A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

A psychopath will do whatever it takes to remain the most interesting piece of news.

It made the front page of the newspaper – Kidney Crim Cuts Again.  She was unimpressed with the title. Who was teaching journalists these days? They completely missed the chance to comment on a knife in the back on the Ides of March.  It took away from the beauty of her work. Every small detail was carefully choreographed, and she had to admit it hurt that they clearly didn’t appreciate it. 

When she started out, it was art for art’s sake.  Well, art and money’s sake.  But the media coverage had stroked her ego, and now she found himself constantly trying to outdo her own best work.  The couriers were nervous. She could tell by their messages.  They didn’t like her drawing attention to their black market trade, and they worried that she would get herself caught and jeopardise the whole process. Oh ye of little faith! I am too good for that.

She’d become something of an urban myth.  The amnestic nature of the anaesthetic meant that the unwitting donors were very unsure of the circumstances.  They told as much as they could remember, and sometimes added detail they assumed must be right, but wasn’t (it’s funny how the mind can create memories where it wants to fill in blanks).  And, as is the case with these sorts of things, from there the stories almost grew of their own accord.  She loved sitting in cafes, listening to gossip.

“I heard he replies to ads selling used cars and then kidnaps people during the test drive.”

“My Ma said he used to work in an abattoir.”

“Well I heard he works for a pathology company and has access to blood samples so he actually picks his victims according to whether or not they’re a match for what’s needed.”

“I reckon he is actually a she and flirts with guys on tinder before picking the creepiest guys to punish. She’ll never get caught because the cops are out there looking for a man.”

She found it entertaining that most people assumed any criminal mastermind must be male.  She was always a little bit proud of the women who realised it could be a fellow woman. What she particularly loved was how most versions of the story had at least one element of truth.  So close, and yet so far.  She folded up the newspaper, tucked it under her arm, and left some coins on the table to cover the coffee. Time to head home and plan the next performance. 

***

This would not do at all! Today, she had been relegated to page 3. Even her choice of donor – a city council member – had not been enough to keep her front and centre.  She read her article, which was not bad if not for its placement.  At least this journalist had picked up on the irony of choosing a victim whose very political life had been built on improving healthcare.  It had felt poetic to make him practice what he preached.  

She turned back to the front page to inspect the competition.  Cat Burglar Narrowly Escapes with Nine Lives Still Intact.  She skimmed through the article.  A daring burglar has deftly swiped… …from a penthouse in the upper city…   …the diamond necklace worth… was startled by a car alarm… …misjudged the jump… still eluding police… …are urging anyone with information as to his whereabouts… 

Thoughts of the article plagued her throughout the day.  It was not just that this burglar had stolen the front page slot that should by rights have been hers.  She hated the way the media portrayed a cat burglar, always writing about them with some sense of reverence and admiration, as if being a bit stealthy was such an incredible skill and somehow elevated the act above that of common theft.   Again, she felt underappreciated.  The cat burglar was “daring” and “deft” and “skilled” and “lucky”.  No such words were used to describe her art.  She was called a “butcher”, and the kidneys were “hacked out”.  There was no respect for her craft.  No respect for the skill required to remove a kidney well enough to be transplanted and yet leave the donor alive.  She, too, was stealthy! She stole things of immense value, life-giving value. It was art and alms-giving and social justice all packaged together. Yet they failed to see it.  She would have to do better.  She would have to show them that she was so much more than a simple thief. 

She was sitting in another of her favourite cafes, staring absentmindedly out the window into the side alley.  A sleek black cat with chunks of ear missing stalked past, focused on some unseen prey near the bins. She watched it pounce and scuffle in the corner for a moment before emerging victorious with a mouse in its jaws.  It reminded her of herself, and it irked her that the feline comparison was used for mere jewel theft, and not for her more delicate work.  In that moment she realised how her next performance could showcase her dominance.  She tried to stifle a grin.

She pulled out her pocketbook and flicked through it, looking for a contact. There were certain doctors in the city that serviced the underbelly in a special way, no questions asked.  She’d watched and rewatched the CCTV footage of the cat burglar’s fall on a news website. The way he’d landed on the left foot looked excruciating, barely able to bear weight as he slipped off into the shadows.  She knew it was probably broken, and he wouldn’t risk taking it to an emergency department.  Yes, for something like that you’d visit a physician with their own x-ray machine.  This narrowed it down to two choices. Easy. She’d visit both.  

 She prepped her left arm with an alcohol wipe and etched a couple of scratches into it with a clean blade, feathering them at the edges to make them look less surgical.  They oozed a little venous blood.  Not deep enough to need anything more than a simple dressing, but she could pretend she didn’t know that. 

“The cat got me. Do I need stitches, Doc?”  She left the first with a clean wound and script for antibiotics that she wouldn’t fill.  She pulled off the bandaids and winced a little as she roughed the wounds up again to make them rebleed.  Sitting in the garage of the second doctor’s house she looked at the white dust surrounding the sink and knew she was closing in on her quarry.  

“You been renovating, Doc?” She motioned to the dust with her head.

“Nah, just plastering.  It’s flaky shit.” He held up his arms to show her the bits of white caked near his elbows, and dusting his jumper like the first snow.  “The wife hates it when I have to manage a fracture.  Always makes so much mess for her to clean up.” Bingo. 

“Say, do I need a tetanus shot? I can’t remember the last time I had one. Must have been years.”

“That’s probably a good idea.  Cat mouths are pretty gross.  The vaccines are up in the fridge in the house. Give me a sec and I’ll grab one for you.”

She used the precious minutes to flick through the paperwork on his desk until she found the x-ray with patient details attached. 

***

For this job she would use the country house. It had to be an offer too good to pass up, even for someone sporting a cast. She had to make him believe he could do it.   She created a single flyer, advertising that an old widower would be offering his late wife’s significant jewelry collection for sale that weekend.  A couple of pictures that were actually stock photos suggested the types of pieces he’d be offering, and the details of the auction to occur in his private residence.  She was counting on the fact that someone who wished to steal them would need to do so in the next couple of days.  And she’d have to think of a way to make it up to him.  The criminal code to which she subscribed usually meant not hurting your own.

***

She found a teen the next street over delivering supermarket catalogues. 

“How much are they paying you?”

“Hundred for the bundle.”

“I’ll finish it for you.  Here’s five hundred. You never saw me.”

The teen raised a skeptical eyebrow as she held the money out, but took it anyway and skulked off.  She walked back up to the corner, depositing a catalogue in every letter box, and crossed up to the street she wanted.  She continued the job, but without missing a beat left one extra bit of junk mail at just one house. 

***

He cursed the cast.  What a time to have this predicament.  The next morning, he got in the shower with it, and then returned to the doctor.

“Silly me! I completely forgot!” He apologised to the doctor who was muttering whilst removing the wet plaster.  “Perhaps I can wear one of those boots from the pharmacy instead.”

Perfect. Now he’d be able to take it on and off at will.  It hurt to walk, but it was still possible, and sometimes you had to make sacrifices for your work. 

He spent the afternoon calling in some favours to get access to the house plans held by the council.  He studied the layout of the building and formulated a plan of entry.  An expert like him had a reasonable idea of where things like this would be stored. 

Under cover of nightfall, he made his way to the property, cutting the lights and parking some distance off, in an area obscured by trees. He didn’t think he’d be noticed, but he had his stolen plates on just in case.  He removed the boot and replaced it with a normal shoe, and began the trek towards the house.  The external perimeter buzzed lightly with electricity. He placed a rubber mat over the fence and jumped it. He approached with caution. No lights on. No cars parked. No sound of dogs or other animals. He moved silently from bush to bush around the house, checking carefully.  He chose an upper window that he could see was ever so slightly ajar.  A ladder in a nearby shed made for easy access and he appreciated not having to be more agile.  He sprayed the hinges with lubricant before even attempting to push them, and the window swung open with no noise.  He crawled into the room and stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. 

A rag covered his mouth and nose. Is that what chloroform smells like? The last thing he heard was “Welcome, I’ve been waiting for you.”

***

The pip-pip-pip of the heart monitor lulled him back to consciousness. A lovely female nurse – or was she a doctor? – stood next to him.  

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. What do you remember?”

“Nothing.” That was not entirely true. He remembered entering the house, but he wouldn’t admit to crime before he knew what they knew.  His ankle still hurt.  Why did his flank hurt too?

“You’ve lost a kidney, I’m afraid.”  She smiled apologetically.  “It seems you’ve been targeted by the kidney guy.  I’m so sorry.  You were found in a bath of ice in a country motel.  The police will have questions when you feel up to it.” 

Her smile widened slightly as though she was trying to hide a certain level of excitement, “You’re a bit different from the previous victims we treated. I don’t know how he broke your ankle.  It’s usually just a kidney.  Also, when we opened you up to check on the wound, we found this inside.”  

In her hands was the biggest ruby he’d ever seen. 

NYC Midnight Short Story 2022

Placed 3rd in Round Two

Prompts: thriller/an urban myth/a cat burglar