Fit to kill

by James Heneghan

  Percy stared at her. “You’re kidding!”

  “Them’s the numbers,” said Ozeroff.

  “What’s the next highest?” asked Percy.

  “Europe’s a distant second with about twenty percent.”

  “How many in Canada?”

  “We don’t even rate.”

  “Keep the material,” Percy said. “Might be useful later.”

  Wexler appeared to be asleep.

  Casey crept out the door. Nobody noticed him leave.

  He had felt stiff all weekend. His arms, shoulders and legs felt like they’d been beaten with a shillelagh. But his new diet of fruit and rabbit food seemed bearable. For now anyway.

  By Monday evening the aches and pains had subsided. He was determined get himself in better shape. Impressing Emma Shaughnessy had nothing to do with it, of course. It was just…well, it was important for a guy to keep fit.

  The gym was busy. He looked for Emma. She wasn’t there. He worked out for almost an hour. He was ready to go home when Pope barred his way, a grin on his face and his enormous eyes staring.

  “Glad to see you, Casey. Come and meet Harry Fuerbach.” He pushed Casey lightly by the elbow, steering him over to a bearded forty-year-old who was wiping sweat from his face with a scrap of towel. “Harry, this is Casey. Writes for the West End Clarion. You must’ve read his stuff.”

  Fuerbach stuck out his hand. “Sure have. Sebastian Casey, right? Are you writing an expose of the fitness center?”

  Fuerbach had a high, fluting voice and an iron grip. His beard was small, neat and starting to gray.

  “No,” said Casey. “Just trying to work on this spare tire of mine.”

  Fuerbach laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

  Casey stared. Fuerbach’s belly was flat.

  Pope said, “Harry’s a psychiatrist. We were talking about the West End killer. Harry thinks he was probably abused or neglected as a child.”

  “Or it could simply be an insecure home life,” said Fuerbach. “The dad leaving, something like that.”

  “Lots of dads leave,” said Casey, “but their kids don’t turn into killers.”

  “Right. But killers like this one generally have additional, psychological, motives for their crimes. Sado-sexual overtones. And they also exhibit strong compulsive behaviors.”

  Pope laughed. “Would you call my behavior compulsive, working out in this place, same time every day for the past fifteen years?”

  Fuerbach smiled. “Would you call it compulsive, Pope?”

  Pope said, “They’re all the same, these shrinks-always answer a question with a question.” He turned to a young woman who was passing behind him. “Lucy, meet Sebastian Casey, reporter with the West End Clarion.” He turned back to Casey. “Lucy runs the aerobics classes here at the center.”

  “Hi, Sebastian,” said Lucy with a friendly smile.

  “Casey,” said Casey.

  Fuerbach moved off.

  Lucy looked to be in her early twenties, with brown hair streaked with blond highlights and tied back in a ponytail. Brown eyes. Tight young figure in black Lycra.

  “You’re welcome to sign up for any of my classes, Casey,” she said, smiling as she moved away. “Times are posted downstairs.”

  “Pretty girl,” said Pope, watching her go. “Wish I were forty years younger.” He laughed. “You married, Casey?”

  “Nope. You?”

  Pope grinned, and his wet eyes flashed like jellyfish behind the heavy spectacles.

  “Never got around to it. Bachelor all m’life.” He paused. “So far, that is.” He laughed again and moved away to load weights onto a barbell.

  Shaughnessy was a no-show. Casey felt a sharp disappointment. He stood, wiping his neck with his towel. He could hear Fuerbach asking Doc about the difficulty of cutting off a woman’s head. Casey missed the surgeon’s answer when their voices were drowned out by the loud music and the noise of clanging weights.

  He walked home in the rain.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 15

  On Wednesday it rained all day. In the evening Casey slogged home through the downpour, waited for the elevator, changed his mind and climbed up the stairs to his apartment. He hung up his raincoat to dry in the bathroom. Then he changed into his sweats. Before he could get too comfortable and change his mind, he set off into the rain again, heading for the gym.

  He was beginning to recognize many of the faces. Regulars. He said hello to those he knew but avoided talk by making straight for the crowded free-weights area, where everyone grunted and sweated. Where there was no time or space for idle chatterers.

  He worked out for an hour.

  Emma Shaughnessy did not appear.

  He walked home in the rain.

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16

  On Thursday morning, Matty Kayle decided to boil herself an egg for breakfast.

  She hadn’t had one all week, not since last Thursday, when she’d read of the murdered woman in the paper and Albert had been sarcastic with her as usual. And she had wondered what life would be like without him.

  A skunk had been poking about in the backyard during the night. She quite liked the smell, in small amounts, for it evoked pleasant memories of her childhood in this place. There were many skunks about then. Raccoons too. And coyotes hunting for voles and squirrels.

  It would be so nice if she had a small dog.

  Albert was having his usual bowl of cereal more or less silently behind his Globe and Mail. Perhaps he would like an egg too.

  She hadn’t cooked breakfast for him for- well, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything other than cereal.

  “Would you like a dog?”

  She hadn’t meant to say dog. She had meant to say boiled egg, not dog.

  He lowered his paper and looked at her as though she was mad. “What did you say?”

  Matty blushed. “I meant to say boiled egg. Would you like a boiled egg?”

  “You know I don’t eat boiled eggs. Nor boiled dogs either.” He shook his paper and glared at her.

  She carried her egg and toast to the table and sat down. She couldn’t see Albert because of the paper. Afghanistan on the front page. It was in the papers all the time. Iraq too. She could never remember the difference between the two countries. Mrs. Prendergast, who now lived in a low-rise on Chilco but used to live next door in the high-rise building, and with whom she sometimes chatted if they ran into each other shopping at the SuperValu, said that one country was as bad as the other. She had no sympathy for either of them, she said. They were all a bunch of terrorists. Matty was sure Mrs. Prendergast must be right, for she had spent two years at university.

  “What’s the latest news from Ghanistan?” she said brightly to the newspaper wall in front of her.

  Albert lowered the paper and stared at her.

  She smiled wanly at her husband’s face, already sorry that she’d opened her mouth. Knowing she’d said something wrong. But the drive for some human contact, no matter how minimal, was so often her undoing.

  His pink wet lips pursed disapprovingly. “Ghanistan? Do you mean Afghanistan?”

  “What did I say?”

  “Ghanistan. You said Ghanistan.”

  “Same thing.”

  Albert’s upper lip curled in contempt before his face disappeared behind the paper.

  A wave of dizziness came over her. She wanted to kill him. Her heart missed a beat. The spoon fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

  The dizziness passed, and suddenly it all seemed so simple. She would kill him.

  That was it.

  She would kill Albert.

  Later, at ten, she slipped into her warm blue wool sweater and navy coat and set off briskly for the library with her Harlequins in her shopping bag. The rain was holding off, but not for long, she thought. She eyed the heavy black clouds massing over the mountains. Unless she was prepared to work in the rain, she would have to put the dahlias off for another day.

&nbs
p; She returned her Harlequins to the library and, after much searching, checked out only one book: The Oxford Book of Poisons.

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 19

  Roy Wakabayashi was due to pick up his wife Corinne from the West End Fitness Center at 10:15 PM and already it was 10:05. He would have to hurry.

  Before the West End killer, Corinne had always walked to and from the gym alone. But not now. As far as his wife’s safety was concerned, Roy took no chances. A Vancouver police officer with five years’ service, he was more aware than most of the crime and violence in the city. He had to deal with it every day. Since the West End murder, Roy had been driving Corinne to the gym and picking her up when she was through.

  He made it on time. When he saw her hurrying toward the car, it always made him feel glad to see her, even after a short absence. She was slight and dark, with a heart-shaped face and shining eyes. She was so beautiful. She always had a smile for him that made his heart beat faster. She slid into the car, and they kissed affectionately before heading home.

  Home was a one-bedroom apartment on Broughton, in the West End. Married for three years, they were saving for a down payment on their own home. He drove into the underground garage and parked. He held his wife’s hand in the elevator up to the tenth floor. At the door of their apartment, he kissed her and nuzzled her neck and stroked her damp back.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “I know.”

  He led her into the bedroom.

  Afterward he made tea while she showered- she didn’t like showering at the center. Then he got ready for work. He was on the night shift, which meant leaving at 11:00 PM. Tonight he would be going to work with a smile on his face.

  Corinne saw him off at the door. Dressed in pj’s, smelling of soap, her eyes shining at him. God! He wanted to make love to her again. Instead he kissed her twice and waved to her from the elevator.

  She closed and locked the door.

  At 11:20, just as she was about to go to bed, her apartment buzzer rang.

  “Pizza delivery.”

  “I didn’t order pizza.” She hung up the phone.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on her door. She stood on her toes and put an eye up against the peephole. A man with a pizza box stood outside in the hallway. He wore a white coat that read Luigi’s Pizza.

  “Go away,” Corinne called through her closed door. “I told you. I didn’t order a pizza.”

  “You number ten-oh-four?” He was reading from a slip of paper. He had an accent, Italian, it sounded like.

  “Yes. But I didn’t order.”

  “Medium bacon and pepperoni. Number fourteen?”

  “You made a mistake. It’s not for me.”

  “Eight-oh-eight Broughton, apartment ten-oh-four?”

  “Go away.”

  He sounded worried. “Please, you sign paper for me that I come to right place, same address on bill? Otherwise boss, he make me pay for pizza myself.”

  She hesitated. He looked harmless enough. She felt sorry for him. All she needed to do was sign his bill.

  She unlocked and opened the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 20

  Casey spent the morning at City Hall going over city business reports, including brief summaries on what had come to be known as the hens-in-the-backyard issue. Tame stuff compared to murder. He often wished he had the police beat. But Wexler had been doing that job since before Homer wrote the Iliad.

  He phoned the office and left a message for Wexler and Ozeroff to meet him at Hegel’s for lunch if they could make it.

  It was raining hard.

  On the way he picked up a copy of the Province. Banner headlines screamed:

  Headless Corpse Number Two!

  He sat in the bus and read the lead story.

  The body of a young Japanese-Canadian female was found in her Broughton Street apartment at 7:20 am by her husband when he returned home from working the night shift. Police believe that the woman let the killer into her apartment, that it may have been someone she knew. Names are being withheld for the time being. It is the second brutal murder in the West End in two weeks. Police are advising women to use extra caution. They should not under any circumstances open their doors to strangers.

  Wexler and Ozeroff had already grabbed three window seats. Ozeroff seemed excited.

  Their wet raincoats hung dripping on pegs near the door. Casey hung his beside theirs, ordered a vegetarian bagel sandwich with a glass of water and sat down.

  “You read about the murder, Casey?” said Ozeroff, excited. “Murder number two? He’s a serial killer all right. Now we know for sure.”

  “So tell,” Casey said to Wexler.

  Wexler shrugged. “Nothing you haven’t already read in the Province. This one is in the victim’s apartment, otherwise it’s pretty much the same mo as the first murder. Female, naked torso, raped, cuff marks, decapitated. Obviously the same crazy man. No further details. End of story.”

  Ozeroff broke in impatiently. “But it’s not the same. This guy butchered the woman in her own place, not on the street. He’s unusual. Serial killers always use the same mo. Which means they always work in the same way, use the same methods. Take Ted Bundy, for example. He always picked up girls from college campuses. Didn’t go looking for them in singles bars or fitness clubs. A serial killer doesn’t usually kill someone in the street and then break into a person’s home to kill a second.”

  “Well, this one did,” said Wexler.

  “Which is what I meant when I said he’s unusual,” said Ozeroff.

  “More creative, Deb?” said Casey. “That what you’re saying?”

  Ozeroff nodded. “Yeah. Creative. And more of a gamble for him. If he has already murdered successfully, then it makes sense for him to murder the same way next time. Use the same methods and the same scenario. But this guy tries something different. He gambles. For murder number two he gets into a secured building. And, without breaking in, as far as we know, makes it through a solid apartment door to his victim.” Ozeroff ran her hands through her hair. “He knows that criminals stick to the same MO. It’s his way of telling us he’s not like anyone else. He’s different. He’s smart. Holy fuckoly-they’d better catch this bastard real soon!”

  “According to the Province,” said Wexler, “the victim might have let him in because she knew him.”

  “What about checking the fitness center sign-in sheets for last night?” said Ozeroff.

  Wexler wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Police already thought of that. She was there all right, but her husband picked her up. He’s a cop.”

  Wexler and Ozeroff talked, but Casey was no longer listening. He was thinking of the husband coming home and finding his wife’s headless body. And the blood. There would be blood. Lots of it. Then he thought of Emma Shaughnessy living alone. Did she live alone? He really knew nothing about her.

  “Casey?” said Ozeroff.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Deb.”

  “You seem kinda out of it. And you didn’t finish your sandwich.”

  “Not so hungry today.”

  “If I didn’t know any better,” Ozeroff said to Wexler, “I’d say Casey’s in love.”

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24

  A Message from the Angel of Death Maggoty: I have proved that I can do what I like when I like, and there is nothing you can do about it. Beware! Harlots are everywhere! I deal with them in fury. You cannot stop me. I am the avenger, and my hand will not be stayed. Turn away your eyes from a shapely woman. Sirach 9:8. And behold, there met him a woman with the attire of a harlot, and wily of heart. Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths. For she hath cast down many wounded: Yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell. Proverbs 7:10–27. I shall strip her naked and make her like a wilderness and slay her. I will uncover her lewdness and no one shall rescue her out of my hand. Hosea
2:10.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29

  Casey ran in the morning rain.

  Later, when he got to work, Percy called for a lineup meeting. He was wearing a brown suit that looked like it had been found in a dumpster. His eyes seemed more prominent than usual.

  “I’ll be doing a short piece on the second murder victim,” Wexler said.

  “Whaddya know about her?” said Percy.

  “Japanese-Canadian, born in Vancouver, thirty-one years old, married to a policeman, no children. Worked in a duty-free shop on Alberni Street, where the Japanese tourists off the cruise ships go to spend their yen.” Wexler glanced at his notes. “Husband picked her up from the gym, took her home, left for the night shift soon after. She let someone into their apartment. The first murder was committed in the street, which raises the question as to whether there’s a second killer on the loose. Talked to a few of the residents in the building. One man saw a pizza delivery man that night. I got an interview lined up with the victim’s mother. Lives in Richmond. That’s it for me this week, except I’ll help Casey cover some of the face-to-faces after the Liberal nomination meeting.”

  “Good work, Jack,” said Percy. He turned his head. “Deb?”

  Ozeroff looked smart in a high-necked maroon wool dress with matching enameled crescent earrings. She glanced at her appointment book. “Movie review. Then a piece on the Mole Hill heritage houses that the city plans to bulldoze so they can let the developers in to erect another phallic tower. It’s the last goddamn complete block of turn-ofthe-century houses left. Not just in the West End, but in the whole goddamn city. And the cretins want ’em down, can you believe it?”

  “Save the speeches, Deb,” said Percy, rubbing his dark eyebrows.

  “You’re just like the rest of ’em, Perce. You don’t care if the goddamn philistines win.”

  Percy sighed. “Is that your lineup, Deb?”

  “There’s more. I’ll try to cover designer Rosemarie Kwan’s spring collection in Gastown. Also, there’s the Joico Hair Competition and a short piece on the Vancouver Opera. That’s it for now.”