Some years back, I wrote a novel about the American car industry; the plot also involved advertising, murder, love and deceit. It wasn’t a great success, but there again, half the enjoyment; to me at least, was writing the story: if anyone else buys and likes it, so much the better. I would copy, for the reader’s interest, a small passage from this book, partly because I tried to commit, in writing, the perfect crime: and, if the reader progressed through the storyline, how that crime was ultimately detected, and the perpetrator brought to justice:-
In the early hours of the morning, a slow cruising Ford Station wagon slid onto the drive of a house in KingsBurgh, which lay about twenty miles north of New York. A figure got out of the passenger seat, and walked quietly towards the rear of the substantial, double-storeyed residence. He checked the presence of two large propane gas bottles, in the standard protective enclosure, before heading for the wide patio sliding doors. Knowing all the basic entry tracks backwards, he slipped two circular suction pads on to the glass, hooked a lifter bar between them, and simply lifted the door right out of it’s groove. He forced the latch open with a screwdriver, then eased the window door open while sliding it gently back on the track. Heading, with the aid of a pencil torch clamped to his brow with a strap, he walked slowly towards the kitchen, and once there, aimed for the big gas cooker in the centre of the far wall. Leaning over, he located the gas entry pipe, which terminated in a stop valve, and a hose connection. He closed the isolation valve, removed the hose clip which had kept the reinforced rubber connection hose tight for the past three years, before replacing it with a hose clip from his pocket which had a very worn thread, and thus did not hold the hose steadily on to the connector. He then briefly turned the valve on and off, while he listened for the ‘hiss’ of the gas escaping, before heading for the central heating boiler, and adjusting the timer control.
Casting the light across the broad lounge, he spotted a bulging briefcase lying by the side of a corner desk, and moved quickly across to open and scan the contents. He pulled out an entire clutch of paper, held together by elastic bands, with a scrawled heading ‘Continental Re-run’, rolled it up and shoved all the file into his pocket. He then returned to the open window, replaced it onto the track after easing the lock into the open position, turned the gas valve fully open, left the kitchen and exited from the house via the now open patio window, slid it closed, and gently removed the two suction lifter pads. He walked back to the drive, slipped into the big car, and the Ford gently rolled back down on to the road, before turning and slowly heading down about two hundred yards away from the big house, then parking under the branches of an overhanging tree. Both men in the car stretched , lit cigarettes, wound the windows down, and waited patiently in the dark.
The timer control for the hot water was a standard dual time model, with selections for morning and evening operation. The gas now running from the faulty connection had infiltrated most of the ground floor rooms, plus the games room which lay underneath the main block of the house. The micro-contact, driven by the drive motor on the timer, slowly lifted up on the riser cam, as the new timer setting, which ensured that the gas had been running free for nearly thirty minutes, approached the operating position. As the cam clicked over, the contact made the circuit, which would normally have started the boiler heating the water for the morning baths and showers of the resident family. The presence of the propane, in the immediate vicinity of the minute spark caused by the contact of the cam, was enough to set off an explosion which had the same effect as a high explosive shell. Within seconds, the whole of the ground floor was ablaze, followed within seconds by the first floor, which held the sleeping members of the family; Howard, a college lecturer; Amy, a junior high student; Jack, an eleventh grade student; and Allison, who spent her days as an account director with Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno. All died in the conflagration which followed the explosion. As the explosion flashed out, and the fire took hold, the waiting Ford was started up, and slowly drove away towards the turnpike.
The fire crew investigator, completing his search during the morning at the request of the police department, tossed the hose clip in the air, after briefly cleaning it with a cloth. He turned to the two detectives, who stood watching him, and simply said, “There she blows, boys. Simple criminal neglect! If the guy had bothered to spend fifty cents at the hardware shop, his family would still be alive. The thread is all worn, so it could not grip the hose. The hose finally worked loose under pressure, the gas comes out and mixes; the timer starts up for the boiler, and ‘boom’ , no house.”
“Accidental death?” grunted the senior of the two policemen.
“Yeah, call it that if you wish. No point in letting the guy be buried under the tarnish of what he had done. Yeah; accidental death, on all members of the Klein family!”
I show this small sector of my book because I noted a small tragedy which occurred in New Jersey, where a ‘gas explosion’ literally flattened a house in the small town of Newfield, killing the two occupants. A ‘Conspiracy’ website picked this tragedy up, and asserted that the dead woman, Carole Paladino, was somehow to be a major witness with the FBI’s actions and cases against Hillary Clinton, and her Foundation’s allegedly illegal activities related to the use and advancement of an anti-allergic medication.
Conspiracy? Na.a.a.a.h. It just could not be. I mean to say: the wife of a former President, herself a candidate for that Presidency; a conspirator in a double murder? Ridiculous!!!