world in a dozing stupor trying hard to wake up, trying hard to stay focused with both cancer and cancer-fighting poison running through your system, water simply doesn’t cut it. Apparently slapping himself hard doesn’t work either.
On the way to work he stopped at a service station to buy an instant cup of coffee, but the machine there was out of order and he wondered if it was a world-wide event. He traded the idea of buying caffeine for purchasing a packet of cigarettes. When he got to work somebody had taken his parking space. The coffee machine inside was working, but then he found a crack in his mug – after it had leaked all over his pants.
From there it was a trip to the morgue where he had to stand in a cold white room surrounded by metal tables with canvas sheets draped over them, and on those sheets were saws and pliers and forceps and knives and other tools he couldn’t identify, all of them for cutting, cutting, cutting. He had to stand there knowing he would be coming back in winter and those same tools would open him up and place his black lungs on the same scales and into the same holding trays. He had run his finger along the edge of one of those trays: it was cold and unforgiving, just like the cancer. The coroner handed him a thick folder with several photographs of the wounds and lots of paragraphs and diagrams of exactly how the two women died. At the front of the folder a half-page synopsis summed up the photos and diagrams. He walked out of the morgue and threw it into the back of his car without opening it.
Back at the first crime scene the media activity in the street has died down. Maybe there’s been a massacre across town he hasn’t been told about. As much as he hates the media they still have their uses. His call last night had produced a false description of Feldman’s car in this morning’s newspaper. Feldman will read the paper because bastards like that always do. He’s probably even going to keep a scrapbook.
Stomach rumbling, Landry heads into the victim’s house wishing he’d been able to get his nutritional needs from a big breakfast rather than from tobacco. The smell of death has stained the carpet, as have several bloody footprints. The smell of death has stained his clothes too. He can smell it on himself. Or perhaps that smell is him.
The victim’s husband, after flying down from Auckland, had been through the house but all he could identify as missing were some clothes. Feldman probably changed after getting blood on his. Bloody footprints that look like practice dance step cutouts form an even path from the bathroom to the garage before disappearing. The smell of vomit in the hallway mingles with that of death and makes a cocktail that claws into his nose. The vomit is confusing. What person would be sick viewing their own handiwork? Guys like Feldman kill and torture and dismember for their own satisfaction – they do it because they enjoy it. For them to finish and be violently ill doesn’t add up. Hairs found on the headrest of the couch and in the drain-trap in the bathroom match the DNA of the saliva on the beer bottle and also the vomit. Did Feldman make himself at home? Did he have himself a nice relaxing beer while torturing Luciana Young? Was it the beer that made him sick? There were no traces of medication in the vomit.
On the driveway the cordless phone was found in pieces. Phone records show it was used to call the police but within seconds the line was disconnected. Fingerprints on the phone match the fingerprints on the beer bottle along with others in the bathroom, living room, kitchen, garage and the keys found beneath the van. Landry knows who they belong to.
He thinks of the person who saw the Honda parked up her driveway. If only they’d looked out their windows later on during the night while Young was standing in her driveway trying to call the police. Life and death are all about bad timing.
Timing. Feldman’s car was seen up the
On the way to work he stopped at a service station to buy an instant cup of coffee, but the machine there was out of order and he wondered if it was a world-wide event. He traded the idea of buying caffeine for purchasing a packet of cigarettes. When he got to work somebody had taken his parking space. The coffee machine inside was working, but then he found a crack in his mug – after it had leaked all over his pants.
From there it was a trip to the morgue where he had to stand in a cold white room surrounded by metal tables with canvas sheets draped over them, and on those sheets were saws and pliers and forceps and knives and other tools he couldn’t identify, all of them for cutting, cutting, cutting. He had to stand there knowing he would be coming back in winter and those same tools would open him up and place his black lungs on the same scales and into the same holding trays. He had run his finger along the edge of one of those trays: it was cold and unforgiving, just like the cancer. The coroner handed him a thick folder with several photographs of the wounds and lots of paragraphs and diagrams of exactly how the two women died. At the front of the folder a half-page synopsis summed up the photos and diagrams. He walked out of the morgue and threw it into the back of his car without opening it.
Back at the first crime scene the media activity in the street has died down. Maybe there’s been a massacre across town he hasn’t been told about. As much as he hates the media they still have their uses. His call last night had produced a false description of Feldman’s car in this morning’s newspaper. Feldman will read the paper because bastards like that always do. He’s probably even going to keep a scrapbook.
Stomach rumbling, Landry heads into the victim’s house wishing he’d been able to get his nutritional needs from a big breakfast rather than from tobacco. The smell of death has stained the carpet, as have several bloody footprints. The smell of death has stained his clothes too. He can smell it on himself. Or perhaps that smell is him.
The victim’s husband, after flying down from Auckland, had been through the house but all he could identify as missing were some clothes. Feldman probably changed after getting blood on his. Bloody footprints that look like practice dance step cutouts form an even path from the bathroom to the garage before disappearing. The smell of vomit in the hallway mingles with that of death and makes a cocktail that claws into his nose. The vomit is confusing. What person would be sick viewing their own handiwork? Guys like Feldman kill and torture and dismember for their own satisfaction – they do it because they enjoy it. For them to finish and be violently ill doesn’t add up. Hairs found on the headrest of the couch and in the drain-trap in the bathroom match the DNA of the saliva on the beer bottle and also the vomit. Did Feldman make himself at home? Did he have himself a nice relaxing beer while torturing Luciana Young? Was it the beer that made him sick? There were no traces of medication in the vomit.
On the driveway the cordless phone was found in pieces. Phone records show it was used to call the police but within seconds the line was disconnected. Fingerprints on the phone match the fingerprints on the beer bottle along with others in the bathroom, living room, kitchen, garage and the keys found beneath the van. Landry knows who they belong to.
He thinks of the person who saw the Honda parked up her driveway. If only they’d looked out their windows later on during the night while Young was standing in her driveway trying to call the police. Life and death are all about bad timing.
Timing. Feldman’s car was seen up the
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