It amounts to this: The husband committed murder because at the time he believed the pharmacist had made a fatal error which caused his wife's death. He then discovered the wife's letter to him, in which she admitted to her affair and stated that she planned to take her own life. This convinced him that he'd murdered an innocent man, and his guilt and strict moral code prompted him to shoot himself with the same gun. Unknown to him, however, his wife had changed her mind and written an angry and threatening letter to her lover. The lover's reaction was to do away with her to protect himself.
The final irony here is that the lover, the man who substituted the Armour Thyroid for Caroline Darnell's heart medication, was the pharmacist, Marvin Peterson. He neglected to destroy her last letter to him; we found it in the trash at Consolidated Drugs, where we also learned that two dozen 60mg tablets of Armour Thyroid were missing and could not be accounted for. James Darnell had been right after all: The man he executed was guilty, not of gross negligence but of premeditated homicide.
A tragedy of errors, the whole business.
But if you want to look at it another way, what happened to Peterson and Darnell, if not to Mrs. Darnell, was fitting and proper punishment for their crimes. In Darnell's own words:
It was a matter of justice.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg
[Back to Table of Contents]
Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
There are, of course, a lot more things available on the Internet than blogs. Message boards, for example. One of the newest crime-related boards is The Big Adios. Here's what it's all about: “a place to discuss the crime/mystery/thriller genres with our very special host: crime author Tom Piccirilli. Visit a while and talk about crime books, movies and all things murderous. Moderators: Russ Dickerson and David T. Wilbanks.” You can join an existing discussion of a favorite author, book, or blog, or you can start your own discussion. Quite a few writers are participating, along withreaders and fans. The URL is long and complicated (p219.ezboard.com/The-Big-Adios/fmessageboardofthedamnedrm29), so either do a Google search for Big Adios or type carefully.
J. D. (Dusty) Rhoades's latest Jack Keller novel is Safe and Sound, and his blog is What Fresh Hell is This? (jdrhoades.blogspot.com). In addition to being a novelist, Rhoades is a newspaper columnist, and he always includes his weekly column on his blog, along with his thoughts about current events, books, and anything else that grabs his attention. Rhoades is a man of strong opinions and tilts to the left. Reading his blog is usually a bracing experience.
Dave White's first book, a P.I. novel titled When One Man Dies, got a starred review from Publishers Weekly, and he blogs about being a rookie novelist, about Rutgers football, about his book signings,and about other things at a blog he calls Dave White's Writing Block (jacksondonne.blogspot.com).
Ray Banks claims to be an “author, raconteur, black belt, sex-bomb, evil hypnotist, champion sheep-shearer, ‘seventies throwback, Prince impersonator, real saxophonist on Gerry Rafferty's ‘Baker Street,’ militant feminist, and America's Next Top Model.... Oh, and what you heard is true—he did shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.” Banks's novels aren't for the faint of heart, and neither is his blogging, which can be found at his website, The Saturday Boy (www.thesaturdayboy.com). Like J. D. Rhoades, Banks is a man of strong opinions about books, movies, and music, and his site, like his novels, isn't for the faint of heart. Still, I don't believe that bit about Reno.
And speaking of a man whose books aren't for the faint of heart, I'm reminded of Allan Guthrie. His Hard Man is in the Grand Guignol tradition, though in person he's quite mild-mannered and known to his friends, and possibly his enemies, as “Sunshine.” His Noir Originals site (www.allanguthrie.co.uk) has articles ofinterest on writers like William Campbell Gault and Bruno Fischer.
For Bill Crider's own blog see billcrider.blogspot.com.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Bill Crider
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: KILLING BY THE CLOCK by Barbara Cleverly
* * * *
Art by Mark Evan Walker
* * * *
Historical novelist Barbara Cleverly received a starred review from Publishers Weekly for her sixth Joe Sandilands novel, set in 1926 France (Tug of War, Carroll & Graf, June ‘07). She also began a new series last year with The Tomb of Zeus (Delta), also set in the 1920s but starring an amateur archeologist turned detective, in a case involving Theodore Roosevelt. Her new story for us was inspired by some recent murders in Ipswich, where she once lived.
* * * *
The watcher crouched behind rubbish bins overflowing with a fortnight's stinking detritus. The warm weather had come early to Cambridge this year and was causing him some discomfort. He stealthily changed his position, eased his limbs and averted his nose, trying to catch a fresh breeze down the alleyway. At least he had something pleasant to distract and occupy his other senses.
He allowed his gaze to be drawn back to the two girls standing, arms around each other's waists, teetering on the edge of the pavement. Well, why not? Everyone within a hundred yards of them was staring at the couple. Skimpy skirts with low-slung belts glinting with silver discs, boob-tubes, and stiletto heels—the summer uniform of the Cambridge Working Girl. You couldn't get away any longer with calling them “prostitutes.” The public felt more comfortable with the delusion created by the use of the innocent-sounding “girls,” and “working” suggested reassuringly that they might even be paying income tax.
This pair were shouting cheerful insults and invitations at the drivers of cars braking for the bend where they'd positioned themselves. Unsuccessfully so far. Most had slowed dramatically to look at the girls; some had leaned over and shouted encouragement or lascivious promises. None had suggested serious business. The watcher shook his head in an expression of knowing irony. What else did they expect? On a Saturday afternoon, these blokes had other things on their mind. They were on their way to a football match. And not just any match—the next Cup round was being played at the local ground up the road. Sex would always take second place to football. Breathing took second place to a Cup fixture.
To relieve his boredom, the watcher indulged in a little fantasy. Blonde or redhead, if he had the choice? Any man's first impulse would be towards the blonde. Tall and slender with a cloud of shoulder-length fair hair, she looked like the angel on his grandma's Christmas tree—until she opened her mouth. He shuddered with distaste as the angel let rip with a stream of obscene invective in exchange for a white-van man's provoking comments. Wherever had she learned such language? His granny would have known how to deal with her! Coal-tar soap and the cupboard under the stairs! Vicious old trout, his gran. He winced at the memory. But she'd have stood none of this nonsense. He almost looked furtively over his shoulder, fearing still the old lady's challenge. “Gary! Is that you skulking by the bins? Come out at once and show me your hands!"
Gran wouldn't have thought much of the redhead either, but she was Gary's choice. Not immediately as attractive, but you'd probably have a more interesting time with this one. Shorter, more rounded, with all the cockiness of a backyard robin. Shantelle, she called herself. That was her street name. Her friend was Christalle. He'd heard them calling to each other when one or the other went off round the corner for a coffee. Enjoying the game. Stupid, really. Who did they think they were kidding? With their unblemished complexions, smooth limbs, and freshly washed hair, no one but a fool would take them for real tarts. The pros on this beat had empty eyes, raddled faces, and strawky hair, and they covered up the needle tracks with long sleeves and jeans. Still—their male clients were pretty damn thick and self-deceiving ... they were easily dazzled and incapable of thinking twice about the genuineness of what was on offer. They'd buy a lottery ticket, bet on a horse, pick up a blonde by the roadside, and always believe it was nothing but their due. Their lucky day.
No surprise there, but the question that niggled him was—
why weren't these two chancers being seen off with the usual territorial aggression by the regular girls? Granted, there'd been many fewer working the streets in this part of Cambridge since the murders had started. Most had sought shelter in the safe houses opening up in the quiet residential streets off Eastern Avenue and the ones left pounding the pavements were grouping together in twos and threes for some sort of protection. When one was picked up and driven off, her friend would ostentatiously write down the number in a notebook. The clients objected and there'd been a fracas or two resulting in even less activity on the street.
The regulars were not in evidence today. Warned off? Or stunned by the latest murder—the fourth of what was beginning to look sickeningly like a series. A corpse had been dragged out of a ditch to the south of the city, yesterday. Strangled, like the others.
They were beginning to call him the Clock Killer. Some clever dick brought in from the Metropolitan Police had plotted the dumping grounds, or the “deposition spots” as they called them these days, and come up with the theory that the man responsible was working his way around what would look like a clock face with Cambridge at the centre. The first girl had been killed and left in the Fens to the north at the number twelve on the dial. The second had been found in a country lane at ten past, the third south of Newmarket at twenty past, and this latest, due south on a golf course by the Gog-Magog hills. And all equidistant from the red-light area where they'd been picked up. Ten miles.
The brainiac from the Met had treated the media to a learned explanation of the compulsion that led to a villain choosing his spots with such (literal) clockwork precision. The watcher gave a thin smile. He knew better. These days every Tom, Dick, and Harry watched CSI programmes. Profiling, DNA analysis, trace evaluation ... there were no more professional secrets. But the police went on assuming their man was an out-of-control noddy. The truth was, he was probably well clued-up about crime-location diagrams, comfort zones, crime-commission intervals, and all the rest of the semi-scientific garbage. The watcher knew exactly what the perpetrator was up to. By sticking to a prearranged pattern, the killer was sidestepping any attempt at analysis and concealing his base. He needn't be the local man they had projected. He could be any London man with a map. It was as simple as that.
The media had caught on to the clock face, of course. The headlines had screamed out the question: Who will be the 40-minute victim? Is time running out for number 5? The Cambridge Observer had printed out a diagram plotting the crime spots radiating out from the red-light zone and, in heavy type, the number 8. It hadn't taken much calculation to work out that west-southwest, ten miles distant and right under the number 8, lay the innocent, sleepy village of Foxfield. Sleepy no longer. The local inn was stuffed to the gunwales with press and police, tripping over each other in their fervid expectation of the next crime.
The watcher's smile widened. Not much chance of an abduction given the level of surveillance. A smart bloke, the killer would no doubt call it a day and turn his attention to another town. Peterborough, perhaps? Lively scene up there, he'd heard. Unless an unmissable opportunity presented itself here. He glanced again at the two girls by the roadside and calculated the risks. Just how vulnerable were they? He noted the CCTV camera above his head. Trained on the girls. A hundred other cameras covered every inch of this street. And, on the tree-lined road parallel to and behind the main avenue there was a mobile police headquarters van parked on a patch of waste ground. Only a complete idiot would fall to the lure offered by these gaudy girls.
Decoy ducks. Police detectives, both. They weren't risking much. Trained in unarmed combat, the pair of them. The watcher was a big, strong lad but he'd have thought twice about tangling with them. And the girls were secure in the knowledge that every shrub, every dumpster, and every corner had a police constable lurking behind it doing nothing but watch them. Overkill. Waste of time.
Every man they could call on had been brought in for the operation. Even auxiliaries like himself—Community Police Officer Gary Newstead—had been taken off regular duties and put to work on the investigation. Still, he wasn't complaining. Watching Shantelle and Christalle larking about—it beat nicking shoplifters in the Arboretum Estate mini-mart. And the overtime was always welcome.
He'd thought they were on to something earlier. Thick traffic in both directions. Surely the top brass could have liaised with someone and found there were events going on all over the city this Saturday? A smart Bentley had cruised by, returning within minutes. A gent had stepped out, actually stepped out of the car to address the girls. His booming voice had carried as far as Gary even over the street noise, relaxed and conversational: “I say, ladies! I find myself encumbered by a growing problem. Any chance of some assistance, I wonder? From one of you? Both?” Gary's crouch had moved smoothly into a racing start. He'd noticed that the gent's eyes were sharp and were taking in his surroundings. Cute as an alley-rat, this one. He must have sensed that something was not quite right; the voice, when he spoke again, no longer had its confident edge. “Lost my way, I fear. Sat-nav absolutely useless! I'm trying to get to the shindig at the hospital ... dashed if I can remember its name.... They've got a red-ribbon fund-raiser on. Know the one I mean ...?"
Shantelle, popping her gum and grinning, had directed him to turn around and head back east and pick up the Newmarket road where he'd find the Cambridge Clinic. And that had been the only excitement.
Newstead pulled up the cuff of his special-issue police camouflage suit and checked his watch. Nearly two hours here and no result. Two more hours to go. He stifled a yawn.
His attention sharpened. Something happening at last?
He relaxed again. The redhead was whispering in the ear of her mate and giggling. He interpreted the body language. She was apologetically nipping off to the van for a quick pee.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do while I'm away, Christalle!” she shouted with annoying archness.
Newstead cringed. His professional sensitivities were affronted. Stupid cows! They were enjoying themselves too much. Centre of attention and fancying themselves in the role. Well, all women were tarts at heart. He'd often heard it said. Why couldn't she cross her legs? Or lay off the coffee? She should have thought! This manoeuvre was unscheduled—could put the whole operation at risk. All this detailed planning and someone forgot that girls need to go to the loo, especially when they're feeling nervous.
He watched Shantelle hurry fifty yards down the road but his head whipped back to the pavement in front of him at the sound of screeching tyres. A black taxi had drawn up right by the other girl, Christalle. Gary Newstead leapt to his feet as the blonde put her head on one side, peered, and moved forward to greet the driver. He could have sworn that she knew him. Gary stayed uncertainly in place. No one else was moving in. Was this some police manoeuvre that hadn't filtered down to bottom-feeders like him?
The driver of the black London cab leaned over, flung the door open, and began to speak to the girl. She was showing surprise but no sign of tension or fear. She leaned in close and talked back to him. This must be prearranged. Plain-clothes inspector calling by to take her pizza order? Just what he'd expect of this Keystone Cops op! The watcher decided he could stand down.
Abruptly, he tensed, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.
The driver was hauling the blonde into the passenger seat. All Gary got was a glimpse of a black-shirted arm, a black watch strap, and a dark head. He heard the click of the doors as the automatic lock was applied. The cab drove off at speed.
No time to juggle with notebooks. Shaking off his astonishment, Gary pulled his pen from his pocket and scribbled down the number of the vehicle on his wrist, then he charged forward to join all the other ineffectual lurkers breaking cover, red in the face and stammering excuses for their lapse.
"Did anyone get the number?"
"Where's the bloody pursuit car?"
"Get on to traffic control!"
"Alert the team at Foxfield!"
"Ten miles away. He won't get that far, but check the backstop's in place!"
In the hubbub, Special Constable Gary Newstead finally made his voice heard. “I got it, sir! Sir! I got the number!"
* * * *
"For your own safety, sir...” The blond girl's voice had an edge of steel. “I'd advise you to stop and put me out at once."
"What?” The driver's response was derisive. “Before I've sampled the wares on offer? You're very choosy for a tart, aren't you?” He cast a scathing look sideways. “I'm assuming that's what you are? Decked out in that bum-freezing bit of titillation, with hair gilded and frizzed and starched to a standard any medieval Florentine light-skirt would have envied! Just don't insult me by telling me you were inspecting the drains or collecting for charity! Why the sudden shyness? Could it be that you don't do it with old acquaintances?"
Detective Constable Christina Kenton sighed and tried to assess the determination and aims of the stern-faced man at the wheel of the black cab. The latest in a line of extraordinary vehicles he'd owned. She remembered ten years ago it had been a Thunderbird, followed by an AC Cobra, then an ancient and totally covetable Morgan. Always more than a touch of the showman about Julius Jameson.
She tried again. “It's not what you think. No time to explain, even if I were allowed to. Drop me here. Right here. At once. You've put yourself in danger."
"Ah! You're threatening me with your poxy pimp? Ooh, I shake with terror!"
The wheel of the taxi wobbled dramatically and she bit back a nervous protest.
With creeping alarm, Chris had noticed that he was threading his way skillfully through the city, moving with the typical panache of a taxi, one of the hundreds on the road on a busy Saturday. No one looked twice at a cab shooting down a sidestreet or driving up a buslane. It was what cabs did. They were making excellent speed, but going where? The green square of Parker's Piece came into view and for a hysterical moment she thought he was about to turn her in to Police HQ. She'd never live it down. But the station passed by on the right and all lights changed in their favour as they approached. Over the river and on to the common, dotted with black-and-white cows up to their udders in a froth of Queen Anne's lace. There could be no doubt. He was heading southwest, out into the country. She thought she could guess his destination. But could he possibly have remembered—after ten years?
EQMM, February 2008 Page 16