The Homicide Magnet

by Matt Ferraz

  “I loved your stuff,” she said. “I’ll have some of this, and a few of that… What about the awful murder that happened here?”

  “That was horrible,” said the vendor, packing the fruit. “They only moved in a few days ago. They barely had time to unpack.”

  “So, they’re not from around here?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  “No. Actually, they used to live a couple of blocks away,” said the vendor. “I don’t know why they moved here; their previous house was much better.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “Personally?” asked the vendor. “No, no. But people talk. It’s so strange to think something so bad happened here.”

  “Did they have a lot of money?”

  The fruit vendor handed her the bag, and Grandma Bertha paid him. “He owns a business. She wasn’t rich, but she wasn’t poor either.”

  “Did he have a reason to kill her?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  The man looked at her with surprised eyes. “Who can tell?” he asked. “Listen, I don’t want trouble. It’s just that…”

  “What?” insisted Grandma Bertha.

  The vendor scratched his forehead. “I’m always here,” he said. “And yesterday I saw a man walk into that building. A man I’ve never seen before. I told the police about him, of course, and they said they’d investigate.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  “About this tall. Short hair. Wore jeans and a white shirt, and he had a key. Thing is, I don’t think he lived in the building.”

  “Do you remember what shoes he was wearing?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  “That’s a strange question,” said the vendor. “No, I don’t. Men don’t usually pay attention to each other’s shoes, you know.”

  “One last question,” said Grandma Bertha. “Is the alley back there always busy?”

  “Always,” said the man. “Especially now the kids are on holiday. They love playing back there.”

  Grandma Bertha smiled, satisfied. She picked a plum from the bag and took a bite out of it. “That’s all I needed to know,” she said.

  “Needed for what?” asked the man.

  “I believe I’m about to crack the case,” said Grandma Bertha.

  5

  “Inspector, there’s an old lady here who wants to talk to you,” said the constable from the door. “She says she has information about the Johnson case.”

  “An old lady?” asked Inspector Bettany. “Maybe she’s the one who made that anonymous call. Let her in.”

  An old lady in a shabby dress entered the office, escorted by the constable. At first the inspector thought it was some kind of joke, but her face looked somehow familiar. “How can I help you, Mrs…”

  “Call me Grandma Bertha,” she said, as the constable left and closed the door.

  “Mrs Bertha,” he said. “You said you have some information about the murder that happened two days ago.”

  “As matter of fact, I do,” she said. “I read in the paper that Mr Johnson is going to be charged. Is he?”

  “If it’s in the paper, it must be true,” said Inspector Bettany with a smirk. “You understand that I’m not allowed to discuss the details of the case with just anyone.”

  “I know, I know,” said Grandma Bertha. “But it’s no secret that he’s going to be tried for murdering his wife and trying to blame a burglar who never existed.”

  “That’s more or less what his lawyer says,” admitted Inspector Bettany. “He might still get away with it, though. Maybe if the burglar was willing to testify, we could solve this whole case. Are you saying Johnson is innocent?”

  “Oh, no, he’s guilty as sin,” said Grandma Bertha. “The problem is, there’s someone else on the loose, someone you’re not even looking for.”

  “The burglar,” said Inspector Bettany. “We are looking for him, even though we’re not sure if he’s guilty – or if he even exists.”

  “He exists all right,” said Grandma Bertha. “The thing is, he’s not guilty. In fact, he’s another victim of Mr Johnson. And he’s also the witness you need to put Mr Johnson behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  She had the inspector’s attention. “You were the one who made that call, aren’t you?” he asked. “About the footprint.”

  “Did you find anything out from it?”

  Bettany stared at her for a few seconds. “I’m not telling you this,” he said. “But we checked it. We can’t find who it belongs to, of course. Dozens of pairs of those flip-flops are sold every day.”

  “Tell me this: are flip-flops the kind of footwear a man would wear to rob a house?”

  “It depends,” said Inspector Bettany. “Most burglars prefer boots, but there’s no dress code in this business.”

  “What does your gut say?”

  “My gut tells me many things, Mrs Bertha,” he said. “Yes, there’s something wrong with this case: a robbery in broad daylight, committed by a man in flip-flops, who apparently didn’t take anything. I shouldn’t have told you that last part, but it’s true. And the weird thing is, he could have taken everything of value in that house in less than five minutes. But he didn’t. We’re trying to press Johnson, but his lawyer is very good, and says it isn’t his fault that the man who burgled his house acted so oddly. Too bad we can’t find who he was from the flip-flops he wore.”

  “Sure you can’t!” said Grandma Bertha. “And neither could Mr Johnson, when he invited the man home.”

  Bettany raised an eyebrow. “Invited?”

  “Yes,” said Grandma Bertha, raising her index finger. “Someone he met on the street. Someone he could use.”

  Inspector Bettany crossed his arms. “If you have a theory, I’m interested in hearing it.”

  “First I need one last bit of information,” said Grandma Bertha. “How did Mr Johnson get his limp?”

  “He had an accident years ago,” said Bettany. “He used to work as a cab driver. He hit a lamp-post and broke his leg in three places. It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. They gave him a desk job, only to find out he was pretty good at it. Now he owns a fleet of cabs, and has more money than he would ever have made as a driver.”

  “He still suffers from pain in that leg, doesn’t he?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  “Yes. So?”

  Grandma Bertha raised her finger. “I wondered if he goes to some sort of support group. The kind of place where he would meet men who have suffered injuries like his, and who need money.”

  “I see where you’re going,” he said.

  “Here’s my idea, Inspector,” said Grandma Bertha. “Mr Johnson had a plan from the very beginning. A plan that would allow him to kill his wife and get away with it. He planned to shoot her and pretend he was aiming for another man. A burglar. Mr Johnson finds a desperate man and treat him to a cup of coffee. He listens to this man’s problems, and talks to him until he’s sure he’s the man he needs. Someone with no friends or family, someone who won’t be missed – and, preferably, someone with a criminal record. Then he invites him for tea at his new apartment and even gives him a key. The man comes in and sits on the couch to wait for Mr Johnson. Then the unhappy couple enter. Mrs Johnson isn’t expecting him to be there. The fake burglar isn’t expecting her to be there either. But Mr Johnson knows that everything is going according to plan.”

  Grandma Bertha went on. “But here’s the catch: Mr Johnson had to kill the burglar too, otherwise his plan wouldn’t work. He couldn’t have a witness inside the apartment. But he needed people to see the burglar jumping out of the window right before he shot him. That wouldn’t have been possible at his old apartment. So, he rents this apartment, with a window out onto the alley. The alley is always busy, and there will be plenty of people to hear the shots.

  “Things went like this in his mind,” she continued. “His wife is scared when she sees the burglar. He takes the gun and shoots her. Then the burglar tries to run away. The window seems like hi
s best chance. The burglar runs and Mr Johnson shoots him too. People outside will see and hear the shots. An unfortunate accident. Did it look like that when you arrived, Inspector? Had the apartment actually been burgled?”

  “Kind of,” said Inspector Bettany. “I’ve seen plenty of crime scenes, but things there seemed arranged, rather than messy. It looked like the job of someone who was afraid to tear the apartment apart.”

  “I’m sure of that,” continued Grandma Bertha. “Our burglar isn’t a burglar, Inspector. He’s a frightened man who’s out there somewhere, scared to death of Mr Johnson. You need to find him.”

  “We’re doing our best,” was his answer. “Now go on.”

  “Mr Johnson’s plan was almost flawless,” she said. “He gets home and the man is there, waiting for him. He thinks Mr Johnson will greet him, but instead he pulls a gun. He thinks he has plenty of time to shoot the man – but then the car crash happens. The three of them – Mr and Mrs Johnson and our mystery man – hear it. That messes up the timing of the crime, but Mr Johnson decides to go with it. He shoots his wife and turns back to shoot the burglar, but he has already jumped out of the window and run down the alley, stepping in my dog’s poop on the way.”

  “Things weren’t going exactly as he planned,” she went on. “But in his mind, they weren’t looking that bad, either. But the burglar is somewhere out there, and he needs to find him. I believe Mr Johnson considered it might go wrong, and that’s why he chose someone he could control.”

  Inspector Bettany was taking notes. “You know this is—”

  “I know exactly what it sounds like, son,” interrupted Grandma Bertha. “And I have to tell you what I always tell policemen: I’m following my nose, not evidence. But that has worked pretty well for me so far. Are you at least going to check my theory out?”

  “Yes, I will,” said Bettany. “A lot of what you have said fits what we already know. We hadn’t thought about the support groups, though. That could be a good lead.”

  “I’m glad,” said Grandma Bertha, getting up.

  “You have a wise mind, Mrs Bertha,” said Bettany.

  “A wise mind wouldn’t have let that poor woman get killed,” said Grandma Bertha with a sad smile. “She was asking for help, and I wasn’t fast enough to help her.”

  “You might have saved a life,” said Bettany. “Because if everything you’re saying is true, there’s still a man out there who’s scared – and who we can help.”

  Grandma Bertha nodded, thinking of Richard Wood alone in his mansion.

  6

  It was confusing at first. Grandma Bertha was sitting on a rock at the bottom of the sea, watching submarines go by while listening to an old tune. Here and there, small volcanos released bubbles that smelled like orange soda. A big purple octopus with five mouths and one eye looked at Grandma Bertha. She looked back.

  “Is everything all right in there?” asked the octopus, sounding a lot like Jack Nicholson. “Do you need a blanket?”

  “I’m a little cold,” she answered, from inside her diving suit. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are,” said the octopus. “Once you wake up, you’ll forget all of this, and I’ll be lost forever.”

  Grandma Bertha usually knew when she was dreaming. She tried to enjoy those moments as much as possible, and live in a world where she could do pretty much anything she wanted. Her favourite dreams were ones in which she could fly, but being at the bottom of the sea wasn’t bad either.

  “I’ve probably let my blanket fall off the bed in real life,” she said. “Funny it’s so cold. It was so hot a week ago.”

  “You’re not in the same place, remember?” said the octopus.

  Where was she? It was hard to keep track. Some hotel that accepts dogs in the rooms, for sure, but that could be anywhere in the world. It’s always like that when she’s travelling. More than once Grandma Bertha has woken up thinking she was back home, in her old garden shed in the garden of Todd and Lydia’s home.

  “What about the dog poop?” she asked. “Did the police find it? Did they take a photo of the print? What about that monstrous Mr Johnson? He won’t get free, will he? Oh, jeez, I have to wake up! I have to wake up and find more evidence. Mr Johnson, he can’t… All my work can’t have been for nothing!”

  “That case is finished. Mr Johnson is going to jail. Look.” The octopus pointed to her right with the tip of his tentacle. Looking in that direction, Grandma Bertha saw a movie screen, which showed a man being handcuffed and taken to a prison cell.

  “I know,” she said, looking back at the octopus. “I saw it on television.”

  “And why are you still sad?” asked the octopus.

  “Because this is the second time I’ve missed the opportunity to save a person’s life,” she said. “The first was the time a man was found with his throat cut. I suspected his wife. I was right, but did nothing, and she had the chance to kill someone else.”

  “It’s not your fault, Albertha,” said the octopus. “It’s not your duty to stop all the evil in this world. It can’t be stopped.”

  Grandma Bertha turned back to the movie screen, expecting to see Mrs Johnson’s eyes, just as she had seen them before the murder. But this time, there was a mirror instead of the screen. Grandma Bertha saw herself – not as she was now, but when she was young. She was holding her son Todd in her lap. “I could have saved Mrs Johnson,” said Grandma Bertha to her reflection.

  “You did so much,” said a voice from behind the mirror. The glass opened like a window and a woman came out. It was Mrs Johnson, just as Grandma Bertha had seen her before the murder. But something was different now. She looked younger – and happy. “If it hadn’t been for you, my death would’ve been in vain.”

  She took Grandma Bertha’s wrinkled hand and kissed it. “You did so much,” she repeated. “If you had come into the apartment or tried to stop him from taking me, you’d be dead now as well. And the world would have lost a detective.”

  “I’m not a detective,” said Grandma Bertha. “Just an old lady who’s watched too many movies and—”

  “An old lady who likes to help people,” said Mrs Johnson. “And will continue to do so.” Grandma Bertha smiled in the dream, and in real life. She started to float upwards, feeling her body being carried by the waves. Something ticked her feet and she woke up in her hotel room, her dogs licking her toes.

  The light was on, and she realized she had fallen asleep watching a repeat of Wolf on TV, a werewolf film with Jack Nicholson. That at least explained the octopus’s voice. It was still daylight, and she was somewhere in the mountains. The cold had got into her bones that afternoon, and she had chosen to stay inside with a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows, which was cold by now.

  The memories of the dream were blurry already, like always. What had the octopus said? That a few moments after she woke up, Grandma Bertha would have forgotten the whole dream. She wasn’t sure about that. The octopus himself might vanish from her mind after a while, but she would always remember Mrs Johnson.

  They found the burglar a few hours after Grandma Bertha left the police station. He was a man in his twenties, arrested while trying to sell a ring taken from the Johnson’s home. The poor fellow was trying to raise enough money to get out of town, afraid he was going to be put in jail for the murder. Thanks to Grandma Bertha, that didn’t happen.

  Grandma Bertha picked the blanket up off the floor and covered her legs. “Come here, doggies,” she said. The three of them jumped onto her lap and she caressed their ears. “One thing you’ll never realize,” she said, “is that there are so many evil people in the world. Human beings are a strange sort, my darlings, and you never know which ones you can trust. But that doesn’t mean you can’t trust them at all. With a little faith, and a lot of effort, you can see the good side of everyone.”

  The dogs looked at her with their big eyes, paying attention to every word, wagging their tails. Grandma Bertha picked up the remote con
trol and flipped through the channels, trying to find a movie she hadn’t seen a million times before.

  Finally, she gave up on the TV. She was thinking of putting on warm clothes and going for a walk when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” said Grandma Bertha, expecting to hear some complaint about the dogs.

  “Mrs Hepburn, we’ve had a call from a woman who says she knows you,” said the receptionist. “She wants me to give you her phone number.”

  “What’s her name?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  “Marina Larch. She’s very well known around here.”

  “Oh, I know Marina Larch,” said Grandma Bertha. “We were best friends when we were young. I heard her husband was very rich. Please, do give me her number.”

  Grandma Bertha wrote the number down, thanked the receptionist and hung up. Marina Larch! Who could have imagined? The last time they saw each other, Grandma Bertha still had all her teeth. But how had Marina known she was here? Was it because of Grandma Bertha’s sudden fame? They say rich people can find whoever they want anywhere in the world. Well, there was only one way to find out. Grandma Bertha picked up the phone again and dialled Marina’s number.

  “Larch residence, how can I help you?” said a polite voice at the other end.

  “This is Grandma Bertha. I want to talk to Marina,” she said.

  “Oh, Mrs Bertha, unfortunately Mrs Larch has some issues to attend to, but she asked me to say you’re invited to spend the weekend at her mansion.”

  “Are you the butler?” asked Grandma Bertha.

  “Yes.”

  “This is so cool!” said Grandma Bertha. “I’ve never talked to a butler before. Do you wear a tuxedo all the time?”

  “It’s my uniform, ma’am,” said the butler. “Are you going to join us?”

  “Count me in!” said Grandma Bertha. “I’ll start packing right away. How will I get there?’

  “We can send you a car in an hour.”

  Grandma Bertha was already making plans in her head when she remembered to ask a crucial question. “Marina doesn’t have a problem with doggies, does she?”