Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
“That paper was a photocopy you made of the contract for the security system you had installed seven years ago at your old house at 808 Eversole. It was just a stage prop, and you figured it would be good enough to fool a woman who was legally blind. Before you made the copy, you whited out the information that had been written in the blanks and the signatures, but you missed the serial number — it’s in red ink on the original document. When I called the home office of the security company in Pittsburgh, they identified you immediately as the person to whom that contract had been issued.”
By the time Auburn and Dollinger had booked Casteven, dispatched him to the cells, placed the stolen cash under lock and key in the evidence room, and finished up most of the paperwork, it was almost seven P.M. They headed for the canteen in the basement at double time.
The entrees of the day — or what was left of them after hours of torment in a steam table — were Cajun-style shrimp delight and Salisbury steak.
The Boxing Day Killer
by Edward D. Hoch
“This is Beth Valparaiso, live from Toronto Harbor. Now back to you, Glen.” She waited until the red light blinked off, and disconnected her lapel mike.
“Good job, Beth,” her cameraman said. “Take the rest of the day off.”
“I wish I could, Foxy! Boxing Day is a holiday for normal people.”
Foxy O’Dwyer usually worked with her on weekend remotes. Sometimes he tried to flirt a bit, but he was twice her age and hardly the romantic type. He grinned and replied, “Since when are TV people normal?”
December 26th was on a Sunday that year, so it would have meant a day off for most people even if it hadn’t been a holiday. Beth had become accustomed to the Boxing Day holiday after moving to Toronto three years earlier to take a job as a local television reporter with CBC. She knew the post-Christmas holiday was not an occasion for prizefights but rather the remains of an old British tradition of rewarding servants and tradespeople with year-end gifts. When it fell on a Sunday it was never moved to the following day, as was Dominion Day, on the first of July. Boxing Day was always the day after Christmas, and like this day it was usually cold.
The Sunday papers had mentioned the Boxing Day murders, of course. For three years now, while the Christmas tree still glittered in Eaton Centre, gaily wrapped holiday boxes had been appearing around the city, containing the body parts of that year’s victim. The first had been a homeless runaway from Thunder Bay, a nineteen-year-old girl named Norma Durban. The second had been an ex-convict named Larry Amsterdam. Last year the killer had moved up a notch on the social scale, targeting a gift shop owner named Earl Sydney.
While Foxy stored his camera in the remote van and lowered its antenna, Beth walked to her own car across the street. They’d been at the harbor covering an overnight fire that had damaged some expensive yachts in dry dock on Lake Ontario. She wasn’t surprised to see Detective Constable Matt Bates of the Metropolitan Toronto Police stepping out of his car down the street. He saw her at once and waved.
“You’re up early,” he said by way of greeting.
“I always get to work the holidays. The married ones are home with their families. How about you? You’re a couple hours late for the fire.”
He shrugged. “The Arson Squad’s looking into it. Could have been kids with matches. But it’s Boxing Day. Everybody works.”
She knew immediately what he meant. “You don’t think he’ll do it four years in a row, do you?”
Bates shrugged. “What’s to stop him?”
“Maybe he moved or died or got religion.”
“Maybe.” He checked his watch. “Got time for a coffee?”
“Sure.” She glanced back to the remote truck and waved as Foxy pulled away. There was a Starbucks down the block, and they strode quickly toward it. Though the winter sky was clear, the temperature hovered around freezing, and a breeze off the lake made Beth thankful for the coffee. “Maybe by next Christmas I’ll be married and they’ll give me the holiday off.”
“I hope so,” he said with a little smile. “You’ve put in your time.”
She’d bumped into Detective Bates several times during the year, and she sometimes wondered if the meetings were more than accidental. He was unmarried, she knew, and no longer living with the young woman who’d been his companion until recently. Some of the other women at the station considered his chiseled features handsome, and Beth supposed they were, in a way. After a brief discussion of the fire she asked, “Do you have any leads on the Boxing Day killer?”
“Some.” He took a sip of coffee. “We’re trying to figure out how he chooses his victims, and just when he kills them. The condition of the body parts indicates the murders probably take place on Boxing Day, just hours before the boxes start turning up.”
“How ghastly! I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I’m working on a theory that he chooses his victims earlier in the year, but then waits till the holiday to kill them.”
“He must be insane.”
“Most serial killers are, even the ones who seem quite rational. After a string of killings, though, juries aren’t likely to accept an insanity defense.”
“You have to catch him before you start talking about juries.”
Bates nodded. “I know.” He finished his coffee. “But if my theory is correct, the killer is known to his victims.”
“How could one person know people as diverse as that? A teenage runaway, an ex-convict, a gift shop owner?”
“Drugs,” he replied at once. “A drug dealer might have had them all as customers. Larry Amsterdam, the ex-con, was in prison for assault and robbery, but he’d had a drug arrest too.”
“What about the others?”
Bates shrugged as he got to his feet. “Earl Sydney was gay, with lots of contacts around town. We’ve been checking them all for a year now.”
“No connection with the first two victims?”
“None that we can find. How late are you working today?”
“Till four. They might use my segments on the evening news, but I don’t have to be there.”
“I’ll bet the station is a dead place on holidays like this. Not much news unless there’s another killing.”
“The staff keeps busy. The sports guys all watch Sunday football on the Buffalo stations, and some of the news people usually have a poker game going.”
“Really?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Maybe I’ll drop by the station later.”
“What for? Poker?”
He grinned. “Do I need a reason?” He took out a card and passed it to her. “That’s my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything.”
They left the Starbucks together and she waved to him. “See you later, Detective.”
“Take care.”
The Broadcast Centre between Wellington and Front Streets faced the vast Metro Toronto Convention Centre. It was conveniently connected to the array of underground walkways known as PATH that linked the buildings of downtown Toronto like the web of some giant spider. Beth was thankful for it on stormy winter days when she could cover the several blocks to City Hall or the Eaton Centre mall without setting foot outdoors.
The morning news was long ended by the time she returned from the fire scene. “Where’ve you been?” Glen Walker asked in a fatherly tone. He was the handsome grayhaired anchor of the morning and noon weekend shows. A few years back he’d co-anchored the nightly news until someone decided they needed a younger face.
“Coffee with Detective Constable Bates. He was down at the fire scene.”
“Learn anything more?”
“Nothing. It might have been kids playing with matches.”