Killing Spree by Kevin O'Brien Page B

didn’t make any sense. What the hell was she doing in that apartment?
    Making his way to the brownstone apartment building, he headed around back again. He was so angry, he had to remind himself not to stomp up the back stairs. After taking a few calming breaths, he made a quiet ascent up to the third floor. He used a skeleton key on the kitchen door, as he had the previous morning.
    When he’d poisoned the container of cream, he hadn’t gone beyond the kitchen. Between the name on the front entrance buzzer and Gillian’s Black Ribbons cover taped on the refrigerator door, he’d figured he had found the home of Gillian’s friend, Dianne Garrity. But now he wasn’t so sure.
    He didn’t have to go far to figure it out. In the front hallway, he studied a batch of framed photographs on the wall. One was of two teenage girls—both rather gawky and borderline homely. Still, the picture was cute. They wore party hats, and were laughing. One wore a back-brace. He wasn’t sure if that was part of a joke or what. The other girl was unmistakably Gillian—before she started to get pretty. Gillian’s friend was in most of the other snapshots—minus the back-brace. The brown-haired, slightly husky woman in the photos was obviously Dianne Garrity. There were other photos of Dianne with Gillian—both grown up and far more attractive. But the photo that caught his eye was of Dianne with a pretty, long-haired blonde in front of the Jefferson Memorial. It was Dianne’s friend from Milwaukee, Joyce Millikan.
    On the other side of the front door was a table—with a note on it. He read it, and had to chuckle. “Dear Joyce,” it started; and then there were instructions about watering plants, operating the TV and DVD player, and a phone number in Palm Springs where she could be reached. “Have fun!” it concluded. “XXXXXXX—Dianne.”
    He hadn’t killed Gillian McBride’s “oldest and dearest friend.” He’d strangled a woman who was house-sitting for Gillian’s “oldest and dearest friend” while she was in Palm Springs. He wondered if Gillian even knew Joyce Millikan. It could be days—or weeks—before Gillian even found out about the murder. And how much would that really matter to her?
    If Gillian didn’t know about this “silent strangulation” in the changing room, his work here in Chicago would be in vain.
    He thought about the tree falling in the forest with no one hearing it. Gillian McBride needed to hear about this Joyce woman’s murder—and soon.
    He would see to it that she did.

Chapter 5
     
     
    “Oh, that’s just disgusting!” grumbled Ruth.
    She got up from their window table at The Joe Bar Café, and hurried to the door. Ruth was a plump, black woman with a big voice and a big, shiny helmet of auburn hair. Everyone within a block must have heard her as she stepped out of the café and yelled: “Hey, you—with the baseball cap on backwards! Get your sorry ass back here and pick up your trash!”
    Grimacing, Gillian now sat alone at the table and watched the scene outside. Three young men, who looked like gang members, had strutted past the café a few moments before. One of them had been sipping from a twenty-four-ounce soda container with a Burger King logo on it. He’d unceremoniously tossed the container on the sidewalk, never breaking stride with his buddies.
    Ruth didn’t like litterbugs—as this young man, and nearly everyone on the block, was now discovering.
    “Did you hear me? Get back here!”
    He swiveled around and flipped her the finger. “Yo, fuck off, bitch!” he called.
    “Come here and say that to my face. Don’t run away when I’m talking to you! What, are you afraid of me, you weasel? Afraid of an old lady? Get your skinny ass back here, and pick this up!”
    Watching from inside the café, Gillian rolled her eyes and took another sip of coffee.
    “Is she going to be okay out there?” The emaciated young woman who had taken their order was now standing beside