"The Eastside killer has struck again." Al Kelly's baritone voice boomed out of my Philco.
My skin prickled as I listened. I wanted to know whom I'd killed this time.
"The latest victim, identified as Mrs. Cecille Arnette, 1044 Maple Heights, was found late this afternoon by her husband, Ray Arnette, Vice President of Arnette Stocking Company. Mr. Arnette made the grisly discovery upon his return home from a business trip."
Yes, what a close call that had been for me. I'd barely gotten out of there when the cab pulled up.
"...suffered several blows to the head. A fireplace poker lay near the body and a number seven was scrawled in lipstick on a mirror to indicate that Mrs. Arnette was the killer's seventh victim. For the past six months citizens of this city have been living under a cloud of fear caused by a series of gruesome slayings. Each victim has been a woman who has been either struck by a fireplace poker or strangled with a jump rope. On or near each body, a number has been scrawled in red lipstick, indicating the numerical order of the killings. The killer apparently finds his victims..."
I slammed down my coffee cup. Oh, no, always give men the credit when I do something!
I tried calming down by planning my New Year's Eve Finale. A great way to close out 1934 would be to kill someone like Secretary of Labor, Frances Perkins, or better yet, Eleanor Roosevelt. They thought they were so great, so respected. I might have been also, if not for Mother.
A memory flashed through my mind and made me burn with rage as always. The image of an eight year old me, my feet tangled in a jump rope. My mother's words: "Can't you ever do anything right? You'll never amount to anything." She bellowed loud enough for all the neighborhood to hear. "I don't know why my kid has to be so awkward and clumsy!"
I went into the bedroom and opened my hope chest. It held my treasures. Mother sneered when I bought it. "You'll have no use for it, girl. You couldn't even land the town drunk."
I couldn't keep my mouth shut that time. "No, I could never do as good as you, Mother. You managed to land three town drunks." I dodged out of the way before she could hit me with the poker.
The treasures in my chest gave me a feeling of accomplishment. Yes, I'd become successful despite Mother. I lifted a tennis racquet from the box, a souvenir of my first killing. Kathy Nelson, sweetheart of the tennis world, was on her way to an important tournament when I met her on the train. The next day Miss Hotshot Tennis Player was found in an alley with a jump rope twisted around her throat.
I fingered the surgical mask I'd taken from my fourth victim. And most difficult killing.
Two months ago, I heard two girls rave about this female doctor over on McKensie Avenue. About how this woman doctor was a pioneer in her field; about how she gave hope to all women. I almost gagged, but strolled away and at dusk found myself at the clinic. The reason I said this was my most difficult killing was because something inside me, my conscience, I guess, wrestled with me. After all, if this woman could do good for mankind, who was I to stop her? But, no, she was just trying to make herself rich and famous.
Luckily, everyone else had left for the night when I arrived. The doctor bought my story about interviewing her for the City-Star and agreed to talk to me while she filled a supply cabinet. Talking to me with her back turned. Not seeing me reach into my handbag for the jump rope. No more Dr. Rose Matthewson.
I closed my hope chest. Time for bed.
A few days later I bought apples from a vendor and carried them to a park bench. Sometimes I felt torn, should I buy from this man or that? Did the man with the droopy mustache have hungry children? What about the man with the weary eyes and the torn coat?
My reverie was shattered by the shrill call of a newspaper boy.
"EXTRA! EXTRA! THE EASTSIDE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!"
My stomach turned flip-flops and I broke into a cold sweat. What did the boy mean by saying the killer had struck again? I had not. As soon as I felt steady enough, I made my way to a corner where a crowd had swelled around the paper boy. I edged my way in and bought a copy. Now, across the street, the TIMES paper boy shouted about the Eastside Killer.
Pushing myself along with the crowd, I listened as conversation buzzed all around. Voices were hushed as if the Eastside killer could hear them: "...construction site...over on Fourteenth..."