The Savage Kind

by John Copenhaver

  Although I wanted the information as much as Judy, I was relieved he was standing up to her. She’d been pulling his strings too easily.

  “They were both sexually assaulted, right?” she said. “Right?”

  He stared at her, his thin lips clamped together, his nose twitching. “You’re not as smart as you think,” he said. “Let it go. This isn’t your problem. You should be talking about school or finding dates for homecoming, not murdered kids.”

  Judy crossed her arms, the scars blazing like red pen marks. “I’ve spent most of my life thinking about her, not to mention living in her angel-shaped shadow. It’s all I know how to think about. I’ve been well trained.”

  “Sorry,” he said, softening. Once again, she was tugging on the right string.

  “What kind of person is Bogdan?” I said, trying a different approach. “Judy knows some things, but—”

  “Why do you care?” Quincy glared at me, his eyes pleading: “Please, don’t push it, Phil.”

  “If you won’t tell us anything, fine. I understand,” I said. “But we’re going to figure it out. We’re not scared to.”

  Quincy darkened with concern, but I knew he respected my sentiment. The sense of adventure we shared when we were young was still there. “Well,” he said, after sipping his malt, “he grew up in Odessa, Ukraine, on the Black Sea. He had a horrific upbringing. According to Bogdan, his father was an abusive drunk and, in a fit of anger, killed his kid sister with an ax. He spent his teenage years in an orphanage and then joined the Red Army. He became disillusioned with Stalin during the Soviet famine and immigrated to America in ’35. He worked the New York shipyards and eventually the Port Authority. In 1941, he moved to DC and began working at the Navy Yard as a boat mechanic. Before he was implicated in the murder of Jackie Peabody, his record was clean. In fact, the only reason he was implicated in her murder was because he’d been reported for loitering outside schools on three separate occasions. One of those schools, St. Timothy’s, was Jackie’s school.”

  “Tell her about Shirley Temple,” Judy said.

  “After a neighbor told them about seeing him with a young girl on the day of Jackie’s murder, they got a warrant and searched his home, a houseboat on the Potomac. In his bedroom, he had plastered magazine and newsprint cutouts of Shirley Temple on the wall. I’ve seen the photos. Little Shirley, everywhere.”

  “The Good Ship Lollipop,” Judy said, smirking.

  “His boss at the Navy Yard vouched for his whereabouts the afternoon that Jackie disappeared. They had no hard evidence, so they stopped pursuing him.”

  “Bart and Edith were very unhappy about that,” Judy said. “They launched their own campaign against him, unsuccessfully. They were—they are—still convinced he’s guilty.”

  “From what I understand,” he said, “they had a right to be upset. His boss George Shebold was his friend. They were drinking buddies. He could’ve lied for him. Clearly, Bogdan was a troubled man. I’m surprised the investigators didn’t do more digging.”

  “Did they question him about his Shirley Temple hang up?” I asked. “That’s bizarre.”

  “He said she reminded him of his sister. That’s when they got his tragic childhood story.”

  “Jackie could look a bit like Temple,” Judy said, “especially when Edith decided to torture her with a perm.”

  Judy’s eyes fixed on something behind me, and her face drew tight: Ramona Carmichael was sashaying toward us, her chin tilted up and her dainty purse hanging from the crook of her arm. She was wearing a red gingham dress with a Kelly green sweater draped over her shoulders. Her lips were deep scarlet. As she approached, she nodded at us and held out her hand to Quincy. “How do you do?” she said. “I’m Ramona, a dear friend of these two.” She was true to form.

  “I’m Quincy, Philippa’s first cousin,” he said, smiling. He was taken in by her lacquered facade. I wanted to kick him under the table: “If you want to be a detective, cousin, you should be smart enough to see through her!”

  “Are you visiting from out of town?” Ramona said.

  “No, I live here. I’m a police officer.”

  “Oh!” she said with a little gasp. “So, I guess you know all about the classmate of ours, Cleveland Closs. What a sweet boy! I’m torn up over it.”

  She was laying it on thick.

  “Sure you are,” Judy said.

  She turned to her. “It put things in perspective.”

  “Go away.” Judy flicked her hand at her.

  “I’m just being friendly,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “I wanted to tell you that I forgive you for including me in your little prank on Mrs. Whitlow. I don’t want this to be uncomfortable, so no hard feelings.”

  “I’m comfortable with hard feelings,” Judy said.

  Ramona scowled at her. “Philippa?” she said, looking my direction. “You’re more… even tempered than she is. You understand what I’m saying. I just want to clear the air.”

  “Go away,” I said. “Please.”

  “You too, Philippa! Well, I guess I should’ve expected that.”

  A spray of malt hit Ramona’s dress, and she shrieked like she’d stepped on a snake. Quincy grimaced and offered her a napkin, which she snapped out of his hand and began using to dab the gingham furiously. Judy had sucked in the liquid through her straw and blown it out—a blunderbuss of sugar-milk.

  Judy tapped me with her elbow and smiled.

  Ramona seethed. I could see the hate twitching at the corners of her mouth. The first honest emotion she’d expressed. After she’d finished dabbing and fussing, she flung the napkin to the floor and vanished out the front of Horsfield’s.

  Quincy shook his head.

  “What?” Judy said. “It’s vanilla. It won’t stain.”

  Quincy paid for his burger and malt and excused himself. We must’ve exhausted him. He didn’t understand that someone blunt like Ramona requires a blunt response—an elbow to the ribs, a smack in the face, or a splatter of malt.

  After he left, Judy pushed her empty glass to the side, turned to me, and said, “We learned a lot from him, don’t you think?”

  “About Bogdan?”

  “No, I knew all of that.”

  I let out an exasperated huff. “Okay,” I said, sinking in the booth. “Well, was there something else he said you didn’t know?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s not what he said…” She smiled.

  “Come on, Judy!” I sat up, as if to leave.

  “He confirmed for us that the police think there’s a connection between the murders. He didn’t correct me when I brought up B and E’s theory about a connection. I’m also willing to bet what was written on Cleve’s body is what was scrawled on Jackie’s.” She lowered her head and whispered, “You see, I know what was written on Jackie’s body.”

  “You do? How?” Not only hadn’t she told me about the writing on Jackie, even after she knew about the inscription on Cleve, but she knew what it said. I remembered Sophie’s warning: “She’s bad news. I can see it, all around her, a backdrop of shadows.” It’s true, even though Judy can be bold and outspoken, nothing is upfront with her; she’s always withholding and playing games. If I’m being honest, I enjoy those games sometimes—her wit, her cleverness—but other times, they feel designed to keep me at arm’s length, dancing alone.

  “B and E found out. They have connections. Friends in the mayor’s office, that sort of thing. Several years ago, I overheard them talking about the case in Bart’s study. They always return to the topic on her birthday or on the day she died or at Christmas or at Easter. Lots of tears and hand wringing. Anyway, it’s not something they’re supposed to know. They had to keep it a secret, or they’d screw up the case.”

  “So… what was written on her?” I asked, gripping the edge of the leather booth’s slippery upholstery, worried that it might be something gruesome.

  “In red nail polish—A-H-K-A,�
�� she said. “The second letter was a little blurry, so it could’ve been A-U-K-A or A-N-K-A. All uppercase letters. There might have been other letters that were washed away. Another word or even a longer word.”

  “What does it mean?” I said, a little relieved.

  She shrugged.

  “It could be an acronym,” I said.

  “B and E—and the police—thought it might be Anka, which is a diminutive of Anna in Russian, like Anya. Anna could be Bogdan’s sister’s name, but it’s never been verified. If you ask me, it’s not worth trying to figure it out. Besides, establishing a connection between murders isn’t the most interesting thing we learned.”

  I glared at her. “You’re being cryptic again.”

  Unfazed, she said, “Quincy told me, ‘You’re not as smart as you think,’ when I asked him to confirm that Cleve was molested.”

  “So?”

  “Well, that made me think he wasn’t molested. Quincy was annoyed and wanted to prove me wrong. He has a terrible poker face. He should work on that if he wants to be a detective.”

  She was self-satisfied, but she was also right. Quincy needed to learn not to wear his thoughts on his face.

  “It’s how the two murders are different that’s important,” she said. “If Cleve wasn’t molested, that’s significant.” She nudged me and raised her eyebrows. “See, we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Do you think Cleve’s murder is a copycat?” I said, plucking my straw out of my glass. “Or that Bogdan has an accomplice?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s interesting.” She breathed in. “That’s all I know.” She flicked her hand at me. “Scoot! I’m dying for a cigarette.”

  I slid across the smooth cracked leather of the booth, but before I stood, I paused and looked up into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about the writing on Jackie?” I wasn’t going to let her out without an answer.

  She gazed at me for a beat—I continued to twirl my sticky straw—then she cracked a weary smile. “B and E are a nightmare, but I don’t want them to go to jail.” Her eyes drifted across the room, past all the commotion. “I don’t want to end up in foster care again.” A tremor of sadness rolled through her. “You get it, right? I’m not eighteen yet.”

  I glanced at her scars. They looked like a child’s unfinished draw-by-numbers. If you connected them, what would they reveal? Something sad? Something morbid? She caught me gawking and drew them in, trying to cover them with her hands.

  “Seriously, scoot,” she said. “I need a smoke.”

  JUDY, OCTOBER 30, 1948

  For me, smoking has always been contemplative, not something you did out in the open on street corners or at bus stops. It’s private, personal. After Philippa peeled off to pee, I plunged into the cold air and sunshine, looking for a place to hide out and take a drag or two. I wandered into the alley behind Horsfield’s, assuming she would sniff me out when she was finished.

  In the stagnant, fried-food-tinted air of the alley, I caught a whiff of smoke—Chesterfields—and spotted Iris slouched against the outside wall of the restaurant, her elbow propped at her side, cigarette poised in her hand, and her mind miles away. “Want company?” I called, and she waved for me to join her.

  She lifted her pack of Chesterfields from her apron to offer me one. “It’s a nasty habit,” she said, “but a necessary one.” I retrieved one, and Iris lighted it with her tarnished brass lighter. “My father’s,” she said. “It brings me good luck.”

  I took a long drag and soaked in the stillness.

  Iris leaned back against the grimy wall and into a bright bar of light. Something about her position, or perhaps how she contrasted with the dreary setting, helped me see past her frumpy, white-collared waitress get-up. Suddenly, there she was—a tall, lean woman with high cheekbones, a long angular nose, and flawless golden-brown skin. Her wavy curls had been gathered and pinned in place under her starched cap. Her bronze eyes caught the light, which exposed their depth, their shrewdness, as if they could penetrate any facade, any bullshit, with a well-aimed glance.

  “That was quite a scene you made,” she said, after blowing a cone of smoke to the sky. “I hope you didn’t leave me a mess to clean up.”

  “Ramona is a twit.”

  “It’s best to ignore girls like her. They’re trouble.”

  “Don’t you get tired of ‘yes ma’am-ing’ her and the other fools who come in?”

  “You can’t fight every fight. I need the job—and I was lucky to get this one. I have tuition to pay, and Mr. H pays well, and he doesn’t put up a fuss if any of us want to eat at his place, although few do if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Still, it’s got to get old.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I want to toss a malt in their pretty faces.” She mimed the gesture. “But the satisfaction isn’t worth the cost. When you get a little older, you’ll understand. The best revenge I can serve up is to go to medical school, get my degree, and do what God—or whoever—sent me here to do.”

  I took another drag.

  Iris never talks about having a boyfriend or men at all. She rarely chitchats about the mundane, like work or the weather or movies. She’s always going on about the news, railing against “separate but equal,” and the absurdity of Jim Crow. She often expresses her admiration for Thurgood Marshall and the NAACP. She mentions the future a lot—her hope for a better society, her plans. “Listen,” she told me once, leaning over Horsfield’s counter so customers couldn’t hear her, “The world is always whispering to us: ‘Sit down, dear. Shut up, sweetie. Look pretty, honey, and maybe a good churchgoing man will want to marry you.’ To hell with that, I say.”

  Iris studied me, flicked ash off her cigarette, and said, “So, who was that with you and Miss Strawberry?” Iris called Philippa “Miss Strawberry” because of her hair color and her Seventeen magazine perkiness.

  “Philippa’s cousin. Quincy. A police officer.”

  “Hmm.”

  “A classmate of ours was murdered.”

  “I read about it. The Closs boy. He liked chocolate malts, no whipped cream. He was dumped in the river, right?”

  “Philippa and I—we’re trying to figure out what’s going on. It might even have something to do with our English teacher.”

  Iris raised her eyebrows and then flung her butt to the pavement and ground it out with the sole of her shoe. “Be careful,” she said, “the Closses are influential. They own that hardware store chain, and they’re big Republicans. Not friends to the Negros. They won’t like you snooping in their business. My father worked for Cleve Closs, Sr.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette.

  “Do you trust Miss Strawberry?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “She seems nervous—like a lot of the other white girls.”

  “Like me?”

  “You know what I mean.” She squared herself with me, her eyes kind, soft. “You’re different.”

  “She’s just… jittery.”

  “Hmm,” Iris said. “Be careful all the same.”

  At the entrance to the alley, I spotted Philippa. The bright sun from the street cast her in silhouette, and traffic swished behind her. She spun this way then that, her skirt flaring and falling, flaring and falling. She was looking for me. I let her search, enjoying her desperation, her huffiness. “Down here!” I shouted finally, and she squinted into the alley like it was a portal to an alternate reality.

  “Back to work,” Iris said, reaching for the door to Horsfield’s.

  PHILIPPA, OCTOBER 30, 1948

  Where had she gone? Why abandon me? I wanted to kill her. The fear she was playing games with me had wormed its way in again. When at last I heard her calling from the alley, I flipped up the collar of my jacket. She deserved a cold shoulder. She ignored the gesture and slipped her arm through mine—and like that, I felt settled again. I was going to say something sharp, but her hand in mine—its firm soothing grip—obliterated the need. Our stride was buoyant and
syncopated, as if we’d been friends for ages, as if we might break into song. Golly, that would’ve been a sight! After pausing for a streetcar to clank by, we dashed across Pennsylvania Avenue and headed up 7th, falling in with a throng of commuters. The wind dragged its icy fingers through our hair, and Judy leaned even closer for warmth.

  We passed by two men with “Dewey or Don’t We” buttons on their lapels. Judy sneered, “Dewey canvassers. What does that asshole stand for? Status quo.” Then louder, in the direction of the men: “You might well be Dixiecrats! Dewey’s dried up! He’s not going to win!”

  It’s unlikely Truman will win next Tuesday. That’s what everyone says, at least. I don’t pretend to care much about politics, which, of course, irks Judy. Regardless, there was something thrilling about hearing her blast the canvassers. Suddenly, I wanted Truman to win, if just to please her.

  We saw a homeless woman with feverish, bloodshot eyes squatting on the stoop of a burger joint named, rather depressingly, Uncle Sam’s. Judy stopped, scooped change out of her pocket, and handed it to the woman, who smiled and said, “God bless you.” Dad always warned me against giving beggars cash. “It rarely does them good,” he said. “Let social programs take care of them.” As we walked on, I said, “She’s just going to use your money for booze.”

  “So what? I would, too,” she replied.

  At the end of the block, Judy yanked me through the door of Somerset’s Bookstore. The front desk was unattended, and the store was packed with books, shelved in tall, mismatched bookcases with surplus volumes stacked precariously on top, little Towers of Pisa threatening to topple. At some crucial nexus, I imagined, there was a single book, some great linchpin novel, like Moby-Dick or War and Peace, that if removed, would cause a cataclysmic domino effect, bringing the entire store to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  Judy glanced around, settled on a direction, and pulled me into one of the canyons of books. We plunged through the life sciences, history, fiction, and the pulps. I even caught the titles of a few Kane novels: The Gemini Case, Seeing Red, and Cry of the Dead.