Flaherty had just murdered his wife for her insurance money. Panicking, he fled the scene, barely stopping even to dump the kitchen knife into a dumpster on the way back to the downtown apartment he shared with his mistress, Bette (pronounced “Bett-y,” not “Bet,” by the way).
Bette wasn’t home when Flaherty got back. He poured himself a drink and slumped down on the couch, the nervous energy draining from his body, which was fat. He started to reach for the TV remote, maybe to catch the football game, or some other type of televised athletic event, but stopped himself. Right now he needed peace and quiet, to calm his frayed nerves.
But it wasn’t quiet in the room. Flaherty could hear a faint sound, like a heartbeat, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Oh my God,” Flaherty thought, “could that be the ghostly beating of my wife’s heart, which I stabbed through with my incredibly sharp Wusthof, or no, Kyocera ceramic chef’s knife? For the love of God!”
It was really just Flaherty’s imagination, though. Later, he was apprehended for the murder and sentenced to life in prison.