Free Hangman by Michael Slade Page B

Rattenbury’s courthouse at noon that day, facing the stone lions flanking the steps up to its soaring pillars and listening to the noon-horn blast the first four notes of “O Canada” over the harbor at 115 decibels, I imagined I was an attorney in Seattle defending whoever the Hangman was against that state’s gallows.
    As luck would have it, the Hangman was about to cross the border.
    Soon, there would be bones on my picking ground.
    And if the Hangman gets me tonight, the next bones will be mine …

Lady-Killer
    Vancouver
    Tuesday, November 7 (Nine days ago)
     
    Doesn’t anyone believe in romance anymore?
    In love at first sight?
    A tempest worthy of Shakespeare whooped and rained outside the windows of her townhouse at the foot of the mountains as Jayne Curry, surrounded by candles and sipping a glass of red wine, worked on the Web site she would launch to relate her side of the story. Tap-tap-tap … her fingers tapped the keyboard of her computer in counterpoint to the tap-tap-tap … of a windblown branch that rapped against the nearest pane.
    The first time I set eyes on him my heart began to flutter. I had waited my entire life for such a man. He was handsome in the classic sense, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair graying at the temples, the profile of a Greek god from a marble bust, his lean body tall and confident in a charcoal suit. When he turned to cast a gaze around the gallery, I’m sure every female present felt like me.
    The doctor had sex appeal …
    Here she would import a headshot of him from the graphics file, a photo she had surreptitiously snapped for her fantasy wall, a montage of irresistible males around her bedroom mirror. Those visiting her Web site could judge for themselves.
    Tap-tap-tap went her fingers.
    Tap-tap-tap rapped the branch.
    Blow any harder and it might break the glass.
    The doctor turned away from me when the presiding judge took the bench. The lawyers introduced themselves to her, then Chief Justice Morgan Hatchett ordered the court clerk to read the indictment.
    “ John Langley Twist, you stand charged that on the eighth of January of this year, in the city of Vancouver, in the province of British Columbia, you did commit the first-degree murder of Lena Hay. ”
    I was shocked.
    This man a killer?
    No way, I recall saying to myself.
    Then, seconds later, the doctor confirmed my first impression.
    “ Having heard the charge, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty? ”
    “ Not guilty,” the doctor said in a voice that rang with truth.
    The clerk turned to the judge. “The accused pleads not guilty. ”
    “ Proceed,” the judge ordered.
    With a wooden box of names in hand, the clerk addressed the dock. “These good persons who shall now be called are the jurors who are to pass between Our Sovereign Lady the Queen and you at your trial. If therefore you would challenge them or any of them, you must challenge them as they come to the book to be sworn, and before they are sworn you shall be heard. ”
    My heart skipped a beat when I was the sixth name called …
    Her fingers stopped tapping.
    But not the branch.
    Tap-tap-tap … Its rap kept time with the click of her high heels across the hardwood floor as Jayne left her writing desk to refill her glass from the bottle of Beaujolais on the table. The table was set for two—as it was every night this lonely heart dined alone—with fine linen, a silver service, and red roses in a crystal vase. Warm glow from the candlesticks mingled with that from the other candles throughout the room, bathing her with afterglow to soften her age. Tonight, Jayne wore a dinner dress the color of the wine, V’d for décolletage to please her imaginary beau. Rachmaninov set the mood for wishful love.
    Bastard, she thought.
    And drained the glass of wine.
    And refilled the glass.
    And carried it back to her desk.
    In retrospect, I wish I had asked the trial judge to excuse me from jury duty. But how could I have said, in front of the