KILLING SUSAN SILVERMAN

The murder of fictional character, Susan Silverman, created by Robert B. Parker.
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Boston, MA.

Spring in Boston can be delightful. Unfortunately, it was the middle of March and the temperature hovered at 30 degrees. A steady drizzle started at mid day and drove most of the pedestrian traffic indoors; by dusk the streets of Cambridge had been polished into a glossy sheen. As much as Cash hated the New England weather, and as anxious as he was to return south, he did not rush his preparations. He had endured two week’s worth of vile weather, but today was the day. The psychologist he was hired to dispatch was going into permanent retirement today.

All the factors were lined up in his favor. The psychologist worked out of her home and had clients scheduled all day. Her private investigator boyfriend and his sometimes business partner were working a surveillance case in Gloucester. What they didn’t know was that their client also worked for the Corporation. The job was legit, but it served another purpose. It kept the boyfriend occupied and opened the window of opportunity for Cash to complete his job.

Eight weeks ago Cash had accepted the assignment and now he was ready to earn the remainder of his $100,000 fee. The Corporation only had two non-negotiable demands: one third of the money up front and complete autonomy. Since there was no way for a client to directly contact him, once Cash’s percentage of the up-front money was in his account ($16,650) he began to work. The when-and-where of the dispatch was always his decision, and he tended to be extremely cautious. Anna Moss had taught him that there were two parts to a successful operation: preparation and execution. A well-prepared plan could survive poor execution, but a poorly prepared plan would never be properly executed.

The psychologist lived in Cambridge, on Linnaean Street in a green Victorian which had a small fenced-in yard for the annoying dog she owned. Her last client was scheduled for 5:00 pm and all her sessions lasted the traditional psychotherapist hour - fifty minutes.

Cash walked out of the crowded Porter Square T station at 5:25 and briskly walked the half mile to Linnaean Street. Due to the foul weather, foot traffic was light. His fellow pedestrians were bundled up and determined to get from point A to point B. Everyone walked with their heads down and covered.

Cash was dressed for the weather and in the full gloom he was virtually invisible in the mist: a charcoal-colored Field and Stream rain outfit with the hood pulled over his head, and his face covered by a pullover ski hat, all purchased at a Dick’s Sporting Goods Store in Smithfield, Rhode Island; black leather gloves from a Boston area Target; a pair of Earth shoes and a well-worn school backpack purchased at a local thrift store.

At 5:45 he hopped over the short fence into the psychologist’s yard. The streetlight did not filter around to this side of the house so he was quickly absorbed within the shadows of the small yard. He quickly removed the cover for the porch light and unscrewed the light bulb enough so that it would not switch on. He replaced the cover.

From the inside pocket of his rain jacket he pulled out a 12 inch black stainless steel tube which he folded open to double the length. It clicked together and became a .50 caliber blow gun. Cash was accurate within 30 feet with such a short weapon. The four inch dart was preloaded with a strong, fast-acting tranquilizer. He crouched in the corner of the yard, back against the house and fence, hidden by a large bush.

At 5:56 back door opened and the German shorthaired pointer charged out the door and into the grass, bounding around in the rain like an idiot canine. Cash was less than twenty feet away. The psychologist looked up at the light fixture. Her hand was inside the door and she flicked the switch several times. No light.

“Damn,” she said.

She turned and went back inside and shut the door. After watching the evening routine for nine days, Cash knew the psychologist was inside mixing a drink, or getting a new light bulb. Either one worked.

Cash shot the dog in the haunch. The dog yelped and began to paw at the dart but within 20 seconds began to stumble and finally collapsed on the ground and lay quivering. The dog would be out for at least half an hour. Long enough.

Cash yanked out the dart from the dog and slipped it inside a leather pouch in his pocket. He then stood waiting in the shadow of the house stoop, next to the steps leading to the back door.

A moment later the door opened. The psychologist had a new light bulb in her hand. She called for the dog and looked out into the yard. There was enough light from the house that the dog’s shape was visible in the grass.

“Baby,” she called. She ran down the steps and across the yard to the dog.

Cash slipped inside the back door and stood just behind it. He pulled out a cotton rag and a small dark bottle filled with halothane. He doused the rag with the potent anesthetic. Ten seconds later she staggered through the door carrying the limp dog in her arms. Cash stepped from behind the door and clamped the rag over her mouth and nose. He kicked the door shut with his foot.

The struggle took less than ten seconds. He could feel her muscles relax and he gently eased her and the dog to the floor. Halothane was quicker than chloroform, paralyzing the victim in mere seconds, but leaving them conscious.

“It won’t hurt,” he told her. “I’ll make it quick.”

And he did. Potassium chloride injection in her left arm. He left through the back door. Hopped over the fence and strolled along Massachusetts Avenue back to the Porter Square T station. At 6:36 he caught the next Red Line train heading south; changed to the Green line and got off at the Kenmore stop. Ten minutes later he drove his rented Ford Taurus out the parking lot of large grocery store and into a McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered a Quarter pounder with cheese and a large drink in a hard plastic cup. Then he hit I-90 south.

Later, he stopped at a massive truck stop near Framingham and placed the syringe and needle in the empty plastic McDonald’s cup, replaced the plastic lid and dropped it in one of the trashcans next to the gas pumps. He left the rain suit hanging from the hook on the back of a bathroom stall. Somebody could use a good rain suit in this weather.

Three and a half hours later Cash turned in his rental car at LaGuardia in New York. Changed clothes in an airport bathroom. His regular clothes and shoes came out of the backpack. He stuffed the other clothes, gloves, ski mask and Earth shoes into the pack. Took a cab to 34^th and Lexington in Manhattan, and then walked west to Madison Avenue and south to 31^st. He gave the backpack to a homeless guy on 33^rd. By midnight he was in the 600 sq. ft. 8^th floor apartment the Corporation had purchased three years ago in a seen-better-days building on 31^st street.

As he showered Cash thought about the psychologist. As far as he could tell, the private eye boy friend would be better off without her. During the two weeks of surveillance Cash had determined she was high maintenance and a very annoying woman. Other than her obvious overt physical good looks, there was very little to recommend her as a friend or a lover. Cash wondered why there were so many lonely people that they were willing to put up someone else’s bullshit.

The next morning was bright and sunny. He bought breakfast from a street vendor and enjoyed the walk to the New York Public Library. The Corporation had a counterfeit library card which was always kept at the apartment for internet use. Cash had to wait half an hour until a public computer became available. He sent an e-mail which read: Project finished. Please complete at your end.

He searched several Boston news web sites. No mention of the psychologist’s murder. Too early. The body probably had not been discovered early enough to make the next news yet. He signed off the computer.

Later at midnight he took a taxi to Newark Airport, rented another Ford Taurus with a different credit card and name. Then he drove straight through to Tampa, Florida – twenty hours. He only made stops for gas, food and bathroom. At a truck stop in North Carolina Cash used a pre-paid phone card to call the number in the Cayman Islands and discovered that $33,600 had been wired into his account at the start of business that morning.

He dropped off the rental car at Tampa International Airport and retrieved his own vehicle, a 1992 Ford 150 beater truck, from long term parking.

By 9:00 pm Cash was lying in a hammock on the aft deck of the Love Breeze, his 36 ft. sailboat at Dock C, Slip 23 at the Saucy Jack Marina on the Isles of Capri. It was nice to sleep outside in the Gulf coast warmth after the two weeks of hellish New England weather.