The Collector

by John Whitehouse

The room is small, lit by a harsh fluorescent glare. In the middle of the room is a table and on it sits an ashtray heaped with stubs, along with several plastic cups containing tea and coffee dregs. Around the table sit four people. On one side are two men, Detective Mike Gerber and his partner. Opposite them sit a man and woman. The woman's name is Julie Harrison. Aged 32, she's slim and not unattractive. The man next to her is Julie's lawyer.

Julie's mind is still numb with incredulity. The plan had sounded so simple. It was meant to be a new beginning. Instead her life has spiraled into a living nightmare.

It had started some months earlier, in the chill of a snowy February. Julie was tired. Of her job; of a dead-in-the-water marriage; of life. She and some colleagues had gone to a bar for a drink after work. That's when she'd met Dan Arlen. Around the same age as Julie, he was tall and ruggedly handsome, with volcanic blue eyes and the cutest smile. He worked as a car mechanic and was new to the city. And he was single.

They saw each other as often as they could, spending most of their time at the camper which was Dan's home. He'd tantalized her with talk of a future together, Julie had agreed to divorce her husband but Dan had said there was a quicker, easier way.

They'd been sitting on a park bench at the time, blossom falling like rain from the trees on either side.

"Kill him? Are you sure?"

Dan had nodded. "The divorce is bound to be messy, right? From what you've told me about him he'll fight you for every cent. Just think, the house will be all yours and the life insurance will be enough for us to make a fresh start."

No need to worry, Dan had said. He'd make it look like a burglary gone wrong. He had contacts from whom he could purchase an unregistered handgun. And he and Julie could give themselves a cast-iron alibi.

"We'll say we were together the whole time. It's perfect. The cops will probably suspect us but they won't be able to prove anything."

Julie remembers the Saturday just gone only too well. She'd told Mark some friends of hers were having an all night party and she wouldn't be home until the following morning. Then she'd gone to see Dan. She'd stayed with him until midnight when he'd left to go to her place. She'd given him her spare key and he'd promised to be back in a couple of hours.

She'd tried to watch TV, read, anything to occupy her thoughts. She'd paced around the camper, biting her nails. She'd drunk glass after glass of vodka.

Her anxiety had increased when Dan had failed to return by 2A.M. She'd rung his cellphone but it was switched off. Another hour passed. She rang him again and again but without success. Her stomach churned.

By 4 A.M. she was frantic. Her mind whirled. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps he hadn't succeeded in killing Mark. She pictured the two men grappling, the gun going off, unintentionally shooting Dan. Maybe he'd been in some kind of accident, or been the victim of a mugging. Icy waves of dread washed over her.

When she could stand it no longer she'd called a cab and gone over to the house. Drawing up outside, she'd seen Mark's car parked in the drive, the place unsurprisingly in darkness.

Stepping into the house, she'd flicked on the lights and found everything undisturbed. So Dan hadn't gone through with it. Perhaps he'd lost his nerve. But why hadn't he called, or returned to the camper?

Taking off her coat, she'd climbed the stairs slowly, so as not to disturb Mark who'd be in bed, sleeping. She'd opened the bedroom door and crept inside. The vague light of a full moon shone through the window, illuminating the bed.

Julie froze. Mark was lying there, eyes staring sightlessly upward. His bare chest was exposed and a cluster of dark holes indicated he'd been shot several times in the heart.

Julie bolted from the room and hurled herself down the stairs, frantic sobs tearing themselves from her chest. Although she'd talked about the killing, the actual sight of Mark's lifeless body had shaken her to the core. And through it all one question pounded in her brain: why hadn't Dan made it look like a burglary, as he'd said.

Another part of her mind told her she had to think clearly. She'd have to phone the cops - therefore she had to make it look like a bungled robbery, as she and Dan had planned. Scrabbling in her purse, she pulled out her cellphone and called him again but there was still no reply. What was he playing at?

She couldn't worry about that now. She'd force the lock on the kitchen door, then go through the house ripping out drawers and strewing the contents over the floor (but not in the bedroom - she couldn't face going back in there). She'd tell the cops some money had been taken. She'd have to tell them about the affair, of course, and Dan's disappearance had wrecked their alibi. (Where was he? Why wouldn't he answer his phone?) However, although they'd be suspects, as Dan had said, the cops had no proof against either of them.

Looking back, Julie marvels at how quickly it all unraveled.

"I notice the desk in the study is locked, Mrs. Harrison," Detective Gerber had said. "Why didn't the burglar try to force it open, I wonder? Then there's your jewellery. You say the pieces are only cheap imitation but whoever broke in wasn't to know that, was he? But you know what really puzzles me? The way Mr. Harrison was killed. You see, he was in bed when he was shot. Which means he couldn't have disturbed the burglar. Whoever shot him must have gone into the bedroom and fired. As if the whole thing was premeditated. And what about the neighbors? How come they didn't hear anything?"

Then came the killer punch. The cops had found a pistol hidden in the loft along with a pillow which had evidently been used to smother the sound of gunshots. Julies' fingerprints were on the gun which had been confirmed as the murder weapon.

That's when Julie had broken down and confessed. She'd told them all about the plot to kill her husband. But it had been Dan who'd shot him, not her.

"Can't you see? The bastard's set me up."

"But why, Mrs. Harrison? What possible motive could he have?"

"I don't know, but you have to believe me."

They don't, of course. The cops have checked out what Julie's told them about Dan Arlen but have drawn a blank. The camper's vanished and no-one of that name or description has ever been employed at the place Dan said he'd worked. As for the cellphone, it's registered in a different name and the address given turned out to be a derelict building. The cops haven't pursued it. Why would they? They already have their evidence. Fortunately for Julie there's no death penalty in this state. But she knows she's looking at a life stretch.

The detectives keep on at her. "Why don't you come clean, Mrs. Harrison? Make it easy on yourself?"

Eventually, unable to take anymore, Julie starts to scream.

The man calling himself Dan Arlen snips an article from a newspaper and pastes it into a scrapbook containing a number of other clippings. "WIFE CHARGED WITH HUSBAND'S MURDER," proclaims the headline. The other stories carry similar banners. Once again it has worked like a dream, the fingerprints being a particularly neat touch. Easy to transfer them from a glass to another object with the aid of sticky tape.

Closing the scrapbook, he stores it in a cupboard alongside various fake IDs. Taking his jacket and wallet, he steps out of the camper into the warm evening air and heads for the nearest bar. Here he is - another town, another state. Best to keep moving around. It's safer that way.

He may not strike lucky tonight. But sooner or later, in some joint or another, he's confident he'll find what he's looking for. A woman stuck in an unhappy marriage; who yearns for freedom; who's agreeable to the killing of her husband.

Someone he can add to his collection.