The Girl Who Didn't Die--A Suspense Novel

by Tim Kizer

  What had he been doing in the bathroom in the first place?

  He had come here to get an Aspirin pill for his headache. He opened the bottle, put the tablet in his mouth, washed it down with half a glass of water, and dropped the cap. And eventually stumbled upon the blood stains.

  The stains had to be two weeks old. Why? Kelly had been killed about two weeks ago, that was why. She was murdered, there could be no doubts about it anymore. The psycho stabbed her to death while she was taking a shower two weeks ago in this bathroom. Yes, the killer must have used a knife at some point; otherwise, there would have been no stains.

  Well, buddy, you’re beginning to make progress!

  Kelly was taking a shower, the psycho entered the steam filled room—just like in those slasher movies—and a terrible tragedy occurred—yes, just like in the movies. The killer thrust his knife into her smooth naked body a dozen times, and Kelly died.

  Frank took a deep breath.

  What imagination you have, pal! With the help of a mere three stains you managed to reconstruct the whole crime scenario. Bravo, Sherlock!

  What else but blood could it be? Brown, easy to scrape off. It wasn’t watercolor because they didn’t have watercolors in the house. Kathy might have had them, but Kelly had probably given them away when she had lost hope that their daughter would be found alive. Frank had no doubt that whoever had left these stains had not been Kathy. Could Kelly have spilled watercolor in the bathroom a few weeks ago? He didn’t think so. What would have caused it to happen? Why would she have run around the house with watercolors?

  Okay, he would assume for now that the stains had appeared here this year and they were not watercolor.

  What did he have so far? He had concluded that Kelly was dead and that she had been murdered by a psycho. On the twenty fourth of April she filled the tub with hot water and eased into it, anticipating an hour of serene bliss, unaware that the killer had already slunk into the house, cold sweat rolling down his degenerate face. She was humming a Lady Gaga song while the maniac hid behind the door, his erection rock hard. It was a sexual maniac who had gotten bored with sex and was itching to murder a woman, just for the thrills. Kelly was lying in the tub, with her eyes shut, having no idea that her death was near. The psycho rushed into the bathroom, repeatedly stabbed Kelly with a knife, and then... Then he took her away. Why? Why did he not leave the body in the bathroom and go home?

  Frank remembered he was going to wash his face and stepped to the sink.

  So why did the maniac take Kelly’s body? And how did he get it out of the house?

  The latter worried Frank the most. How did the killer manage to sneak the corpse out of here in broad daylight without being noticed by anybody? He had to have known the neighborhood well in order to pull it off, hadn’t he? How long had he cased the house before striking?

  The cold water freshened up Frank’s face, making him feel reinvigorated. Frank put an Aspirin pill in his palm and left the bathroom.

  How did the psycho take the corpse out of the house? He must have killed her between eight in the morning, when Frank had gone to work, and half past five in the afternoon, when he returned home. The killer left the house while the sun was still up, so why did the neighbors not see him? It has to be hard to miss a man carrying a human-sized bag, right? Why nobody asked him, “Hey mister, do you need help with that suspicious looking sack on your shoulder?” Why nobody reported seeing that man to the police, when it became known that Kelly had gone missing?

  How and why. Why do you care how the killer moved the body to his car, buddy? He did it somehow, and you need not sweat over it. Why don't you just enjoy having this burden off your shoulders? Look on the bright side. Kelly's gone! She’s never coming back, you are free. She’s not going to take your house in the divorce, which was probably a matter of time, if you are realistic about it. You saved yourself a lot of money in alimony you won’t have to pay. Kelly is dead, and the stains prove that irrefutably. Enjoy your freedom, Frank!

  But how the hell did that bastard take the body out of the house?

  Frank took another Aspirin pill and walked out onto the terrace. It was breakfast time, and he felt like having some chow mein. He was entertaining the idea of walking the three miles that separated his house from the nearest Chinese restaurant.

  Are you hungry, pal?

  Yes, he was hungry. He should leave now.

  So, the maniac took the corpse out of the house. He didn't want to leave a mess behind; he washed the blood off the walls, wrapped the body in a plastic sheet (he had to wrap it really tight to prevent blood from spilling on the floor), and sneaked it out of the house. He took the corpse out in order to avoid rumors about a psycho killer prowling the streets of Buffalo, which would have led people to panic and install additional locks on their doors. He had gotten used to careless women, and rumors could have made them more vigilant.

  How did this guy move the body out of the house?

  When Frank’s eyes fell on the mailbox, he realized he had forgotten to check his mail yesterday. As he walked to the mailbox, he came up with a great theory of how the killer had taken the corpse out of the house. In principle, it wasn’t that difficult: the psycho could have carried the body into the garage through the inside garage door, put it in the trunk of Kelly’s car, and then driven the car to the dumping location. A simple and plausible solution, right? No miracles required. The whole ordeal would have taken about an hour: thirty minutes to clean the bathroom and thirty minutes to wrap the body in plastic and bring it to the garage. Absolutely doable. Plus fifteen minutes to murder Kelly. The killer had come here at nine in the evening and left at a quarter past ten. Was it possible that Kelly had taken a shower at nine? Sure.

  Frank nodded to himself and opened the mailbox.

  That psycho was smart. Very smart.

  5.

  The interesting thing about memory is the fact that you can’t really force yourself to remember something you’ve forgotten; you have to wait for it to pop up naturally in the course of time. Similarly, you can’t shut an unwanted recollection out at will; memory is a disobedient bitch, and if it wants to torture you with one of the items stored in it, there is no way out for you: all you can do is endure humbly whatever it throws at you.

  Frank had been in no hurry to remember Kelly, but his memory ignored his commands and, as he stuck his hand inside the mailbox, took him four and half years back, to that day in late August when he had met Kelly.

  They were both on vacation in Saint Pete Beach, a lovely tourist destination on the west coast of Florida, which, according to the brochure, was the home to award-winning beaches. The air was humid and smelt of salt there.

  The hotel that they stayed at—what was its name? They stayed at the same hotel, right?

  Four Seasons... Its name was Four Seasons. His room was on the third floor, and Kelly’s on the fourth. They met at the pool two days after Kelly had arrived. It turned out that Kelly lived in Rochester, less than ninety minutes away from Buffalo. One thing led to another, they exchanged phone numbers, and for the next week they were inseparable like conjoined twins. They had sex like there was no tomorrow; they couldn’t get enough of each other. Those were the most romantic ten days of his life.

  A week after coming back home from Florida, he had his first conversation with Kelly’s father George. The old man happened to hold his daughter’s cell-phone when Frank called and was sufficiently curious to answer it. He must have been one of those overprotective fathers who monitor their daughters’ friends to make sure they don’t pal around with drunks or junkies.

  Was George missing a leg? And why the hell was that important anyway?

  “George speaking,” Frank heard a pleasant baritone.

  “How are you doing, George?” Frank replied. He wondered if Kelly had changed her number. “Can I talk to Kelly?”

  Thankfully, the number was still good, and Frank spent the next five minutes chatting to George Frey, who pr
obed him in a soft and subtle manner about his relationship with Kelly. Frank didn’t mind the interrogation: George deserved to have an idea what kind of people his daughter’s potential suitors were.

  Four months later Frank proposed to Kelly.

  He remembered asking her about the second of February. It was easy for him to remember this date because the day and the month were the same number.

  “What about the second of February?” asked Kelly.

  “I think it’s a good day for the wedding.” He smiled. “I’d like to make it official before you change your mind.”

  “It’s only two months away. I guess we’re out of the running for the wedding of the year.”

  “I hope you didn’t have anything planned for that day.”

  No, Kelly was absolutely free on the second of February.

  A few minutes later, she dialed her parents’ number and told them the exciting news. George and Jane Frey were ecstatic.

  He wasn’t imagining it, was he? Could he swear he wasn’t mistaking a scene from some romantic comedy for an episode from his life?

  If his memory served him correctly (which was a big ‘if’), it all had happened exactly like this. He suggested a date for their wedding and it was the second of February, the nice-looking 02.02. And Kelly agreed with his idea.

  They had gotten married on the second of February, a little more than four years ago.

  Why did he marry Kelly after knowing her for less than five months? Was it smart of him to make such an important decision in a hurry? Shouldn’t he have waited for, say, a year?

  Who said it had to be a year? Why should he have waited? If a woman is good in bed, if she is hot, why not marry her? Kelly was definitely hot, at least in Frank’s eyes, which was all that mattered. And he knew she didn’t marry him for money because he wasn’t a millionaire (and still isn’t, unfortunately).

  For the record, in order to avoid appearing shallow, he must note that he also appreciated Kelly being an interesting person to talk to.

  So you have remembered the date of your wedding, buddy? Good job! You have managed to have dug all the way to that fateful date. Or did Josephine mention the second of February when she visited you in the hospital? Did you recall it on your own or with the help of your sister-in-law? Strain your memory, bud; you should have learned how to do it by now.

  His parents must have asked him, “Aren’t things moving too fast? Have you thought this through?”

  Did they ask that?

  Yes, his father asked if he had thought it all through. Walt Fowler explained to him how much damage marrying the wrong woman could cause a man. He cited examples of men who had turned into bitter penniless wrecks just because they had tied the knot with brides from hell.

  “Think long and hard so you won’t have to pull your hair out later,” said Walt.

  And Frank replied, “I feel as if I've known her for years.”

  Yes, that's what he told his father, a corny cliché. He felt as if he’d known Kelly for years—it probably was the truth, however.

  “Are you sure she’s not lazy?” asked his mother. Undoubtedly, she asked him this question.

  “She’s not lazy at all,” he answered. “She loves to vacuum, too.”

  “I hope she doesn’t make more money than you,” remarked his father. “Otherwise she’ll boss you around.”

  His dad did say it. He loved to underscore that a man was to maintain his independence from a woman, especially in financial matters. He was pleased to hear that Frank would be independent from his wife in this regard.

  What was Andrew's opinion about Kelly?

  By the way, Andrew’s twin sons will turn fourteen this July. Don’t forget to buy presents, buddy.

  Proud of his straightforwardness that bordered on tactlessness, Andrew commented on Kelly’s breasts and buttocks and asked him to share all the juicy sex details.

  “Go for one child,” Andrew also said. “Two kids will drive you insane, just look at me.”

  Did his mom and dad meet Kelly's parents? Most likely they did. And what did his father say about Kelly's parents?

  Have you dug that deep into your memory, pal? Do you recall it?

  The second of February. They had tied the knot that day... or some other day. Okay, it didn’t really matter; he could look his wedding day up on his Marriage Certificate when he had spare time. He had no desire to rummage through his files for the Certificate right now, and it was the right choice. His marriage to Kelly was a thing of the past. That era of his life had gone up in flames and was of no interest to him at the present moment. Let historians bother with it. He knew for sure that he had gotten married to Kelly on an autumn day four years ago—and that was enough for him.

  Some day in August they had met at Four Seasons; some day in August they had gone to bed buzzed and horny; and some day in September he had dialed her number and talked to George Frey.

  Did Mom and Dad like George Frey? How about Kelly's mother? What was her name? How old was she now, assuming she was still alive?

  Kelly's mother's name was... She had a simple name—Jane. Seven years ago she was... No, he didn’t remember her age. Women are often silent about the date of their birth, especially after they hit thirty, and Jane Frey had probably never been specific about hers.

  So what was his Mom and Dad’s opinion about George and Jane Frey? Quite possibly, they had had no opinion at all. Or he hadn’t cared to find it out: in the end, it was him getting married, not his parents. At age thirty three he’d been able to make decisions independently. He remembered now that his Mom and Dad had displayed little interest in Kelly's folks.

  Did his parents like Kelly? Sure. Why wouldn’t they? He married her, therefore she had to be a decent person.

  George Frey. Whatever happened to him? Was this man still alive?

  Is George Frey alive? Interesting question. Whether you remember it or not, the end result will be the same—a headache. If he died, he did this trick during the six years which had fallen into that black hole in your memory. This hole is still very dark and empty. You have no recollection of any of the Transformers movies being in theaters and you’ve just rediscovered that O.J. Simpson had gone to prison, so it should be no surprise you forgot the death of George Frey, the father of the woman you’ve been cheating on.

  Anyway, if George is alive, he will call you, okay, buddy?

  Why hadn’t he called, if he was alive? Maybe he was not interested in Frank Fowler anymore? Well, it was a possibility. How old would George be now (provided he had not assumed the room temperature yet)? Let's see... Frank’s best guess was seventy six, which seemed to be the average male life expectancy in America. George could very well be still alive and kicking, and a quick online search on the white pages might be all it would take to find his phone number.

  What for?

  Well, if you think about it, he is not your relative anymore and hasn't been since the day Kelly vanished. The day she was raped; the day her body was thrown in Lake Erie. Once Kelly died, George Frey ceased being your father-in-law and became just a lovable grampa in his late sixties. A mere acquaintance.

  Okay, he would refrain from searching for George Frey's phone number. Instead, he would have his breakfast and kill a couple of bottles of cold Heineken.

  Right after he checked his mail.

  6.

  Letter. He had received another letter from Michael Bluth.

  The sender’s address? 5151 Maple Avenue, Buffalo, NY 14019. Chances were the address either was made up, or had nothing to do with Michael Bluth.

  Michael Bluth had struck again, ladies and gentlemen.

  By the way, Frank had heard this name before, years ago. He wished he knew where.

  One thing was for sure: this Bluth guy lacked creativity. The message remained the same:

  “Dear Frank, I know you killed your wife, and I can prove it. You are a reasonable person. I’m sure you don’t want to go to prison. All I need is a $20,000 loan. P
lease think about my request very carefully.”

  The letter was typed in the same no-frills Times New Roman font as the note Bluth had sent him earlier and met the same fate: Frank tore it to pieces and flushed it down the toilet. As he crossed the living room, he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 9:36. Time to go to that Chinese place—what was its name? The Great Wall?—and get some teriyaki chicken.

  And don’t forget to wipe off the stains in the bathroom.

  While dressing for the outing, Frank realized that, even though he hated himself for it, he was dying to know who had sent him this stupid letter. What idiot was trying to blackmail him?

  However ridiculous it sounded, he was being blackmailed and the guy didn’t seem to let up.

  Wipe off the stains in the bathroom, Frank.

  Why should he do it?

  Frank entered the garage, opened the driver’s door of his new ride, BMW X5, which he had bought last night: he had needed to clear his mind and car shopping was as good an idea as any.

  Wipe off the damn stains, Frank. Wipe them off now because you will forget to do that later.

  It’s okay. They’d been there for a month, let them be there for another months, he didn’t give a damn.

  Frank eased into the driver’s seat, hesitantly looking at the door to the house. The new car smell was seductive and soothing.

  The clock is ticking, Frank. You've already wasted fifty five seconds bumming around. Wipe off the stains now. Important things often fall through the cracks. You will delay getting rid of them over and over again and eventually forget to do it. And then someone else will find them. You don’t want that to happen, do you, partner?

  Frank put his feet back on the garage floor, steering himself towards the right decision.

  Tick-tock, Frank. Are you planning to spend the night here?

  Why wipe them off at all? Was it somehow connected with Bluth's letter?

  Maybe it is, maybe not. Does it matter? Wipe them off now, buddy. By the way, do you know Kelly's blood type? Is it different from yours?