During Kent Patterson’s short stint writing fiction before his untimely death in the early 1990s, he had sold to F&SF, Analog, Pulphouse, and many other magazines. Jerry Oltion, who is in charge of Kent’s literary estate, sent me a huge file of Kent’s stories and I just stumbled on this one and loved it, as I do most all of Kent’s work.

This is a crime story, but told through Kent’s mind, which gives it a very twisted feel.

Sean Lattimere held the tape recorder above Cindy’s nightstand, exactly where her head would be when she answered the phone. The phone was like Cindy herself, gilt and porcelain and overpriced.

The whole room spoke of Cindy: wheelchair marks in the carpet, faint lavender perfume, brass bedstead with the nickel-plated eagles, handmade pink and white bedspread. He’d given her a computer and a VCR but she never used them. Everything had to be antique.

Her pride and joy was the enormous antique wardrobe, which she bought though she had enough closet space for a barn dance. The wardrobe hulked on the other side of the room, facing the nightstand. Bigger than a refrigerator, decorated with pink Victorian angels, it cost as much as a car. Since her accident had put her into the wheelchair, she’d never opened it. She loved the look of it, but never used it. He hated the junky thing, but had a use for it.

He pressed PLAY. “This is the Lattimere residence,” said Cindy’s recorded voice. The wardrobe door flew open, a shotgun barrel poked out. Click! Sean smiled. He moved the recorder. The gun barrel tracked it like radar. Click! Click! He pressed STOP. For ten minutes he stood stock still. He knew the brain behind the shotgun listened for any sound. Finally, the shotgun retracted and the door slammed shut.

Perfect! The shotgun he’d bought at a flea market, probably stolen and untraceable. Everything else—a small electric motor, a few rods and gears—innocent, once taken apart and scattered about his workshop.

The computer and the microphones—even the voice recognition module—were innocent, too. Exactly what you’d expect for the featured speaker at the Computerized Voice Conference in Jamaica.

Anyone else speaking, or Cindy speaking any other words, would be perfectly safe. But when Cindy spoke that phrase, the computer would aim, fire, and fire again until there was silence for a full ten minutes. The computer would not listen until he gave the signal.

Cindy acted in an amateur dramatic group. She insisted on privacy for memorizing her lines. She’d probably be alone, but he would call to make sure. If anything went wrong, he could always cancel his plan. Covering his hands with plastic bags, he loaded the shotgun. He hoped the first shot did it. Otherwise, there’d be a frightful mess.

He glanced around. Had he forgotten something? He knew he’d be suspect number one. It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out Cindy’s fortune made an A1 motive. No doubt she’d blabbed each little marital spat to her girlfriends. But he’d have a perfect alibi.

The next day he was in Jamaica. Leaning back in a patio chair of the SeaFarer Hotel, Sean watched white surf rolling in from the blue Caribbean. A tall brunette strolled by, showing her sun-bronzed legs. A man could have a good time here. But not him. Not this trip.

He wondered what Cindy was doing. Rehearsing up a storm, probably. He knew what the computer was doing. It patiently waited for his phoned signal. World’s best assassin. No pay. No panic. No talk.

He returned to the speech he would deliver to the convention. The title made him laugh. “Future Uses of Computer Voice Recognition Capability.” How about murdering your wife? Better not mention that one.

Later, when the time came to dial the phone, his hands were sweating. He glanced at the tape recorder he had just connected to the phone. It contained a Led Zeppelin tape. The first thirty seconds sent the signal, a high -pitched squeal to human ears, but a series of commands to the computer. He dialed the phone.

“The Lattimere residence, Cindy Lattimere speaking.” Her voice never varied. Clumsily, he asked if she were alone. “Of course I’m alone! What do you think?” He tried to answer, but she saved him the trouble. “Oh, you can’t imagine what I found at Antonio’s today!”

“Some other piece of junk?”

“Don’t be that way. No, a clock! French, eighteenth century.”

“How much this time?”

“It’s my money.”

“You spend a fortune on junk and you never plug in your VCR. Come into the twentieth century. You’re becoming an antique yourself.” Cindy started to cry. Angrily, Sean grabbed the recorded and pressed PLAY.

Cindy stopped in mid-sob.

“What’s that noise?”

“Bad connections. Darling, I’m sorry I yelled. I’m just nervous about my speech.” Eventually she calmed down. He promised to call the second he finished his speech. One promise he would keep.

On his way to the hall, he dropped the Led Zeppelin tape in the incinerator. Nixon should have been so clever.

The speech flopped. He caught himself starting to make a little joke about murder. Once he mumbled “wifo” file when he meant “lifo” file. Luckily, the next speaker was worse.

After speaking comes drinking, as every conventioneer knows. As soon as the partying got heavy, Sean slipped into a phone booth. This time there’d be no traceable call. He dialed the office computer, entered his code for a local line. Trembling, he misdialed the number three times before the phone rang.

“The Lattimere residence.” A blast, then nothing. He hung up. It had taken less than a minute. Back at the convention hall, no one had noticed he’d left.

The next two days were agony. A dozen times he almost caught the first jet home. How stupid could you get? Surely no one had found the body. He would be the first to be told.

On the flight home he insulted the stewardess and made two credit card calls. When the police checked, they’d find a wide trail.

Home had never looked quieter. The second he opened the front door, the sickening odor of decay assaulted him. His heart pounded. Calming himself, he walked to the bedroom door and looked inside.

The death machine had worked perfectly. The blast had ripped the canvas back of the wheelchair to shreds. Cindy slumped forward, drooped over the nightstand. The back of her head was a mass of dried blood. The fancy antique phone had been blown to bits. Above it, the wall was peppered with shotgun pellets.

He stepped closer to the body. The stench sickened him. Besides, he realized, he’d have to call the cops soon. He had only minutes to fake a break-in.

He ran to the kitchen. Putting plastic bags over both hands, he picked up a garbage bag to use for the loot. The back door had glass panels. He remembered a TV movie where the murderer got caught because the glass was broken from the inside. Who said TV wasn’t educational? Grinning, he stepped outside, broke the glass, then went back in.

The smell was fierce. How Cindy would hate the thought of smelling that way. He giggled, then gagged.

On the way back to the bedroom, he stepped into what she called her office, popped the lid on her antique escritoire, and swept her netsuke collection into the bag. The insurance would cover most of it. He dumped everything from her purse onto the floor, taking only the cash. A nice touch, he thought. Then he smashed a porcelain lamp shaped like a sleeping cat. He’d wanted to do that for years.

Steeling himself, he stepped into the bedroom, trying not to look at the body. He opened the wardrobe and released the shotgun. He’d dump it in the fish pond. They’d find it, but so what?

The death machine came apart in seconds. He set the computer to erase the program.

“I knew it was you. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

He whirled. Cindy, twisted around in her chair, watched him. “Guess I’m coming to life too soon, but the smell of this rotten hamburger is making me sick.”

“How…?” No other words came.

“How did I survive? After you yelled at me, I cried for an hour. Then I decided you were right. I should use some of your gifts.” She smiled bitterly. “Remember the answering machine last Christmas? You stood over me while I made the tape, then laughed when I couldn’t turn it on. Anyway, I got it out of the closet and plugged it in. It worked once. Ring! Blam! Lucky for me, I was clear out in the living room!”

Rage boiled up inside Sean. He wanted to smash her face, to feel his thumbs pressing into her windpipe. He started for her, intending to kill her.

And he would have if it hadn’t been for the cop in the closet.