. God! Where was Anna when she needed her?

  If her clients suddenly tightened their belts, Charlotte would be out of business. Between the anorexic five grand left in the Caymans account that Abe had opened for her and an exhausted credit line, she’d be bankrupt. Then what the hell would she do? Work as a cashier at D’Agostino? A sales clerk at Barnes & Noble? It was surreal, she thought, gazing out at the river traffic on the Hudson where nothing appeared to have changed.

  Unlike the day when the towers fell, this crash was invisible. You couldn’t see it. Or feel it or smell it. For a moment that felt as brief as a blink, she remembered those weeks after 9/11. The layers of soot and ash that lay like snow on the streets, that cushioned every footstep and created a world of startling soundlessness. There had been no traffic downtown. The normal noises of the city simply ceased to exist. No sirens or shouts, no trucks making deliveries or cabs, no horns. It was like some eerie homage to the dead, that stillness, the silence. As the car pulled up on the corner of West 180th and Broadway, Charlotte took a calming breath. It was sinister, this medieval, fortress-like building. Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn around? Breathe, Charlotte. Inhale, she murmured to herself. Standing still, she waited quietly until her heart slowed. Pulling her phone out from the pocket of her Burberry jacket, she speed-dialed Dr. Greene. Expecting a machine, his voice surprised her and she hung up. As the revolving doors whisked her into the lobby, she headed towards an empty elevator.

  After a talk with the nurses in the corridor, Charlotte stepped towards the door of her mother’s private room. The nurses had informed her that the strokes had started months earlier, and that they had affected her memory. “The beginnings of a mild dementia, dear,” they said. “But rehab can work miracles. So we’ll just have to wait and see.” Charlotte opened and quietly closed the door behind her. Nothing prepared her for the sight of the shrunken husk that lay on the clean white bed. Everything about her mother had been diminished. This beautiful, untouchable woman in whose shadow Charlotte had struggled to breathe for so many years, to find light, to feel love, was gone. The right side of her mouth and one eye were drooping. The impeccably maintained head of hair was knotted and greasy. She was almost unrecognizable.

  “Hello, Mother,” Charlotte whispered. The baleful stare only made Charlotte smile. “How are you feeling?” Dumping her coat on a chair, she kept one hand on the doorknob and sat down.

  The woman in the bed made a feeble attempt to turn her head as Charlotte resumed speaking, making no effort to approach her.

  “You know, I came up here with the idea of hurting you, she whispered. “Physically, I mean. But I don’t really see how I could inflict much more damage than this, do you?” Pulling out her silver compact from her bag, Charlotte took three steps towards the bed and placed the mirror directly in front of her mother’s one good eye. Her left hand flailed around beneath the sheet as she moaned.

  “Ugly and useless, Mother. Do you remember telling me that? And do you remember sending me that lovely gift?” she asked, retreating back to the chair near the door. The only response was a blank stare.

  Arranging her coat so it hung neatly in the chair back behind her, Charlotte crossed her knees and began to talk. “Do you know there was a time when I loved you, Mother? When I wanted to grow up and be just like you? I wanted pretty clothes and a pretty house.”

  As Charlotte moved into the rhythm of her words, her eyes wandered towards the window and her voice assumed a dreamlike tone. A heavy sigh from her mother interrupted her.

  “Am I boring you, Mother?” she said. “Because this is when the story gets interesting. Anyway, as it turns out, I grew up to be just like you. I learned to smile, Mother. I acquired style. Great style. And now there are just a few minor differences between the two of us.”

  Digging down into her bag, Charlotte removed the Post and set it on her lap.

  “For instance, I decided to do something with my anger, Mother. To make the world a better place! So I’ve been getting rid of women like you. Women with a social conscience, social being the operative word. Ah! I see you’ve opened your eyes. But you can’t read, can you? I’ll help you.” Pointing to the headline, Charlotte read the words “The Craigslist Murders” out loud.

  Then her eyes drifted back towards the window and she spoke, almost wistfully. “You can’t imagine how it feels, Mother. It’s like soaring, flying, that moment when the poker hits flesh. I’m so alive, so connected to these women. Even my pores feel as if they’re absorbing their life force. I’m releasing them, you see? That’s what they don’t understand. They should be grateful to me.”

  Seeing her mother’s scrawny fingers fumbling towards the call button, Charlotte just smiled.

  “I made a mistake, this time. I left a woman alive. The papers call her a victim. But she isn’t a victim, Mother. She’s a predator. Just like all the other women I’ve released from their misery. Women, like you, who know the price of everything but the cost of nothing. You and all your exquisite beautiful things,” Charlotte whispered. “Everything you touch is precious. But you live in emotional squalor. Are you listening, Mother?”

  Her mother was watching Charlotte’s every move with one good eye and fidgeting around with her fingers.

  “Just the thought of you living in such pain gives me pleasure, Mother. Because you don’t deserve to die. Letting you live is a perfect punishment.”

  Hearing a discreet tap on the door, Charlotte turned around, and gave the nurse her most radiant smile.

  “Oh nurse. I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “My mother can’t seem to stop crying.”

  “Don’t worry about it too much,” the nurse replied. “Stroke victims often cry.”

  “Oh! What a relief, nurse. I’ve been sitting here talking about my favorite childhood memories, hoping they might cheer her up.”

  “Has she been angry, too?” the nurse asked, patting Charlotte’s mother on the hand. “Anger is also very common after strokes.”

  Charlotte gave her mother a saintly smile. “My mother’s never angry, nurse. That’s what makes her so easy to love,” she said, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

  “I have to leave now, unfortunately. But I’ll be back up, tomorrow, Mother,” Charlotte said, giving her a sympathetic nod and strolling towards the door.

  “We’ll take very good care of her tonight, I promise,” the nurse said, straightening out the tangle of sheets.

  Thanking her for her patience, Charlotte calmly walked out into the corridor and sighed. She would go home, pack a bag, and take a train somewhere. Anywhere. She needed time to plan her next move. As the elevator doors whooshed close, the nurse scurried down the corridor. “Miss! Your coat! You forgot your coat!”

  45

  Christ, she was uncomfortable. The metal springs in the cab seat were poking through the leather. She could barely sit still. Fiddling with her seatbelt, she leaned forward and order
ed the driver to get off the West Side Highway. It was cold out. And she’d forgotten her goddamn coat. Christ! And her cell phone. How could there be so much traffic at this hour? These people were supposed to be leaving, not coming into town. The driver was praying or something. They just sat there, going nowhere.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and tried to sing. The notes stuck like dry cotton in her throat. The horns, the stopping and starting, were driving her crazy. Glancing at her watch as the cab snaked its way past a bus on 34th Street and turned down 9th Avenue, she wondered if police had circulated the sketch of the attacker. And what about the calls from Philip? He knew. She was sure he knew. But had he called the cops?

  Looking impatiently out the window, Charlotte unbuckled her belt and told the driver to stop. He’d turned off 9th Avenue and made it down to 7th and Carmine Street. The Holland Tunnel was slowing them down again. She’d power walk the rest of the way.

  The accident happened so fast, she had no time to react. She heard the shriek of horns before the thud. Her head crashed up against the partition and she blacked out. When she opened her eyes, her vision was fuzzy, smeared like a windshield pelted by rain. Rubbing her eyes, she saw the blue cloth of his uniform first.

  “Miss, miss,” he said, sticking his head through the passenger window. “Are you alright? Can you hear me?” Deliberately pushing her hair in front of her face, she nodded.

  “I’m fine, officer. A little shook up but fine.”

  “An ambulance is on the way. Just sit tight.”

  Feeling gingerly around beneath her hair with her fingertips, she winced. The bump was enormous. It was bleeding. She could hear the shrill whine of an ambulance in the distance. She had to move, quickly. The cabbies were screeching at one another in Urdu when the punching started and the cop edged his way towards the curb. Charlotte slid slowly across the seat. If she could only get out of the cab, the crowd would swallow her. She could disappear. Her stomach was churning. Just as she pulled the door handle, the cop turned around and stared at her. He squinted. She gave him a weak smile and waved. When he turned his back on her, Charlotte calmly opened the door and walked into the crowd.