The Known-Name Killer

By Pamela Love

“Celia Downing was one gutsy lady,” my partner told our suspect. “The 9-1-1 operator asked who’d attacked her. Her last word was, ‘Kytt.’” Ed pointed at Kytt Windthorn’s childlike face.

Windthorn folded her arms. Her right eye was the same shade of blue as the interrogation room’s walls; her left, the same avocado green as the victim’s kitchen. “Was she a mind reader, detective?”

I shot a glance at Ed. I told him this would be a problem. I have a knack for solving mysteries with someone’s dying words, even if they’re unclear, but this was tougher than usual.

Ed’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How could she know my name? Burglars don’t introduce themselves.” The thief pushed her glasses back on her nose. “She probably meant K-I-T, whoever that is.”

That’s what I’d told Ed. I leaned forward. “Why did you break into her house?” Nothing was obviously missing, except the victim’s phone.

“She posted online about selling some valuable first edition books. I thought she might have others. I definitely didn’t think she’d be home on a weekday afternoon. She was lying beside her dishwasher, bleeding out over the linoleum. I took off running until that cop tackled me.” Windthorn gagged. “I hate blood.”

An hour of interrogation later, we were no closer to a confession. I jerked my chin toward the door, signaling Ed that we needed a break.

“Ms. Downing must’ve recognized Windthorn somehow, Fernanda.” Ed paced the hallway.

I shrugged. “Kytt’s not local, and Downing’s profile wasn’t set to private. Anyone could track down her address.” Ed opened his mouth to argue, but I pressed on. “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. What if the victim let someone in? I’ll do some research.”

A half-hour later, I found Ed in the breakroom. He was reading about nonprofits which helped crime victims, something he’d often been doing lately.

“Two years ago,” I said, “Ms. Downing pressed charges against her adult son, Jake, for stealing from her to pay his gambling debts. He got off with probation.”

“Jake’s a long way from ‘kit.’” My partner frowned.

“But Celia Downing often called him Kiddo, especially when she was angry. Did that twice on the witness stand, earning her a reprimand from the judge for addressing the defendant.” I tapped the trial transcript I held. “On the 9-1-1 call, her voice dwindles away. What if she was trying to say Kiddo? It’s a stretch—”

“A stretch? That’s an advanced yoga class.” Ed rolled his eyes. His phone buzzed. “Your suspect’s here, Fernanda.”

***

“We’re sorry for your loss,” I began as Jake Downing flopped into a chair. “Identifying your mother must’ve been hard for you.”

He ran a hand over his sunburned face. “Detective Alves, how can I find out if I’m still in Mom’s will? If she never changed it, the house is mine. Is it still a crime scene? Can I—”

I held up a hand to cut off this flood of grief. What a guy. “Mr. Downing, where were you today between noon—”

His jaw dropped. “Me? Mowing lawns. You can ask my partner, Alex McIntyre.”

I smiled. “Oh, we will.”

***

McIntyre backed up Jake’s story—but Alex was his romantic partner, too. Ed shook his head. “That alibi’s shaky. If only Jake’s name were closer to Kit…”

“If only we had any usable camera footage. Unfortunately, very few of the neighbors have doorbell cameras. No fingerprints—somebody probably wiped down the surfaces. Besides the officer who caught Windthorn, we have no witnesses, either. The murder happened early in the afternoon, when most people were at work.” I tilted my head. “So why wasn’t the victim?”

A quick call to her boss, Lynette Beresford, confirmed that Ms. Downing had scheduled this afternoon off the week before.

“Some kind of appointment?” Ed asked.

I twisted my black hair around one finger. “Maybe she called a plumber or electrician. Let’s check the house.”

***

We couldn’t find anything needing obvious repair. Ed leaned on the refrigerator, which we’d already checked for anything about the mysterious Kit. “Face it, Fernanda. It’s Windthorn.”

Frustrated, I rapped my knuckles on a laminate cupboard. “Kytt’s too smart to have given her real name. And her reaction just thinking about the body—” I turned to the tape and bloodstains on the dingy linoleum floor, then took a deep breath. “Ed, I don’t know who the killer is, but I think I know where.”

***

One quick call to Downing’s boss later, Ed and I drove to Reynolds Remodeling. A bald, muscular man was sipping coffee at a desk. “Yes, I’m Noah Gray. We redid Ms. Beresford’s bathroom. That’s how Ms. Downing heard about us. She said she’d get back to me.”

He pulled a folder from his briefcase and showed us the estimate. I took one look and nodded to Ed. “Sir, we’d like you to come downtown with us. Ms. Downing was murdered.”

Gray fidgeted. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t help. I didn’t see anything suspicious.”

I took a calculated risk and a step toward him. “She identified the killer to the 9-1-1 operator.”

He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. His face flushed red. “That’s impossible. I took—”

“Her phone? She wore a pendant with an emergency call button,” I said.

Gray threw his mug at us. We dodged it. Ed vaulted over Gray’s chair and soon had him pinned against a wall. “It was her fault! She said the bid was too high. My boss said he’ll fire me if I don’t bring in more business. My wife said she’ll leave me if he does!”

I cuffed him. “How did she identify me anyway? Customers never remember the name on the card.”

“The only way she could—as the kitchen guy.” Partly, anyway.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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