Free Poison by Jon Wells

stayed ahead. Inside the auction garage, Dhillon could see it, feel it. The anticipation. The tension. This was what it was all about.
    “Hey, everybody!” boomed the auctioneer over the loudspeaker. “It’s auction time! We have an unbelievable selection of vehicles today!” The smell in the garage was a medley of exhaust, cigaret smoke, and cologne. From the huge lot in the back, auction staff drove the cars to the doors, sprayed them down with power hoses on the way. There it was in the program: Chevrolet Impala. Sedan. Blue. 234,676 km. fm/at/ht/ac. (stereo, automatic, hard top, air conditioning). Starting price, $7,555. Buy? How high should he go? There was little time to waste. Mileage, the condition of the car. The mileage was not good. Tough to sell with that kind of wear. Something would need to be done about it. No problem. A quick job. Anyone can do it. Disconnect the odometer cable from the transmission. Take a doctored odometer from the junkyard. Clip it to the cable. The guy says he can take out the old one and put in the new one in a half-hour. Easy.
    “Sold! The car is yours, Sukhwinder!”
    The stars of the show were the auctioneers, great mouths perched high on platforms. It was theater. A car inches into place, a floor worker behind the wheel. Black Pontiac Grand Am. Dealers mingle, the bidding begins. Two minutes to complete the deal. Haggling? Test driving? No. Two minutes. Start the bidding. “Wake up!” bellows the mouth. “I have a car to sell! “ Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah” —Three! Three-one, three-four, do I have three-four? FOUR!” A floor man dances across the lane, claps, eyes partners in the crowd and grabs hold of cars as they pass through. You? Are you in?
    “Four-one,” rolls the mouth. “Four-two, four-five! FIVE! Five-five-five-five-five! Five-seven? Do I hear SIX! Six? Six-six-six-six-six? SIX! Six-two? Six-two. Six-four-four-four-four. Three? Three-three-three-three! Sold! For six thousand, two hundred to—Gary! It’s your car, Gary. And a good buy, too. And now here we go, boys: a Ford Ranger.” The noise, suffocating, intoxicating, revving engines, drone of the mouths melding into one voice over the loud speakers . “Hebuh-hebuh-hebuh-sold!-hebuh-hebu-he …
Hey! Hebuh-aaar-hebuh … aaar Hey! Hebuh-hebuh-hebuh-sold!hebuh-hebu-hebuh …” A hypnotic chant. Easy money. The cars rolled through like dice.
    Late in 1994, Dhillon sensed success. He just needed more cars to get Aman Auto off the ground, to make a name. Parvesh earned steady money at the textile factory. He had money from the insurance scams. He declared making $38,500 from October 1994 to September 1995. But in September 1994, Dhillon started bouncing checks. The first one for $4,000. Then another. And another. Ten checks in all, over four months—in December, one bounced for $18,521. Later that same month he started talking to a real estate agent about buying a bigger house. And he was also planning to take a trip to India. By January 1995, Dhillon had personally run up the credit line he shared with Parvesh close to its $20,000 maximum.
    On a cold Monday, January 30, Dhillon and Parvesh bought groceries at Centre Mall on Barton Street. Back at the house late that afternoon, with an unsold car sitting in the driveway, Dhillon lay on the couch watching TV while Parvesh, her head throbbing from another migraine, started to prepare dinner. Dhillon got up and brought her a capsule. Within minutes Parvesh collapsed, her body strangled by spasms and convulsions.
    Life insurance money. That was the ultimate deal.

    The summer of 1995 in Hamilton was hot and dry, farmers’ fields hard and arid, lakes evaporating to record low levels. Dhillon was back in Canada after his trip to India, doweries in hand from two marriages, and anxiously awaiting the $200,000 payoff on Parvesh’s life.
    On Tuesday, June 27, a man named Cliff Elliot left his home in Burlington, a city sitting hard to the north of Hamilton along