Final part, people!
“Twenty seven years ago, or nearly that, I moved back to Pennsylvania. By this time I had been married four times and widowed four times, all of my husbands finding an early grave in one way or another,” I said, remembering each of their faces, Edward’s with the most fondness.
“How many did you kill?” Louisa says. “And what happened to the ones that you didn’t?”
“Shall we ask for more coffee?” I say, and she gets up to buzz for Susie, or whoever has taken place of her as I suspect Susie’s shift has now ended. “I killed two. My first was Harold Baker. He’d been married before and cheated on his wife many times, spending her inheritance to finance prostitutes and refusing to share his own earnings. I saw him make her life a living hell, and I vowed to take revenge after she took her own life. It was from him that I inherited enough money to mean I didn’t need to remarry. Edward, you know about. My third husband died of cancer, a natural death if it can be called that. He was a lovely man, but he drank and smoked, and regardless of what the doctors told him, he continued.
“My fourth husband – John Peterson – drowned, not by his own hands of course, and it certainly wasn’t an accident, although that was what it was deemed to be. He was swindling money from his workers through their pension fund. I spent weeks tracking down his finances before we were married – he was a clever man, but he lacked coordination so he’d never learnt to swim.” I sigh, recalling the nights it had taken and the smiles I had had to force in order to play the part of la belle femme who knew nothing about accountancy. He fell for my seductive act, and it was easy to persuade him to take a midnight swim. “He was my penultimate kill – victim if you like.”
“You didn’t call them victims earlier,” Toner says. “Are you starting to believe that they were?”
“Well they were certainly victims of murder,” I say. “I can justify to myself why I killed each one so I don’t think that they were true victims. They certainly weren’t randomly chosen.”
“My last kill was a man named David Davis who lived with his mother in Troutville, the place I had moved to after John had drowned. He lived with his mother in the house in which he had grown up, unmarried and unemployed, doing jobs as a handyman for the families and residents in his neighbourhood…”
…It all seemed a little too perfect at first, the very picture of suburbia. I was in my late forties by this point, and looking for somewhere to settle. After the initial quiet of the place, Troutville seemed ideal. I worked in the local high school teaching domestic science three days a week, and occupied myself for the rest of the time with the various hobbies I’d picked up over the years, including writing letter to some of the friends I’d made in the places I’d lived.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, no one bothered me. I had no would be suitor trying to wheedle their way into my bank account, knew of no wrong-doings that were going on and just enough contact with the world as it was to keep me from going stir crazy.
I lived at the end house on a quiet road which led to farmer’s fields. It had previously been owned by a professional couple, with a taste for the old worldly, so there had been little to do to make the house seem like home. My closest neighbour was separated by a tall wooden fence with climbing roses crossing it. It was too high for a ball to be kicked over, and the size of the gardens meant it was rare for me to hear the children playing out. In short, it was idyllic, and I thought that I had finally found the place where I could settle for however long I had left.
And then David Davis moved to Troutville, and that changed everything. The first time I saw him he was working in a garden, erecting a picket fence to stop the small children that lived there from running onto the road. His hands were swollen and mottled red; his stature was too big for his frame; it looked as if his arms and legs had been pumped with air and his face was as smooth as a sheet of ice. He smiled at me as I passed, showing an array of perfect white teeth that contrasted sharply to the rest of him, and I shuddered even though it was the height of summer.
My neighbour told me he had moved back to town to help care for his mother, who was now in her late seventies, and she seemed quite pleased with the fact. Comments had been passed previously about Mrs Davis, the state of her house and the fact that she was now failing to manage as well as she had. I’d stayed out of the conversation, knowing that in becoming involved in someone else’s business meant that your own would be up for discussion as well. David Davis also provided cheap labour, taking on jobs that husbands were too busy to do, or didn’t have the skills for, at minimum pay, but he still made my skin feel as if a thousand spiders were dancing over it.
I didn’t trust him, but then, there were few people I trusted immediately nowadays. I wasn’t the vibrant, outgoing girl I had been in my teens and twenties. I had too many secrets to become friends with people, and I’d leant over the course of my sixteen murders that although most people are exactly what seem, others have been touched by evil, and I was all too proficient at identifying them.
So I kept my distance; not even interfering when a student in one of my classes confided in me that she found David Davis creepy, that he kept staring at her while he was doing some odd jobs for her mom. He was a strange man, and his gaze did linger too long in places it shouldn’t, but I put it down to learning difficulties, or being retarded, as we called it back then.
But I watched him. I began to pay more attention, to listen more, and I noticed that the houses he accepted jobs at generally had children there. He would entertain the children, play with them, make them toys and the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand like soldiers every time I heard his name.
Four or five months after he had moved to Troutville, my neighbour went into hospital to have a caesarean and her sister came to stay to look after the two children she had already. The sister, Julie, was younger than my neighbour by a good ten years, and the two were only just becoming close. Julie had no children of her own, and no younger siblings, so she knew little of what to do when one of them had a temperature, thus I found her on my doorstep at nine o’clock one evening, looking flustered.
I’d never been able to have children, which was a blessing as I’d never felt the need to be someone’s mother, but I’d learnt a great deal as the eldest of several brothers and sisters. Within half hour, the youngest boy was asleep, and Julie had poured us both a glass of wine. Ten minutes after polite conversation the topic turned to David Davis, Julie’s face growing pale.
“He’s part of the reason I agreed to look after my nieces,” she said. “I’m in college, and I’ve had to beg for time off my studies, but I had to come.”
“Why?” I said, my glass of wine still full. “Because he’s moved here?”
I looked at her, waiting for her to speak, to divulge more information.
“He likes children, young girls.”
“You?” I said. I didn’t think so; victims of such crimes rarely speak about them.
She shook her head. “My friend and her sister. They both moved away and I didn’t hear from them after. Their parents told the police but I think they didn’t want the girls to have to give evidence, so they left instead. This was years ago, more than a decade, but he still looks the same with that baby face.”
“How did he manage it?” I say, putting the wine down. It’s never been a drink I favoured, preferring bourbon still.
Julie is quiet. “He befriended them, and their parents. He was helpful and nice, made them toys and they trusted him. He even began to babysit them when their parents went away. I don’t know how long it went on for before they told, or their parents found out, but they moved suddenly, and then he moved after, as the rumours started. My dad and a group of his friends threatened to go round and make sure he didn’t do it again, but his house was empty. We didn’t tell my sister. She’d moved away by then, had graduated college and met Clive, so when she said his name she couldn’t understand why I was quiet.”
“You haven’t told her?” I say. “You’ve not warned her?”
She shakes her head. “No. It was only ever rumour. The parents never said anything. I just remember Marsha saying to me as her parents loaded the car that David Davis had touched her and her sister, and that was why they were going. Marsha was always a drama queen, and she liked to stir up trouble. The rumours started separately, so I always kind of believed them, no smoke without fire and all that, but if I say something here, and he’s innocent then…”
“This is the first time you’ve heard of him since you were twelve?” I say, trying to play down her fears. She was right, what she had to say could cause a vigilante attack, and that, among other things would make him a martyr.
She nods. The sound of the church bells echo across the fields, their last chimes before the end of the day; one of time’s many demarcations.
“Then your friend may have been making it up, and it would be easy for a careless word about why they moved to provoke anger against him. Look after your nieces,” I tell her. “And say nothing as yet. We’ll see what else comes about.” I stand, thanking her for the wine she hasn’t noticed I’d not drank, and then I leave. There was work to do.
I spent the next few weeks travelling to the various places David Davis had lived since leaving the village where Julie had grown up. Finding out information was easy when you had the money and the time to do it, and I quite enjoyed my foray into the world of private detection.
The same story was given three times. David Davis left places abruptly, disappearing in the middle of the night, leaving tales of touches that should never have been made behind him. In one town, the police officer I spoke was aware of his name, and allegations had been made, but then withdrawn.
I asked why he hadn’t been investigated further, already knowing the answer: not enough evidence and Davis had left, the problem solved. And so David Davis had continued, fleeing before he could face any charges, leaving a trail of discreet destruction in his wake. There were those children who had spoken up, and then there would be those who had remained forever silent.
I had lost some of my drive to kill. It no longer gave me the same thrill as it had done twenty years before, although I knew I would never be caught. However, the urge tingled, and I spent the next few weeks fantasizing just how I could dispose of David Davis, and make sure this pattern he had created was permanently ended.
What stood in the way was his mother. Mrs Davis was a nice lady. I’d met and spoken with her several times in the local shops, and she reminded me a little of Mama Jones. To kill her only child in a horrific way would have killed her too, and since David’s return home, she’d been looking much better, better fed and dressed, and the house had been much improved too, mainly down to the extra money he gave her from his odds jobs that supplemented her small savings.
David Davis’ death was planned in more detail than anything I’d done before, even my third wedding. I pushed aside the fantasies I had about castration and slow strangulation, poison and drowning, all but the first being tried and tested methods already. I didn’t want the mess, and I didn’t want this to be discovered as an accident, or some horrific murder, which, in truth, I thought he deserved. What David Davis needed to do was to disappear, that way his mother could still receive some small income and maintain the memories she had of her son.
I waited for the rumours to start, which they inevitable did, and also inevitably they began by floating round the high school. Sian Tanner was teased at the end of one of my classes for being one of ‘Lame’ Davis’ girlfriends. I pulled her back, under the pretence of needing a job doing, and asked her about what the boys had said.
She was quiet at first, then after studying me for about a minute, she began to speak. “It’s not me he’s hanging round for,” she said, keeping her voice low so no one else could hear. “I think it’s my sister. My mom thinks he’s wonderful as he helps with all the maintenance jobs that haven’t been done since my dad left, but I see him watching Alice all the time. He walked in on her when she was in the bath, and claimed it was a mistake. Mom said what would it matter anyway, she’s only nine, but it wasn’t a mistake. Alice was singing in the bath and he could hear her as well as I. Please don’t say anything, Miss Desmarais, mom will get mad and say I’m stirring up trouble.”
I nod. “I won’t say anything,” I tell her, my heart rate slightly risen with the green flag I’ve just received. “Have you heard anymore stories like this about him?”
Sian inhales deeply and nods almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. He’s called a pervert by some of the boys as they’ve caught him staring at girls too obviously. Mariah Lucas said he was trying to get her sister to go see the strawberries he’d grown in his garden, but Mariah wouldn’t let her. A few girls won’t go near him, and apparently Jacob Struthers smeared something awful along his truck the other week. It’s all rumour – but then, would anyone actually say if he’d…” she shudders, “…done anything to them?”
I say nothing. The bell goes for the start of the third hour and Sian gets up to go. “Thanks, Miss,” she says. “I know you’ll do something about it that’s right.”
I remember smiling at her comment.
A few days later, on the Thursday of the week following my conversation with Sian, I asked David Davis as he was passing my house to clean the pump in my pond. I wasn’t a great fan of ponds, but this one I had inherited with the house, and it needed to be done as the whole thing was starting to smell and possibly wasn’t sanitary.
My neighbours were away, having taken the two girls and the new baby on vacation to see Julie’s mom, who now lived near the beach. The trees that surrounded my garden were tall and dense, thick leafy maples and ashes that gave me privacy and acted as a natural barrier between my land, the farmers’ fields behind and the woodland beyond.
I exchanged small talk with David Davis when he arrived; made him a coffee and a freshly baked English scone with clotted cream and jam, and then showed him the pond. His back was to me, and the water too dirty to provide a reflection when I lifted the handgun to the back of his head and fired.
I hadn’t bothered with a silencer. It would have meant a new gun for a start, and gunshots were not that rare around Troutville, not with the issues with wildlife – plus it was the hunting season, and it was commonplace to hear several shots a day, plenty more in the evenings when the men reverted to their caveman selves, only with modern weapons.
He fell onto the netting that had been used to protect the fish from birds, his head sinking it into the water, which washed some of the blood away. I would have to clean the pond myself, which wouldn’t be a problem. My looks were in their autumn, but I had retained the wiry strength from my youth and young womanhood, and it wasn’t too difficult to drag the body of David Davis into a wheelbarrow and push it over to a shallow ditch I had dug underneath the trees, next to several shrubs I wanted to plant there. The body would decompose, giving an extra boost to the soil.
I buried the gun with him, somehow knowing that I didn’t want every shred of evidence of this crime to disappear, and planted the shrubs where he lay. I felt no remorse, but the joy I used to feel after a kill was not the same, a mere glimmer to the blaze it once was.
His disappearance was unremarkable. A rumour circulated that he had taken a job in Chesapeake as a carpenter, a believable story as he had been talented in that area, and little more was said. Sian began smiling again, and the teasing stopped. The damage that David Davis might have caused was unknown, but at least it could not be continued.
I went to see his mother four weeks after he had gone, and asked after him. She was honest, said she didn’t know why he had left so suddenly, but that he had done it before. Then she looked down at the floor and told me that she had always known he wasn’t right, but he was all she had.
The next day, she would have found a deposit of money in her account – she shouldn’t have left her check book on show – and the same each month, the amount varying. She stayed looking healthy and tidy, the house was maintained well enough to avoid the discussion of her neighbours, and when she died, I believe she left her savings and the proceeds from her house to the junior high school…
…I smile. I had always been pleased with the outcome of that one. Coffee and cakes have been delivered without me being aware, and Louisa is eating slivers of banana loaf. I pour a coffee from the flask that’s been left and take a piece myself, savouring the moistness and the taste.
“Why did you confess to his murder three years later?” Toner asks. “You had gotten away with it. The place where you disposed of his body would never have been investigated unless you moved away and someone wished to renovate the garden.”
I look away now, for this is the part that is most difficult, the part I have never wanted to discuss. “Love,” I say. “People say they would kill for love, I did the opposite. I refused to kill for it.” I know my eyes are colder now, for these are the memories I can never forgive myself for.
They wait for me to continue. I drink my coffee. I am tired of talking now and my throat is dry, but this one last part is important.
“I had a way with men,” I say. “But they did not always have a way with me. Throughout my life, I never fell in love. I liked and loved many men, but never with a passion. They never evoked that all consuming emotion in me unless I was ending their life. Robert was fifteen years my junior and he started as a teacher at the high school in the fall after I killed David Davis. He was talented, and intelligent, but most of all, beautiful, and I fell head over heels in lust with him, and then love consumed me.”
“I didn’t look my age back then. Not having children or a long term husband had saved my skin, and Robert and I began an affair. Affair is the right word, as he was married. His wife was a sweet, pretty creature who worked away during the week in Philadelphia, and Robert began to spend most of his weeknights with me.
“The guard I had created and secured so many years before had softened, and I didn’t question why I was sleeping better the nights Robert stayed, or why Robert was always awake before me, dressed and smiling, armed with fresh coffee and breakfast. Not until I checked in with my accountant and noticed small amounts of money having disappeared from my accounts.
“Immediately I knew. The house he lived in with his wife was small. It lacked a second bedroom and a garden, and was in an area of town the opposite to mine, not an ideal place to bring up a family, which I guessed they both wanted. I understood by now that she didn’t stay working away from him because of the status of her job, but because they couldn’t afford her to leave it, there was nothing as good in Troutville and they were carrying debt.
“If he’d have asked, I’d have helped them financially. I had no desire to stop being his mistress and become something more, and I loved him enough to want him to be happy. Besides, I had more money than I would ever need, and would be quite happy to share it quietly with someone I loved.
“But he’d been stealing from me; going through my personal documents and piecing together my finances, seeing how much he could get without me realising. And that meant he’d have noticed that it was me who paid Mrs Davis a sum of money every month, and had had four husbands – something which the town was oblivious to.
“I did nothing for a month, more maybe. I watched how he was spending the money; not saving it for a better house, or to allow his wife to get a less well paid job here, but buying clothes and fripperies, enjoying expensive lunches. I guess that annoyed me. But he was still so beautiful, and charming, and by now, I knew that every person had their flaws, so I could forgive him his. I suppose I was becoming soft in my old age.
“I stopped drinking the cocoa he made for me at night, and started to listen to where he went to in my house. Then one night, when he was certain I was asleep, I followed him, watched him take out my check book and write himself one for a small amount, then took a few notes from the cash I kept hidden, along with Edward’s diary that I had never read.
“He turned around, suddenly aware that I was watching him, and jumped, his mouth agape, horror crossing his face. “I’m not seeing you because of your money,” he said, and I believed him. “But you have so much. I didn’t realise until I saw a letter…”
“I knew what he was referring to; a note from my solicitor concerning the sale of the business run by Edward and Victor. Victor had never married, living a celibate life, and he had left his life’s work and savings to me when he had died a few months previously.
““Why didn’t you ask? I would have helped you out, you know,” I said, my words gentle.
“”People don’t do that though, do they? And besides, I can’t leave my wife.”
““I wouldn’t ask you too,” I said, and then I saw his eyes and read them as easily as reading a book. He wanted to blackmail me. I laughed at the thought.
“I could have killed him. It would have been quite easy in that rambling old house. There were enough ways to dispose of the body, although that one I would have passed off as somebody else’s murder – there were a couple of serial killers around at the time with very easy to replicate modes of operating.
“But he was so beautiful, crouched down there, the moonlight stroking his face. Maybe it was weariness, or age; maybe it was something I ate that night, or the passion I’d felt when I had made love to him. Or maybe it was simply inevitable. I asked him to leave, and then, after putting on my best suit, and make up, I went to the police and confessed to the murder of David Davis,” I say, my story told at last. “That way, I could never harm him. He would be safe.”
They glance at each other, the agents. The flask of coffee had been emptied, and I imagined that any daylight had now been coloured in dark by night. I stood up, stretching my legs and feeling the weight of my flesh and bones which I wouldn’t have to bear for much longer.
“Why did you kill them?” Louisa asked, a repetition of an earlier question.
“Because I could,” I said. “If I had reported their crimes to the police then they may never have been punished. The eyes of society would be on them, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to make sure they no longer hurt anyone. And besides, I enjoyed the kill. Maybe that was the most important reason.”
“Do you not think that killing made you just as bad as them?” she asked. It’s a fair question.
“I was never anything to be afraid of,” I said. “Unless you were doing something to hurt others. Do I think what I did was right – no, probably not, not under the laws that are upheld in this country and others, and you shouldn’t enjoy killing. I did, and I would have enjoyed killing Robert, but I loved him too much.”
I walked to the door and buzzed for the guard to come and get me. “Thank you for your time, agents,” I said as I heard footsteps coming down the corridor. “Have a lovely evening, whatever your plans maybe.” I turned around and passed them a smile; they answered my questions without knowing it and I was sure that there is still something good in the outside world. They were standing close again, almost shoulder to shoulder, and I wondered if they have booked one or two hotel rooms. One, I hoped, as two would be a waste of the country’s resources as they will only use one anyway. They seemed like equals, a balancing act perfected between them and I wished them well in their lives, and hoped they could explore that love whose path my life avoided.
I left them in the room, walking down the corridor back to my cell, the place where I received my last meal, two weeks after a stay of execution while the crimes I confessed to were investigated and where I slept my last night, until this, my final hour, now my final few minutes.
They agreed to let me count the stars, and to an evening execution. The agents are long gone, their investigation ended, my recounts now being studied, giving insights into the criminal mind, of which mine is one.
Three guards watch me as I stand here now and look at the sky, the night sweetly black, spotted with silver light. Susie has been to say goodbye, and I smiled at her knowingly, silently commending her bravery. In the past two weeks she has lost weight and began to exercise, the shadows of her past becoming paler with the lights that shone in front of her. I asked for her to not be here tonight; she has to make her own decisions in the future, and my ending should not influence those. So no one is here to watch my death, no one cares about the people I killed and I have no family left that I have had contact with. I have reached the end, and I am glad. My heart is singing, for I have lived exactly as I wished, counting the stars.
I cannot count them all; I could never count them all, for they are infinite, like a child’s wishes. I inhale the night air and remember that Friday evening, when I ran barefoot through the woods carrying the mushrooms and the freedom of my own decision, and the exhilaration I felt, succumbing to it sixteen more times before this. The stars were not far away that night, those nights. They were close; I touched them with my hands and became one each time. I loved living, and letting others live, but now is right, the right time for me to die, now is the time to leave the stars behind and I follow the guard inside to where the needle will kiss my flesh, and my heart will no longer be old.