Shutterbug

by Laurence Gough

  He’d been burned, as had some previous victims. Probably with a portable propane torch. Teams of detectives were already canvassing retail outlets. Canada Tire, Radio Shack, independent electronics and hobby shops, department stores. The list of potential suppliers was just short of endless.

  Willows prowled around the room. Alice had scrubbed the rest of the apartment to within an inch of its life, but the bedroom hadn’t been cleaned, so there was a possibility it might yield up some fingerprints, or other useful clues. Otherwise, the bedroom was no different from the rest of the apartment. Furnishings were minimal. There were no photographs or artwork hanging on the walls, or anything else that might hint at Sammy Wu’s private life or personality. The clothes in the closet were bland and impersonal - the kind of garments a plainclothes cop might choose if he was hoping to blend in, and not be noticed.

  So far, Willows and Parker had been unable to find any evidence of a bank account, paid or unpaid bills. Sammy’s wallet had been stuffed with large-denomination currency. The only piece of plastic he owned was a VanCity Visa card. They’d found no correspondence of any kind. There was a phone in the kitchen and another in the bedroom, but no personal phone book or Rolodex.

  Willows fanned through the two thousand pages of B.C. Tel’s fat Metro Vancouver directory, and found them unmarked.

  Sammy didn’t own an answering machine.

  There was not the slightest trace of evidence that he had any close or distant friends. Ditto relatives. He hadn’t appeared to have any social life at all.

  Willows picked up the phone, punched in *69, and obtained, at a fifty-cent charge that would eventually be billed to Sammy’s estate, the phone number of the last person who’d called him. Willows dialled the number and then wrote it down in his spiralbound notebook.

  ‘Quick’n’ Easy Escort Service, Debbie speaking.’

  Willows said, ‘Hi, this is Sammy Wu. Listen, I can’t recall the name of the woman who visited me recently, but I would like to meet her again. Is that possible?’

  Delayed response. A keyboard rattled softly in the background. ‘Debbie? Are you still there?’

  ‘Sammy, can I phone you back in just a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. My number is… ‘

  ‘It’s okay, I have it right here on the computer. You’re still living in the apartment on Gilford?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘We’ll get back to you in a few minutes, Mr. Wu.’

  Debbie disconnected.

  Parker said, ‘What’re you up to?’

  Willows briefly explained.

  ‘Quick’n’ Easy?’ Parker laughed. ‘I guess that’s marginally better than ‘Quick’n’ Painless.’

  ‘Or Quick’n’ Painful.’

  The phone rang. Willows picked up.

  ‘Sammy?’

  ‘Yes. Who is calling?’

  ‘This’s Debbie. Holly was thrilled to learn that you wanted to see her again. She can hardly wait to get over there. Unfortunately, she’s unavailable at the moment, but she could see you later this afternoon, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, Holly. Now I remember. Tell me, when will she be available to come and visit me?’

  ‘Any time after four.’

  ‘Four o’clock would be most excellent,’ said Willows.

  Parker rolled her eyes.

  Debbie said, ‘Your computer file indicates that sometimes you like to be visited by two of our ladies. Are you interested in two ladies this afternoon, Sammy?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Willows had reacted instinctively; as a person rather than a cop. He debated changing his mind.

  ‘How long will Holly be staying with you, Sammy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Two, maybe three, hours.’

  ‘We’ll have to bill for three, but we can credit your account if she leaves sooner than you’d expected. Will that be all right?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘We’ll need your credit-card number… ‘

  Willows fished Sammy’s Visa card out of his wallet. Debbie had a sweet voice, but she was agonizingly slow with numbers. Willows had to repeat Sammy’s number three times, before she finally got it right.

  Debbie had one last question. ‘We’re offering our best customers a limited-time special, Sammy. As you know, Holly’s a college girl. If you think you might be interested in including her special friend, Barbara, we could offer you a significant reduction over our usual rates. I mention this only because you sometimes enjoy two guests at the same time.’

  Willows said, ‘I’m tempted. Very tempted. But I am not so young any more, and Holly is such a handful… ‘

  Parker feigned knocking him for a loop.

  Debbie promised Willows that Holly would arrive at four sharp. She advised him to have a nice day, and hung up.

  Popeye Rowland had been loitering in the doorway. Now he entered the room, verified that Sammy Wu was at least as dead as his general demeanour indicated. Popeye judiciously prodded the corpse. He lifted an arm and let it drop, noted the contusions and bruising, deployed his thermometer.

  ‘Time of death?’ wondered Parker.

  ‘Premature. The guy’s in his mid-thirties. Too young to die, even by today’s standards.’ Popeye checked his watch. ‘Who was the babe in the living room?’

  ‘What babe?’ said Willows.

  ‘In the blue pants.’

  Parker said, ‘That’s Alice.’

  ‘Very nice. Any chance of an introduction?’

  ‘Sorry, but she was just leaving.’

  Popeye gingerly withdrew his thermometer, wiped it clean on a disposable tissue, and held it up to the light.

  ‘How much would you say he weighs?’

  ‘Pretty close to one-fifty,’ said Parker.

  Willows nodded his agreement.

  ‘It’s a little on the cool side in here. Sixty-eight, if the thermostat in the entry hall is accurate. And I see no reason why it shouldn’t be.’ Popeye squinted at the thermometer. He reached out and briskly wiggled Sammy Wu’s big toe. ‘My best guess is that he died not less than two and not more than three hours ago.’ Mel Dutton was late, but not apologetic. He shooed the Medical Examiner out of his way, hastily snapped a minimum number of pictures, and hurried off to his next homicide - a heroin overdose in a bootlegger’s house on Boundary Road, right on the edge of the city limits.

  The IDENT squad, dressed in white coveralls and elasticized caps that might have been pinched from the set of E.R., moved in. The body was bagged, and removed. The syringe was carefully bagged. Several large plastic bags were filled with sheets, blankets, and pillows. Sammy’s clothes filled more bags.

  Any and all surfaces that might conceivably relinquish a fingerprint were dusted with white or black powder.

  The bedroom was exhaustively searched, and then, when the room had given up all its other secrets, the carpet was vacuumed, and the contents, including thousands of invisible dust mites, were dumped into yet another plastic evidence bag.

  When the IDENT squad had finally left, Willows and Parker shut and locked the apartment door, and settled down to wait. The doorbell rang at one minute past four. Willows got up, went over to the door and opened it wide.

  Holly sniffed the air and smelled cop. Willows saw in her eyes that she was about to turn and run. He took her by the arm and led her inside.

  ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ Willows guided her deeper into the apartment, sat her down in the overstuffed chair that Alice had so thoroughly approved of. He introduced Parker.

  Parker said, ‘We’re not vice, Holly, and we’re not here to bust you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Holly was a little old for a college girl. Maybe she was a mature student. Her lightweight black raincoat came all the way down to her ankles. There was absolutely no way of knowing what, if anything, she wore beneath it. A heavily made-up drugstore blonde, she was all hair and eyes and lipstick.

  Willows said, ‘D’you remembe
r Sammy?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Don’t remember anything about him.’

  ‘Nope. But I’m thinking about it. Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The raincoat fell apart as Holly fished around in her pockets for her cigarettes. She had very nice legs, as far as Willows could see. Holly didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about the amount of thigh she was exposing. Willows supposed she had to endure many occupational hazards, and a lack of modesty was just one of them.

  He thought about Tony LoBrio and Ken DelMonte. Both men had been with the vice squad for as far back as he could remember, until a few years ago, when they’d moved to drugs. They’d spent a big chunk of their lives dealing with hookers, women like Holly. He snuck another peek at all that thigh.

  No wonder LoBrio and DelMonte were so damn crazy.

  Chapter 21

  Wayne wasn’t interested in the new additions to their happy little family. He liked dogs, but not necessarily dalmatians. Hadn’t he heard somewhere that they were short-tempered and demanding, and tended to bite? Conchita and Esmeralda stared up at him as if they knew exactly what he was thinking. He didn’t care. He’d had a murderously hard day. He wanted dinner. Hot food on a clean plate. And he wanted it now.

  ‘Now, goddammit!’

  In a pique of anger, he swung his booted foot at Esmeralda. The dog was agile. She leapt playfully aside, easily avoiding the blow, and then rushed in and nipped his calf, and darted away in a flash.

  ‘Christ!’ He wasn’t bleeding, but the bite hurt like hell. He limped over to the refrigerator and yanked a shrink-wrapped kilo package of raw hamburger from the meat bin.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ said April.

  Wayne tore the package of hamburger in half and tossed the two chunks of meat to the dogs. Hamburger and wrappings disappeared in an instant.

  ‘Good dogs,’ said Wayne. The dalmatians lowered their heads and eyed him warily.

  He lit a cigarette, and idly watched April labour over the stove. She said, ‘That was supposed to be our dinner.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Take off the plastic wrap next time. They could choke.’

  Wayne made a mental note. The things a guy could learn, if only he paid attention.

  April said, ‘What’ll I cook now?’

  ‘How about that pasta thing, with the shrimp?’

  April smiled. It was one of her own recipes. She said, ‘You like that, do you?’

  Wayne shrugged. ‘It’ll do.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Conchita amble carelessly under the kitchen table, squat, and urinate copiously. The kitchen floor wasn’t quite level. The puddle of urine became more and more elongated as it crept silently towards him, stopping only a few inches from the toe of his boot. A miscalculation. But dalmatians were smart; Conchita would get it right next time, if he gave her the chance.

  Wayne said, ‘Toss me a Bud, honey-pie.’

  Urinating in the kitchen. He glared at Conchita. That was a game that two could play. He said, ‘Better make it two Buds, babe.’ He sat at the table, thinking about his day’s work. There had been a large mirror in Sammy’s bedroom. That vain prick. Wayne had turned the Polaroid camera on himself, snapped a few action photos. He slid the photographs out of his shirt pocket.

  Man, but he looked weird. Watching TV a few months back, he’d seen an ad for Intel processors, a bunch of guys or babes or whatever, dancing around in these shiny, Mylar-type laboratory coveralls, hoods, goggles. It struck him right off the bat that it was the ideal set of clothes for a man who was bent on multiple murder, and didn’t want to leave any part of himself at the crime scene. He’d got April to hit the Yellow Pages, phone around town, find a supplier. It wasn’t an easy task. You couldn’t just drop down to Eaton’s and buy one off the rack. Eventually some science geek out at the university gave April a Montreal phone number.

  Wayne made the call from a downtown booth. The Montreal guy spoke pretty good English, which was a pleasant surprise.

  Wayne asked for prices. The suits weren’t cheap. He ordered one silver, two gold, paid with a stolen credit card, and had the suits couriered to a box number at a neighbourhood mail drop. No way the suits could be traced to him.

  They said clothes make the man. Was that true? He didn’t think so, not entirely. It wasn’t easy, being a multiple murderer. Avoiding capture was a major, but not the only, consideration. He hadn’t been blessed with the twisted credentials of a bona fide psychopath. To play his part, he had to work up some serious passion, stoke his internal fires until the conflagration was completely out of control. Even then, slipping the needle into those guys was no piece of cake.

  That was a pretty good shot, the last picture he’d taken of himself, kind of prancing. Sammy in the background, his life already flown away somewhere, gone forever. Too bad he couldn’t leave that one for the cops to find, show them his artistic side.

  Wayne slipped the devastatingly incriminating evidence back into his shirt pocket and turned so he could look at April. She was almost as pretty as the day he’d met her. She still had that special power to drive him absolutely crazy. Still the juiciest peach on the tree.

  *

  He’d brought a set of lock picks with him, found to his surprise that Sammy’s door was off the latch. Oh, happy day. He’d gone inside, shut the door behind him, shot the deadbolt, and fastened the safety chain. The chain, rattling against the door, had made quite a racket. But the TV was blaring away, fortunately.

  Sammy wasn’t in the living room/dining room. Neither was he on the toilet.

  Wayne found him in the bedroom, lying on the bed, dozing. He shook him awake, showed him the pointy end of his stiletto.

  Sammy hadn’t wanted to take his clothes off. Wayne sympathized. He suggested starting with something easy, like his socks. Sammy didn’t appreciate the advice. He’d rolled off the bed, scooted across the rug on his hands and knees, and squirmed headfirst into a corner.

  He’d wedged himself in there with his spiderlike arms and legs at strange, obviously unnatural and clearly uncomfortable angles, his head bent so sharply Wayne couldn’t believe he hadn’t broken his neck. It was amazing, how small Sammy had made himself.

  Wayne squatted down in front of him, only inches away. He tried to make eye contact, but Sammy was having none of it. Even so, Wayne believed he knew what was going on.

  Sammy was entangled in a terrifying, utterly inescapable situation. He had only a few minutes to live, and he knew it. There was only one way out, and that was via extreme disassociation. So, at the moment, his body was mashed into the corner but the rest of him - his brain - was out to lunch. So, Sammy Wu was, but was not.

  To be, or not to be? Hey, it’s the nineties. The millennium’s right around the corner. Why not have it both ways? Enjoy!

  Wayne wondered what he must look like, from Sammy’s point of view. A giant insect? Some kind of enormous, hulking bug? His jumpsuit a gleaming carapace, the green-tinted goggles a bug’s incurious, hugely bulging eyes.

  Sammy had scuttled around to the far side of the bed, tried to crawl under the bed, and then given up, run out of steam. He lay there on the rug, trembling, utterly silent, while Wayne undressed him. He hadn’t come to life until Wayne sparked the propane torch.

  By then it was too late for him to save himself.

  *

  April laid the table. Dishes, cutlery, glasses. The two of them would be eating alone, without the benefit of Lewis’s company. Wayne was pleased. For April’s sake, he’d tried really hard to keep an open mind, but in his opinion, Lewis wasn’t a very likeable person.

  April twirled a pasta-laden fork into her spoon. She said, ‘What’re you thinking, Wayne?’

  ‘Good food. Delicious. Very tasty. Nice sauce.’

  April nodded her thanks.

  He said, ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘He’s vain, high-strung, jittery as a
goddamn worm farm. Worse, he’s got an addictive personality.’

  April chewed and swallowed. She put her fork aside and wiped her luscious lips with a paper napkin.

  ‘Well, sure. Of course he does. He’s weak. That’s what I liked about him. It’s why I thought he’d be useful to us.’

  Wayne was in no mood for smoothie logic.

  ‘We got any more Buds?’

  April tried to slam her napkin down on the table, but of course the aerodynamics were all wrong; the square of plain white absorbent paper fluttered harmlessly, like a good-natured butterfly. She stomped over to the fridge and came back with the rest of the six-pack. The cans crashed violently down on the table in a way that was entirely satisfactory. She attacked her pasta as if it was an enemy machine-gun nest.

  Wayne cleaned his plate and went over to the stove for a second helping. Those shrimp sure were small. The oven light was on. Inside, the space was shared by a prefabricated pie and a loaf of French bread. He rescued the loaf, sliced it, dumped the slices in a bowl, returned to the table and resumed eating.

  April said, ‘I forgot about the bread.’

  ‘No problem. What kinda pie you get?’

  ‘Apple.’

  ‘Yummy.’

  Wayne filled his mouth with pasta, chewed and swallowed. Sharp tines gleaming, his fork hovered above his plate, suddenly stabbed down. He’d speared a shrimp, and now he hunted down and speared another.

  How many shrimps could he make dance on the tines of his fork?

  Three, four, six… Eleven…

  *

  Sammy had finally snapped, some delicate, fatigued, brittle part of him flying apart, interfering with all the other parts, running amuck. The guy couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds, but he’d charged Wayne with all the confidence and gritty enthusiasm of an NFL All-Pro linebacker.

  Wayne swiped at Sammy with the torch, took out his eyelashes and melted a handful of hair.

  Sammy kept coming. He was a bear on the rampage, flailing away, all teeth and claws. His gnashing teeth clamped down on Wayne’s precious jumpsuit. Snarling, he wrenched his head sideways, and tore away a ragged chunk of material.