Fit to Kill (5 page)

Before the West End killer, Corinne had always walked to and from the gym alone. But not now. As far as his wife's safety was concerned, Roy took no chances. A Vancouver police officer with five years' service, he was more aware than most of the crime and violence in the city. He had to deal with it every day. Since the West End murder, Roy had been driving Corinne to the gym and picking her up when she was through.

He made it on time. When he saw her hurrying toward the car, it always made him feel glad to see her, even after a short absence. She was slight and dark, with a heart-shaped face and shining eyes. She was so beautiful. She always had a smile for him that made his heart beat faster. She slid into the car, and they kissed affectionately before heading home.

Home was a one-bedroom apartment on Broughton, in the West End. Married for three years, they were saving for a down payment on their own home. He drove into the underground garage and parked. He held his wife's hand in the elevator up to the tenth floor. At the door of their apartment, he kissed her and nuzzled her neck and stroked her damp back.

“I want you,” he said.

“I know.”

He led her into the bedroom.

Afterward he made tea while she showered— she didn't like showering at the center. Then he got ready for work. He was on the night shift, which meant leaving at 11:00
PM
. Tonight he would be going to work with a smile on his face.

Corinne saw him off at the door. Dressed in pj's, smelling of soap, her eyes shining at him. God! He wanted to make love to her again. Instead he kissed her twice and waved to her from the elevator.

She closed and locked the door.

At 11:20, just as she was about to go to bed, her apartment buzzer rang.

“Pizza delivery.”

“I didn't order pizza.” She hung up the phone.

A few minutes later there was a knock on her door. She stood on her toes and put an eye up against the peephole. A man with a pizza box stood outside in the hallway. He wore a white coat that read
Luigi's Pizza
.

“Go away,” Corinne called through her closed door. “I told you. I didn't order a pizza.”

“You number ten-oh-four?” He was reading from a slip of paper. He had an accent, Italian, it sounded like.

“Yes. But I didn't order.”

“Medium bacon and pepperoni. Number fourteen?”

“You made a mistake. It's not for me.”

“Eight-oh-eight Broughton, apartment ten-oh-four?”

“Go away.”

He sounded worried. “Please, you sign paper for me that I come to right place, same address on bill? Otherwise boss, he make me pay for pizza myself.”

She hesitated. He looked harmless enough. She felt sorry for him. All she needed to do was sign his bill.

She unlocked and opened the door.

CHAPTER SIX

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 20

C
asey spent the morning at City Hall going over city business reports, including brief summaries on what had come to be known as the hens-in-the-backyard issue. Tame stuff compared to murder. He often wished he had the police beat. But Wexler had been doing that job since before Homer wrote the
Iliad
.

He phoned the office and left a message for Wexler and Ozeroff to meet him at Hegel's for lunch if they could make it.

It was raining hard.

On the way he picked up a copy of the
Province
. Banner headlines screamed:

Headless Corpse Number Two!

He sat in the bus and read the lead story.

The body of a young Japanese-Canadian female
was found in her Broughton Street apartment at
7:20
am
by her husband when he returned home
from working the night shift. Police believe that
the woman let the killer into her apartment, that
it may have been someone she knew. Names are
being withheld for the time being. It is the second
brutal murder in the West End in two weeks.
Police are advising women to use extra caution.
They should not under any circumstances open
their doors to strangers.

Wexler and Ozeroff had already grabbed three window seats. Ozeroff seemed excited.

Their wet raincoats hung dripping on pegs near the door. Casey hung his beside theirs, ordered a vegetarian bagel sandwich with a glass of water and sat down.

“You read about the murder, Casey?” said Ozeroff, excited. “Murder number two? He's a serial killer all right. Now we know for sure.”

“So tell,” Casey said to Wexler.

Wexler shrugged. “Nothing you haven't already read in the
Province
. This one is in the victim's apartment, otherwise it's pretty much the same mo as the first murder. Female, naked torso, raped, cuff marks, decapitated. Obviously the same crazy man. No further details. End of story.”

Ozeroff broke in impatiently. “But it's not the same. This guy butchered the woman in her own place, not on the street. He's unusual. Serial killers always use the same mo. Which means they always work in the same way, use the same methods. Take Ted Bundy, for example. He always picked up girls from college campuses. Didn't go looking for them in singles bars or fitness clubs. A serial killer doesn't usually kill someone in the street and then break into a person's home to kill a second.”

“Well, this one did,” said Wexler.

“Which is what I meant when I said he's unusual,” said Ozeroff.

“More creative, Deb?” said Casey. “That what you're saying?”

Ozeroff nodded. “Yeah. Creative. And more of a gamble for him. If he has already murdered successfully, then it makes sense for him to murder the same way next time. Use the same methods and the same scenario. But this guy tries something different. He gambles. For murder number two he gets into a secured building. And, without breaking in, as far as we know, makes it through a solid apartment door to his victim.” Ozeroff ran her hands through her hair. “He knows that criminals stick to the same MO. It's his way of telling us he's not like anyone else. He's different. He's smart. Holy fuckoly—they'd better catch this bastard real soon!”

“According to the
Province
,” said Wexler, “the victim might have let him in because she knew him.”

“What about checking the fitness center sign-in sheets for last night?” said Ozeroff.

Wexler wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Police already thought of that. She was there all right, but her husband picked her up. He's a cop.”

Wexler and Ozeroff talked, but Casey was no longer listening. He was thinking of the husband coming home and finding his wife's headless body. And the blood. There would be blood. Lots of it. Then he thought of Emma Shaughnessy living alone. Did she live alone? He really knew nothing about her.

“Casey?” said Ozeroff.

“Huh?”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Deb.”

“You seem kinda out of it. And you didn't finish your sandwich.”

“Not so hungry today.”

“If I didn't know any better,” Ozeroff said to Wexler, “I'd say Casey's in love.”

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24

A Message from the Angel of Death

Maggoty:

I have proved that I can do what I like when
I like, and there is nothing you can do about it.
Beware! Harlots are everywhere! I deal with
them in fury. You cannot stop me. I am the
avenger, and my hand will not be stayed.

Turn away your eyes from a shapely woman.
Sirach 9:8.

And behold, there met him a woman with the
attire of a harlot, and wily of heart. Let not thine
heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her
paths. For she hath cast down many wounded:
Yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her
house is the way to hell. Proverbs 7:10–27.

I shall strip her naked and make her like a
wilderness and slay her. I will uncover her lewdness
and no one shall rescue her out of my hand.

Hosea 2:10.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29

Casey ran in the morning rain.

Later, when he got to work, Percy called for a lineup meeting. He was wearing a brown suit that looked like it had been found in a dumpster. His eyes seemed more prominent than usual.

“I'll be doing a short piece on the second murder victim,” Wexler said.

“Whaddya know about her?” said Percy.

“Japanese-Canadian, born in Vancouver, thirty-one years old, married to a policeman, no children. Worked in a duty-free shop on Alberni Street, where the Japanese tourists off the cruise ships go to spend their yen.” Wexler glanced at his notes. “Husband picked her up from the gym, took her home, left for the night shift soon after. She let someone into their apartment. The first murder was committed in the street, which raises the question as to whether there's a second killer on the loose. Talked to a few of the residents in the building. One man saw a pizza delivery man that night. I got an interview lined up with the victim's mother. Lives in Richmond. That's it for me this week, except I'll help Casey cover some of the face-to-faces after the Liberal nomination meeting.”

“Good work, Jack,” said Percy. He turned his head. “Deb?”

Ozeroff looked smart in a high-necked maroon wool dress with matching enameled crescent earrings. She glanced at her appointment book. “Movie review. Then a piece on the Mole Hill heritage houses that the city plans to bulldoze so they can let the developers in to erect another phallic tower. It's the last goddamn complete block of turn-ofthe-century houses left. Not just in the West End, but in the whole goddamn city. And the cretins want 'em down, can you believe it?”

“Save the speeches, Deb,” said Percy, rubbing his dark eyebrows.

“You're just like the rest of 'em, Perce. You don't care if the goddamn philistines win.”

Percy sighed. “Is that your lineup, Deb?”

“There's more. I'll try to cover designer Rosemarie Kwan's spring collection in Gastown. Also, there's the Joico Hair Competition and a short piece on the Vancouver Opera. That's it for now.”

“Thanks, Deb. Casey?”

Casey nodded. “Follow-up piece on trustees playing hooky at the school board. City council update on the wards system. Whether council will allow it to go to the taxpayers in a referendum in the spring. Then there's the expected infighting at the Liberal nomination meeting, which promises to be fierce. Jack's with me on that. And there might be something new on the Save the Whales bunch and the dismantling of the Stanley Park Zoo, which is taking too long, according to the Friends of the Park Society.”

Percy said, “Okay. Sounds like we got a lineup. But what's the biggest item right now?”

“Joico Hair Competition?” suggested Wexler.

“The murders,” said Ozeroff gloomily.

“Right. So what about a cautionary piece, a list of do's and don'ts for the women of the West End? Deb, you're a woman—”

“Holy fuckoly! I'm a woman, am I, Perce? The way you've got me crammed into that shoebox with three men I didn't think you'd noticed.”

Percy sighed.

“Forget it, Perce. Anyway, how about your editorial? Why don't you do a piece on the murders, too, instead of your usual shit-nosed, right-wing prose poem.”

Percy winced. “I already did. ‘Violence Makes Victims of Us All.' How you like that?”

Ozeroff said, “Sounds like I might agree with you, Perce, for once. And as regards advice for the women of the West End, I'm seriously thinking of packing a piece, and I plan to tell them to do the same.”

Percy's protuberant eyes popped.

“Packing a what?”

“Every woman should carry a gun,” said Ozeroff. “We don't stand a chance unless we're armed.”

“Serious advice for West End women, Deb, okay? Even if you gotta miss the fashion stuff. You know what I'm saying?”

“You wouldn't want to read my advice, Percy. We women are mad as hell, and we're not gonna take it anymore. Castration's too good for these—”

Percy's eyes popped again. He waved his arms. “Deb? Deb? Could you cool it? You're makin' me ill. All I'm askin' is a few hundred words on precautionary—”

“I hear you loud'n clear, Perce. No need to get your underpants in an uproar. I'll do it, okay?”

Percy propped his elbows on his desk, sighed, and massaged his hair with his fingers until it stood up like a gray toilet brush.

Casey raised an eyebrow at Wexler as they carried their chairs back to the reception area. Wexler grinned back at him.

At the fitness center that evening, Casey said hello to Emma Shaughnessy.

“Hello, Casey.”

“I lost one pound.”

“Ah, that's brilliant right enough.”

Pope heard what he'd said and came over. “Ah, then you are on the road to magnificence, Sebastian, like myself.”