by Tom Savage
Karen glanced over at Don Price, who was reeling off shots of the dramatic rock formations. When he was done, they hurried to catch up with their host. There was indeed a path here, faint but visible, and Karen wondered how often the old man and his retainers came to this side of the island. Rarely, she decided. It was a difficult trek over a harsh landscape; not something that would attract Mrs. Graves, from what she’d seen of her, and Mr. Graves didn’t look like the outdoor type, either. As they descended toward the beach, she thought about the attraction of this obscure place to two lonely, unusually intelligent teenage boys, and she wondered if returning here had been a prison dream of Wulf Anderman’s, if visions of this island had sustained him in the dull, gray reality of the penitentiary. When they arrived on the sand, she asked him.
“You’re very perceptive, Karen,” he said, and he smiled at her. “I thought about Hangman Cay all the time I was away. I knew I’d find my way back here someday. It’s so removed from the world, and maybe most people would regard it as another form of prison, but it suits me. I feel safe here. I love it.”
“What about Rodney Harper?” Karen asked. “Did he feel the same way about it?”
The old man gazed off across the beach and up at the house on the cliff above its opposite end. He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I was happy here. We both were. It was our private little world. I wonder why it ever had to end.”
Don Price had been standing quietly beside her throughout this exchange, but now he spoke, and his words shocked Karen.
“Well,” he said to the older man, “the two of you did murder five people.”
Karen stared at the photographer, but her surprise was brief. Don Price had a point, a valid one. She turned back to their host to gauge his reaction to it.
Anderman was still looking off at the house in the distance, his back to them. Then he turned around, and the expression on his face was inscrutable.
“Actually, we didn’t murder them,” he said. Then he smiled and added, “What I mean is I didn’t murder them. Roddy did.” With that, he strode away down the beach.
Karen heard the sharp intake of breath beside her, and she and Don Price met each other’s gaze. They turned to stare at the retreating figure, and then they were running, stumbling after him across the white sand.
—
“Those Awful Boys” (conclusion)
One voice speaks most eloquently about the Harper/Anderman murders, and that is the voice of Rodney Harper himself. At Harry S. Truman Airport, as Rodney, handcuffed and flanked by officers, was boarding the plane that would fly him to the mainland prison awaiting him, a member of the ubiquitous international press that had followed them out onto the runway shouted one final question: “Why did you do it?”
Rodney, who had just marked his sixteenth birthday in a cell in Fort Christian, turned on the plane’s mobile stairway, grinned at the reporters and photographers, and tossed off the two words that are still, fifty years later, the best-remembered quote from the case.
“Why not?”
The new film, Bad Boys, re-creates much of the background of the scandal, but just how accurate is it? “Those awful boys” are a mystery, and perhaps their biggest secret is precisely what occurred on that March evening in 1959. As with so much else surrounding the incident, the world may never know.
—
The stone outbuilding beside the house on the cliff had once been the kitchen. In the old days, before electricity and other modern conveniences changed the rules, cooking in the Islands was done away from the residence to keep the excess heat out of the living spaces and reduce the chances of house fires. The lookouts and their families who had once resided here used this building to prepare their food, then took it into the house. Now the defunct brick oven was a cabinet for old paint cans, brushes, and gardening tools. The cobwebbed chamber was further crowded with an ancient mildewed couch, a derelict lawn chair, and a broken Tiffany lamp. Dominating one corner were three huge wooden crates, which had stood there, unopened, since they’d been delivered by boat soon after the new tenant had arrived on the island. The air was thick with the mingled odors of turpentine and insecticide.
In the midst of all this detritus stood a crude worktable, actually a sheet of plywood laid across two old sawhorses. Carl Graves was hunched over it, naked to the waist, sharpening an ivory-handled hunting knife with an iron file. His garish Hawaiian shirt lay on the rotting couch behind him. He was dripping in the oppressive heat of the room, and from time to time he reached up to wipe the sweat from his face or swat a mosquito. He was taking longer than necessary with the task to avoid the main house and Molly’s nonstop complaining.
God, that woman could nag! Even after all these years and his constant, firm discouragement, the silly bitch seemed to be constitutionally incapable of holding her tongue. She’d driven their son from the house with her nagging. The kid had taken off at sixteen, never to be heard from again. Carl could hardly blame him. Molly had been much nicer in her younger days—prettier, too—but now she was a real pain. She just opened her mouth and out it came, whatever was on her tiny mind.
Well, no matter, he thought as he slid the file along the gleaming edge of the blade. I won’t have to put up with the woman much longer. As soon as this gig is over—a couple more days—I’ll be out of here, free and clear, with a terrific bonus. Away from this dull place and on a plane back to the States, to Crystal.
Crystal. Whenever he thought of his favorite dancer in his favorite strip club, he felt a stirring in his blood. He’d been after her for years, but she’d never given him the time of day—until his luck changed. His old pal from prison had shown up in the pool hall downtown one night, looking for him, with a plan and a promise. A million bucks! Carl had only ever dreamed of that kind of money, but now it was nearly his. Two years on this hot, mosquito-infested island, with his crazy bitch of a wife keeping house and cooking, and then the payoff…
He’d never really understood old Huxley, as he insisted on being called now. A spoiled, rich kid from the Virgin Islands who’d taken out his folks with some other millionaire brat, for no good reason that Carl could ever see. But he was a real gentleman, with his perfect speech and table manners. He’d been a constant source of amusement and fascination inside, with all the other cons either envying him or hating his guts. But he’d learned how to get along, teaching a lot of the guys how to read and write, how to hold a fork, correcting their grammar, and advising them about board hearings and appeals and suchlike. Old Hux had been a big man on the block when Carl had come on it—God, some thirty-five years ago now! They’d been cellies for several years, and a friendship had been forged.
It was Hux who’d saved Carl’s ass when that gang of spics had tried to jump him. Carl was all alone on the yard, surrounded by Diego Chavez and his posse, staring down at the shiv pressed against his belly, when his gentlemanly cellmate materialized at his side. Between them, they’d sent four of those beaners to the infirmary. Chavez lost an eye, and he never regained full use of his left arm. God, the sheer rush of trashing the worst gang in the place was worth the extra time! Of course, Hux had copped to most of the action, and he’d gotten a lot more time out of it than Carl, yet another reason Carl felt he owed him….
That was the weird thing about Hux. When he’d tracked Carl down three years ago, Carl still felt beholden to him for always having his back inside. And yet it had been Hux who offered Carl this incredible gig. He was going to this remote island in the West Indies, and he needed Carl and Molly to go with him, run things for him, help him set up some plan he had. At first Hux hadn’t told him much about the plan, but after they were down here, he’d spelled it out. Molly didn’t know anything, of course—the stupid cow would never be able to keep quiet about it if she did.
It was a weird plan, but that was fine with Carl because it meant getting the three things he wanted: money, freedom from Molly, and Crystal Flame, whose real name was Stephana Sewicki, but who cared
? She looked like a Crystal Flame. Danced like one, too. And she sure as hell did everything else like one! In just a few days’ time, she’d be his forever. A million bucks could buy a lot of things, including a beautiful girl half his age. Crystal was waiting for him….
The sound of footsteps outside sent Carl over to the doorway. Hux was hobbling up the steps from the beach, followed by his two guests. He was smiling that half smile of his, and the two young people were clearly upset about something. Carl watched as the three of them crossed the patio to the front door and disappeared inside.
What’s that all about? he wondered.
No matter. He had work to do tonight, but by Friday this would all be over. He’d be free, truly free, for the first time in his life, and he’d be off this godforsaken rock faster than greased lightning. He whistled to himself as he put on his Hawaiian shirt, sheathed the hunting knife, and headed back to the house.
Chapter Six
She hadn’t really thought about the victims.
Karen gazed around the dining room, taking it all in. It was early evening now, and the dark sky and black ocean were practically all that could be seen through the sliding glass doors to the sundeck. There was a faint glow above the horizon that Anderman informed her was the distant lights of Tortola; otherwise, the world outside was a blank.
The crystal chandelier above them and the white candles in silver holders on the table provided a muted glow in the room, burnishing the silverware and gold-rimmed china plates and crystal glasses, softly illuminating the white lace tablecloth and the white damask napkin in her lap. The monogram on the napkin was a single embossed letter, a graceful italic H, and Karen puzzled over this—surely it didn’t stand for Huxley!—until she recalled that Wulf Anderman’s mother had been named Hjordis. All this finery, everything laid out in this elegant room, had presumably once been hers. Karen wondered how Wulf had managed to retrieve it after his long stay in prison. More questions…
H for Hjordis. Hjordis Anderman. No, Karen hadn’t thought about her, or about the other victims of fifty years ago. Not really. She’d been so eager to write her story of the two boys, those shocking, oddly glamorous criminals, that she hadn’t devoted much time to considering the tragedy behind it. These had been real people, and they had been horribly murdered.
This was the unmentionable truth about sensational crimes. The perpetrators tended to be so vivid in the public memory, their faces sometimes as well known as those of movie stars, whereas the people they preyed on often remained anonymous. Everyone knew about Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb, but who remembered the name of the fourteen-year-old boy they strangled and stuffed in a drainpipe? Hjordis Anderman, on whose dishes they were dining, had been a daughter, a wife, a mother. This man’s mother. Her hopes and dreams, her loves and fears, her ideas, everything she had been and could have been—all gone in one mad instant, in a single horrendous act.
Now Wulf Anderman was telling them the story of that long-ago crime and his involvement in it—or, if he was to be believed, his lack of involvement. Part of Karen was listening to him, but she was also staring down at a dead woman’s plates and silver, wondering just what sort of person she had been.
—
Letter from Hjordis Anderman to a friend, four months before the murders
Danemann Haus
St. Thomas, VI
November 6, 1958
My dearest Brid,
Greetings to you in Copenhagen, all the way from the other side of the world! I hope you are well there, you and Piers and Rina. I think about you often, and I wish I were there with you. I have been here in the Islands for twenty-two years now, more than half my life, so distant from the place I have always thought of as home. St. Thomas is not home to me, despite my family. Even now I am not comfortable here, but they have a saying in America about making one’s bed and lying in it, and I suppose that is for me.
Of course the bed I am lying in these days is not my own. I told you about Tobias Harper in my last letter. We drifted into this affair, or whatever it is, out of boredom, I suppose. Well, boredom for me, anyway. Tobias is simply oversexed, and Lucy Harper is in a world all her own, and I am not his only mistress. I am aware of that, but he distracts me, and we provide each other with fair substitutes for his oblivious wife and my absent husband.
You know all about Felix—he has, shall we say, his own interests. There is a certain bar, a tavern on Back Street in town where those men go, especially when the navy ships are in port, and Felix is a regular there. He turns a blind eye to my arrangement with his friend, and I can only reciprocate. We are quite civil about it, really. Add to that his medical office and his surgery at the hospital, and sometimes I don’t see him for days.
I was beginning to fear that Wulfgar would learn of his father’s proclivities, but lately my son is as scarce around here as my husband. He’s forever off somewhere, doing heaven knows what with his only friend on this island, Rodney Harper. It seems somehow fitting, in a baroque sort of way, that my son and my lover’s son would be inseparable companions. Sometimes I think God is punishing me for my wickedness.
I would gladly leave this place. I often imagine it: a plane to San Juan, and thence to London, and on from there to Denmark. I would be back in my beloved Østerbro, in the house where I was born. Is the current tenant taking good care of it? Are my cherry trees still blooming? You must write and tell me.
More than myself, I would dearly love to get Wulfgar away from St. Thomas. I fear for him here on this island. Local society, even my parents’ old friends, will have nothing to do with us or the Harpers, and their children are not allowed to associate with our boys, so of course Wulfgar and Rodney tend to stick together. And that is a very disturbing thing. I do not like young Rodney Harper, and I do not like the influence he exerts over Wulfgar. There is something unwholesome about him, something evil.
Last week was All Hallows’ Eve—or Hallowe’en, as they call it here—and the two of them dressed in costume and went out to solicit candy, as all the other children were doing. Wulfgar got himself up as Count Dracula, in his father’s dinner clothes with a cape and wax fangs. But that other one, Rodney—well, I didn’t see his disguise, but I certainly heard about it later; the whole island did. Brid, he dressed as Der Fuhrer! Adolf Hitler himself! Can you imagine anything so tasteless? Poor Lucy Harper. Many of the parents called her to complain about him, and she, of course, had no idea, too busy as she was with her constant friends, Messrs. Martini and Rossi. Some other boys from their school caught him and gave him a brutal beating. Wulfgar was spared, thank God, but Rodney had a blackened eye and bruises all over. Just as he deserved, in my opinion, but how I wish I could get my son away from the wretch! I swear that boy will end his days in prison or a madhouse.
Enough of this. All I seem to do lately is count off my many tribulations, and it must be dreary for you, in that cheerful city with your beautiful family. How I envy you, and how I miss you! I shall contrive to visit you as soon as I possibly can. In the spring, perhaps. I shall bring Wulfgar with me, and who knows? We might just stay there, in my true hometown, and St. Thomas can sink into the ocean for all I care! Dear Brid, think kindly of your erring friend in this terrible place. Until we meet again, I remain
Your loving Hjordis
—
“I didn’t want to do it,” Wulfgar Anderman was saying. “It was all Roddy’s idea. I just went along with it, as I always did with his elaborate ideas. By the time I came to my senses and changed my mind, it was already happening. We were there, and I…I…”
He trailed off here, looking down at his plate. There was silence in the dimly lit dining room. Sid leaned back in the comfortable chair, amused to see Karen and their host reach simultaneously for their wineglasses. Sid knew that neither he nor Karen would speak. The old man had trailed off at what was evidently a painful point in his story, and he would resume it in his own good time.
When Anderman finally put down his wineglass and conti
nued, still staring abstractedly at the plate before him, his words came as a shock. “I struck the first blow. That’s horrible, isn’t it? But it’s true. I had a knife, a long, sharp one that Mr. Harper’s foreman used for cutting rope and twine, and I stabbed my father with it. Right through his heart. Then—well, then I must have fainted. Roddy was the one with the machete. When I regained consciousness—it must have been a while later, maybe fifteen minutes—when I came to, it was over. They were all…”
Another long pause for another sip of wine, and in this interval Sid looked over at Karen Tyler again. The three of them had dined on rare roast beef, of all things, and their plates were barely full, awaiting removal by the efficient, ugly Mrs. Graves. Karen was staring down at her plate, at the traces of bloody grease and bits of fat and roasted potato that remained there, and she looked distinctly queasy. As well she should. It was tactful of the ever-cordial Anderman to save this particular detail for the end of the meal. Still, dessert and coffee would be here soon, and Sid wondered if the man would be so rude as to provide them, at this moment, with a blow-by-blow description of the carnage.
Two oft-reproduced forensic pictures came into his mind now. He remembered the long shot of the four bodies on the veranda, lying in heaps around the rattan table with its overturned pitchers and shattered glasses, the wood marred here and there with pools and patches of what was quite obviously blood. One of the four was no longer recognizable as a human figure. The other image that flashed in his mind was even worse: a bulky form seated in a wooden chair, slumped over a crowded kitchen table, one plump, ebony arm hanging down nearly to the floor. Bernice Watkins, the housekeeper, had been struck from behind with the machete, splitting her skull.