The Trophy Exchange (18 page)

“
I think you
’
re right, Jen.
”

“
I can
’
t let you look at the calendar itself
. . .”

“
I understand.
”

“
But I can pull it up and answer your questions. Where do we start?
”

“
How about March of last year?
”

She went through each monthly page from that month to the present as Ted noted down the times
Dr.
Spencer traveled around the globe to hotspots of conflict, to places of abject poverty, and to bucolic countrysides infested with large deposits of landmines. Ted was more than impressed with Spencer
’
s outreach to the less fortunate. How could a man who spent so much time helping others be a killer? He heard the voice of Lucinda
’
s innate skepticism in his head.
Maybe he’s atoning for his sins?

“
Now, could we check out a few specific dates?
”

“
Sure.
”

“
How about the afternoon of March 27th?
”

“
This year or last?
”

“
Last year.
”

Jen
’
s fingers clacked on the keyboard.
“
Can
’
t tell you much about that
–
it was a Sunday. He was in the country on that date
,
but beyond that I wouldn
’
t have a clue.
”

They ran through the complete list of murder dates. Spencer was in the country for every single one except for Kathleen
’
s. The days that were booked solid with appointments coincided with the homicides that happened before or after his office hours. Ted still was not convinced that Evan Spencer was responsible for those crimes but could not find a single bit of evidence to merit scratching him off of Lucinda
’
s list.

Nineteen

Lucinda returned to the station house and found a message from Lieutenant Stan Kowalski, Baltimore Police Department, waiting for her. Her first assumption was that he
’
d called in connection with Kathleen
’
s murder. Would her perpetrator wander that far from home? She made a mental note to check and see if Evan Spencer ever went to Baltimore on business. She picked up the phone and returned the call. It was not what she expected.

Lieutenant Kowalski said,
“
We picked up Julie Wagner. We
’
re holding her on your APB. What do you want us to do now?
”

It took Lucinda a few seconds to remember that Julie was the woman suspected
of
sho
o
t
ing
her husband on the sofa and then call
ing
her mother-in-law with a feeble apology.
“
Hold her,
”
she said.

“
You coming up?
”

“
Yes,
”
Lucinda said.
“
I
’
d like to question her as soon as possible. I
’
ll head straight up there now. And if she waives her extradition hearing, I
’
ll bring her back down here with me.
”

“
She
’
s not saying much to us.
”

“
Has she lawyered up?
”

“
Not yet.
”

“
Think you can forestall that possibility till I get there?
”

“
What
’
ll it take you
,
four, five hours?
”

“’
Bout that
,”
Lucinda said.
“
Maybe less. Depends on how many troopers are on patrol today.
”

“
I hear you. We
’
ll do what we can. See you then.
”

Lucinda headed up the interstate in an agitated frame of mind. She knew she needed to take care of the Julie Wagner problem but she hated leaving Kathleen
’
s murder investigation up in the air. There
’
s nothing I can do about that now, she thought.

She shifted gears on her musings and focused her mind on the photos she
’
d received from Julie
’
s mother. The camera captured a life of broken arms, broken noses, broken dreams.

It was her mother
’
s story but with a different outcome. As a child she
’d
watched her mother Rose accumulate one broken bone after another, one bruise piled on the fading yellow of a previous contusion, red marks of brutal fingers on her neck, black eyes and a broken heart. Throughout the years, Rose made excuses for her husband. She blamed herself. She tried not to aggravate him. She tolerated his abuse.

Then one day in a drunken fit of anger, he
had
hauled back his arm and backhanded Lucinda across her face, knocking her across the room and into a wall. Rose, Lucinda, her younger sister Maggie and her little brother Ricky moved out of the family home that very same day. Rose tried to put on a cheerful front about the change in their lives
,
but Lucinda witnessed her mother
’
s despair. She caught glimpses of Rose at times when her mother thought she was all alone. Her face stretched long. She stared into space and sighed. Her sighs were deep and long and full of sorrow. They ripped through Lucinda like an icy wind.

More than once, Lucinda stepped into the room and asked
“
Mom, are you
okay
?
”

Rose always donned a cheery smile and said,
“
I
’
m fine honey, how about you?
”

One night
,
after another meal of beans and franks, Lucinda sat at the makeshift desk in the room she shared with Maggie. The adjustable arm of the black lamp pointed the beam of light down on her homework but left the bed where Maggie slept draped in darkness. Ricky slept in a smaller bedroom on the other side of the upstairs bathroom. Sometimes, Lucinda wished she was the boy so that she could have her own bedroom
,
no matter how small it was.

She heard a knock on the front door echo in the hallway. She listened as her mother shuffled out of her bedroom at the foot of the stairs and into the entrance hallway. Lucinda crept into the hall and peered through the railing.

She saw her mother in the gap of the half-opened door, one hand clutching it, the other resting on the door frame.
“
How did you find us?
”
she heard
her mother ask.

Lucinda heard the mumbles of a response but could not discern the words. Then she saw a large hand push in from the outside and shove her mother
’
s chest. Rose staggered back. A man entered the hallway. It was Lucinda
’
s father.

“
We need to talk, Rose,
”
he said.

Rose straightened her posture, pulled her robe tight and said,
“
I
’
ve nothing to say to you.
”

“
Well, if you won
’
t talk to me, fine. But you can
’
t stop me from seeing my kids.
”

“
It
’
s late. They
’
re all in bed.
”

“
I can look in on
’
em, can
’
t I?
”
he said as he moved toward the foot of the stairs.

Rose moved faster, bracing herself three steps from the bottom with one hand on the banister and the other on the wall blocking his way to the second floor.
“
No. No, you can
’
t,
”
she said.

Lucinda
’
s father put his foot on the bottom step and Lucinda ducked into the shadows where she couldn
’
t see or be seen.

“
They
’
re my kids, too, Rose,
”
Lucinda heard her father say and then she heard the clap of a gun shot.

She jumped up and looked down. Her mother
was
sprawled on the stairs. Her father stood just feet away with a gun dangling in his hand. Lucinda gasped.

Her father turned his head in her direction and said,
“
Lucy.
”

Lucinda flew into Ricky
’
s room where she found her brother awake but sleep befuddled. She grabbed his hand and pulled him across the hall and into her room. Maggie was awake, too. She stood wide-eyed and trembling halfway between her bed and the doorway.

Lucinda slammed the door shut. As she engaged the lock, she heard another gun shot.
Did he shoot her again? He killed Mom. Is he going to kill us, too? What if Mom isn’t dead? I need to call an ambulance.
But there was no telephone on the second floor. And Maggie and Ricky were whimpering, sobbing and clinging to her like frightened kittens up a tree.

“
Sssssh. Sssssh,
”
she whispered, wrapping her arms around them. She coaxed them over to the closet. She settled them in the back corner and shifted the clothes on the hangers to best hide them from view.
“
Don
’
t move. Don
’
t say a word,
”
she urged. As they cried for her to stay, she shut the closet door.

She tiptoed down the hallway to the top of the stairs, wincing and freezing in place as the top step creaked beneath her weight. She continued down
and
kneel
ed
by her mother
’
s side. The bloody hole in the middle of her mother
’
s forehead made her think of the pictures of Indian women she
’
d seen in Social Studies class but she couldn
’
t remember what the red smears o
n
their foreheads meant.
Something like Ash Wednesday?
she wondered, then shook her head forcing herself back to the reality at her side. She laid her head on her mother
’
s chest but could not feel her heartbeat.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe they can still save her.

She rose on trembling knees and went the rest of the way down the stairs, fearful with every step she
’
d hear another shot and feel the bullet tear through her flesh.
I don’t want to die.
She said a silent prayer for her brother and sister.
Whatever happens, keep them safe.
When she turned the corner into the hallway, she saw her father
’
s body sprawled on the wooden floor. Relief flashed through her chased by a surge of guilt for her thoughts.

She stepped over his legs and walked into the kitchen. She grabbed the telephone off the wall and called for help.

The blare of a car horn pulled Lucinda out of the past. She realized she had drifted ever so slightly into the neighboring lane of traffic. She took the next exit ramp and left the highway to take a break.

Lost in thought, she sat at the counter of a diner sipping from a thick white ceramic mug.
Julie Wagner is not your mother. Your mother did not kill your father. She did the logical thing, she extricated herself from the situation. Not because of the beatings she suffered, but only because her husband had struck her child.
She did it for me
, Lucinda thought.