Under Control…
Part Six
That evening he went over to the woman's apartment, slipped inside and looked
around. No one was there and he knew to work fast and quiet before she got home
or someone noticed him—though that was a long shot.
He silently went through her desk, opened the home safe in her bedroom closet
and tried to get into the PC on her desk.
The desk had the usual pile of bills and receipts with a couple of personal
snail mail letters on top and a few birthday cards dated last week. The cards
were mostly the joking kind women send to one another, heavy on sexual innuendo.
The letters were from her mother, asking her how she was doing, when was she
going to meet someone and give her grandchildren and then complaining about her
own health and begging for a visit. The bills, aside from the utilities and rent
were largely from high end department stores in one of the nearby suburban
malls; Saks, Neiman's, Bloomingdales and a few designer boutiques; Chanel, Jimmy
Choo and Diane Von Furstenburg.
The totals were high, even for someone who made over a hundred thousand a year
plus full and generous benefits. Bruce could afford to spend like this and so
could a number of the people who lived in town but unless she had some other
funds stashed somewhere, she was spending herself into a big hole.
So...money.
But the motive couldn't be money; there'd been no ransom notes, no extortion
attempt, no blackmail letters or calls.
And the other obvious motive—love gone bad or jealousy didn't seem to fit
either. The people killed were almost all kids. The only exception was Mr.
Smith, a forty-something high school teacher, single and about as exciting as
the proverbial mud fence. He belonged to a bowling league, f'God'ssake. Besides,
it looked like he's probably been killed because he'd surprised the person
stealing the chloroform; that was what made the most sense, anyway.
So the usual idea of 'for love or money' didn't fit.
Okay, another reason for murder?
Maybe she was simply psychotic, a thrill killer.
Maybe.
The killings were random enough, or so it seemed now. He'd checked and couldn't
find any connections between the kids and this woman—no family connections, no
illicit affairs that he could uncover, no arguments, no unpleasantness; nothing.
Two male high school juniors who had no history of anything at all untoward with
an authority figure. A shy and introverted freshman girl. An inoffensive
teacher, single and known to be a quiet stay at home kind of guy.
Dick thought hard. “Okay, Smith may have been in the wrong place at the wrong
time to get killed today—in fact that's where what probably happened. He just
got unlucky, even more so than the other victims.”
So she killed people because...? He still didn't know.
Sitting on her bed was a laptop, plugged in and left opened. He hit the enter
key and the screen came to life, she hadn't turned it off and it was just in
'sleep' mode. Holy crap—he was in. This was like a free Christmas present.
He made a fast scan of the files she had in 'My Documents' and double clicked on
'notes to self'. No good, it was a file of diet tips.
He clicked on 'my life'. Nothing, just a list of birthday dates for friends and
family with ideas about gifts.
Next he tried 'things to do'. This was a shopping wish list with items from Yves
St Laurent prominently on the list and illustrated with pictures that looked
like they were from Vogue or maybe Harper's. High end stuff.
'Money matters' was a list of bills she'd paid, check numbers and charitable
contributions—there weren't too many of those and the few listed were for ten,
fifteen and twenty dollars.
Christ, didn't this woman do anything besides shop and think about food?
'Ideas'.
He looked, did a mental double-take and looked again.
Bulls-eye.
He'd found it, the smoking gun, the link which tied her to the crimes. It was
practically a step by step of how she did it and it had just fallen in his
lap—he used to dream about cases solving themselves and here it was.
The case was laid out on a silver platter. Or so it looked. Never assume,
never—that was the road to hell and embarrassment and criminals walking free.
It started without preamble; “I hate it here, hate the students, the staff
and the idiot teachers who think they've landed on easy street because they have
jobs at this 'it's shit don't stink' private school in one of the richest towns
in the country.
Alan Drake lives around the corner, Bruce Wayne is just up the street and his
snotty adopted kid is enrolled here. They're like three year olds fighting over
a toy—throwing money at a group of monster brats who wouldn't know how to earn a
paycheck if their lives depended on it, not that they ever will. Trust funds,
that's all they have to know about, that and how to circumnavigate the trustees.
Lots of snotty kids are here. The parking lot—the
student
parking lot is thick with BMW's, Saabs, Porsche's, Jags and the odd Bentley
dropping junior off in the morning. All of them gifts, naturally. We can't have
the kiddies getting their hands dirty working for something, of course. God
forbid they should even wield a sponge to wash them when they get dirty—that's
what the hired help are for.
The clothes they wear, the jewelry I see on fifteen year olds; ridiculous The
talk in the hallways about Christmas was enough to turn my stomach—Aspen, Vail,
St. Moritz, St Lucia, St. Bart's and my favorite—the kid who was complaining
about a month visiting God knew who in Australia so he could learn how to scuba
dive on the Barrier reef, with a stop over in Tokyo to see the sights and hit
the Ginza.
Horrible, morally bankrupt parasites.
And they're all the same. Every single one of them.
Oh sure, they're sweet as pie to your face but I've heard them talking. The
parents are as bad as the students—worse, if you want to know the truth. 'So
glad you're here, I love the changes you've been implementing. Please stop by
for dinner this week...'
Hypocrites.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate all of them.
Yesterday—some idiot parents came in wondering why their darling didn't get
early acceptance to Harvard. You want to know why, you jackasses? Because your
kid is a arrogant loser who's stoned 24/7 and whose grades wouldn't get him into
Community College if you bribed them.
Bruce Wayne called last week—moron. 'Wanted to know 'if the school could use a
new science wing' because he'd looked around during back to school night and he
thought that the equipment was outdated.
Conceited moron. HE thought that the place needs an update? Sure, he's right but
I'll be damned if I'm going to let that anyone dictate to me what the shit-pile
needs.
I turned him down—politely and with a smile because you always have to smile at
the golden geese. Wayne was too stupid to see through me and then I got read the
riot act because some board member heard about it. Wayne wins—he gets to have
his name in the paper and have the usual worthies fawn over how fabulous he is.
He end-ran me—he'd a dope but he knows how to twist arms. Shithead.
He wants to do some help? Build a damn hospital in Kenya or Bludhaven someplace.
I hate him the most, I think—he represents everything I loath about this
place...money, arrogance and stupidity wrapped up together. And he's worried
that his toy won't have state of the at test tubes? Please—like that kid will
ever have to lift a finger.
Sometimes I walk down one of the halls and think about what the place would look
like if a bomb went off, blood and gore as prom decorations—a new theme! Instead
of Enchantment Under the Sea, how about Carrie?
Anthrax in the A/C unit?
Bodies in the dumpsters? A new trend in dumpster diving—be the first!
I can't stand this, I really can't. I can't pretend that this is okay. It isn't.
Those kids—the teachers who encourage them in thinking how fabulous they are,
how nothing can touch them, how nothing will ever go wrong, how they can have
anything they want and if they don't get it then Daddy will buy it anyway.
They need to learn that even the fabled Brixton has problems and that bad things
can happen here, too.
Jim will help me. He hates this place as much as I do.
And he will do anything for me.
And he has access to things that might work for my idea.
God, it's so easy; sleep with a man, a man like Jimmy who couldn't get a real
woman without pulling out his checkbook and he'll follow you like a damn puppy.
Robin
printed off a copy, knowing that it was invasion of her privacy and proved his
breaking and entering but he also knew that the local police would issue a
warrant on his say-so and that they would be searching the apartment within
hours.
He finished and was headed out through the back bushes, just rounding the side
of the opened garage when, engrossed in what he was doing, he was a shade too
slow reacting to the arm around his throat and the piece of damp cloth against
his nose and mouth
TBC