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The Perfect Crime by Terry Wright
Pete whistled. “Come on, boys.” King and Cong, two Rottweilers came running, their muscular frames undulating with each massive stride. Clumps of grass flew up from their heels like divots on a golf course. “Time for supper.” Bounding in through the back door, they careened into the kitchen and headed for their gallon-size metal bowls now heaped with chicken parts and beef livers and garnished with green beans. These healthy 110-pound brothers could go through twenty pounds of food a day. Chomping and slurping and gasping huge lungs of air between mouthfuls, their meals were quickly devoured. Martha stomped into the kitchen. “Get outta here!” She grabbed a broom and started whacking Pete. “How many times do I gotta tell ya to feed them nasty critters outside!” King and Cong made their escape through the screen door. “Someday, Martha, I swear.” He showed her a fist. Hands on her ample hips, Martha went nose to nose with Pete. “What are ya gonna do, you skinny wimp of a man? Takes them dogs to make ya feel like ya got some kind of power over anything. Well, ya don’t scare me.” “Do you have to be so damned mean?” “Mean? I’ll show you mean!” She slapped him upside his head. “Get outside and pull them weeds outta my garden!” Pete rubbed a hotspot growing on his temple. “But I’ll miss my TV shows.” Martha huffed. “All ya ever do all weekend is sit around watching that damn detective crap, true crime, and them FBI fellas huttin’ down killers. It’s a waste of time, I tell ya. What ever happened to them ass bustin’ football games or a good fishin’ show?” “You know I don’t like that stuff.” “You ain’t man enough, that’s why. Now git outta here!” With Martha’s broom stinging his bottom side, Pete stumbled out the back door. “And clean up that dog shit!” Fuming mad, Pete joined his dogs in the yard and sat Indian style amidst piles of dog crap scattered all around. Hell! He’d just cleaned it up last night. King and Cong had watched him work the shovel, tongues flapping, each oblivious to the messes they'd made. Fact of life: big dogs leave big piles. Seems all his dogs did was eat and shit all day. But they were his buddies. Who else would go with him up to Cedar Ridge, across Pine Bluffs, or even down the back forty of Dead Man’s Canyon? Not Martha. Colorado had some of the finest wilderness areas and he knew most every mile of it by heart. He’d been hiking through it most of his grown life. With King and Cong trotting along, hell, the bears didn’t even bother them. Now, if they could just get that lucky with Martha. Eat and shit all day. But there was no fixing her. As Martha got older and fatter, she got uglier and meaner. He couldn’t blame her much, though. Hell, he’d be pissed off at the whole world too, if he was that ugly. But she was a fair bride back in the days when she liked to ride the wild pony. Now, the only riding she’d been doing was his ass. He sighed. Right now, on his favorite TV show, Detective Curland was probably on the trail of some husband who killed his wife, buried her body in the back yard, and poured a cement slab over it, or possibly a psycho killer that took some poor street whore out into the bush, bashed in her skull, and then did her like he loved her. Those killers should’ve watched the TV shows about how detectives figured out stuff like that. They were so stupid. Nine out of ten of them left something behind, like DNA evidence on the murder weapon, or fibers, and even blood splatter on the walls. Oh, they’d try to clean up their mess, all right, but they didn’t know that Luminal could show the investigators just where blood had splattered or pooled. Hell, they’d even taken drains apart to find bone chips in the plumbing, and sometimes they’d pull up floor tiles to reveal where blood had seeped through the cracks. They'd discover evidence in shallow graves, fire pits, and lake bottoms. And they could even tell a murder had been committed before a body was found. Oh yeah, the cops were smart. Like Pete. He’d seen all their shows. Trick was, don’t make a mess, and leave nothing behind, not even a body. “Git to work!” Martha yelled from the screen door, what was left of it, that is. Pete patted his dogs. “Don't worry, boys. I got a plan.” Eat and shit all day.
After a weekend of digging up weeds, shoveling dog crap, and listening to Martha cackle like a crazed hen, Pete sat at his computer desk in his cubicle at Farnes, Baker, and Associates, thankful for the peace. FBA, a graphic arts and web design company, had been his escape from Martha's bitching for the last three years. On the walls, he’d hung photos of King and Cong, a nice picture taken from the rim of Dead Man’s Canyon, and his Certificate of Service with the Colorado Department of Parks and Recreation. “Good morning, Pete.” Miss Perkins, Farnes pimple-faced secretary, stood in his doorway, coffee cup in hand. “I’ve got work to do,” he said, hoping she’d leave. “Hold my calls.” “As if you get any.” She walked away, giggling. Quickly, from his coat pocket, he removed Martha’s driver’s license, which he’d snuck from her purse just this morning. He slipped it under the scanner lid and saved it to file. These were the critical times of his plan. If anyone discovered him, he’d have to bail. Heart pounding, he scanned his FBA identification card also, cropped his picture, and using a photo enhancement program, added long brown hair, lightened his complexion, and reddened his lips. Satisfied, he transferred this photo to Martha’s driver’s license, printed, and laminated it. Came out pretty good. He deleted the files, pocketed the license, and pulled out a note Martha had once written him, more of a tease than anything else. “Gone to the store. I’m not coming back.” Very funny. He’d kept the note, and now he was glad that he did. Clicking online, he ordered a one-way ticket to San Francisco for next Sunday night, in Martha’s name, of course. E tickets were great. He punched in her credit card number and clicked Enter. Footsteps in the aisle made his blood freeze. But they passed on by. Transaction
completed. Have a nice flight. After erasing the “Cookie” and the temporary Internet files on his hard drive, he was ready for the second part of his perfect crime, the flea market in Martinsville, just down the road. He drove there during lunch, all dressed up in one of Martha’s brown wigs and a long coat. From one vendor, he purchased a meat grinder, another sold him some standard sink drainpipes, and from an old man on crutches, he got an axe that didn’t even need sharpening—all for cash, of course. A roll of plastic and some surplus ChloraSorb rounded off his list. He was back to work only ten minutes late, hungry but happy. He nodded to the pictures of King and Cong hanging on his cubical wall. Eat and shit all day.
Saturday morning, Martha sat up in bed. “You better shut up them damned dogs.” “They’re hungry.” Pete was already dressed in some old work clothes he’d not worn for years. King and Cong were having fits. They hadn’t been fed yesterday. Martha wiped away a clump of hair stuck to the side of her face. “What are you doin’ up so damn early?” He showed her a short length of rope he’d been holding behind his back. “Remember how you told me them detective shows were a waste of time?” “So?” “You’re wrong.” In an instant, he lunged at her. The rope whipped around her neck so fast she had no time to react. Her eyes bulged, more from surprise than pressure, which he was now applying with force, twisting the rope. There’d be no blood-splatter evidence this way. She kicked some, and croaking noises came from her throat. But he was careful not to apply too much pressure. He didn’t want to break her larynx, because blood would run out of her mouth. It would take her longer to die this way; she’d suffer more than necessary, as if he cared. He had her pinned down good, too, so she couldn’t scratch him, or otherwise leave any marks of a struggle. She went limp, finally, but he didn’t release his hold on the rope until he was sure her heart had stopped. Everything was going as planned. Detective Curland would be proud. Struggling with her bulky dead weight, he managed to strip off her nightgown, then packed it in her suitcase, along with some of her underwear, a couple of dresses, makeup, and shoes. Then he dragged her body into the bathroom and flopped her into the tub. He’d already covered the walls and floor with plastic and removed the shower curtain, which he’d reinstall later. Now for the hard part. Working with the axe, a makeshift cutting board, and the carving knife they’d used every Thanksgiving for the last ten years, he dissected and dismembered Martha. One thing about those detective shows became suddenly evident. They never showed the real horror of murder, the blood and guts, or the smell and the sick feeling it made in one’s stomach. Did he mention the blood? How could any one person have so damn much of the stuff? Fearing it would clot and clump and end up clogging the drain, he turned on the faucets full force. As King and Cong yelped and scrapped in the back yard, Pete went about his gruesome task. He cut off her arms and legs first, stripped flesh from the bones, and using the dog’s bowls, put Martha, bit by bit, through the meat grinder. Then he opened up her belly and innards spilled out like fat spaghetti. Arming sweat from his forehead, he ignored the gore and the stench until he’d ground up every part of Martha and hacked all her bones to splinters. Late evening arrived by the time he’d cleaned up the bathroom and stuffed all the plastic and his bloody clothes into the suitcase with Martha’s stuff. Opening the back door, he whistled. “Come on, boys.” King and Cong came running, bounded into the kitchen, and slid up to heaping bowls of ground meat. As always, their meals were devoured posthaste. They had seconds. Eat and shit all day.
Pete rather enjoyed the flight to San Francisco, dressed as Martha. He’d flashed the gate attendants her fake ID and picked up the suitcase at baggage claim. In the men’s room, he changed out of his disguise without anyone so much as giving him a second look. After all, this was San Francisco. He tossed the suitcase into the back of a trash truck doing rounds through the parking lot and caught a cab to the bus station. Knowing the dogs were well fed, he was back in time for work Monday morning. It took all week to feed Martha to King and Cong, which served her right, he figured. Dog shit piled up in the back yard. Eat and shit all day. In the meantime, he replaced the plumbing in the bathroom and tossed the meat grinder, carving knife, axe, and empty ChloraSorb bottle in a dumpster behind Martinsville Hardware, just before the trash truck hauled it away. It would be landfill by dusk. That weekend, he and his dogs went hiking in Dead Man’s Canyon. They brought Martha along this time, in a doggy bag the size of his backpack. King and Cong had sat with their tongues flopping wetly as Pete said a little prayer over the big pile of excrement: “Ashes to ashes, shit to shit,” or something with that flavor. During their daylong hike across the canyon rim and down into the narrows, he scattered dog shit here and there along the way, in the bushes, between crevices, and even in a stream that cascaded down a rock wall. Nothing was left of Martha, anywhere to be found. Detective Curland and his comrades would never be able to prove foul play, should Martha’s whereabouts ever come into question. She’d simply left a note, packed her bags, and flown to San Francisco, where her trail grew cold. Wives leave husbands all the time. Pete knew he had committed the perfect crime. He found a nice shady spot under a crop of evergreens and sat on a rock. His unwitting accomplices gathered around, their stubby tails wagging as they tilted their heads and watched him fish sandwiches and apples from his belly pack. A bottle of red wine would top off the celebration nicely. A slight breeze rustled the trees. Then everything became perfectly still. He extracted the cork from the wine bottle and took a slug. “To Martha,” he hailed. “To dog shit.” King and Cong whined. He tore a ham sandwich and offered each half to his dogs. In a gulp, it was gone. Then a stench rose in the air. “All right. Which one of you’s the wise guy?” They both panted. Nobody fessed up. The gut wrenching odor got worse. Pete was beginning to think he’d picked a bad spot for his little picnic, like something had died around here and was dug up by scavengers. The stench made the wine in his stomach turn sour. Suddenly, King and Cong yelped and ran off down the trail. “Hey! Get back here!” He stood, but suddenly went dizzy like he got up too fast. The wine bottle shattered on the ground. Then he felt a pressure on his chest. Christ! Was he having a heart attack? “Hello, Pete.” A raspy voice came from behind him. Stilled by surprise, he clutched his chest and slowly turned his head around. What he saw gave him a fright, a cowboy shedding dirt and debris. What the hell was he doing here, standing on the trail in the middle of nowhere? He must’ve fallen off his horse and got dragged through the mud, or more likely, cattle dung. God, he stunk something awful. “You need a bath, mister.” He tipped his dusty cowboy hat. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sir.” Steel gray eyes glared out from under the brim. “Name’s Justin Graves. But you can call me Justice.” Seizing his composure, “I’d offer you some wine,” Pete said. “But as you can see...” He pointed to the puddle. Seemingly unconcerned, the nasty cowboy approached, his boots crunching the dirt. “Martha is upset with you.” “Yeah, right. Want an apple?” “She watched you feed her body to the dogs, Pete. You know how much she hated those dogs.” Right about then, Pete’s heart lunged in his chest so hard he truly believed he’d fall over dead of heart failure. This couldn’t be happening. “You can’t be serious.” “She told me everything.” “No way.” Justin parted his coat lapels, revealing rotted flesh and exposed rib bones. “Believe me now?” “How gross!” The sight of him was worse than Martha splayed open in the bathtub. “You need a doctor.” “I’m a homicide detective, deceased.” “I haven’t done anything.” “You killed your wife.” “There’s no proof of that.” “You watch too much TV.” Pete stepped away from the smelly old ghoul. “I know what I’m going.” “That’s what they all say.” “What?” “Did you consider the airport security cameras? It’s all on tape, you know, Martha going into the men’s room, you coming out.” “But she’s not even missing.” “Detectives are combing your place for clues as we speak.” Pete frowned. “What did you tell them?” “Your dogs have been eating well.” “You know they’re not going to find anything.” “You sure?” “Of course.” Pete gulped. Of course he was sure. Justin crossed his arms. Bones creaked. “Nine out of ten killers leave something behind. What have you forgotten?” “Nothing.” “Where’s the rope?” “The rope? It’s…?” He couldn’t remember what happened to the rope. “It’s under the bed,” Justin said, his voice grating. “How the hell...?” “When you stripped off Martha’s nightgown, it fell to the floor.” “Oh, shit!” Pete could hardly breathe. “They’re going to find the rope.” “And you’re going down for murder.” He slumped on the rock, his dogs gone and his picnic completely ruined. “She made my life miserable, don’t you see?” “That’s not a capitol offense, Pete.” “But I thought I’d pulled off the perfect crime.” “There’s no such thing.” With a gust of wind, the ghoul was gone.
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Next Story A young black boy is shot dead in his house by five bully cops, and Justin sets out to show them they aren't above the law.
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