Roy Wakabayashi was due to pick up his wife Corinne from the West End Fitness Center at 10:15 PM and already it was 10:05. He would have to hurry.
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
Casey 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.”
