Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/10

by EQM

  “Father, are you telling me that Kitty prayed that Charlie would walk again ... and that he has?”

  “Yes, yes, this was her most fervent prayer! She has told me many times! The prayers of a pious and devout woman carry great weight! I knew that you, if anyone, would understand this.”

  Julian stared back in amazement, unable to speak for several moments. “No,” he said at last. “No, I don’t. You don’t honestly believe that her prayers were answered with murder!”

  The joy fled from Father Gregory’s face at the policeman’s logic and he appeared to consider his previous declarations carefully, then answered, “You are only half right, Chief J—the good woman’s prayers were answered, her own words testify to it. As to the husband, I believe this odious man has squandered God’s precious grace in that most pernicious act ... revenge. For him, I reserve my greatest pity.”

  “Pity,” the policeman repeated while studying the closed door of the bedroom, and thinking that Kitty had been found as if fleeing from someone coming from that direction—she had been running to the kitchen door, not from it. “Revenge for what?” he muttered.

  Father Gregory cleared his throat and appeared embarrassed at the question. “Well, as to that, it is awkward, dear man. You see, it was told to me in confession ... but as she is now no longer among us, I can say at least this—on the night of his terrible ‘accident,’ he had, or believed he had,” the priest added cagily, “discovered the proof he had been unable to beat from her on previous occasions.”

  “Good God,” Julian breathed. “Please don’t tell me she shoved him down those stairs.”

  Father Gregory stared blankly back at him. “He did try to harm her,” he added at last.

  “Father,” Julian began after a pause. “You do understand what you’re saying here? If what you believe is true, it means that Charlie Fischer had to keep this a secret once he discovered feeling had returned to his legs. That he had to exercise himself for weeks, or months, without Kitty knowing: prolonged and denied himself the pleasure of walking out in the fresh air; all these things, just so that when he was strong enough, he could both surprise and kill her. Do you understand what all that would mean—the hatred, the ... the evilness?”

  Both men remained silent for several moments, then the chief spoke once more. “What do you expect me to do with this?”

  “You cannot arrest this man?” Father Gregory asked in obvious disappointment.

  “Based on what?” the chief fired back. “I don’t intend to haul him before an ecclesiastical court, Father. I need proof, or at least a good circumstantial case.”

  The cleric was not to be deterred. “Is Mr. Fischer not a good suspect? And one that sits like a spider in this web of suspicious circumstances? If he could walk, would you not be interrogating him at this moment?”

  “If he could walk, Father . . .”

  Someone cleared their throat and the two turned to find the ambulance driver standing awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen. “The M.E.’s people have taken Mrs. Fischer,” he said quietly. “Should I get Mr. Fischer loaded up now?”

  It had been Chief Hall’s intention to have the victim’s husband evaluated by the emergency-room physician for stress and shock, as he had been a witness, at least an audible witness, to the horror of his wife’s murder. He stared blankly back at the plump, unshaven young man awaiting his answer, even as he felt the eyes of Father Gregory upon him.

  “No,” he murmured, “not just yet, Justin. Give me a few minutes with the poor man.”

  Unconcerned, Justin nodded and began to back out of the room.

  “Oh, and Justin,” Julian halted the young man’s escape. “You’ve got an EMT riding with you . . . right?”

  Justin nodded in perplexity. “Yeah, Chief, we’ve always got one on board . . . you know that.” Then another thought occurred to him. “Is someone else hurt, Chief? We thought there was just the one victim.”

  “No,” Julian reassured him, “the only victim was Mrs. Fischer . . . just checking, that’s all.”

  As the young man completed his exit, Julian extracted a long needle from a pile of sewing that lay in a basket next to the couch, and held it up to the light. “I have been assured that he has no feeling from the waist down,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Father Gregory stared at the needle gleaming like truth in the dim obscurity of the room. “You are indeed a man of faith, Chief J,” he said admiringly.

  “Probably an unemployed one as of tomorrow,” Julian replied, as the policeman and the priest approached the closed door at the end of the hallway. The arraignment of Charles Fischer for the murder of his wife created a small sensation as the facts of the matter were made public. Chief Hall, for his part, received a letter of censure from the county prosecutor for his rather extraordinary actions in exposing the killer. Surprisingly, though, the accused chose not to challenge the probable cause that led to his arrest but, instead, accepted a plea bargain that guaranteed him twenty-five years in prison—a certain death sentence at his age. This was a decision he declined to discuss with the press, except to say that he was, indeed, guilty of the crime of which he stood accused and was deeply sorry.

  Charles Fischer’s thoughts and feelings, beyond those few words, remained private to all but his confessor, Father Gregory Savartha, who was most pleased to have been able to grant absolution to the wretched man, knowing that he was truly contrite, and now restored to full humanity.

  Copyright © 2010 David Dean

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  Fiction

  BEDSIDE MANNERS

  By Martin Edwards

  Martin Edwards wears several hats in the mystery field: He’s the editor of many anthologies, he’s a blogger, reviewer, and columnist, and he produces stories and novels, both series and nonseries, historical and contemporary. His 2009 novel Dancing for the Hangman is a fictional retake on Crippen, one of true crime’s most notorious figures. His new book, The Serpent Pool, is the fourth in a series set in England’s Lake District. Says Booklist: “Certainly the most labyrinthine of the Lake District novels, but perhaps also the best.”

  “I’ve never done anything illegal before,” the woman says, fiddling with her necklace.

  This seems unlikely to me. She is forty-five if a day, and works as an accounts manager for a motorcar dealership. But I am accustomed to the little ways of my clients. Clients, yes; it is five years since I last cared for a patient. Now I have found my true vocation. Yet there is this about serving clients: They are always right.

  So I treat her to my reassuring smile and say, “Trust me, there is nothing illegal about going out to the theatre.”

  “You deserve a break,” the red-faced man tells her. “After all you’ve done ...”

  “This is all about freedom,” I say, in my best bedside tone, as I glance at the clock on their mantelpiece. “So you will be leaving in five minutes?”

  “Yes, yes,” the man says. “We need to make sure the girl on the desk gets a good look at us when we pick up our tickets. If any questions are asked ...”

  “There will be no questions.” Again I smile, exuding confidence. “Trust me.”

  “Of course, Doctor. But just in case ... if anyone does ask, there will be witnesses. We were in the foyer of the theatre before seven o’clock. Like I said before, it’s a fall-back position.”

  Absurd. But I humour him with an approving nod.

  The woman hesitates. “I must go upstairs.”

  The man’s unhealthy face—he is a candidate for a stroke, if ever I saw one—creases into a frown. He throws me a doubtful glance. “I’m not sure ...”

  I nod towards the staircase, encouraging her. “Why not? You wish to share a precious moment.”

  She scuttles off, heels clacking on the treads. Her lover ventures a rueful smile.

  “She’ll be all right, Doctor. It’s just nerves, that’s all. This is what she’s
wanted for years.”

  “I understand.”

  And naturally I do. This is a pleasant house, on the outskirts of the village, its value inflated by the promise of a soon-to-be-built bypass. Who would not wish to own it, and to have that ownership unfettered by obligation? My gift to them, as to all my clients, and all my subjects, is freedom.

  The man seeks to engage me in conversation, embarking on a story about his ill fortune in business during the years when he managed a public house. I reply in monosyllables. My priority is to compose myself and prepare my heart and mind for the task that lies ahead.

  Soon the woman is back with us, head bowed. Is she murmuring a prayer?

  The man claps her on the back. He has decided that contrived jollity is the right note to strike. “Well, then. We’d best be off.”

  “Yes.” It is barely a whisper.

  Suddenly she glances at me and I see dread in her eyes. Dread of what is to happen. I have seen that look before, on other faces where previously I had seen nothing more than greed. But this is not a greedy woman. She is weak, that is all. The man in her life has cajoled her into doing something against her better judgment. Not for the first time, I suspect.

  “Everything is going to be all right, isn’t it, Doctor?”

  I am a model of calm and goodwill. “As I explained when we reached our arrangement, my method is tried and tested. I need not trouble you with details, but you may rely on me.”

  “The laws in this country are an absolute disgrace, anyway,” the man says. “In a civilised society, what we’re doing would be applauded.”

  “What the doctor is doing,” the woman says hastily.

  He offers me his hand. It is large and sweaty. “Well, I’ll say it straight. I couldn’t do what you do. You deserve a medal.”

  The woman twitters to the same effect, pays me fulsome compliments. As she runs out of breath, she adds, “I’ll never forget the help you have given us, Doctor.”

  “And to ...” I begin.

  “Yes, yes!” Her eagerness is pathetic. “That’s what matters most, of course. We aren’t thinking of ourselves.”

  “Well, then.” The man hands me the copied keys. “You will ... dispose of these?”

  “As we discussed.” I cough discreetly. “If I might ask you for the envelope?”

  Slowly, as if hypnotised by my expression, he takes a fat envelope from the pocket of his tweed jacket and hands it to me.

  “If you don’t mind ...” I tear open the envelope and flick through the fifty-pound notes. The final installment, paid in full. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least we can do,” the woman says. “We owe you so much.”

  The man’s face is flushed, irritable. Despite all that we have said, he is far from certain that I shall keep my word. But he has no choice but to trust me. I am anxious for them to be away now. I need time alone.

  “Goodbye, then.”

  To my surprise, the woman steps forward and presses cold lips against my cheek. A kiss of gratitude. Then the man takes her hand and within moments they are gone.

  As I hear their rusty little car sputter down the drive, I help myself to a nip of brandy from my flask. Only one, mind. I have no intention of repeating the mistake I once made in the hospital ward.

  I allow myself an hour of quiet reflection. For all my experience, each case for me is special. Unique. This is the difference between my past and present careers. One operation is, frankly, much like another except in those frightening instances where an error is made. Nowadays, however, each assignment feels like the first.

  I consult my watch. The sedative will be wearing off. This is one of those little details that mean nothing, in truth, to my clients, but everything to me. It is time to pick up my case and climb the stairs.

  The room has that musty smell so familiar to me. It clings to the old and infirm. Outside, rain is slapping against the windowpanes. Within, the only sound is a hoarse rattle of breath.

  Silently, I move to the bedside and open my case. The subject’s eyes are closed. I bend over her.

  “Molly,” I whisper.

  I touch a fleshy shoulder through the thin cotton nightdress. She is by no means reduced to skin and bone. No wonder the GP said she was good for a few years yet.

  “Molly, look at me.”

  No response. I pinch her shoulder and she gives a little moan. Her eyelids flutter. Yes, she can see me. I hear a stifled noise. Is she calling the woman’s name? It is impossible to make out the syllables.

  I shake my head. “Just you and I are in the house. They have left you in my care. You are . . . mine.”

  This is the moment.

  I lift the small, rose-scented pillow from the case and hold it a couple of inches from Molly’s nose. All the time my eyes are fixed on hers. They are grey and rheumy and filled with incomprehension. Also with terror, of course, there is no disguising the terror.

  She knows what is about to happen, her mind is not dull. And she knows that there is nothing she can do.

  “I am about to set you free,” I whisper. “Free from care, free from pain.”

  All too soon it is over. I do what I always do. I have perfected my method over the years, though I cannot bring myself to describe my ritual in words. Some things must remain private, they are so special.

  When I have tidied, I pat the envelope in my pocket. The man assumes that this is all about money, but he is as wrong as the woman who regards me as a candidate for sainthood. As wrong as my former colleagues, whom I baffled because they could never understand the thoughts rippling through my mind. No doubt they were afraid to understand; perhaps I was not so different from them as they liked to believe.

  The truth is, we all have our little frailties. My weakness isn’t anything so crass as greed. I first succumbed in my original career, but only now am I able to indulge myself to the full and luxuriate in this exquisite, this matchless pleasure.

  Copyright © 2010 Martin Edwards

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  Fiction

  THE GODS FOR VENGEANCE CRY

  By Richard Helms

  A former forensic psychologist, academic counselor, and part-time college professor, Richard Helms has been nominated three times for the PWA’s Shamus Award (in 2003, 2004, and 2006). He told EQMM that he currently has nine novels in print, two out of print, four waiting to be published, and five or six in progress. One of those just published, Six Mile Creek, which headed Five Star’s spring 2010 list, features Judd Wheeler, a character in this new story, Mr. Helms’s first for EQMM.

  There are sixteen bones in the human hand. I had managed to break five of mine retrieving a poodle, the object of a messy custody dispute. I had also learned an important lesson: Owning a poodle doesn’t mean you aren’t a tough guy.

  Fortunately, I’m also a tough guy. The poodle was returned to its rightful owner, who was so insanely happy that she paid my fee and the medical bills to have my hand set.

  The money was dwindling quickly, though. At six-six and two-eighty, I go through a lot of food. I can’t cook anything more substantial than a Pop Tart, so I take all my meals in restaurants.

  I was quickly joining the ranks of the bucks-down.

  I sat in Holliday’s, nursing a Dixie Beer, when Shorty—Holliday’s owner and my boss—wandered in from the alley. Shorty is a human fireplug, square as a checkers board and ugly as roadkill.

  “Gallegher,” he said, “I might have some work for you.”

  Besides being a recently handicapped cornet player, I make a few bucks on the side looking for—and usually finding—things that have disappeared. Poodles, for instance. Sometimes people don’t like it when I show up to recover things. Sometimes they try to resist. They seldom resist for long.

  “Remember Katie Costner?” he asked.

  “Blond kid. Worked here as a waitress about a year ago.”

  “She’s dead.”

  I nodded. I think I mi
ght have furrowed my brow a bit.

  Thousands of young people gravitate to the French Quarter each year. Some adapt. Some don’t.

  Some die.

  You don’t like to admit it, but you get used to it.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “What happened?”

  “They found her in her flop, down at the far end of Decatur, near Esplanade. She’d been strangled.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Word has it she wasn’t involved.”

  “You kept up with her after she quit?”

  “I checked in on her once or twice. Brought her some food from time to time.”

  I nodded. Sometimes, Shorty dumps a boatload of surprise on you.

  “The police officers working the case say she was from some flyspeck town in North Carolina. Place called Prosperity. Cops can’t locate her parents. There’s five hundred in it for you if you can track them down.”

  Shorty pulled a Dixie from the ice bin and twisted off the cap.

  “People ought to hear about it when their kids die,” he said.

  A check on the Internet revealed that nobody named Costner owned a telephone in Prosperity. That didn’t mean much. The number could have been unlisted, or maybe they used cell phones. Listed land lines are going the way of the passenger pigeon.

  I also checked with a friend of mine in the Robbery-Homicide Division at NOPD, a scrawny, scarecrow-like guy named Farley Nuckolls. Farley and I had butted heads a bunch of times over the years, but he was reasonably forbearing since I passed along information when I fell across it.

  Most of the time.

  “She was strangled,” he said.

  “Harder than it sounds,” I noted.

  “Do tell. Personal experience?”

  “I’ve never been strangled, if that’s what you meant. As a retired psychologist I know a thing or two about the way the brain works. To do a strangling right, you have to cut off a person’s oxygen supply for four minutes, minimum, unless you squeeze hard enough to fracture the hyoid bone in the larynx. Killing someone that way means you really have to go in committed.”

  “The forensic boys concur.”