Eric woke the next morning before his alarm. When he saw the book on his nightstand, it suddenly dawned on him why Martin’s name had sounded familiar. It was the book he’d tossed aside after reading that stupid line about winter in Seattle. He picked up the novel and opened it to the last page, already knowing who he would see.
There he was. Martin Watts, New York Times Bestselling Author. Martin looked better in his photo than he had in person, even before he killed him. His photo had no doubt been photoshopped to make him look more attractive. You couldn’t even tell how fat he was.
Eric set the book back on his nightstand and got out of bed. He supposed readers preferred books written by attractive people. Fortunately, for him, that wouldn’t be a problem.
When he walked past the drummer's apartment door on his way to work, Eric wondered if he'd played his drums at all the day before. If he had, Eric hadn't even noticed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was Monday night when he saw the news. Eric had taken a break from writing his book to check if there were any breakthroughs in Daisy's case. And, lo and behold, there was. Dwayne Morrison, Daisy's live-in boyfriend, had been arrested for her murder.
When Eric had opened his internet browser to his national news homepage, he was annoyed to see that Patricia and her overrated husband were once again the center of attention. Although, Eric did feel a little prideful that his handiwork had resulted in the biggest news story in the country. For today at least. Bold, red letters filled the top of the page.
MANNER OF MARTIN WATTS’ DEATH STILL UNDETERMINED; WIFE’S DEATH RULED HOMICIDE
He wondered what exactly they meant by undetermined. The article said Martin was found at the base of his staircase lying under a fallen chandelier with an electrical cord around his neck. Everything Eric read implied suicide. It made him wonder why they hadn’t made a ruling on his cause of death. He clicked out of the article and searched for news related to Daisy’s murder.
Eric set down his glass of wine and read through the article on his laptop more than once. It didn't give many details, like what evidence had led to Dwayne’s arrest. Just that his bail had been set for $300,000. Eric scowled at Dwayne’s picture at the top of the article, his hatred for him growing the longer he stared.
The picture showed Dwayne being led out of an apartment building by Marky Mark and Blondie. Dwayne was overweight and there was little distinction between his chin and his neck. He had dark brown hair and his polo shirt was too tight for his gut. Eric wondered what beautiful Daisy could've possibly seen in him. Aside from his looks, Daisy deserved to be with someone who appreciated her, who loved her. Someone like himself.
He got up and paced around the living room before refilling his glass of wine and sitting back down to work on his book. Daisy would get justice, and he needed to focus on finishing his manuscript. The world needed his novel.
He'd only written half a page when he realized that Dwayne getting arrested wasn't justice at all. What if he gets some unconscionable attorney to make a jury find him not guilty? Or what if he strikes some sort of deal for a lighter sentence? He could be a free man in less than ten years. The thought made Eric nauseous. Even on the minute chance that Dwayne got the death penalty, he'd probably die of old age on death row. And that was much, much more than he deserved. He should've killed him before the cops could get to him. That would've been justice.
He stared at the picture of Dwayne on his screen. The more Eric thought about him, the madder he became. He should've never allowed his fate to be determined by the so called “justice system” of the United States. He deserved to die just like Daisy.
Eric fantasized about winding an electrical cord around his neck, hearing the pathetic sound of him wheeze as he slowly tightened his grip. Dwayne would try to disarm him by swinging his arms behind him, but it would be to no use. Eric would only pull tighter and soon his attempts to pull the cord away from his neck would stop. Eric would relish in taking the last breath from his body.
When he looked at the clock he realized he'd been daydreaming about revenging Daisy's death for over an hour. How could he have been so careless? He got up to pour another glass of wine, hoping the distraction would help take his mind off Dwayne so he could concentrate on the matter at hand: becoming the greatest author in the world.
But it didn't help. As he walked past his couch, he remembered the way Daisy had looked in her sleep. So lovely.
He sighed, thinking of the temp he had hired to replace Daisy for the time being. She was twenty years older than he had hoped, hard on the eyes, and had an extremely unlovable personality.
She seemed to snub her nose at him every chance she got. Whenever he asked her to do something, she pursed her lips before mumbling an unenthusiastic all right. As though he was being completely unreasonable for asking her to do her job. As if he was working for her. Just thinking about her frumpy brown hair and sensible flats made him cringe.
It reminded him that he needed to hire a permanent replacement for Daisy. Preferably a bubbly, young blonde who liked to wear spiked heels. But he’d have to worry about that later. He had a book to finish.
He took a sip from his wine after sitting back down to write. He closed out of the article about Dwayne and forced himself to recall everything about Patricia's murder. He opened a new document, ready to reconstruct every detail about that night for his book. He would change the victims’ names, of course, but everything else would be the same.
No sooner had he started typing when he heard the familiar sound of his neighbor's drums pulsating through the wall. He tried to tune it out, but the beat grew louder, faster. He couldn't think straight.
He needed total silence when he wrote. He found any noise, even classical music, a total distraction that blocked his creative pathways. While he would've loved to get lost in his favorite AC/DC album while he crafted his novel, that is exactly what his novel would be if he did: lost.
In his book, On Writing, Stephen King tells how he cranks head-banging hard metal while he pens his manuscripts. Eric was in awe of this. For him, that would be utterly impossible. His genius was best unleashed in the quiet.
His neighbor never drummed this late. At least, he never did until Eric asked him not too. The throb of the drums felt like it was coming from inside Eric’s head. He couldn't take it anymore. He jumped out of his chair and marched down the hall to his door. He banged twice. Then again. But the drums didn't stop. He banged again, but his neighbor probably couldn't hear it over his obnoxious drumming.
Eric took a deep breath and tried to calm down. But his anger about Daisy's death, Dwayne's arrest, his new dud of a secretary, and his neighbor's relentless drumming was an overwhelming force he could no longer contain.
He had tried to be nice. If his neighbor had answered the door, he would've politely asked him to stop. But now he had forced his hand. There was only one thing left to do. Eric turned back for his apartment to retrieve his gloves, lock-picking kit, and something he could use to strangle the drummer.
Eric ended up grabbing one of his ties out of his closet. He figured it worked well enough on Patricia, it would do the job for his neighbor—who was still hammering away on the drums.
Eric went out into the hall and double-checked that he was alone before using his gloved hand to try his neighbor's door. Lucky for him, the dimwit had left it unlocked.
Eric slid his lock-picking kit into his pocket before he let himself inside and closed the door behind him. His neighbor’s apartment was a mirror image to his own. Eric spotted him as soon as he stepped inside.
The drum set sat smack in the middle of the living room. Fortunately, his neighbor faced away from him toward the window. Eric wrapped each end of the tie around his gloved hands as he crept toward him.
Eric could see his reflection in the window in front of his neighbor. But he was oblivious to Eric’s presence, his head bobbing up and down with each beat. Eric almost felt sorry for the insensitive little prick.
Almost.
A large, painted canvas stood on an easel to the left of the drum set. Eric couldn’t help but admire the oil painting as he snuck closer. Painting supplies were scattered on the floor under the painting. Although it looked to be a work in progress, it was an exceptionally beautiful work of art. Maybe the drummer should’ve spent a little more time creating masterpieces and a little less time perturbing his neighbors with his late-night, so-so drumming.
He was directly behind him when his neighbor finally noticed his reflection. He jumped and started to turn around, but it was too late.
Eric wrapped the noose around his neck and pulled with all his strength. The young man’s drumsticks fell to the floor as he stood. He grasped at the necktie and spun around to face Eric. Eric moved quickly to stay behind him and keep a tight hold on the noose, but his neighbor kept spinning. Eric jumped onto his back so he wouldn't lose hold of the necktie. The drummer stumbled forward, knocking Eric into the side of easel. The intricate painting fell to the floor. Eric cringed as his neighbor stepped on it as he struggled to free the tie from his neck. They moved across the living room until Eric’s weight finally pulled the drummer backward. Eric grunted as his neighbor slammed him against the wall that divided their apartments. Eric’s back slid down the wall and they dropped to the floor.
His neighbor thrashed about in a wild motion until finally his movements slowed. Eric held tight until he went limp like an overcooked vegetable. A couple minutes later, he knew it would be safe to let go. His neighbor fell to the side. Eric pushed the rest of his body off his lap before getting up. He didn't look down. He had no desire to see his bloated, discolored face. After all, he did have a heart.
Standing next to the drum set, Eric suddenly wanted to play. It seemed a shame to kill the people that irritated him most if he couldn't enjoy it a little. He had drummed in a band in his early years in Australia, before medical school. They were called Great White. He smiled at their choice of name. They weren't half bad—but never picked up much of a following. They toured around New South Wales the summer after they graduated from year twelve but were too broke to tour any longer.
He bent over and picked up the drumsticks from the floor. When he did, Eric inadvertently got a close look at the whites of the drummer's bulging eyes. They were now pink with pops of bright red from the broken blood vessels. He knew the neighborly thing to do would be to close them, but he didn't do it. Instead, he stepped over his body and took a seat on the stool in front of the drums.
He tapped softly at first, timid that he wouldn't be any good after so many years of not playing. It didn't feel right with his gloves on. If he was going to play, he wanted to put his heart and soul into it. He slipped off his gloves and dropped them on the floor next to him. He made a mental note to wipe the drumsticks off before he left. He closed his eyes and started again.
Gradually, the beat took over him, and his rhythm grew louder and louder. He was amazed by how good he was, like he had never stopped playing. He and the rhythm were one, and, for a while, he lost track of time. It was magical. Like he was high on drugs though he was completely sober. He felt as though he could stay until his neighbor's body decayed.
Eric finally came to his senses. He needed to get back to his book. He let out a sigh and let the drumsticks rest atop his thigh. He knew he shouldn’t have taken off his gloves. That was a rookie mistake. But the temptation had been too sweet. He looked around the apartment, wondering what he could use to wipe away his fingerprints. He spotted the small can of paint thinner lying next to the fallen easel. That would work.
He picked up his gloves and went into the kitchen in search of paper towels. He retrieved a nearly full roll from the pantry. He turned the can on its side, soaking a few paper towels and spilling the solution onto the floor. He vigorously wiped the drumsticks until he was certain no trace of his fingerprints remained. Like a good neighbor, Eric disposed of the paper towels in the kitchen garbage before he pulled his tie away from his neighbor's neck and headed for the door.
He felt elated as he meandered back to his apartment. Not only would he never have to hear the sound of those drums come through his apartment walls again, but this killing would make a wonderful addition to his story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Eric was a page into recreating his neighbor's death when he remembered that his car was parked in a spot visible by the building's security cameras. He would likely be the prime suspect in his neighbor's murder once his body was found. Having his car parked in the parking garage all night wouldn't do him any favors.
He checked the time and did a quick Google search for local movie showtimes. A movie he hadn't heard of was starting in ten minutes at the theater closest to his apartment. He grabbed his wallet and keys and dashed out of his unit.
He fought the urge to take the stairs and waited impatiently for the elevator to take its thirty seconds to come to his floor. He looked away from his neighbor's door as he stood in the hall. He didn't want to succumb to feelings of guilt and ruin his night at the movies. Two minutes later, he drove out of the parking garage into the dark, rainy night.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a movie at the theater. Although his outing was a forced necessity to create an alibi, he was actually looking forward to it. The only downside was it meant he would lose two hours that he could've been writing. And he would never get that time back.
Playing his neighbor's drums had made him nostalgic for his old rock band. He remembered as he drove that he had one of their old hits downloaded onto his phone. He connected it to Bluetooth and rocked his head back and forth to the beat. As time had gone by, he'd forgotten how good they were. He wondered if they would've stuck together if they could have made it big. He replayed the song for the rest of the drive. By the time he got to the movie theater, he was in a fantastic mood.
“One for Fifty Shades Freed, please,” he said to the teenage girl behind the ticket counter. Freed from what? he wondered. He guessed he'd find out soon enough.
She smiled awkwardly as if she were trying to suppress a giggle. “That'll be twelve fifty.”
Eric reached into his wallet and pulled out his credit card so the detectives could verify his purchase.
“Unless you have a senior's discount,” she added.
His jaw dropped open. Her smile was gone.
“Are you kidding? I'm forty-five.”
Her face flushed as she took his card. “Sorry, we're told to ask if...” she paused, as if realizing what she was about to say.
“If what? Do I look like a senior?”
She avoided eye contact as she passed him back his card and movie ticket. “Enjoy your movie,” she said, ignoring his question.
“Unbelievable,” Eric said, stepping away from the counter.
The previews had just finished when he walked into the theater. It was empty aside for a middle-aged woman seated in the middle of the back row. He sat down on the end of her row, pretending not to see her smile as he sat down.
The movie was not exactly what he was expecting, although he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It was horrible, all the way to the end, when he read Based on the Bestselling Novel by E L James.
Bestselling novel? If that was what it took to write a bestseller then his book would be winning him a Nobel Prize.
The story wasn't even as entertaining as his co-inhabitant of the theater, who he caught making pathetic eyes at him more than once during the film. Women. He hurried out to the men's room while the credits played, sparing her the embarrassment of trying to pick him up.
He checked his watch on his way out of the theater and saw it was just after ten thirty. If his neighbor wasn't found for a few days, he wondered how precisely the police would be able to pinpoint his time of death. He might need a longer alibi.
He went back to the ticket counter where the teenage girl was still working. She looked less than thrilled to see him.
“I'd like to see another movie. Wha
t do you have playing?”
“Um, Fifty Shades Freed starts again in five minutes. That'll be our last showing of the night.”
“I don't mind being a little late. Have any other movies started in the last half hour?”
“No, sorry. Everything else is just getting out.”
Right. “Then it'll be one adult for your next showing of Fifty Shades Freed,” he said, passing her his credit card.
“Oh. Okay.” She ran his card before handing it back to him with another movie ticket and a dumbfounded expression. “Enjoy the show. Again.”
“Thanks.”
He walked back into the theater and was glad to see that his ex-movie patron from the eight fifteen showing was gone. He just wished he'd brought a book.
Eric was startled awake by a sharp poke in his arm. He swatted at the hand that jabbed him, disoriented by his unfamiliar surroundings. The young girl from the ticket counter slowly came into focus. She backed away, putting him at arm’s length.
“Excuse me, sir. The credits have been finished for over ten minutes, and we're closed. We need you to leave now.”
He rubbed his eyes and got up from his seat. He could remember watching the opening scene of the movie for the second time but realized he must've dozed off soon after. The girl followed him out of the theater and into the main lobby.
He pushed open the glass door and walked through the parking garage to his car. He started his engine and saw that it was after midnight. But since he napped through the second showing, he knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. At least not for a while.
He stopped in front of the first bar he saw and went inside for a drink. Or two. He figured he might as well extend his alibi until he was tired enough to go home to bed.
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