Mr. X looked around.
Catherine was still pacing through the aisles like a master looking for a lost puppy, except this dog had a gun.
He was not worried. The light she carried barely gave her room to tread, let alone spot him.
Catherine slipped in behind a blue police phone booth, from a British time travel special.
Mr. X chuckled.
Once he killed Corigan, he would have some fun with Catherine.
Nothing sexual as that did not interest him.
With the loss of his identity so went his libido and sexual infatuations.
It seemed, you had to be someone to want someone.
Which only angered him more.
His only true retained emotion.
Mr. X’s only desire now was to steal from a woman her sense of self. To take the security they held in society by pursuing of the one thing they never thought a criminal would want, their identity.
And by extension, their hope.
Leaving them empty, devoid of life and filled with rage at how they were simply a tragic victim of fate.
As he watched Catherine flittering about, it caused him to reminisce of a year back and one female defense attorney in Victoria, BC.
A nasty little bitch.
At the time, Mr. X was scouting a target. He was entering a coffee shop, his eyes on his prize, not on the door and he bumped into her by accident, sending her hot beverage onto her cheap polyester suit.
She was so enraged, she tossed the half empty remainder into Mr. X’s direction soaking his leather coat.
Before he could utter a word, in front of the entire establishment, she declared she was an attorney and he should consider himself lucky she was in a rush or he would be spending the next couple of months working off his debt to her by mopping floors or flipping burgers, or whatever it is he did for a living before she stormed off.
He stood there, smiled, a new target in his sights.
Unlike her, he was not in a rush.
But he was pretty sure when she woke up a week later to find a police detective on her doorstep to arrest her for killing a juror she was caught on tape having attempted to bribe the night before was something she never forgot.
That and the murder weapon in her BMW combined with the funds Mr. X had taken from her bank that afternoon when he showed up as the plump little attorney to make the withdrawal.
And the key piece of evidence, at the bar where the juror was shot, the discarded coffee cup, with her fingerprints, confirming she was at the scene.
‘She should’ve taken better care of her trash.’ He mused.
She fought her conviction passionately, even against all the evidence, but the crowning touch was her alibi.
She claimed she had been out walking her dog the night of the murder.
But when the police attended her home, having sealed it as a crime scene, they found absolutely no evidence of a pet. No bowls, food, treats, or even any stray hairs.
The attorney was allowed to attend her home with the officers only to be utterly astonished.
What she never knew was Mr. X, as one of the CSI techs, spent a good couple of hours cleaning the house from top to bottom, removing all proof of its four footed tenant.
‘Bet she wished she hadn’t skimped out on paying that seventy-five dollar fee to register the dog.’ Mr. X sarcastically thought. ‘Cheap bitch.’
Of course, Mr. X having no beef with animals, dropped the pet off at a shelter, collar removed, two hundred kilometers away to find a new home.
He knew its current owner wouldn’t be back for many years to feed it.
Rarely, did he ever keep track of his former victims, but this one, due to the vileness of her treatment of him, had him occasionally look back.
She was currently working on a vigorous appeal from behind bars.
And based on the news, she might even succeed.
As Mr. X’s twisted mind turned, he had future plans for the incarcerated attorney were she set free. Personalities such as hers, narcissistic, were usually considered by police specialists to be the kind which had a high probability of repeat offending.
As Mr. X planned her next crime spree, shooting the prosecutor who convicted her in the back, maybe even in a public court room, screaming victory before she escaped in a rampage, shooting anyone in her path. In fact, he felt absolutely certain of her being a future statistic revenge killer.
No appeals for the next time.
She will forever rue the day she threw that cup of coffee at him. He might even drop by as one of the guards in her prison to let her know it was all him, drinking a coffee from the same place.
A can of half-filled paint fell from a shelf below, clattering along the concrete, pulling his consciousness back to the present.
He best be careful of such wanderings of his imagination when in a fight such as this.
Within seconds, he saw both of his prey again.
Catherine vanished behind some drywall boards against the far wall.
’Sweet Catherine.’ Mr. X mused, staring down at her. Once he dispatched her, he would search through her wallet for family members.
After about a week, once he escaped, he would call them, using her fear filled voice to claim her Captain had staged her death, but she was very much alive, chained in some cabin, being used as a sex slave. She was able to reach a pile of old cell phones Vertigo must have thought useless, with piles of women’s clothes.
Mr. X would end the call with her startled cries, “Oh my God. He’s coming…” With a scream which would curdle blood, before hanging up and tossing the phone.
He knew he would get an award were there one.
Unlike the press or the world, a distraught parent would stalk Vertigo to the edges of the earth to find their terrorized daughter.
Mr. X thought, ‘Maybe a few times having the good Captain spotted on Yonge Street picking up hookers and having them disappear would only help to fan the flame of her family’s plight.’
Leaving Vertigo with a little goodbye present courtesy of Mr. X.
Next time, Vertigo will think twice before keeping a perfectly good case open when he gets all the evidence he needs handed to him on a silver platter.
For now, it was only going to cost him the lives of two of his best detectives.