Two: cigarettes. Due to their the photogenic nature, you always see your protagonist lurking in the shadows and lighting up a smoke while his victim serves himself a Scotch and undoes his bow tie, oblivious to the tragic end lying in store. Sorry, no. Unless your sense of smell has been dulled by forty years of two packs a day, or you had a terrible accident that bashed your face all the way in to your sinuses, the smell of a cigarette is like lighting a flare in a storm.

Needless to say, neither silencers nor cigarettes are part of my arsenal.

Since I’m no longer content to disguise my murders as accidents, suicides, or overdoses, additional precautions are required. I’m planning a big outdoor play. And being outside means you can’t fully control your environment. I have to anticipate every last possibility and plan out a series of different actions for each potential scenario.

I take steps so investigating officers will think I’m a man. Buy generic clothing in warm, durable fabrics, at a store catering to construction workers. A pair of workboots that are too big for me. I try them on to see how comfortable they are. Claim I’m buying them for my brother, a gift to celebrate getting his journeyman’s ticket. I make minor adjustments to the soles, enough to disguise my footprints and temporarily confound the crime scene investigators.

I take long bike rides. Reconnoitre the site on my second visit. Skid marks delineate the borders of the area. My information was good. The idea came to me as I flipped through one of the daily papers and came upon a highly instructive article entitled “Driving 300 km/h and Living to Tell the Tale.” A group of guys who are cognitively impaired and don’t realize it post photos and videos of their exploits on social media. A few hours elapse between the posts and the people involved figuring out that they could make a secret group. Plenty of time for me to get a good start on my mental notes.

It’s seventy-eight kilometres from my apartment to the “secret” drag strip of dusty road. Four and a half hours of leisurely biking. It’s important to conserve energy, so I don’t arrive exhausted. Eight kilometres away there’s a campground that also has a few hotel rooms. I make a reservation in person, under a fake name, for a single night’s stay two weeks from now. I leave a cash deposit. I keep my receipt. The road runs east to west, connecting one small village to another, but since the highway performs the same function, no one really uses it. Especially not at night. Hence its popularity with amateur drag racers.