Senator

by Richard Bowker

  Had she not bothered asking me because she knew who the murderer was? Had she agreed to play the role of the supportive wife because that was the best way to protect herself? The reason Liz gave in Nantasket hadn't been especially convincing. It was much more likely that she needed to keep people from believing that Amanda and I were having an affair because that would give her a stronger motive even than my own. The scorned wife, lusting for revenge. The tabloids would love it.

  Did I really believe that Liz was capable of murder?

  It hardly seemed possible. But she had just confessed that she told a reporter the most damaging thing she knew about me, and I wouldn't have believed she could do that. It was bizarre; it was self-defeating; it was irrational. But then, Liz had never been rationality's biggest fan. Hell, she was getting a doctorate in irrationality, as far as I could tell.

  Words were one thing, though; stabbing a person to death was something else entirely.

  But then I remembered the time she had asked for a gun after I became attorney general. "Do you honestly think you could shoot someone?" I asked her.

  "If he was trying to break in here and harm Kathleen, I'd rip his heart out with my bare hands," she responded, with an intensity that was utterly convincing.

  I shivered, imagining the two women together. A dark Friday afternoon. One more confrontation, Amanda would think. Was she worried, upset, bored? Was she thinking: Why do I deserve this? I'm not even seeing her husband anymore, and still I'm being harassed. She tries to persuade Liz: It's over. We were too different. We couldn't get past the roles we were playing.

  But Liz doesn't believe her. She has come here ready to fight. She's fighting for more than her marriage; she's fighting for her self. She hates this woman. Amanda is the focus of all her frustrations with me, with our marriage, with her life.

  Amanda, too, becomes angry. She doesn't have to put up with this.

  The emotions finally explode. Liz comes after Amanda, who retreats to the kitchen. She picks up a knife. Liz wrests it from her. She attacks. Then, in a panic, she tries to make it look like a robbery, like the work of a psycho, like anything but a banal crime of passion committed by a jealous wife.

  Oh, God.

  I got out of bed and groped for my robe and slippers in the dark. It was a cold night, and Liz refuses to turn on the heat until we can see our breath indoors. I put on the robe and slippers and padded silently downstairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs I stood for a moment, hand on the newel post, and wondered what to do next. Get a glass of milk? Go for a drive? Call Marge or Kevin or Roger? They'd be happy to hear from me, even at this hour, but I didn't feel like it. I went into my office; the light of the answering machine was blinking, as it usually was, notifying me of messages that were undoubtedly of vital national significance. I ignored it and sat down in the leather chair behind the desk.

  The room is small and jammed with lawbooks that I never glance at anymore. Its one window looks out on the driveway. Kathleen used to wave to me as she and her mother pulled up from doing the shopping; it was my signal to come help with the bundles. Next to the window is my framed law degree, which I brought back from the practice after I was elected attorney general. The wallpaper was starting to peel beneath the window, I noticed. The sight made me terribly sad.

  This was the first room we redecorated after we bought the house. I was starting out in private practice, and Liz wanted me to have a professional-looking office in which to do my work at home. Ah, that was a wonderful time! I don't think Liz has ever been happier: new baby, new house, lucrative new career for her husband. We were the perfect American family. Roger and I would become filthy rich, and everyone would live happily ever after.

  Roger and Doris came over to inspect the room when it was finished, bringing champagne to toast our future success. Liz was still breast-feeding and only had a sip, but I can remember looking into her eyes as we clinked glasses and seeing more sparkle there than in the whole bottle.

  And what had come of it all? We could not have been more successful. But now, I thought, Doris is dead. She was always a meek little creature, and when the doctors diagnosed her cancer, she seemed to accept her fate as her due, and then she shriveled up and finally disappeared, as if grateful to no longer be taking up space in this strange, harsh world. Now Roger sits home alone nights, drinking and getting fat, with nothing to keep his interest in life. And now Liz, if she isn't a murderer, is at least willing to destroy me, along with whatever it is that we have created together.

  And Jim?

  Abruptly I had an awful vision of myself, perhaps sent to me, once again, by one of Liz's mystical entities. I had spent my life restlessly pursuing one goal after another: get into Harvard; convince Liz to marry me; become a successful lawyer; win the election for attorney general, then U.S. senator; get reelected... and then? Perhaps none of these goals had meant anything to me. Perhaps I was just mindlessly trying to exorcise my childhood demons, over and over again. See, Dad, I'm a good boy; I was worth bringing into this world, even if Mom had to die. See, Danny, I can be as successful as you, even if you're older and more popular and better at sports I couldn't care less about anyway.

  And that was why I was so eager to give up my law career, just when I was assured of success. Where was the challenge in that case? It couldn't be very hard if I was that good at it. In politics, at least, you are never assured of success; there is always another election, another chance to fail.

  I thought again about Danny and about Liz's charge that he meant more to me than my wife and daughter. In a way she was probably right, if only because your childhood demons are so much stronger than any of the other demons in your life.

  I found myself remembering a beautiful Saturday in fall when I was twelve. As usual I spent most of it in my room reading, but I finished my book and got bored. My bedroom was as jammed with books as my office is now; I read whatever I could get my hands on: science fiction, lives of the saints (to Gramma's delight and my father's chagrin), history, even adolescent sports novels. Buzzer Basket. Triple-Threat Quarterback. But that day was just too beautiful to stay indoors, and I decided to go for a ride on my bike.

  I ended up in a park near where we lived. There was a touch football game going on; Danny was playing, and of course, he was the star. He was only average in size, but he was faster, trickier, and stronger than all the other kids; he seemed to be playing in another league altogether.

  I watched for a while, not having anything better to do, and then the players were motioning to me. One of the kids had to go home; they needed me to take his place to keep the sides even. I shook my head. "I don't play," I said.

  "Come on. What are you, a sissy?"

  "I'm not a sissy. I just don't play."

  Danny came over to me. "You're playing," he said.

  I wanted to run away, but it was too late. I couldn't face down everyone; I had to play. I joined the huddle. Danny was on the other team. He grinned at me. I knew what was coming.

  It took a few minutes. We were on offense, and I had nothing to do but make feeble attempts at blocking the pass rush. Then we punted, and Danny's team got the ball. Now I was supposed to defend against one of their wide receivers. I stayed on the opposite side of the field from Danny, who caught everything that was thrown to him. But after a few plays their wide receivers crisscrossed, and Danny was coming straight toward me. The ball came spinning through the clear blue sky from the quarterback. I stayed back and let Danny catch it; I didn't want him to get past me and score.

  He started to run. I got ready to tag him. He slowed down in front of me. He feinted left and right. I tried to match his feints, tried to be as graceful and clever as he was. I reached out for him—and he wasn't there. I lost my balance and fell to the ground as Danny trotted in for the touchdown.

  "Nice try," he muttered as he walked past me, but he was grinning once again, and my teammates looked at me with disgust.

  I played for a while longer
to keep from acting like a sore loser, and then I made up an excuse and left the game; no one bothered to stop me. I rode my bike home and went up to my safe, familiar bedroom. I tried starting another book, but the words blurred on the page. And then I was crying, hot, despairing childhood tears over the injustice of life and the impossibility of change. This was it. This was the way it would always be. Why had I ever been born?

  I didn't cry again until I saw Amanda's corpse.

  Well. That was long ago. I stood up. No sense getting maudlin. It's too tempting for an Irishman. Besides, it just wasn't fair. Sure, I had my childhood demons, but damn it, they didn't rule my life. Did they?

  If I couldn't figure out the truth about myself, how could I figure out the truth about Liz?

  I decided to get a glass of milk. I went into the kitchen and took the carton out of the refrigerator. As I did, I felt something on my ankles and looked down; Angelica was curling herself around my legs, acting more friendly to me than she had in months. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" I said. She started purring. "Milk isn't good for you, did you know that?" She didn't know that. I got a saucer and poured some milk into it. Angelica jumped up onto the counter, and I let her lap it up there, flouting one of Liz's sacred household rules. Then I decided, what the heck, and I flouted another, drinking directly from the carton. "Don't tell a soul," I whispered to Angelica. She didn't respond, but I knew I could count on her.

  As I put the carton away, I noticed the calendar taped to the refrigerator door. On it was the household schedule: dentist appointments, Kathleen's gymnastics lessons, Liz's classes, my comings and goings. I looked at the schedule for the day Amanda was murdered. From two-thirty to five-thirty Liz had her course on mysticism over at Cabot. Kathleen had penciled in "Dad Back" underneath.

  So Liz was in school when it happened. She had an alibi.

  That was fine with me. I didn't want to be a jerk; I didn't want Liz to be a murderer. I leaned my head against the cool metal of the refrigerator door. For some reason I felt like crying again. Angelica whined for more milk. I gave her some, then carried her upstairs and set her gently down in Kathleen's room. She jumped onto the bed and settled in. I returned to my own bed and did the same.

  * * *

  When I woke up again, it was morning, and I realized that I would have to check out Liz's alibi before I could let the matter rest. But how?

  Kevin picked me up in the campaign car, and we were off on a long day of campaigning. Kevin had no more news to report from his private eye. "Sharpe will come up with something, though," he promised as we drove from one event to the next. "Did you mention to Liz about how we have a witness that saw her at the victim's place?"

  "Yeah. She was thrilled. Listen, Kevin, you remember driving Liz over to school after Amanda Taylor's funeral? She mentioned a course that she was taking—on the mystic tradition?"

  "Sure."

  "Her professor—what was his name?"

  "Zacharias," Kevin replied promptly. It was part of his job to remember names.

  "Right. Liz mentioned his name again this morning, but of course, I forgot it right away. The thing is, she said this guy knew how friendly she was with Amanda, and maybe we ought to talk to him."

  "Great. I'll tell Sharpe to track him down."

  "Well, I was thinking instead maybe I'd like to talk to him myself. Liz is forever telling me about him. I want to take an interest in her studies, you know."

  "No problem, Senator. I'll get his number for you."

  "Thanks, Kevin."

  The next stop, as luck would have it, was a Catholic youth convention, where I had to give a speech about "Family Values." It was boilerplate, which was a blessing, because I couldn't keep my mind on it. I cut it short after a few minutes and let the fine young nonvoting Catholics ask me questions. Most of the questions, as I expected, were powder puffs, but I finally got a zinger from a stocky, serious-looking girl who demanded to know if I had ever been unfaithful to my wife. Some people in the audience hissed. The poor girl turned red but stood her ground. She'd make a great nun, I thought, and my heart suddenly went out to her. No one would ever lust after her the way I had lusted after Amanda. "The short answer is no," I replied. "The long answer is: I really shouldn't answer you, because I don't think it's any of your business."

  "But why isn't a candidate's character our business?" the girl persisted. "Lots of us wouldn't vote for someone we knew had committed adultery."

  "Fair enough. But how does asking me the question help you decide? If I'm an adulterer, why couldn't I also be a liar? And if I honestly believe it's none of your business and I refuse to answer, then you think I'm ducking the question and you mistakenly decide I'm guilty. So I believe the public is better served if candidates simply aren't asked that kind of question. Judge us on our public records; that way you're much more likely to judge correctly."

  The girl looked as if she wanted to defend herself, but the priest who was running things hustled her away from the microphone and gave someone else a chance. I didn't feel very good about my response; Harold certainly wouldn't have approved. Too abstract; too argumentative. That's what happened when I wasn't sufficiently tuned in to what I was doing. I tried harder for the remaining questions, but I didn't get any better.

  Kevin was waiting backstage when I finished. "Got the number," he said as we headed off to our next stop. "The guy lives in Belmont—Bobby Finn territory."

  "Belmont has many fine citizens, I'm sure," I said. Kevin grinned. "Thanks, Kevin."

  He grinned some more. "Anytime."

  I called the number from my car phone while Kevin was using the rest room at a gas station. A young girl answered. When I asked for her father, she dropped the receiver without a word and went off in search of him. "Hello?" a deep male voice answered finally.

  "Is this Professor Zacharias?"

  "Indeed it is." He had the kind of voice that could make a weather report sound profound. I pictured a middle-aged guy with a goatee, threadbare jacket and chinos, battered briefcase, abstracted air of brilliance. The students at Cabot were no doubt suitably impressed.

  "Professor, this is Senator Jim O'Connor. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

  Of course, he'd heard of me. "Yes, why, certainly. My goodness. What can I do for you, Senator?"

  So how could I approach this? Professor, can you help me clear my wife of murder? "Professor, you probably know that my wife is taking your course on the mystic tradition at Cabot."

  "She is?"

  Let's not get too absentminded, Professor. "My wife, Liz," I said. "Elizabeth O'Connor. Blond, good-looking, early forties."

  "One moment please, I have my class list here somewhere." Rattling of papers. "No, I thought not. There's no Elizabeth O'Connor registered. Are you quite sure you have the right course?"

  I looked out the window at the gas pumps, the squeegee in the pail of water, the used car for sale. Automatic, AM/FM, Factory Air. Kevin was approaching from the rest room. It was starting to rain. "A history course," I said, "about Greek myths and such. Zeus. Athena. Right?"

  Professor Zacharias chuckled. "No, no. Not the mythic tradition, the mystic tradition. St. Teresa of Avila. Swedenborg. William Blake. That's my course. You must have misheard your wife."

  I chuckled back. "Oh, how stupid of me. Of course. The mythic tradition. I'm so sorry to have disturbed you, Professor."

  "Not at all. I'm not one of your supporters, but I do admire the forthrightness of your positions."

  "Well, thank you very much. Perhaps I'll be able to change your mind by election day. Good-bye now."

  I hung up. Kevin got back in the car. "Ready for the next one, Senator?" he said.

  Liz wasn't taking the course. I smiled. "Ready."

  She had lied to me, and she had no alibi. Worse, she had lied about her alibi. Kevin started up the car, and off we went in the rain.

  My wife had lied about her alibi, and she had a motive, and for the life of me I didn't know if she was capable
of committing murder.

  So how was I supposed to campaign for the Senate with that on my mind?

  Chapter 19

  The case against Liz seemed pretty strong until, for some reason, I decided to look at it as her defense attorney. Then it began to crumble.

  Liz hated Amanda, hated being the scorned wife. Okay, granted, that's your motive, but there's plenty of hatred in this world, and most of the time it doesn't lead to murder. Surely telling Amanda about me and Jackie Scanlon was enough to satisfy her hatred.

  Liz lied about taking the course. But how could that relate to Amanda's murder? Liz is an intelligent woman. If she were trying to construct an alibi for the murder, what did her phantom course accomplish? Nothing, because one phone call was enough to prove that she was lying. Less than nothing, in fact, because her lying casts suspicion so readily on her. If she's a liar, people may think, why not a murderer? So why lie so gratuitously?

  Liz said she'd murder to protect her daughter. And she's a licensed gun owner. These random observations occurred to me, but I immediately dismissed them as irrelevant. Her desire to protect her daughter had nothing to do with murdering her husband's lover. And if she really was planning a murder, why not use the gun instead of brawling with Amanda in her kitchen?

  And furthermore:

  What about the man seen entering Amanda's apartment building? The case against Liz made him utterly extraneous.

  Why was Amanda's apartment ransacked? Liz had no motive to do that.

  What about the missing tape? No help there.

  How could Liz stab Amanda to death? I suppose she had the physical capacity to do it—but not without sustaining some damage herself. I saw her hours after the murder, and I didn't remember any bruises, any scratches, anything at all to indicate that she had just been in a fight to the death with her archrival.

  Having poked plenty of holes in the case against Liz, like any good defense attorney, I cast around for other suspects. Was the case against her any stronger than the case against them?