Free Fit to Kill by James Heneghan

her.
    Canadians were such kind people.
    FRIDAY, DECEMBER 29
    A Dumpster diver discovered a body in the lane behind the sushi restaurant on Robson Street, Wexler reported to his colleagues. “White female, no clothing, no id.” Wexler sounded weary.
    â€œAnd no head,” mumbled Doug Duchesne, who was fiddling with his cameras, his back to them.
    Ozeroff glared at him.
    Wexler nodded. “Number five.”
    â€œIn the garbage,” murmured Ozeroff, about to cry.
    Casey and Wexler watched her.
    Ozeroff sat, elbows on knees, face hidden in her hands.
    Silence.
    â€œYou okay, Deb?” Casey placed a hand on her shoulder.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” she said in a small voice.
    Wexler said, “Let’s go eat.”
    Casey helped Ozeroff on with her raincoat. “You coming, Doug?”
    â€œNo, go ahead. Things I gotta do.”
    The threesome headed down the hill to Hegel’s. Today it wasn’t raining and the air was mild. The tide was out at English Bay, exposing the beach strewn with the usual debris. The water glinted green under a light gray sky.
    â€œThirteen days since number four,” said Wexler once they’d found seats.
    All Ozeroff wanted was a cup of coffee.
    Casey said, “Look, Deb, if something comes up at night, call me or Jack and we’ll cover for you. Right, Jack?”
    â€œRight,” said Wexler. “No problem.”
    Ozeroff gave a hard laugh. “What about ballet? Or opera? I can’t always expect Vera to drop what she’s doing to come with me.”
    â€œBallet! Yuck!” said Wexler.
    â€œOr what if I have to cover a fashion show?” said Ozeroff. “What then?”
    â€œNo problem,” said Wexler. “One of us will go with you, same as when you went to the pussy concert with Casey, right?”
    â€œThat’s Debussy, Jack, not pussy,” Casey whispered.
    â€œThat’s what I said.” Wexler sounded indignant.
    Casey couldn’t tell whether Ozeroff was laughing or crying.

    When Lucy Lambert’s father picked her up from the gym the next day, she told him about the woman in the shower. “Do you think it could be the same one?”
    Alan Lambert shrugged. “Could be, Lucy, it was the thirteenth night. But maybe we’ll never know. It’s hard to identify a person who has no…” He stopped.
    â€œThat’s okay, say it. No head. But what about a tattoo?”
    â€œShe had a tattoo?”
    â€œA pair of lovebirds. On her bum.” Lucy laughed nervously.
    â€œYou saw it?”
    â€œI couldn’t help it. She was in the shower right across from me. And it was a big tattoo.”
    â€œHmmn. You realize, Lucy, if you tell the police, they’ll expect you to take a look at the body.”
    â€œI already thought of that. If they keep her covered except for her behind, then maybe I could do it.”
    â€œBody’ll be in the morgue. Not a nice place. You sure you want to go through all that?”
    Lucy said, “If it will help catch this creep, I’ll do anything.”
    â€œYou want me to come with you?”

    She went alone.
    It was the same woman all right. There was no mistaking the two lovebirds on her left buttock.
    Lucy had never seen a dead person before. Though she didn’t see this one, not really. They slid open a huge drawer, and the woman was in it, like a slab of meat, covered with a sheet. One of the men flipped back the edge of the part that covered her behind.
    Afterward, they took Lucy outside into the gray daylight and walked her across the lane into the Public Safety Building. Then upstairs to an office where they had her help an artist draw a picture of the woman from a special identity kit.
    Lucy felt just fine.
    But when she got home, the place seemed empty and cold. She checked the thermostat: normal. Though it was the middle of the day, she climbed into bed, pulled up the covers and wept.
    SUNDAY, DECEMBER