“But you said you hang people.” The wine had helped Drew, his hand wasn’t shaking any longer when he refilled both their glasses.
“I tie the knots and judge the length of rope. The rope is very important, whether you’re working with a short or a long drop.”
“Long drop?” He stuffed a large chunk of lobster in his mouth, followed by a forkful of baked potato dripping sour cream. He chewed quickly. “What’s a long drop?”
Jillian ate thoughtfully before answering. “In Britain, 1872, William Marwood introduced what is called the long drop when Frederick Horry was hanged at Lincoln Prison. He maintained it was a more humane way to kill someone. See, the short drop had been used almost exclusively prior to that year.” She took a few more nibbles, watching Drew, who seemed to be studying the pattern along the rim of his dish. “In a long drop, a convict’s neck is broken because he falls a certain distance and then is stopped suddenly with a sharp jerk. The scientific principal behind it is that the falling body accelerates with a force of gravity. However, the noose is restricting the head. So when the rope plays out and the body stops, the noose-the knot at the side of the neck-delivers a blow. That blow, in conjunction with the downward momentum, ruptures the spinal cord. Instant unconsciousness results, followed by rapid death because the neck breaks. There’s a certain amount of physics involved.”
Drew had stopped eating.
“In later years, and I use this method now, a metal eyelet is slipped into the noose knot. It breaks the neck more assuredly. The knot is crucial, you know. Most are simple slip knots. But the traditional noose, which is the one my father favored, has five to thirteen coils, and these slide down the rope. He told me he always tried for a dozen because thirteen was just unlucky for him. But that many coils…you tended to strangle the convict, instead of simply break his neck.” She pointed to her own neck, under her left jaw. “I favor the coiled noose detailed in an old US Army manual. The head snaps back so quickly and with so much power that the spinal cord is severed between the superior and the top vertebra, basically slicing the connector to the brain stem.”
Jillian finished her lobster tail, then the glass of wine. She felt warm and tingly and happy to have a dinner companion who seemed interested in her work. “In May 2005-oddly on a Friday the thirteenth-Shanmugam Murugesu was hanged by the long drop in Changi Prison in Singapore.” She had trouble with the name, the wine making her tongue unwieldy. “I hope to participate in a hanging or two in Singapore while we’re in port. But…you asked about the long drop and my work.”
“Yes.” Drew’s word sounded more like a croak. Another mouthful of wine helped. “I did ask you about this drop thing.”
She beamed. At the far end of the dining room a five-piece ensemble started playing a slow bluesy number. She swayed to the beat. “The long drop, It’s the method I prefer, but I yield to whatever is practiced in the country I’m working for. It’s all based on a person’s weight. Remember that man who brought this bottle? The short one with the love handles? I figure he’s two hundred pounds, or fourteen stone. I’d use an eight-foot length for a drop. On the other hand, the little waitress over there? The one that looks like she might have an eating disorder? I’d put her at a hundred pounds, tops, that’s a little less than eight stone. She’d need a longer rope, say…ten feet. The smaller the person, the longer the rope. You’d need a rope about nine and half feet long for me, one about eight feet, four inches for you. It’s all physics. If the rope’s too long, you risk decapitating the convict.”
“Physics.” Drew refilled their glasses and declined selecting something from the desert tray.
“The rope itself makes a lot of difference. I always have a nylon cord with me, just in case. But I like to use a nice manila hemp about an inch in diameter. I ask for it to be boiled, because that takes the elasticity out of it. I try to make sure it’s waxed or greased, coated with soap if that’s all that’s available. Makes the knot slide real easy.”
“Easy.” Drew gave Jillian the last of the wine. “Soap makes it easy.” He swallowed hard and cupped his hands around his goblet. “Physics.”
Jillian drank the wine a little too quickly, as she realized she’d revealed a little too much about her profession and feared Drew’s lobster was going to make another appearance on his plate. Time to leave.
“I’m sorry, Drew.”
“For what?” He carefully sat the glass on the table and fussed with his napkin. “You shouldn’t be sorry. I asked.”
“And I told you I had places to go and people to kill. Not the best dinner conversation.” She pushed away from the table and shakily stood. “I think I’ll get a cup of coffee and head back to my cabin, work on my knitting.”
He stood too, a little more sturdy on his feet than Jillian. “That ski mask you’re making…it really isn’t a ski mask, is it?”
She shook her head and studied the tips of her leather shoes.
“It’s a hood, isn’t it? For whoever you’re going to hang next.”
“Perceptive, Drew the surfer.”
“I might be a bum, but I’m not a stupid one.”
She took a few steps and wobbled, and he came up to her side. “I’ll get you back to your cabin, so you can get that coffee and finish your project. We make port tomorrow and…”
“And, yes, I’ve someone to hang there. I’d like to give him that hood.”
The ensemble started an up-tempo jazzy piece as Drew and Jillian wended their way through the dining room, swaying from the wine and the gentle pitch of the deck, and a little bit from the music.
“Maybe I’ll see you in port tomorrow,” Jillian said.
Drew pulled his lips into a thin line. “Well…I…Jillian…I don’t think so.”
“I’ve turned off Mr. Twelve Stone.” She let out a great sigh. “Not the first time.”
They didn’t speak again until she pointed to her cabin door and fumbled for the key. Her fingers awkward, he opened the door for her.
“I’d ask you in for a drink,” she said. “But…”
“I think I’ve had too much already.” He looked past her and saw the almost-finished hood laid flat on her bed, the coil of nylon cord on top of her nightstand. “A lovely lady you are.”
She didn’t detect the sarcasm in his voice.
Jillian tipped her face up and he gave her a polite kiss on the cheek. She tottered inside, surprised and pleased that he followed her after a moment and closed the door. “You’re interested in that drink after all, Drew?”
He shook his head and pulled her close for another kiss, his hands inching up her arms then circling her neck and squeezing until she fell unconscious. Then Drew slipped on a pair of gloves he’d kept in his pocket and put the partially finished hood over her head. He slid the cord around her neck and coiled it twelve times before tying a slip knot. She was slight enough that he could force her body out the window. And he was strong enough that he could absorb her weight when she dropped nine and a half feet. He thought he would hear her neck pop, but the wind and the water was too loud, and the couple arguing in the next cabin was noisy.
He tied the end of the rope to the window latch, satisfied that it would hold. If he hadn’t snapped her neck from the drop, she’d die within minutes of asphyxiation.
He knew a lot about hanging, too.
For the next several minutes he busied himself with wiping away all trace of his fingerprints. No one had seen him in the hall, so he’d get away with this one, too. A serial killer on vacation, Drew hadn’t intended to strike at anyone during the trip. Jillian proved too tempting, though.