One Weird Day

See Me Not - Part 2

First I found the guy who hit the schoolgirl. By that time he was out of jail, and worked at his factory again. I watched him for a couple of months. I had plenty of time, hanging around, just one of those unnoticeable old ladies walking the streets, feeding pigeons, reading books on the benches in the park. Nobody paid attention to me, nobody gave a second thought as for what I was doing at this place or another. The general opinion was, by default, that people such as I have no goals—we just live day after day until our time runs out.

But I happened to have a goal—or, to be more exact, a target. I knew when this target left home in the mornings, when he came back, on which days he went to a pub with his friends, until what hour he slept on Sundays. His nephew visited him sometimes, and he seemed to be a good uncle, playing with the boy in his backyard, giving him rides on his bicycle... but I couldn't let that distract me. I felt sorry for the kid, who obviously loved his useless uncle, but I felt sorrier for that schoolgirl in her wheelchair. And the sneaker on the roadside—I had no right to forget about it. Lawyers, jurors and judges could forget sometimes.

I had to remember.

On a cold October evening, when a sprinkling rain showered the empty streets, he was heading back home from the pub. He was drunk as a fish that night, couldn't even walk straight, and didn't hear me at first when I called him. I stood in a passage between the wall of a garage and a solid concrete fence that surrounded the factory. People rarely walked there outside of the working hours—and on that day, thanks to the weather, there was nobody around.

"Whassit?" he said, approaching me.

"What's the time, please?"

He stood there for a few seconds, swaying a little, probably sensing—even in his incoherent state—that there was something odd about my question and my being there at all, but then he just gave out a little hum and shifted his gaze to his watch. While he was trying to focus on the clock's deal, I stepped forward and took the knife out of my bag.

I have never possessed firearms, neither do I know anything about poisons, or am I strong enough to overpower a man—though, I must admit, I'm still in a fairly good shape thanks to my long walks—but in that situation all I had was a sharp knife and the advantage of a surprise. I had a chance for one precise strike, and had I messed it up it would have all been over for me.

But I didn't mess it up.

Next day, the local news and papers had a field day with the murder. People get killed every day, but a body found in a backstreet with a slit throat was still a bit unusual. Several members of the paralyzed schoolgirls' family were called in for questioning and spent a few unpleasant hours talking to the police interrogators, but I knew it would be over soon and could only sympathize from a distance. The knife went straight into the river, my clothes with bloodstains on them went into the washing machine and, once again, I was spending my days reading books and traveling around the town.

Eight months later came the turn of the driver who hit the woman and left her on the roadside. His trial was postponed and he was under a home arrest, which obviously wasn't all that strict and didn't prevent him from going to the nearby supermarket. I met him one evening, when he walked home along the river bank, in the dusk, swinging a paper bag full of oranges.

His body was found a couple of days later, washed upon the shore a few miles down the river. Despite the long interval between the two deaths, the media had noticed the similarities and began discussing the possibility of a serial killer operating in the area, targeting the drivers that had been responsible for serious traffic accidents.

Another two years has passed before my grandsons' killer was released from jail. And yesterday my hour of triumph has arrived.

He almost never left home, and the garbage bags his wife dragged out of the house were always full of empty beer bottles. On Sundays, she used to visit her friends, and yesterday, when she left the house, I knocked on the door on their dark, messy porch, clutching the knife. The moment he opened the door, I struck. He never found out why—but how did they say in that old western? If you want to shoot—shoot, don't talk. I knew why. That was enough.

As I come back from my morning walk, the streets are full of cars and the sidewalks are full of children heading for school. There's a police car parked in front of our house. Sheila must have noticed me from the window, because as I climb the steps slowly, she opens the door. There's a complex expression of pity, confusion and a kind of a guilty triumph on her face. Behind her, I can see two silhouettes in blue.

"Please take it easy," she says, and begins to weep. "Remember that man who hit Mathew? He...he was found dead."

I enter the house. Two young officers seem to be a little confused and out of place, but they were assigned the task of talking to us and I can see that they take it seriously. They watch me with attention, which is somewhat flattering—as if they admit that it's too early to wipe me off the slate.

One after another, they hold out their hands and introduce themselves, earning a few more points in my eyes.

"Do you always go for a walk so early?" one of them asks.

"Would you like to have some tea?" I say in reply and begin to fill the kettle with water. "Officer...?"

"Smith," he says patiently, although he has told me his name only a minute ago. "Your sister has offered us tea already, thank you. I would appreciate if you answered my question."

"We have a great cake," I say. "Sheila baked it yesterday. She is very good with cakes."

"Madam, answer my question please."

"What question, pardon me?"

"Do you always go out so early?"

"Of course. I prefer early walks, the air is so much fresher, you know."

"Do you take walks in the evenings, too?"

"Usually, I do." I turn the kettle on.

"And where did you go yesterday?"

"Mostly around the park, I believe." I shrug. "My memory is not so good nowadays. But it's usually just the park."

They give me examining looks.

"You see, madam, as you sister has already told you, James Brown – the driver that ran your grandson Mathew over a few years ago – was found dead today. We have a reason to suspect that he was killed..."

Sure you do. Throat slit from ear to ear, hell of a reason.

"I can see, you are not too surprised to hear that?"

I give him a confused look.

"Mathew?" I say. "Someone hit Mathew?..."

They exchange quick glances. The kettle begins to whistle.

"Would you like to have a cake with the tea?" I say. "Officer...?"

"Smith," he says again.

"We have a great cake," I say. "Sheila baked it yesterday. She is very good with cakes. Mathew likes them very much."

Sheila stares at me from behind their backs.

Eventually, they will leave us alone. They don't really believe that someone connected to the families of the car accidents victims is responsible for the murders. It seems more likely that there's some kind of a crazy Robin Hood operating, with a goal of scaring reckless drivers. That will look even more likely after the fourths murder takes place—which will happen in another two to three months. I have almost finished the preparations. Initially, I've planned four murders—so that the one I did it all for will look just like one in a series of others. Not a special one.

After that, I could stop—or at least that's what I thought at the beginning. But lately, I've begun to have my doubts. Should I stop? Will I be able to?

After all, Sheila's right.

I can have a hobby, too.

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