Killers

by Laurence Gough

  Anthony Sweeting, noting the Nikon in Dutton’s hand, swept his fingers through his hair and glanced around as if looking for a stray mirror.

  Willows introduced Mel to Sweeting, who offered his hand and had it perfunctorily shaken. Dutton said, “You’re the director?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  Dutton yanked aside the tarp. He brought up the Nikon. His face twisted as the camera’s power winder whirred. He said, “So who’s the cheapskate?”

  “Cheapskate?” said Sweeting, frowning.

  Dutton winked at Parker. He said, “What I mean is, it seems the guy was willing to give a leg, but not an arm.” His smile faltered. “No, wait a minute. I got it the wrong way around, didn’t I?”

  Sweeting stared at him for several seconds before turning to Willows. His face blank, he said, “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  Willows thanked him.

  Dutton waited until Sweeting was out of earshot and then said, “Notice the tie?”

  Parker nodded.

  Dutton smiled. “Me too. And from the look on his face, I’d say I got even.”

  Chapter 6

  Susan was amazed at herself. All that crazy self-actualization stuff was true, wasn’t it?

  You never knew what you could do until you decided to go ahead and do it.

  Susan sat in front of her computer terminal, her back to the open door of her cubicle. She typed eighty words a minute and her fingers danced lightly across the keyboard as she fattened up the databank with Jerry Northcote’s latest on Northern Cod. It was pretty dull stuff, but Susan didn’t mind because it wasn’t the kind of work that required much concentration.

  Right now, for example, anyone looking in on her would assume that she was managing to function as if it was business as usual. As if Gerard were still alive.

  As if Gerard hadn’t been murdered.

  She wondered when the police would find out what had really happened to him. She considered what little she knew of police procedure. Films she’d seen, and television drama… A word formed in her mind.

  Autopsy.

  There were quite a few autopsies performed at the aquarium, down on the second level, in small windowless rooms. They called them something else, though.

  Necropsies.

  Susan knew that both words meant the same thing — cutting things open and looking inside. “Murdering to dissect” as Gerard had put it. He was so smart, always thinking of clever, original ways of describing things.

  Susan thought about Jerry Northcote or somebody just like him, inquisitive and humourless, striding briskly into a cold dark room, snapping on a light, staring down at Gerard and then choosing a scalpel and cutting into him.

  Ripping him open, gutting him. Humming a popular song as he poked around in there where no one had any right to be. Time passing. Then breaking for lunch and coming back an hour later, burping and humming.

  Slicing tiny pieces off her lover, peering at him with monumental stupidity through the powerful lens of a microscope. Susan had been a psych major. She knew how it worked. When you got close enough to something and magnified it until it was no longer recognizable, you completely lost track of what it actually was, or had been. You disassociated.

  And that’s what had happened to her. She had no idea how she’d disassociated, or when. But that’s how it went with self-defence mechanisms. When your mind couldn’t stand the view, it pulled the drapes.

  Susan leaned back in her chair. She stared at the terminal and saw that she had just finished typing pull the drapes. She giggled. That was what made Northern Cod truly unique. They had this thing about privacy.

  Susan wiped the last few lines of the file. She sat there, staring fixedly at the flat grey surface of the screen as if in expectation that the answer to all her problems would magically appear at any moment.

  She couldn’t bring herself to believe that he was dead. That he’d actually died.

  Susan picked up a pencil, pushed the point into the palm of her hand until the pain brought tears to her eyes. She told herself to be honest, to tell the truth.

  Gerard hadn’t exactly died, had he? The situation was a little more complicated than that, wasn’t it?

  He’d been killed.

  Murdered.

  There it was, out in the open. The ‘M’ word. She tapped the keyboard and the word appeared in the centre of the screen, in bold capital letters.

  MURDERED

  She tapped a few more keys.

  MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER

  MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER

  MURDER MURDER

  The word raced across the screen, filled line after line. In the space of a few seconds the entire screen was filled. Susan burst into tears. She pushed away from her desk and blindly slammed shut the door.

  A hundred and twenty salaried employees work at the aquarium, as well as almost one thousand volunteers. Susan imagined she could hear the babble of all their voices through the door, as if they had all somehow managed to jam themselves into the corridor outside her cubicle. The individual words were indecipherable but the accusatory tone was crystal clear.

  Someone knocked on her door. Her office was so tiny she hardly ever shut the door because she felt a bit claustrophobic with it closed, despite the window in front of her desk. She plucked a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. A disembodied voice wondered if she was alright.

  She took a deep, shuddery breath and called out that she was just fine, but quite busy at the moment, thanks all the same.

  Silence.

  She had been told that homicide detectives would be investigating the circumstances of Gerard’s death. She wondered how long it would take them to find out about her. Not very long, surely. The aquarium held few secrets. Everybody knew everything there was to know about everybody. Or so it seemed.

  She wanted a cigarette very badly, but the whole complex was a no-smoking zone and her tiny window was hermetically sealed. She didn’t dare step out of the office for fear of bumping into someone. She believed that the word guilt was written all over her face just as clearly as the word murder dominated the screen of her terminal.

  She thought about being found out. Caught. She thought about what they would do to her. She tried to imagine what it felt like to be handcuffed, taken to a small room and questioned by detectives.

  How long would she be able to keep silent if she was interrogated?

  It was a ridiculous question. She was already crying her heart out.

  Susan was an only child. If she was arrested, her mother was bound to suffer terribly. She imagined her neighbours reading about her in the papers, gathering to gossip about her and agreeing she was mortally flawed, somehow.

  She wished she had been stronger when Gerard first approached her. But she was no match for him. He was too sophisticated. So experienced, and so slick. From their first moments together he had somehow known her so well, known her better than she knew herself. He’d instinctively realized exactly how far he could push her, to what degree she was capable of letting herself go.

  Susan allowed herself to slip six months back in time.

  It had begun with a nod of acknowledgement and a casual word said to her as they passed in a hallway or happened to sit at the same table or near one another in the staff canteen. Then one day Gerard had smiled at her, holding the smile just a little too long, as if there were something hidden behind his teeth. Soon he was delicately soliciting her opinion on immigration or the economy or violence in schools; whatever happened to be topical that day…

  She’d bought a new raincoat — a plain blue poplin that happened to be on sale — nothing special. Gerard noticed the coat the first time she wore it, and made a point of casually complimenting her on her taste.

  They began to meet for lunch. He took an interest in her work, hinted that she was overqualified and due for a promotion. He began to drop by her office at the same time every morning, just to say hello, hovering in
the doorway and smiling, admiring her perfume or the way she’d done her hair.

  Often Gerard was unable to think of anything at all to say to her. It was at these times that she was most flattered, for it seemed obvious that he simply craved her company.

  She began to anticipate his daily visits, to look forward with great pleasure to his complimentary words.

  Before long he was no longer content with lounging in the doorway. Soon he was walking into her office as if he worked there himself. By the end of a week he was resting a hip against her desk as he spoke to her.

  Looking down at her.

  She liked the mature, openly calculated way he dressed — his tweed jackets and Oxford cloth shirts in white or grey or blue, his determinedly colourful ties. She became addicted to his smile, the way he moved his hands when he spoke, the direct and yet non-threatening way he looked into her eyes when she was speaking to him, the strong, masculine odour of his aftershave and the way he moved, his clumsiness, bulk.

  When he visited her in her office he often leaned over her shoulder to look more closely at something on her desk. Usually he took advantage of the moment to needlessly touch her, lightly press his hand against the small of her back or brush her neck with the tips of his fingers or perhaps rest his hand briefly on her shoulder. If she looked up at him he invariably smiled down at her with great warmth, but in that same moment he would withdraw from her, as if there were something he must hide from her, no matter what the cost.

  In mid-August he dropped by unannounced as she was clearing her desk at the end of a Friday. He dolefully told her he’d intended to take his mother to the opera the following evening, but that she’d had to cancel at the last moment, due to a severe cold. He had two very good tickets and it seemed a shame to let them go to waste. Would she like them? Did she have a friend who cared for the opera? Susan hesitated. He suddenly had a wonderful idea — why didn’t they go together!

  Susan stared fixedly out her tiny office window as she coolly suggested it might be more appropriate for Dr Roth to take his wife to the opera, if he truly lacked companionship.

  Lacked companionship. What a stuffy little fool she’d been…

  Dr Roth — Gerard — was astounded. Yes, of course he was married, but surely Susan knew that he and Iris were no longer living together, that they’d separated more than a year ago.

  Heavens, what sort of person did she think he was?

  Taken by surprise, caught off balance, Susan said she needed time to make a decision. Gerard showed her the tickets. She couldn’t help noticing how expensive they were. And he was right — it was a terrible waste not to use them. It suddenly occurred to her that the destruction of his marriage might explain why he was so relentlessly cheerful.

  He had been badly hurt but he was doing his best to recover. He was being brave.

  Susan agreed to go out with him but insisted they meet at the theatre rather than have him pick her up at her apartment. And despite his objections, she would go only if she paid her own way.

  That first time they’d dated, the way he treated her, so courteously, she might as well have been his mother.

  They’d had a glass of white wine at each of the two intermissions. Afterwards Gerard had suggested a nightcap. Against her better judgement Susan agreed to just one drink. Gerard knew a quiet little bar in a downtown hotel. He ordered two glasses of wine. Susan was in a festive mood, and they chatted gaily about the opera. Gerard explained the subtleties of the tragedy. He sang, very quietly but with intense passion, a few lines of an aria. He drank as he talked; very quickly, and despite her best intentions Susan found herself keeping pace. She excused herself to use the washroom and when she came back to the table her empty glass had been replaced with a full one.

  Gerard was effusively apologetic. He’d indicated to the waiter that he wanted the cheque, but his signal was misinterpreted. Would she forgive him? They would leave immediately, if that’s what she wanted.

  It was midnight when Gerard finally paid the tab, and the single glass of wine had turned to four. Susan was a little drunk, but she was enjoying herself too much to be upset about it.

  Gerard had a black Saab station wagon with soft leather seats and a compact disc player. He inserted a disc that contained highlights of the opera, and sang loudly and with good-natured gusto as he drove slowly through the late-night traffic.

  At the door to Susan’s apartment he had smiled and held her small hand in both of his, and told her with much energy that he’d had an absolutely wonderful time, and couldn’t wait until his mother succumbed to another cold.

  Then he’d kissed her on the cheek, very lightly, and turned and walked away.

  Susan had heard vague rumours that Dr Roth was a womanizer. Now she was convinced that these rumours were unfounded. He was a naturally friendly, outgoing person, and that was all there was to it.

  Two weeks passed and then he invited her at short notice to a Beethoven concert, and to his favourite bar afterwards for the ritual glass of wine. This time, as she said goodbye, he kissed her softly and fleetingly on the mouth.

  From that point on their relationship developed so quickly that Susan could hardly keep up.

  Gerard took her to the theatre, films, concerts. He introduced her to Early Music, gave her armfuls of flowers, many small, inexpensive but tasteful gifts. He took her sailing on his Cal 20. He showed her how to cook pasta the way his mother cooked it. He bought her books, introduced her to his favourite authors. No matter what they talked about — and it seemed to Susan that they talked about virtually everything — he never failed to respect her opinion. Soon he actively sought her advice when he had to make a difficult career or personal decision.

  Gradually, Susan came to feel needed. Gerard was so much older, and yet so obviously depended on her in so many ways. Their relationship was perfect except for one crucial aspect. Susan had no idea whether it was Gerard’s age or simply that a strictly platonic relationship was all he desired, but he was completely uninterested in making love.

  Or so she thought.

  In late September Gerard invited her to accompany him to Seattle to view a touring exhibition of modern art. Without giving it much thought, Susan said she’d love to go.

  It was about thirty miles to the border and another hundred and twenty-odd miles to Seattle. The trip would take about three hours altogether, unless there was an unusually long delay at customs.

  Gerard was at Susan’s apartment at eight o’clock, Saturday morning. He was dressed a bit more formally than she’d expected: in grey slacks and a dark blue sports jacket, one of his more sombre ties. The Saab had been recently washed and waxed. As Susan got into the car, Gerard made a casual remark about how much he admired a woman who travelled light. When she asked him what he meant he grinned mischievously, revved the engine and pointed out that she hadn’t fastened her seatbelt.

  When Susan pursued the subject he turned up the disc player and burst into song.

  The weather was so mild that once they were out of the city Gerard opened the Saab’s sunroof. The breeze rippled Susan’s hair, slid under her skirt and caressed her thighs. She felt a mounting sense of excitement — the trip to Seattle would be an adventure. Even though it was so close, America was a foreign country. They might not realize it, but Americans were very different from Canadians.

  Gerard broached the subject of lunch. He seemed to know all of the best restaurants in Seattle. Susan asked him if he spent a lot of time in the city, and he smiled and told her he hadn’t been across the border in years.

  The highway speed limit was fifty-five miles per hour, but Gerard kept the Saab moving along at a steady eighty. He’d never before driven above the legal limit in Susan’s company. When she tactfully voiced concern he told her not to worry, that the Saab had the best radar detector money could buy.

  Well, that was hardly the point. But Susan wasn’t sure how to make that clear.

  They drove nonstop except for a brief pause at an Ex
xon station to fill the Saab’s tank, and arrived in downtown Seattle at quarter to twelve. Gerard drove swiftly and with a great deal of confidence — he seemed as familiar with the Emerald City as he was with the streets of Vancouver. Eventually he pulled up in front of a large, expensive-looking hotel. He helped Susan out of the car and said something she couldn’t quite catch to a gaudily overdressed valet, then handed the man the keys to his car. Susan wasn’t sure quite what to think. As Gerard guided her towards the hotel door he assured her the restaurant served the best seafood in the entire Northwest.

  Despite the vast scale of the hotel, the dining room was small and intimate. Their reserved table was situated in a little nook close to the fireplace, next to a bay window that afforded a sweeping view of the harbour. The tablecloth was snowy white and the glassware and cutlery sparkled in the flame of a tall pink candle. A waitress brought menus and advised them as to the daily specials. She wondered if they’d like a drink to start, and Gerard cheerily admitted he would absolutely love a drink. They were on a holiday, why not enjoy themselves? He ordered a vodka tonic and asked Susan what she’d like. When she hesitated, he told the waitress to make it a pair.

  The menu was in French. Gerard spoke the language fluently. He sat a little closer to her, the better to explain the various dishes. The sommelier appeared and, after a quick exchange in French followed by a moment’s thoughtful reflection, Gerard ordered a bottle of wine.

  The vodka tonics arrived, and the waitress took their order. Gerard insisted on a toast. They touched glasses and drank to a long and happy day. Gerard told Susan how much he’d been looking forward to the trip, that he’d been thinking of nothing else all week long.

  They were well into their vodka tonics by the time the salads arrived. The sommelier bustled about with the wine, and a long-legged silver ice bucket. Susan surprised herself by wondering aloud if the bucket was really silver, and the sommelier smiled and showed her the sterling marks. Dr Roth examined the label on the bottle and nodded his solemn approval. The cork was pulled and Gerard examined that, too, rolled it about between his thumb and index finger and then brought it to his nose and sniffed with authority. As a splash of wine was poured into his glass he gave Susan a quick wink that made her smile. Then he offered the glass to Susan, explaining that her palate was less jaded than his, and more dependable.