The Killing Hour

‘I liked Kathy, that’s all. Is that a crime?’


‘The way you liked her it sure as hell is. Why’d you kill Luciana in the bathroom?’ he asks, catching himself using the victim’s first name. How long has he been doing that? It means he’s personalised them; it means this has become more than just a case. But why the hell not? If he’s going to kill a man it ought to be over somebody with a first name. They deserve to be personalised. They deserve justice. Revenge? Do they deserve revenge? He decides that they do. It’s why he’s out here. It’s why he’s just screwed up what short life he has left. ‘Why not the bedroom? You said she’d already showered, so why take her back in there?’

‘I don’t know why,’ Feldman says, and Landry has heard that same answer before from dozens of men unable to explain why they killed dozens of women.

‘She was still alive, Feldman, when you rammed that stake into her heart.’ He leans forward and tightens his grip on the shotgun. ‘We know that because of the blood splatter. We know she was in pain because her fingernails cut deep crescents into her palms.’

‘The phone call to the police. How did the phone get outside if I burst into her house when they arrived home? Why would I snap the keys off in the ignition of the van?’



Two good points, two valid points, and he’s given them some thought. That’s his job. ‘You broke the keys because the van was stolen and you had use of the victim’s car.’

‘That’s a lame explanation and you know it. How about the phone?’

‘You discarded it outside simply to confuse us,’ he says.

‘Now you’re really reaching if you believe that. What about the cars?’ Feldman asks, his voice rising as he starts to panic. ‘There were no cars outside Luciana’s house. If Kathy dropped her friend off, then what happened to her car?’

‘You tell me.’



‘I thought you had it all worked out.’

‘How can I know how your mind works?’ The truth is he doesn’t want to know.

‘You can’t. You’re too crazy to have any idea.’

Landry jumps to his feet, frustrated that a man like this can label him anything, let alone crazy. He moves quickly across the room, wanting to strike him hard with the shotgun, but when he takes aim and Feldman twists away he realises this sick son of a bitch probably isn’t that far off in his assessment. Of course he’s crazy. No sane police detective would have brought a suspect out here with the pretence of a trial. He lowers the gun and steps back. Feldman turns towards him and opens his eyes, his body relaxing with relief.

‘There were two cars,’ Landry says, moving back to his chair. ‘Luciana’s and your van. You followed them to Luciana’s house. You killed her there. Rather than taking the van you drove Kathy back to her house in Luciana’s car, killed her, then dumped her car.’ He sits down, gets comfortable. ‘First you tore the page from her pad but your mistake was in not taking the whole thing.’ He sucks in another breath of cigarette smoke. Good, sweet smoke. Help me get through this. ‘Why did you keep her breast?’

‘You said my car was seen up her driveway. See? It still doesn’t add up.’

He knows it doesn’t. The vehicles have never added up and it has niggled at him the entire time. But lots of other things add up. The pieces all fit together nicely without worrying about who drove what. Only they don’t. In the end there are pieces left over and only people sloppy in their work are happy to ignore extra pieces. The stake in Feldman’s home. The severed breast. The bloody clothes. His car spotted outside one of the victim’s homes. The letter he wrote. The cuts and bruises on his skin. His ramblings during their interview. His lying at the start of the evening. The bloodstained pad with his name on it. That’s more than enough. More than a jury needs to convict.

Are you sure? Are you really that sure? Or are the cancer pills fucking with you?

He flicks his cigarette butt towards the fireplace, only managing to get half the distance required. He pulls out the packet and lights another. He’s sick of this. He wants to go home. Wants to retire. ‘I want to hear it in your own words.’

‘Hear what?’

He sucks in a deep breath. The air is cold and tastes of mildew and cigarette smoke. ‘Just tell me the truth. Things’ll be easier on both of us. We can get this over with.’

‘Why? You got plans? You gonna go home and spend the rest of the night justifying killing me?’

‘Tell me,’ he says, ignoring the comment because it’s too close to the truth, ‘which one of them did it to you, Feldman? Which woman was the lucky one to give you that nice bruise on your forehead?’

‘Look, Inspector, what you’re doing is crazy. Think about it. You’ve brought me …’

‘Shut up, Feldman,’ he says.

‘Just think about what …’