After The Flesh

by Colin Gallant

  I bought a good camera with a big lens and I wanted to catch him in the act. I wanted something on him but I never got it. By ’97 he was too good. The Impala stood out. I could spot it across a crowded parking lot or in creeping traffic half a mile away. His new 4x4 blended in and disappeared. It was one of thousands like it on city streets. He blended in. He faded away. Then one day I came home and found my camera on the utility-sized wire spool I was using as a coffee table. Freddy had found it somehow. To describe it as dismantled would not give what he did to it justice. I didn’t even think he knew where I lived.

  I bought the camera and I lost it. I should have bought a car. But I still didn’t like driving. Being behind the wheel still scared me for some reason. No matter – by ’97 I knew just about every pathway, pedestrian overpass and back alley in the northwest and I was quickly learning the rest of the city. On a bike I could get across town in frightening time. I was in remarkably good shape for someone who smoked as much as I did. Still, the bike was only good until the snow fell.

  And it was the snow – or rather the cold – that Freddy’s plan relied on. Jack Frost needed the chill. It covered his ass. Over the short term – the first forty-eight hours I think he said, it could have been twenty-four but whatever – forensic investigators use liver temperature to assist in pin-pointing the time of death. As the timeline progresses, the rate of decomposition is well documented, factoring in climate, humidity and season. In the first day or two they can peg the time within about fifteen minutes if the variables haven’t changed. In the first week they can give you a rough time of day – call it six to ten hours. After a week they can still peg the date with an astounding degree of accuracy.

  Freddy’s bleach destroyed oils on the skin. It degraded the DNA in hair, skin cells and in semen and blood to the point where it was unsalvageable. His presence was gone but the timeline remained. It was the cold that did it. Freddy shut off the heat and let the winter chill in, colder than an industrial freezer. The cold threw the timeline right out the window. The cold brought the body temperature down too quickly. Once body temp was ambient the timeline switched to decomposition. But decomp only worked if you let it. The cold preserved the body, killing or slowing the bacteria that would normally go to work on the soft tissues. The bleach would take care of the rest.

  He gave me the quick version of it. He knew about the different kinds of bacteria. He knew about insects and acids and the effects of humidity. He knew he could disrupt the timeline enough to create what he called a web of alibis that would place him anywhere and everywhere except at the scene of the crime. Those alibis were his master stroke. The alibis and his nearly anal cleanliness.

  During one murder – or sacrifice if you prefer his lingo – Freddy actually left his victim unconscious, bound and gagged, while he met friends for dinner two kilometers away. He traveled back and forth four or five times throughout the evening and no one was the wiser. He finished dinner, went and cleaned the scene and returned in time for dessert. He even managed to pick up their waitress and spend the night with her.

  He was taking no mementos, no trophies or souvenirs. The blood was everything and as his body count grew, he stopped taking even that. He preferred it fresh as it flowed. He knew about anti-coagulants but even if he could get some it wouldn’t be the same. By this time the blood alone was the TV dinner and I don’t think he would ever settle for that again. He would sooner go hungry.

  But if he was to be safe, he needed to stick to the timeline – Tim’s notion of a four-year plan. No more, no less. Only later could he change. Until then he was constrained by the seasons.

  Ch11. Bear-Baiting and the Hedonist at Large

  Bear-Baiting and The Hedonist at Large

  Freddy received his first scare in late March or early April of 1998. It was a Saturday morning and he was packing to head home to visit his mother. If he had packed the night before he would already be on the road. But the night before he was busy. He was busy with his eleventh victim.

  The knock came at ten after nine. Freddy was standing in the living room, staring at two duffle bags and a suit bag and running through a mental checklist. He was trying to avoid missing anything. With his growth in income so too had his fashion sense grown. He was on the vanguard of the pea coat revival and he had four leather jackets and five suits. He had fifteen pairs of shoes – not including sandals and runners – and he owned three pairs of fine leather gloves that had cost nearly two hundred dollars each. With that new fashion sense came indecision. He was trying to decide what would unintentionally impress his mother the most.

  The knock at the door banished any thoughts of what pants went best with what shirt. For an hour he could think no tangents. He recognized the cop even if he was out of uniform. He was heavier and a little frayed around the edges but Freddy was never one to forget faces. There was also an odor floating around him his heavy cologne could not completely mask. Freddy called it the Saturday morning afterglow, an aroma he used to be able to smell on his father at least three days a week. The neat new Buxton fold and the gold-embossed crown and circle of leaves it contained explained the lack of uniform if nothing else.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cartwright,” he slipped the id. back into a coat pocket. Freddy caught a flash of cobalt blue and knew he was still armed.

  Freddy managed to smile happily. “Someone’s moving up in the world,” he commented. “Inspector … Sobeleski? Congrats.”

  “I guess you remember me.”

  Freddy’s smile faded. “You know, I called a half dozen times about Angie. They always gave me the runaround.” He was winging it, making it up a half-second before he said it. He was conscious of his own eyes and just as conscious of his posture. Every part of him needed to jive.

  “Sorry, sir,” Sobeleski said, “this sicko has kept up pretty busy.”

  Freddy waved it off. He nodded. “So, it is one guy. I thought so. The papers have been pretty vague.”

  The cop nodded. It was a near match of Freddy’s down to the slight tensing at the edges of his mouth. “We have to hold things back.”

  “I get it. It’s okay. But when you get him, do I still get my five minutes?” Freddy knew it was in bad taste and he expected the dark look.

  He got the dark look but it wasn't directed at him. I think the cop was no longer quite as young. He turned his attention to Freddy and grunted. “I think when we get him you just might have to wait in line.”

  Freddy read too far into that and he did not like the implications. Sobeleski knew something – or he thought he knew something. Freddy was pretty sure it was still cerebral but he couldn’t be positive. No, the cop was definitely not as young. “Are you here about Angie or about all of them?” He asked finally. He zipped up his duffels while they spoke and moved them to the front door.

  Sobeleski ignored the question and gestured with his pen at the bags. “You don’t have a flight to catch, do you? I don’t want to keep you.”

  Freddy shook his head. “No, just heading back home for the week.”

  “Spring break with the family?”

  Freddy breathed laughter. “I’m not much into that whole spring break thing.”

  “I would have thought it was right up your alley.”

  Freddy stiffened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Sobeleski waved it off. “Sorry, Mr. Cartwright. I just say it because last time we spoke you described your lifestyle as being … casual.”

  Freddy let his eyes cloud with a dark, angry glower. It was not his look but only the tailing of it. He felt a moment of delight when the cop took an involuntary step backward. “You are here for a reason, I assume.”

  “I’m sorry – I truly am,” Sobeleski told him. He paced the living room. His eyes roamed as they had before. The house was immaculate, the bird’s eye maple flooring nearly glistening. It had snowed outside during the night and just as quickly melted with the morning sun. The cop’s boots were leaving dirty puddles on the floor. Freddy
bit his tongue.

  “So, what is it you would like from me?” Freddy asked. He was conscious of time slipping by, of the mess the cop was making on his clean floor and deathly aware of the two garbage bags sitting in the back of his sensible, nondescript SUV out in the garage. Sobeleski was letting him stew, seeing if he would slip up. Freddy was thinking back. He was trying to recall some detail he had missed – a spot of blood, a fingerprint or a tire tread in the snow. The tire tread thing was special, another red herring like the locked doors. He bought generic Moto-Master brand tires, the same tires as ten thousand other light trucks and SUV’s around town. But Freddy shimmed the upper control arm on his driver’s side when he went out for one of his sacrifices. It gave any tread marks he left a distinct pattern. It made it look like his alignment was out.

  One in ten thousand or so made any evidence circumstantial at best but a distinct pattern that was lacking on his vehicle when he didn’t want it was genius. But for a moment Freddy couldn’t recall whether or not he had pulled the shims out when he got home the previous night. It had been late, after midnight and he was tired. Was he going to get caught because he was over-thinking it? Had he out-smarted himself?

  “This is just routine,” Sobeleski went on. He tried the Columbo angle. “Actually, we’re a little stumped. To be honest we don’t really have any leads. I’m just going back, seeing if there’s anything I missed the first time around.” As he spoke his eyes roamed over Freddy’s new house. It was just as immaculate as the apartment if not more so.

  Freddy wasn’t fooled for a second. It was the cleanliness Sobeleski remembered, an anal-retentiveness to detail which linked every crime scene. He closed his eyes and groaned. In a minute the cop would notice what he was doing to the floor – as if he hadn’t known all along. He would stop pacing. He would dance from foot to foot. Oh geeze, would ya look at ‘dat! I’m such a klutz! The coat was close. The only things missing were the cigar and the Peugeot convertible.

  But Sobeleski never took notice of the floor. He was busy noticing everything else. “You knew Angie Cross, right?” He asked.

  Freddy nodded.

  “And you knew Susan Emery?”

  “I never said that,” Freddy replied. He saw the cop’s eyes narrow slightly but the look was meaningless to him. “But I guess I kinda knew her. Or I knew who she was. She must have made me a thousand cappuccinos.”

  “Did you date her?”

  Freddy shook his head. His expression became distant and both sad and thoughtful. He crossed his arms, scratched his elbow and sighed. “I didn’t even know her last name until I read it in the paper.”

  Sobeleski watched him for fifteen seconds without blinking. That narrowing of his eyes remained. “Did you know any of the other victims?”

  Freddy Seemed to take a moment. “One or two I might have recognized from around school but I don’t think I ever talked to them.”

  “I see.” He made a note in his little book.

  “Do you think you’re gonna get this guy?” Freddy asked suddenly in a small voice.

  Constable-Inspector Sobeleski huffed. The muscle in his softening jaw line bunched. “We always get our man.”

  Freddy chuckled humorlessly. “I thought that was the Mounties.”

  “The Mounties are good – I’ll give ‘em that.” Sobeleski flipped his notebook closed and made it disappear. He stepped back to the front entrance. He was finished making a mess. At the door he paused and met Freddy’s faux-hopefulness with a look of such resolve it nearly made him crack up. “But we’re better.”

  Freddy had his doubts.

  -

  Maggie and Tim came up to Calgary for Freddy’s graduation in May of 1999. He never told them he bought the house. He never told them he was now in the black for something like three quarters of a million dollars. They knew he had made a little cash from the Bre-X affair but I don’t think they ever suspected it was so much.

  Freddy paid his mother back the money she had given him for school against her protests. He had done that back when he cashed in his stocks. Maggie knew his scholarships would run out with his bachelor’s degree. She kept the money and had more put aside. She and Tim were prepared to pay for his master’s program and PhD if he went that far. It was supposed to be his graduation present. It was supposed to be a surprise.

  Freddy had a surprise of his own. His mother and step-father arrived on the eighth of May. His graduation was on the fourteenth. They were prepared to stay in a hotel for the week but Freddy told them he had a spare room. He told them he had a whole house to himself now and they could stay as long as they wanted. They would have the week together. His classes were winding down and he only had one exam he needed to study for.

  Freddy had always been a neat child, even as a teenager. But I’m sure Maggie had preconceptions of how her son lived. I’m sure she imagined some rat-trap of a place with creaking floors, leaking pipes and blistering plaster. She was prepared to endure certain things but I doubt she was ready to slum it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they held onto their hotel reservation just in case.

  The house had been built in 1958. This was a period of slow growth around town and the houses that were built then were built solidly. The house had been wonderfully maintained but it had never been updated. The bones were there. The bones were good. Only the skin had begun to sag. The first summer after he bought it Freddy had the house gutted down to the bare studs. It was rewired and re-plumbed. New drywall replaced the old lathe and plaster. New fixtures, new cabinetry and new appliances followed. Both bathrooms still had the original cast iron claw-foot tubs and they were in excellent shape. Freddy wanted to save those because he liked the style. He was going for a certain look, a kind of contemporary meets art deco. Between the bathtubs and some new tile and millwork he was pretty much there.

  Under two layers of linoleum and ages-old carpet the original subfloor was plank oak. The boards were most of an inch thick and still as tight as the staves in a wine barrel. The oak could have been refinished but Freddy wanted maple. He wanted bird’s eye maple to be precise. Nancy Hicks had it in her bedroom and there was just something about it that Freddy always loved. When his mind wandered his eyes would seek out patterns in the wood. He told me once the patterns soothed him and I think it helped him control the ever-present turmoil just beneath the surface. The maple was that important to him and he willingly paid the thirteen dollars per square foot to get it.

  Interior, exterior with stucco and new windows, a new roof and garage door with electric opener – it was all done by the first week in September of 1997. The contractors Freddy found were good. They finished the house on time and on budget. On the final day Freddy showed up with a dozen pizzas and three flats of beer. He watched them eat and drink while nursing a beer himself. He always liked to watch.

  The full expense was something more than fifty thousand dollars. Freddy paid cash and never looked back. Only once, a year later, did he need to call the contractors back. A tile in the second bathroom had worked itself loose. The tile-setter who came remembered the house and he remembered Freddy and the little get-together he threw after the job was finished. He fixed the loose tile and then went through the whole house. He spent four hours on what could have been a half-hour, two-hundred-dollar fix. He did it for free because Freddy was such a nice guy.

  Freddy liked his house. He liked its fresh, clean lines and the way the wood and stone seemed to shimmer hours after it had all been scrubbed. He liked how the breakers never tripped and the hot water was always hot. If he was capable of love, I think he would have loved his house. He had been holding onto the secret for two years now and he was feeling nearly giddy about finally showing it off.

  He waited in the living room; his notes arranged on the coffee table in front of him. Maggie said they would be there at four and Tim was never late. Tim was never early either. He had been known to park up the street and wait five minutes. Freddy knew when the clock on the microwave read four t
he doorbell would ring.

  At about five to four he stopped looking at his notes. He sat in the living room, a can of Pepsi near at hand and let his mind wander. In his vision, without a focal point, the floor became a field, vaguely cinnamon in color with a thousand-thousand points of darkness spread across it. It was a negative of the night sky shimmering under seven coats of Varathane like a honey drizzled confectionary. He could stare at it for hours. There was life in the wood. And history. The wood had power.

  Impulsively he lay down and pressed an ear to the floor. He thought he might be able to hear something, a hum, a buzz. Something. So many years of life had gone into this thing for him to walk on and look on – too many years for it to be nothing. He thought perhaps his own sacrifices were like the wood, made something else by the hand of something greater.

  As he lay there, he became aware of a sound, the moan and crash of surf. It was not the floor or the life it held. It was his own sound, coming from inside him. Freddy could hear the rush of his own blood as it flowed through him, the sigh of his own breath in the honeycomb of his lungs. He listened to his muscles bunch and shift beneath his skin and it made him think of killing. It was a sense of greater alertness, of becoming fully and completely aware. That awareness only came in the near proximity of death.

  The doorbell rang then and Freddy’s attention snapped back into tight focus. His senses swam away on him, leaving him normal, only human. He immediately became aware of his erection, a turgid brand against his thigh. An erection like that would be slow leaving him without assistance. He considered untucking his shirt but if he did, he would look unkempt. He settled on tucking his erection upright in his belt. It felt awkward but it worked.