No Stone Unturned (8 page)

“Tell me about him.”

“Tom never quite got over her.” He weighed his words carefully. “The boy was crushed when she broke it off. He came by the house once three years ago to talk to me about it.”

“Yes?” I thought it charming, if somewhat obsequious, that a spurned adolescent would turn to his beloved’s father for solace.

“He’s a good boy,” said the judge. “Better than the others she went out with.” He seemed to suppress a shudder. “Tommy got along with Mrs. Shaw and me. Happy to sit in my den, chatting on a Saturday night, as if auditioning to be my son-in-law. He loved Jordan. Probably tried too hard. Jordan was like any other girl her age: not especially keen on spending her evenings sitting on the couch between her dad and her boyfriend watching Red Skelton.”

“I get the picture,” I said, emptying my glass before realizing my haste; Judge Harrison Shaw was surely a slow, pensive drinker.

“Anyhow, I came to understand that Tommy wrote Jordan many letters that first year of college. He called her almost every week. He tied up the pay phone in her dorm. Finally she became annoyed, and they had a falling-out.”

I asked the judge if Jordan had received any other phone calls. Maybe visitors? Letters?

“Some calls, I think,” he said. “No visitors, I’m sure of that. That is, except Glenda. She stopped by on Wednesday. And they may have spoken by phone on Thanksgiving.”

“Who’s Glenda?”

“Jordan’s oldest friend. A nice girl. A bit awkward. Never quite fit in with others, but Jordan was always friendly with her.”

I asked for her name and address, and the judge wrote it down: Glenda Whalen, 23 Lombard Street, just a few minutes’ walking distance from the Shaw home.

“Poor Glenda,” said the judge. “She’s rather a large girl, tall and heavyset. The kids made fun of her for her last name. They called her ‘Glenda the Whale,’ but Jordan always stood up for her. They’ve been fast friends since kindergarten. That’s the kind of girl Jordan was: caring and loyal.”

I waited while the judge savored some private memory of his daughter. He smiled gently, looking at nothing in particular.

“What about Friday night?” I asked finally, calling him back. “Did the phone ring before she went out?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Just out. I didn’t require explanations from her.” He paused. “Perhaps I should have.”

“Did she keep a diary?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what was she studying at Tufts?”

“French language and literature. But she was planning on pursuing a graduate degree in engineering next fall. Jordan was one of those rare girls who are whizzes in both language and science. Every subject, really. Unusual for a girl.”

He stopped suddenly and stared at me.

“Aren’t you writing any of this down?” he asked.

“I rarely take notes,” I said. “Except numbers, name spellings, and puzzling questions. I always remember a narrative.”

“Perhaps you’re something of a whiz yourself,” he observed.

“Did she live alone at school?” I asked, ignoring his comment. “Any close friends?”

“She shared an apartment with a roommate. Ginny something; I don’t remember her last name. My wife will know if you need it.”

“That would be helpful.”

“Surely you don’t think this has anything to do with school,” he said, taking my glass to refill it.

“I don’t know, but I’d like to talk to her roommate.” I paused while the judge poured more whiskey. He handed me what was unmistakably a double, at least three fingers. “I have some difficult things to tell you, sir,” I said, once he’d handed me my refill. “May I speak openly?”

The judge hesitated, clearly dreading what I had to say. “Of course,” he said finally.

“My investigation has revealed that your daughter spent at least part of Friday night in room number four of the Mohawk Motel.”

The judge’s face was a stone, but his eyes betrayed the painful comprehension in his heart. He knew the Mohawk’s reputation. “Go on,” he said.

“It appears a man arrived at her room around nine fifteen or nine thirty that night. He was driving a light-colored sedan.”

Judge Shaw ran a dry tongue around his lips, hesitated for a moment, then rose to pour himself a drink. Bourbon. Straight. A good belt, and he threw it back in one go.

“The man left about two hours later,” I continued. “A second car arrived before midnight, and a tall man went into her room. Different car, different man. He left sometime before one thirty, when a third man was seen leaving her room.”

The judge didn’t move now, didn’t speak.

“Do you have any idea who those men might have been?” I asked finally.

“Of course not. Don’t you have a description of them?”

“You just heard it.”

“Tell me something, Miss Stone,” said the judge, turning his back to me. “Tell me honestly.” He took several measured breaths before he continued. “Did those men rape my daughter?”

I was startled. “Didn’t you speak to Dr. Peruso?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to ask him that. I know Fred too well.”

Too bad the judge didn’t know me so well. Thanks a lot, Fred, for leaving the dirty work to me. I didn’t know how to tell him delicately that his daughter had had “a good roll,” to echo the words of Jean Trent, Love Detective.

“No,” I said hoarsely. “She wasn’t raped.”

The judge seemed to find consolation in that. He heaved an audible and visible sigh, then poured himself another bourbon.

“She wasn’t raped,” I said again. “But that brings me to another difficult question.”

I saw the skin tighten over his jaw, then he nodded; how could it get any worse? I cleared my throat and asked if he knew what an IUD was.

It was the most painful exchange I’ve ever had. The judge must have hated me for telling him the truth about his daughter. I hated myself for the body blows I delivered; no couching could soften what I said, and it made me sick to my stomach. A metallic taste coated my tongue like a glue, and I couldn’t swallow another sip of the judge’s Scotch for fear of spitting it on the ground in disgust and sorrow. I told him, all right. I gave it to him straight, as he had asked, and the result was a broken man staring me in the face. Damn Fred Peruso.

Before I left, I managed to choke out a request for a family photograph of Jordan, explaining that it might help some witness somewhere remember something. I don’t think the judge bought it, but he produced an album of photographs from which I could choose.

“I’ll get Ginny’s surname from my wife,” he said, leaving me alone in his den.

I held on my lap the record of Jordan Shaw’s short life. From the very first picture, the requisite nude on a baby blanket, to the last—a stylish portrait signed by a Boston photographer named Paul Thibaudet, I was privy to moments shared only by her family and friends. Jordan in the middle row of her third grade class picture; Jordan dressed like a fairy for Halloween; Jordan in her cheerleading outfit; as Homecoming Queen; on skis; at the train depot; with a dog; in saddle shoes, leaning on the car . . . She was a cool beauty. Her scrubbed face and clear eyes revealed an inborn propriety and quiet dignity. She looked like a Protestant princess, too pure and too proud to indulge in the sweaty rut of intercourse, disinclined to sully her body with the sticky intimacies of physical passion. Who said you can’t fool the camera?

I put the album down and thought with irony that the photographic record of Jordan Shaw’s life ended as it had begun. My pictures of a muddied, naked corpse—as naked as the day she was born, as naked as the day she posed on a baby blanket—closed the book on her brief, privileged existence.

The judge returned, appearing suddenly behind me and giving me a good scare. “Virginia White is the roommate’s name. Here’s her number,” he said, extending a square of paper to me. “Jordan and Ginny’s phone number.”

I took the paper and thanked him.

“How do you plan to proceed, Miss Stone?”

“There’s someone from the motel I want to talk to,” I said. “And Tommy Quint.”

He saw me to the door, and I was happy to be getting out of there. As I walked down the path to my yellow Plymouth, he called to me. I stopped and turned. The judge came out into the cold in his shirtsleeves, approached me slowly, and looked deep into my eyes. I wanted to get away, but his determined gaze held me.

“How,” he began, “how did you . . .”

I wanted to ask for clarification, but couldn’t get the words out. My throat had closed tight, and I fought an instant urge to burst into tears. As he stared at me, his steel eyes glistened behind their intense stare. I understood what he wanted to know. In that moment, my reluctance to engage with him evaporated. He was tortured by the same pain I had felt, and he wanted help.

“It’s horrible,” I said softly. “There is nothing anyone can say or do to fill the void. It’s a cruel agony, which is something I think you already know.”

He sighed in the night air, looked skyward, then nodded knowingly. “It’s a nightmare from which I cannot awaken.”

He stared at me for another minute, with God-knows-what misery twisting his thoughts. Then he stepped back and thanked me for my help. I drove away, slowly. He watched me go, then turned like a condemned man to face the pitiless grief waiting for him inside.

Glenda Whalen’s home was a modest, brick traditional, about ten years old, with an attached garage and a small front yard. The lights were on in the front room, so I switched off the motor and climbed out of my car. The door banged shut with a thud in the cold evening air, then all went silent. I made my way up the walk to the front door, through two rows of bare shrubs, my shoes clacking on the cement, again shattering the cold stillness of the evening. The small, steel knocker was cold in my fingers, and its rap echoed high-pitched and hollow against the door.

“Yes? What is it?” asked the tall, hefty man who answered.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your supper,” I said.

“We already ate. And, sorry, we don’t want any cookies, miss.”

“Oh, I’m not with the Girl Scouts,” I said. “I’d like to speak with Glenda Whalen.”

“Glenda!” he called over his shoulder. “Someone’s here to see you.” Then he invited me into the foyer.

A large girl in slacks and a sweater appeared, and the man left us. Her eyes were ringed with red, and her nose looked raw, as if she had a cold. She regarded me curiously, her brow furrowed slightly.

“Do I know you?” she asked softly.

I gave her my name and explained that I was a reporter for the
Republic
.

“You’re a reporter?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

“I’m investigating Jordan Shaw’s murder,” I began, and the girl’s red eyes grew before me.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You were her friend. I thought I might ask you some questions.”

She stood back and looked me up and down. “What could I possibly tell you?”

“I wanted to ask you about her friends. Her boyfriends, what she liked to do, where she liked to go.”

Glenda’s face soured. “Are you kidding me? Are you some kind of ghoul?”

“I’m just trying to do my job,” I answered. “And find her killer.”

“You’re pathetic,” she sneered. “Have you no shame? Or respect for the dead? Or for yourself?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I am mourning my oldest and dearest friend,” she said, nearly sobbing. “And you come here nosing around, trying to dig up dirt on the most marvelous girl I’ve ever known.”

“It’s not like that. Someone broke her neck, murdered her. Don’t you want to help me find out who?”

“You’re just a girl. What can you possibly do? You’re not trying to solve this murder. You just want to ruin her name.”

“That’s not true, Glenda. Judge Shaw asked for my help. I just came from his house.”

“No you didn’t,” accused Glenda. “You’ve been drinking is more like it. I can smell it on your breath.”

Then the tears gushed from her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands. I tried to comfort her, awkwardly, and she didn’t resist.

“Will you answer some questions?” I asked, once she’d stopped crying.

“Get out of here,” she said, almost in a whisper, and she turned away. When I didn’t move immediately, she spun back around and roared at me: “Get out of here and leave me alone!”