by EQM
Literally, enter, as she taps on the door of the D.A. and is instructed to “Come in.” The D.A. is a large, extremely handsome black man someplace in his mid fifties. His voice, deep and rich, seems to come from the very core of his being. His name is Hugh Mosley, and he is used to his assistant D.A.s entering his office and saying, “Hugh-ston, we have a problem.” It happens almost every day. Today Lara says, “Hugh, we have a problem.” His head snaps up. He knows real trouble when he hears it.
“Sit down,” he says.
Lara is a tall, slender, attractive woman in her early forties. She has beautiful auburn hair cut in a no-nonsense boyish style that suits her features well. Her makeup is reserved, as is her mode of dressing. She loves the challenge of a trial and aspires to nothing higher than her present job; she absolutely loves the work she does. (Or did, until this case came up and the reports flowed in.)
Lara begins her story, most of which we already know. (And from here, dear lover of fairytales, there will be no happy ending. But you realized that, didn’t you? Just one sad assistant district attorney laying out the sad facts of a sad case.)
“The blood on the doorframe,” she tells Hugh Mosley, “appears to have gotten there by someone with blood on his or her clothes leaving the scene, given the direction of the blood swipe.” She pauses. “Hugh, we ran the DNA. It’s Natasha Miller’s blood.”
“What the hell! Natasha Miller works here!”
“Yep!”
“You sure it isn’t the victim’s?”
“Oh, there’s some of that mixed in, but apparently whoever killed Steve McGuire—and I’m thinking Natasha Miller was at least at the scene, given the DNA—got cut in the process, maybe by the murder weapon or by the glass vase that Steve tried to use as a defensive weapon. Anyway, there are two bloods on the doorframe: one is Steve’s; one is Natasha’s.”
“Shit!” (Not the language of fairytales, but we must go with the times.)
“Since she works here, she was in the system, so when we ran the DNA, Bingo! who pops up but our Natasha. Which means we have the blood of five people at the scene of the crime.” She enumerates on her fingers: “Steve, the victim. Holly, the victim’s wife. Holly’s mother, Holly’s father. And that of Natasha Miller.”
(She leans forward, her hands clasped in “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple.” The steeple points at D.A. Mosley.)
“What was Natasha doing at that house?”
“I think she was having an affair with him. God knows, she’s tried every man in this office.”
Hugh Mosley has the grace to blush, a charming coloration to his already dark skin. (We wonder just how far she got with that. Not very, if we know Hugh Mosley.)
“There was a note in his pocket from somebody named ‘R,’ which doesn’t make sense with Natasha, but maybe it was a pet name.
(Well, we know, don’t we? Stevie didn’t show up for his assignation with “R” after his “tedious faculty meeting” and she got mad. Hell hath no fury ... There’s much to be said for old adages.)
“Hugh, it gets really heavy here,” she says.
“Oh, right! It’s not heavy with a member of the D.A.’s staff at the scene of the crime?”
(Mosley has a penchant for sarcasm. Probably his one fault.)
“Not compared to what I have to tell you. Judy at the lab ran the DNA for us and she came to me with this information. Holly—the vic’s wife—her DNA doesn’t match the DNA of her parents.”
“Adopted,” Hugh Mosley says, sounding happy to have solved at least this issue on the spot.
“That’s what I thought,” Lara says. “So I mentioned adoption or natural child to the parents when I was talking to them—naturally they weren’t exactly pleased to be talking to me since I’m supposed to be prosecuting their daughter—can’t really blame them—and the mother got all huffy and said, ‘She’s our natural child!’ So, I checked the stats on Holly and traced her birth to the hospital where she was born.” Lara sits back in her chair and folds her arms. “Hugh, there were two babies delivered in the same delivery room on the same night at exactly the same time. The hospital was undergoing some renovation and space was limited, so two women ended up in one delivery room. One of the women was Anita Singleton, Holly’s mother, and the other was a Margaret Miller, Natasha’s mother.”
“Oh, shit,” Hugh Mosley says again. “Are you going where I think you’re going with this?”
Lara nods. “The blood we identified as Natasha’s is an offspring match for the blood of Holly’s parents. Hugh, those babies were switched in the delivery room.”
“Oh, Christ! That will be a strong charge to make,” Hugh says.
“I know. The doctor’s dead, but I tracked down the nurse who was on duty that night. She’s long retired.” Lara takes a minute to look at her notes. “Her name is Ida Shimblebone. Jeez! What a witch! (DID I TELL YOU?!! DID I TELL YOU?!!) “She lives in this tiny furnished apartment. The landlord, who seems to spend all his time in the garden, says she’s been there for ages.”
“And she said?” Hugh asks. His head is in his hands.
“She was on me like white on rice,” Lara says. “Screaming, yelling. I had no right to accuse her—her record with the hospital was spotless—how dare I? I think she doth protest too much. She practically pushed me out of her apartment and slammed the door behind me. (And did a merry little dance around the sad little apartment. But only we know that.) We will probably have to subpoena her.”
“And you think the Millers are Holly’s biological parents?”
Lara nods.
“Do I want to know why you think that?”
Lara shakes her head.
“Didn’t think so. Anything we can use in court?”
Lara shakes her head again. (A lot of head action going on here, but with good reason. Lara struck up a casual, on purpose, conversation with Natasha—Natasha having no knowledge of the DNA report—and found out that Natasha’s parents, who aren’t really her parents, but we’ve known that for a long time—have a date night every Friday night—every Friday that Robert isn’t on the road, that is—with margaritas at Pablo’s Mexican Restaurant followed by dinner at George’s Steak House. “They’re so predictable,” Natasha had said. “Thank God,” Lara had said—to herself. It was a simple matter of an exchange of money and two replacement glasses and Lara had two used margarita glasses to take to the lab. None of this does Hugh Mosley need to know.)
“Is any of this relevant to our case? We can let Holly off the hook and proceed with a case against Natasha—God! I hate to think of someone from our office involved! Shit!” He slams his fist on the desktop. “Ouch. Damn!” He is quiet for a moment, shaking his hand, and then he asks, “Does anyone need to know about the switched babies? I mean, after all this time, is it really relevant? It doesn’t have anything to do with who murdered Steve McGuire. Right? Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t have anything to do with the switched babies.” Lara clears her throat and then continues. “However, when these women see the other young woman, the one that is biologically their daughter, they are going to know something is seriously wrong.”
The D.A. is doodling on a scrap of paper, apparently totally intrigued with his efforts.
“Natasha is a dead ringer for Anita Singleton, Hugh, and Holly looks an awful lot like Margaret Miller. And I don’t know how you would be able to keep them apart, what with a trial and all.”
(It’s all nature vs. nurture, isn’t it?)
“It’s all nature versus nurture, isn’t it?” Lara says. (A rhetorical question if I ever heard one.)
“Huh?”
“I mean, Anita Singleton gives birth to a murderer but raises a beautiful, intelligent, good citizen. Whereas Margaret Miller gives birth to this good citizen but raises a murderer. Be an interesting study for some psychology student.”
Hugh Mosley looks up from his art work. “I need to think about this, Lara. Come in tomorrow
morning and we’ll hash it out then.”
“Sure. In the meantime, I’m going to depose the wicked witch. (Good luck!) Just in case we need her information.”
“Who?”
“The obstetrics nurse.”
“Whatever,” Mosley says. He has returned to his doodles.
And so our tale continues. Lara Schuller returns to the rented and furnished apartment of the wicked witch. The landlord is still in the garden and she wonders if he ever leaves to sleep. She has to admit the garden is a work of art.
“I’m back,” she tells him.
He looks up from the plant he is tending. “So I see,” he says. “You here to see Ida again?”
Lara nods.
“Haven’t seen her out of her apartment since the day you were here. Not that she ever comes out much. Days at a time, I don’t see her.”
“I’ll just go knock,” Lara says and turns to walk up the steps to the second-level walkway. The landlord watches her, his lips pursed.
There is no answer to Lara’s knock. (Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?)
She leans over the low balcony and calls down to the landlord. “She’s not in, apparently,” she says.
He frowns and stands his shovel against the fence. “I’ll be right up,” he says.
“Not a young woman,” he tells Lara, this man who will never see seventy-five again. “She could have fallen.” He knocks, a perfunctory gesture, and puts his key in the lock. “Ida,” he calls. “Ida.” Hesitantly, Lara follows the landlord as he steps into the small entryway and closes the door firmly behind them. She’s not squeamish, but neither is she wanting to see what they are both expecting.
(However, they would be wrong.)
The apartment is empty except for the furnishings that came with the apartment when Ida Shimblebone rented it. A brief survey tells them both that Ms. Shimblebone is not in the apartment, nor are any of her clothes or other personal objects.
“My God!” The landlord exclaims. “It’s like she never lived here. There’s nothing!” He turns to Lara. “But I never saw her leave. And I would have.”
(Does the man never sleep?)
“Maybe at night, while you were asleep?” she offers.
“My son takes the night duty,” the landlord tells her. “There is always somebody on watch here.”
Lara finds that just a bit cloying, but says nothing.
The landlord wanders about the tiny place, shaking his head. The bed is a headboard and bare mattress, the medicine cabinet is empty, as is the refrigerator. Lara opens the dresser drawers, but they yield nothing. Drawers in the kitchen, except for those holding minimal utensils, are also empty. The shelves hold only a few plates, cups, and bowls. One pot and one frying pan are in the oven drawer. Lara is reminded of the time her parents took her camping and they stayed in a “furnished” cabin. “The bare necessities,” her father sang.
“I just can’t believe it,” the landlord says. “She was a model tenant. Always on time with the rent, almost never asking for anything.” He runs his finger over a small table that sits beside the one comfortable chair in the apartment, then checks his finger for dust. It is clean. “Oh, once her refrigerator went out and we had to replace that, but nothing else except the occasional plumbing issue. She almost never went anyplace. Had her groceries delivered. I called a cab for her a few times when she went to the doctor or dentist.”
“Any guests?”
“Never saw a one except the time you came. Your visit sort of surprised me.”
He looks at her questioningly, as though to draw from her the reason for her two visits.
Lara is having none of it. “What a lonely life,” she muses, feeling some compassion for the woman.
The landlord just shrugs, as though the thought of loneliness has never occurred to him. “Well, she watched a lot of television,” he says. “Speaking of which, the television is gone. That was hers. Television sets are not part of our ‘furnished apartments.’” He massages his chin. “How did she get it out? She would have needed help. She couldn’t have carried it by herself.” Again he shakes his head. “It’s like she never was here at all.”
Silently, Lara agrees.
(Well, what did they expect? This is a fairytale. These things happen.)
They are standing by the stripped bed and the landlord is still shaking his head, when Lara feels something rub against her leg. She yelps.
A large and very beautiful (and black, need I mention that?) cat is standing, looking up at her.
“Oh, my gawd!” Lara exclaims. She stoops and lifts the cat in her arms. “Hello, Beauty,” she says. She turns to the landlord. “See, she did have one friend. Would you look at those eyes!” She nuzzles the cat.
The landlord shudders. “Where did that thing come from. PUT IT OUT!”
“It’s been in the apartment all this time.” Lara says. “She left her cat behind.”
“We DO NOT allow pets in the apartments. NO EXCEPTIONS! Ms. Shimblebone DID NOT HAVE A CAT. I would have known. I have a nose for such things.” Again he shudders. “Filthy, FILTHY! Put it OUTSIDE!”
“I won’t,” Lara says. “Ms. Shimblebone went off and left this beautiful animal. I’ll take it to the Humane Society and see if it’s chipped. (We know it’s not chipped, don’t we? Of course it wouldn’t be.) If it isn’t, I’ll just keep it. Were you hiding under the bed, Beauty?” she asks. Again, she nuzzles her face in the shiny fur.
“STOP THAT!” the landlord shouts. “How can you STAND such a creature?”
But Lara has left the apartment, the cat in her arms, leaving the landlord still shuddering.
The cat purrs with contentment. There is a twinkle in her beautiful green eyes.
Lara gives up her plans to depose the wicked witch.
And so, my friends, as I said before, there is no happy ending to this story. (Well, maybe one small one: Beauty and Lara.) But none of the main participants will be living happily ever after. Eventually, Hugh Mosley calls both families in, but separately, and explains the findings of the DNA testing. Natasha is charged on a count of Murder One. A sample of her handwriting, taken from the application forms she filled out when she entered the employ of the district attorney (although any scrap of paper from her desk would have shown as much—however, fruit of the poisoned tree, and all that), matched the handwriting on the note found in Steve McGuire’s pocket. That, her blood on the doorframe, and an alibi that is so full of holes it is laughable, are enough for Mosley to go ahead with the charge. She pleads “Not Guilty” and serves as her own counsel. (Did the girl learn nothing in law school?!)
The judge instructs the jury on lesser-included and the jury returns a verdict of Guilty of Second Degree Murder. “Passion of the moment,” is how they explain their decision. Lara is disappointed. She tried so hard to convince the jury that the act of picking up the knife showed premeditation. The jury didn’t buy it.
Natasha’s days are spent in the prison law library, drafting her appeal. Her parents, who are really not her parents, never visit. They have completely washed their hands of her—after all, she is not their child—and try to ingratiate themselves with Holly. (There is that thread of Russian ancestry to consider, and Margaret is reluctant to let go of it.)
Holly is not interested. The Singletons gather round Holly. (The 3bd. 2ba. having been sold to a very strange man with voyeuristic tendencies who finds the idea of faint bloodstains on the hardwood reason enough to throw cocktail parties.)
Holly has (wisely) determined herself unfit to work in the field of early childhood education, given her bouts of extreme depression (depressed because her husband is dead? Because he was two-timing her? Shock from finding him with the Santoku sticking out of his chest? Because the parents she has loved all her life are really not her parents? All of the above? I, personally, would suggest counseling.), and wanders aimlessly around the Singleton home, weeping intermittently, while Anita makes quantities of chicken-noodle soup (although she will
eat none herself) which Holly sips to please her mother (who is really not her mother and now they both know it).
Anita sobs softly into her pillow at night, thinking of the beautiful, lonely (murderous) girl with the wild dark curls (so like her own.—The picture’s been in the paper often.) and tries to summon the strength to plan a visit to the prison. Johnny just pats her on the back and says, “Shush, shush.”
As usual, Johnny can’t find the appropriate words. Surely by now he must realize that had he spoken up after the bachelor party, instead of worrying about his huge nonrefundable deposits, probably none of this would have happened. The catastrophe of mum.)
And Lara and Beauty? They are house-sitting at Lara’s parents’ home while her parents, Frank and Tatiana Ivanoff Schuller, are visiting Tatiana’s family in St. Petersburg, Russia.
(There is just a bit of delicious irony in this, don’t you think?)
Copyright © 2010 Carol Biederman
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Fiction
A PRAYER ANSWERED
By David Dean
Art by Allen Davis
Real-life police chief David Dean has a new case for his fictional police chief Julian Hall. EQMM has been publishing Julian Hall stories for some twenty years, but Julian wasn’t always a police chief. Like his creator, he’s climbed the ranks of the Jersey shore force to which he belongs. This time Juian investigates alongside his priest, in a case that’s a test of faith. Mr. Dean is an EQMM Readers Award winner, a Derringer Award nominee, and, currently, for his EQMM story “Erin’s Journal.”
Father Gregory hastily parked the old black Buick a half-block from his destination, running it up onto the curb in the darkness. Driving was still a new experience for the priest and only recently learned. In his native India, his diocese had been far too poor to afford such luxuries as automobiles and, he thought with a sigh, he had been much thinner in those days as a result. With a grunt, he slid out of the tilted vehicle. In one hand, he clutched the valise that contained the Sacraments, while the other struggled to keep the white stole round his neck from being blown off in the rising wind.