We are supposed to believe that in a drunken stupor, Martin Spirow knew to sign in to his sock puppet account rather than the account that was in his own name? That he knew to maintain online anonymity while “lost” in his documented problems with alcohol?
I don’t think so.
And even if I do, I don’t really care, do I?
As Katherine Frole had said about Henry McAndrews, Martin Spirow’s crime probably doesn’t warrant a death sentence. I realize that. But he doesn’t deserve to live either. I am still self-aware enough to realize that I am justifying what I want to do, but that doesn’t mean my justifications are groundless.
I am not, by any means, an expert in committing murder. Most of my knowledge, like yours, comes from watching crime dramas on TV. I know that I should take time between these killings or use different weaponry. I know that I should spend days or weeks or months planning, that there are CCTV cameras everywhere, that the smallest fibers or tiniest bits of DNA （by the way, who knows more about how DNA can change your life than I?） can be traced back to the perpetrator. I’ll be careful, but will I be careful enough?
I think so. I have a plan. I have an endgame. If I do this correctly, it will lead to a resurrection like none since…
Blasphemy to say it.
I bought a silencer （or “suppressor” as the gun store guy kept calling it） for $189.
Martin Spirow lives with his wife Katie in a small ranch house not far from Rehoboth Beach in Delaware. There is one car in the driveway. At 9:45 a.m., Katie heads out the door. She wears blue jeans and a Walmart employee vest. Her walk to work at the nearby Walmart is only a quarter mile. Her husband Martin is unemployed and attends AA meetings twice a day.
This was all in the Boomerang files.
Most shifts at Walmart last seven to nine hours. That gives me a lot of time. I don’t want to waste it. When Katie is out of sight, I approach the door. I wear all brown, including a brown cap. I don’t have UPS stenciling anywhere, but I don’t think I need it. I carry an empty package. It is a primitive yet effective disguise—package delivery—and I will not be in view long anyway.
For me, the biggest issue is my vehicle. I know that with modern technology, they have cameras at all the tollbooths and other means to locate you. I parked several blocks away, at a nondescript professional building that houses doctors and lawyers and the like. I didn’t see any security cameras. I noticed a green dumpster on the way where I can dump these brown clothes for the blue dress shirt and jeans I’m wearing underneath.
In short, I have something of a plan. Foolproof? Hardly. But it should be enough for now.
I ring the bell. No answer. I ring it again. And again.
A cranky, tired voice says, “Who is it?”
I clear my throat. “Delivery.”
“Jesus, isn’t it early? Just leave it on the stoop.”
“I need a signature.”
“Oh, for crying out loud…”
Martin Spirow opens the door. I don’t hesitate. I take out the gun and point it directly at him.
“Back up,” I say.
Martin’s eyes bulge, but he does as I ask. He even raises his hands, though I didn’t say anything about doing that. I can smell the fear coming off him in waves as I step inside and close the door.
“If you’re here to rob us—”
“I’m not,” I say.
“Then what do you want?”
I aim the gun at his face. “It’s sad when hot pussy goes to waste.”
I wait a second to make sure my words register in his eyes.
When they do, I see no reason to waste time.
I pull the trigger three times.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Wilde headed up to 72nd Street and walked east until he entered Central Park. Rola was buying a soft-serve vanilla in a waffle cone from an ice cream truck.
“Want one?” she asked him.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“It’s an ice cream, not tequila.”
“Pass.”
Rola shrugged a suit-yourself. They passed the aggressive onslaught of soliciting pedicabs and headed down the narrow path that led to Strawberry Fields.
“You don’t look good,” Rola said.
“Thanks.”
“Those cops.”
“Let it go.”
“Fine. How did it go with Marnie Cassidy?”
He told her as they passed the tourists crowding the Imagine mosaic to pay homage to John Lennon. When he finished, Rola said, “You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”