A Simple Suburban Murder (15 page)

I wouldn't have to practice to intensely dislike John Robertson.

"You're lucky," Frank said. "If Phil had been involved in the death, both of you would have been in big trouble. As it is the kid's simply a runaway. You're off the hook."

Their explanation didn't seem sufficient to me. But obviously no one wanted my opinion or intended to give a full account.

"Are we free to go?" I asked.

Frank said, "Only if you promise not to interfere in police business, now or ever."

"I don't want their promises," Robertson said, "I want them scared." He turned to us. "Frank talked me out of arresting you guys. I almost did anyway, but I've got to work with the guy. If I ever see your faces around here again I'm arresting you. I don't care if you're here to pay a traffic ticket." He slammed the door as he walked out.

"Sorry, Frank," I said.

"Don't worry about it. You got in over your heads. Just let us do the police business from now on."

We went to eat at the Taco Bell on 159th Street. I know it's untrendy and probably even heretical, but I think their Mexican food is the best in the world.

We talked as we ate. I was pissed.

"Arresting Vance doesn't make sense to me," I said.

"Why not? You were suspicious of him."

"Yes, because he was the only one, until Sheila, who didn't hate Evans. It turns out he did, just like everybody else."

"Except Sheila."

"You know what really fries me?"

Scott pointed to the mess I had made eating a hard-shell taco. "That after over thirty years you still can't eat a taco without breaking the shell?"

I gave him a dirty look. I said, "It pisses me off that Robertson made us wait over two hours."

"That was a pisser," he agreed.

I took a bite and chewed for a while.

"They've got the wrong man," I stated.

He put down his burrito and gave me a steely-eyed look. He said, "Look, Tom, it turns out the guy had a motive. Plus he was seen with the victim. The police caught him. It's done."

I didn't want to give in. "Yeah, I guess," I muttered. We ate in silence for a minute. "I can't believe I fell for his lies."

"It happens. Forget it." "I wonder which school personnel gave them the insight about departmental infighting. I'd lay bets it was Sylvester or Armstrong."

"You're prejudiced."

"And I wonder if the police found out about the gambling operation."

"If he didn't confess, maybe not."

"But someone in the department might have let it slip," I mused.

"Not if they were all in on it."

"If Vance killed him, why isn't the gambling part of the solution?" I said.

"I don't know." Scott sounded slightly frustrated. "We aren't in it anymore. We're out of it. It's solved."

"I've got my doubts."

"Come on, Tom, forget it. We almost got in a lot of trouble. Let's drop it, like the cop said."

"All right." I gave in reluctantly.

When I pulled into the driveway at my place I said, "It's supposed to snow tonight. I want to put the car in the garage." There's barely room for one person to walk around the car in the old farmhouse garage so I let Scott out first. He walked into the house while I pulled the car into the garage. I shut off the motor and the lights, took the keys and got out. I stretched in the narrow space. I was tired.

I closed the garage door. As I walked into the yard someone grabbed me violently from behind. A gloved hand clamped over my mouth kept me from calling out. My reactions weren't quick or strong enough to break the iron-hard grip.

"Mason?" a voice whispered.

I nodded my head half an inch.

"Keep your nose out of the Evans murder and forget about Phil Evans, or next time you'll get hurt worse than this."

Shattering pain thundered from the side of my head. Then nothing.

— 6 —

W
hen I woke up I hurt. All over. Everything. I moaned.

"Tom." It was Scott.

I tried opening my
eyes.
I could tell it was night, but everything else was a blur. The effort to keep my eyes open was too great. I closed them. The gravel of the driveway poked into my back. I felt Scott's hands easing, caressing, his voice trying to soothe. "You're going to be all right. The ambulance is on the way." I felt a pressure on my forehead. I tried to pull away. Pain screamed in my head.

"Easy, I want to clean off some of the blood so I can see how bad it is." He tried to sound calm, but I detected the tremor of scared in his voice.

I groped for his touch. He took my hand. I put both of mine around his. I tried to concentrate on the warmth of his touch and not the pain in my head. I was only partially successful. I flickered in and out of consciousness.

Next I remember lights and movement. "Ambulance," I mumbled.

"I'm here, Tom." Scott's voice seemed to conic from a vast distance. I realized I stillclutched his hand.

The next time I woke up I was in a hospital bed. I felt drugged; probably, it dawned on me, because I was. The pain lived at the dull ebb of consciousness, gone for the moment.

I moved my head a quarter inch. It didn't hurt. Boldly I turned it more. I surveyed the room. The curtains were open. It was night. Scott sat in a chair, his head leaned to one side. He was asleep.

I tried to assess the damage. I flexed each arm. They moved slowly and stiffly. I brought a hand to my face. I touched an enormous bandage around my forehead. There was a small bandage over the bridge of my nose. I tried to look at it, became cross-eyed and then nauseous with the effort. A cluster of smaller bandages covered the right side of my face. Gingerly I continued inventory: ribs, legs, torso, There were sore spots everywhere, each earning a separate wince as I probed. Nothing obvious was broken—except my nose.

I realized I needed to piss. I was awake enough to decide to try the short trip on my own. I started to swing my legs out of the bed and almost passed out—obviously this was a mistake. Half off the bed, I lay back waiting for my equilibrium to return.

Scott rustled in his chair. He woke up and looked at me. He came over slowly and sleepily. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

"Practicing for a dance marathon," I grumbled.

He gave me a sour look then reached over and rearranged me in the bed.

"I gotta piss," I muttered.

He held a plastic bottle out to me.

I gave it a bleak stare. "No way. Help me up. I won't use that thing."

Scott sat on the edge of the bed. He yawned. "Don't be stubborn," he said.

"I'm not being stubborn," I said stubbornly. "I refuse to submit to the indignity of pissing into a bottle in a bed."

"I'll call the nurse, and we'll hold you down," he warned.

"Only if he's six foot eight and a redhead with a ten-inch dick."

"She is probably none of those."

"Shit. Come on, Scott, help me up."

"You'll probably fall flat on your ass and hurt yourself even worse. You're pretty banged up."

"I figured that out already. Now, help me up, please."

Reluctantly he helped me up. He was right. I shouldn't have tried it. It took fifteen minutes to make the fifteen-foot round trip. I managed it, barely.

I shut my eyes when I lay back down. I felt the pressure of his body as he sat down on the bed.

"Sorry now?" he said.

"A little." I concentrated on breathing evenly and fighting down the nausea. When my stomach was under control I opened my eyes and focused on him.

"Am I all right?" I asked.

"Pretty much. The doctor says your nose is broken, but fortunately nothing else. They aren't sure about internal injuries. They don't think so. In addition you've got lots of cuts and bruises, and maybe a slight concussion."

"I feel like shit." I paused and looked out the window again. "What time is it?"

"About four-thirty in the morning."

"What happened?" I asked.

"That's what I want to know," he said.

I told him what I remembered. "What brought you outside?" "You took too long coming in. I got an uneasy feeling, so I came out with a flashlight and a baseball bat. I saw you on the ground with two guys kicking you. I went nuts. They tried to fight, but I landed solid hits with my first swings of the bat. They ran off. I'd have chased them, but I was worried about you. When I checked, you were unconscious, and there was a lot of blood. I called the ambulance and here we are.

I asked the obvious question. "Why warn me away? They arrested the killer. I don't get it."

"Maybe whoever it was didn't know they'd arrested the killer," he suggested.

"That happened hours before. If Vance is the killer you'd think they'd know what happened to him."

"Maybe they have lousy communications?"

"I don't think that makes sense."

"What 'they' are we talking about?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe the police arrested the wrong guy?"

"That makes a bunch more sense to me."

"And whoever did it wanted to warn you away?"

"We were close to something someone wanted to hide. Presumably the killer. Or maybe close to information that threatened somebody."

"You mean Sylvester and Armstrong."

"Yeah."

"I'm not sure that makes sense. Almost anybody could have attacked you."

"Only anybody who wants to keep us from looking into the murder."

"Then why not attack both of us?" Scott asked.

"Maybe they didn't want to try taking both of us on, or maybe they thought one warning would serve for the two of us."

"That reminds me, there were two cops here to ask questions. I couldn't tell them much because I didn't see a lot. They said they'd be around in the morning."

"Something to look forward to," I replied. I looked out the window. Framed in the light of the street lamp, the first flakes of the promised snow drifted lazily. I was exhausted and too tired to puzzle out the whos and whys. I closed my eyes and slept.

Frank Murphy arrived the next morning around eleven o'clock. I was awake and restless. I still hurt, but I was ready to go home. Scott insisted I wait for the doctor's approval. We talked to Murphy together.

"I didn't know they sent homicide detectives out on assault investigations," I said.

"Usually they don't, but I heard your name among this morning's reports. I thought I'd come check it out. What happened?"

When I finished he asked, "You didn't get a look at them?"

"Not at all."

"I did," Scott said, "but I didn't really see much. I dropped the flashlight when I attacked them. The lights from the house were dim. I couldn't even tell you if they were black or white."

Murphy turned back to me. "How about their voices?"

I said, "The voice that whispered was so low and gravelly, I couldn't tell if it was natural or disguised."

"They didn't say anything while we fought," Scott added.

"And you think it had something to do with your snooping around?"

"Don't you?"

"If Robertson was here he'd say no, and that you must have misunderstood what the attacker said."

"I didn't misunderstand," I said. "What other motive was there? I've still got my wallet and money. It wasn't robbery." "Robertson would also say that random violence can strike any one of us anytime."

"But he's not here, so you think. . ." I let my comment dangle.

"I think it's real curious and more than a coincidence, but I don't pretend to be able to explain it. I believe we have the right man, but
I
'm open to exploring any options you can give me."

We told him the whole story—including the gambling, the sex with students—everything.

"How'd you get people to tell you all this?" was Frank's first reaction.

I tried to shrug casually, but it hurt too much. "Do you think anything we've told you will help?" I asked.

"I don't know. I have to be honest with you. Robertson, the lieutenant, and the state's attorney all think Vance did it. Interest in the sex charge would be minimal because Evans is dead. No one to prosecute, no headlines to grab. Furthermore, a lot of what you told me is unsubstantiated. If we send a cop to ask these same questions each person could simply deny it all."

"But there were two of us there most of the time," Scott protested. "I'm a witness."

"You aren't cops. You had no official status."

Scott swore. "Can't you do something?"

"I can talk to my superiors about reopening the case, but I don't hold out much hope."

"Could you at least tell me a couple things to satisfy my curiosity?" I asked.

He hesitated. "What do you want to know? And you haven't heard any of this from me."

"What does Vance say about them being together?"

"He says it was departmental business."

"At midnight?On a Wednesday?"

"He swore it was true. We asked him what business. He clammed up. The information on gambling you gave me might open him up."

"Let's say they did discuss gambling," I said. "Then they had a fight. Evans was a royal prick. I can easily see a major disagreement. But then what happened?"

"Vance says he went home, and he didn't know anything until the next morning. Obviously he didn't tell us about their meeting the first time we talked to him. That's what made us suspicious."

"Did he say why he didn't tell?"

"He didn't want to be implicated."

"And now he is." I shifted in the bed. "Did you search his place for the murder weapon?"

"We don't expect to find it. It's too easy to drop a heavy blunt instrument off a bridge, or in a distant trash can."

"How'd you know to question him again? Who let you know they were together?"

"The medical examiner found undigested food in his stomach. He concluded Evans had eaten within a half hour before he died. There aren't that many places open to eat around here at that hour during the week. We started asking around, showing his picture."

"He could have eaten in Chicago and driven here," I suggested.

"Or eaten at home or at a friend's," Scott added.