Death in Lovers' Lane

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “And you couldn’t wait to tell him I assigned the series to Maggie.”

  “True. Or false. Not an essay question.” His tone mocked.

  “And you’ll be running the series, of course.”

  “Sure.”

  “Dennis?” I waited until he looked away from his computer and up at me. “You’re tenured, aren’t you?”

  His eyes twitched away from mine. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  But he knew as well as I did.

  At my desk, my eyes slid past a recent photo of Jimmy and me climbing the steps of the Pyramid of the Moon at Teotihuacán. Instead, I reached for the silver-framed photo of Richard. Holding it, I could feel some of my anger and frustration seeping away. I could hear his voice, as I heard it so many times for so many years, “Easy does it, Henrie O, easy does it.”

  Richard always counseled patience and restraint. At the same time, he enjoyed my volatility. It was Richard who gave me my nickname, saying I packed more surprises into a single day than O. Henry ever put in a short story.

  What would Richard do? I sought my answer in the face which had meant the world to me.

  I grinned. Richard loved that old newspaper saying, “Your mother says she loves you. Check it out.”

  Check it out.

  three

  HE hallway outside The Clarion morgue hosts a row of vending machines. True to the spirit of the nineties, I didn’t break for dinner. Instead, I retrieved an apple, a box of raisins, a bag of peanuts, and a can of orange juice. The juice tasted disagreeably metallic. I ate as I continued to work. It was a far cry from long-ago newsrooms, where shiny glazed doughnuts and asphalt-black coffee reigned supreme. Or shared honors with fifths of bourbon stashed in bottom desk drawers.

  The Clarion morgue isn’t staffed after five. The silence was broken only once. A sports reporter thudded in, seeking the obituary file of an alumnus who had led the football team to a bowl championship in 1954. Otherwise, I had the place to myself. With the doors to the hall closed, it was as quiet—as a morgue.

  The 1988 Rosen-Voss murders and the 1983 Murdoch acquittal were on computer. I had to dig among dusty bound ledgers for the 1976 coverage on the disappearance of Darryl Nugent, dean of students.

  I started with the Rosen-Voss case, scrolling up the coverage of Sunday, April 17, 1988:

  25

  STUDENTS SHOT TO DEATH IN LOVERS’ LANE

  Generations of Thorndyke students have found romance in Lovers’ Lane. Friday night, graduate student Howard Rosen and senior Gail Voss met death there.

  According to Derry Hills police, a jogger discovered their bodies about 6 A.M. Saturday in Rosen’s car on the secluded road. Police Lt. Larry Urschel said Rosen, 22, and Voss, 20, apparently had been shot to death.

  Police theorize that the couple was slain on Friday night. Rosen and Voss were last seen at the Green Owl, a café near the campus, at approximately 11 P.M., according to police.

  Lt. Urschel refused to speculate on who fired the shots that killed the couple. No weapon was found at the scene, Lt. Urschel said.

  Rosen was a 1987 summa cum laude graduate of the School of Journalism and Mass Communications. City Editor Dennis Duffy said Rosen had served as deputy city editor of The Clarion for the spring semester of 1987. Duffy said Voss was currently deputy LifeStyle editor. Clarion student editors work in tandem with professional journalists. The Clarion serves both the University community and the township of Derry Hills.

  Alma Kinkaid, University registrar, said Rosen was from Kansas City and Voss from Derry Hills.

  Police described the crime scene as an unfrequented area. The asphalt road leads from the quadrangle behind Frost Memorial Library

  to a Grecian amphitheater and Lake Boone. The road’s official name is Frost Lane, but it is commonly referred to as Lovers’ Lane. The road winds through a thickly wooded forest to the sylvan open theater above Lake Boone. There are no other structures in the area and no streetlights.

  Rosen’s roommate, Stuart Singletary, from Dallas, Texas, a senior, expressed shock. “I can’t believe it. Why would anybody kill Howard and Gail? It’s crazy!”

  Singletary was awakened by police this morning and asked to identify Rosen. “I didn’t realize until then that Howard hadn’t come in last night.”

  Singletary insisted neither Rosen nor Voss had enemies. “That’s ridiculous. It must have been a vagrant, something like that.”

  Police revealed that Rosen’s billfold and Voss’s purse were found in Rosen’s 1987 Range Rover. Both the billfold and purse contained money and credit cards.

  Lt. Urschel said police would be interviewing friends of the murdered students. He asks anyone with information concerning the deaths to contact the Derry Hills Police Department at 303-9900.

  That was the lead story. But I read all the coverage, the sidebar features about Rosen and Voss, and the speculative comments of a University criminology professor. (“If I were the cops, I’d look for a rejected suitor or a jealous woman. Derry Hills isn’t the Bronx. The odds of a random killing are next to none.”)

  In later issues, I found the coverage of the two funerals, with stark photos of the bereaved and bewildered families, the reassurances by President Tucker that the Thorndyke campus was indeed safe for students, the daily progress reports by Lieutenant Urschel of the Derry Hills Police Department.

  The stories hung on to page one for a week; inside, for several more weeks. But as the days of spring and the academic year dwindled, so did the coverage, until, finally, it was old news, the unsolved campus murders in the spring of ’88.

  I gleaned a few more facts from the follow-ups.

  According to Gail Voss’s roommate, Linda Lou Kelly, Rosen and Voss were unofficially engaged, but a wedding date hadn’t been set.

  Police announced Rosen and Voss had spent most of the evening at the Green Owl. The couple had been deep in conversation. “Laughing a lot,” a waitress recalled. “He kept raising a glass and saying, ‘Here’s to Joe Smith,’ and she’d smile and say something like ‘Joe’s my guy.’”

  I knew the Green Owl. It was just a block from Brandt Hall and was still one of the most popular hangouts for students and faculty, a combination restaurant, bar, and coffeehouse. Members of the English and philosophy faculties were especially likely to be found in the game-room area, around old oak tables with inlaid squares for checkers and chess.

  On the final night of their lives, Rosen and Voss ate in one of the wooden booths at the far back. “They were regulars,” the waitress said.

  But when I’d read all the stories, the bottom line was that the murder weapon was never found and no suspect in the murders was ever named.

  The in-depth profiles pictured Howard Rosen as boisterous and outgoing, with a booming laugh and a penchant for practical jokes. Gail Voss was described as serious, intense, responsible. Both were superb students. Rosen had been named a Fulbright scholar and planned to spend the following year in Berlin, studying the subversion of the German press in the decade preceding World War II.

  I studied their pictures.

  Howard Rosen exuded the vitality of a buccaneer. In another age, he would have been at home in an elegant doublet and brandishing a sword. His wickedly merry eyes gleamed with deviltry, and his full, sensuous mouth stretched in an appealing grin. Any woman would love to smooth his thick dark curls. No sweet maiden would have been safe from his blandishments.

  Gail Voss stared shyly into the camera. Smooth hair framed a heart-shaped face. Her lips curved in a sweet smile. She was the girl next door, your kid sister, Miss America.

  Anger flickered within me.

  Howard Rosen should be jumping to his feet at a press conference, his voice raised in demand, or straddling a chair at a coffeehouse, regaling fellow reporters with ambitious plans to climb a mountain or run a marathon.

  Gail Voss should be hurrying to meet a deadline and, perhaps playing the dual role of many of today’s young women, thinking about d
inner and picking up the baby at day care.

  They should not be moldering bones and desiccated flesh in corroding coffins.

  I fished the last peanut from the bag and swiftly scrawled several questions beneath the heading

  “Rosen-Voss.” Then I turned back to the computer,

  punched in “Candace Murdoch,” and pressed the search

  key. The first story in what became the Murdoch case ran

  on Thursday, July 22, 1982:

  CIVIC LEADER SLAIN AT HOME

  Curt Murdoch, president of Murdoch Brothers Concrete, was shot to death Wednesday night in the garden of his Derry Hills home. Police have not named any suspects in the murder of the well-known Derry Hills civic leader.

  Police said Murdoch’s body was found slumped on a stone bench near a reflecting pool. Lt. Ralph Forbes said a .38 pistol was found on the terrace behind the house, approximately twenty feet from the bench. Lt. Forbes said shots were heard by a next-door neighbor, Gerald Trent, at 10:05 P.M.

  Trent told police he had just opened his back door to let out the cat when he heard the shots. Police said Trent was certain of the time because he was watching the ten o’clock news.

  Police said Trent, a retired colonel in the military police, immediately ran outside and crossed a low stone fence that separates the properties.

  Trent reported that he saw a flash of white moving toward the Murdoch house. Trent told police that when he reached the pool behind the house, he found the fatally wounded Murdoch sprawled on a marble bench. Trent im

  mediately returned to his home and called police.

  Police said their investigation is ongoing.

  Calls to the Murdoch residence have not been

  answered. Other residents of the home include

  Murdoch’s widow, Candace; his son, Michael; and

  daughter, Jennifer.

  In subsequent stories, suggestive facts emerged: Candace Murdoch was twenty-three years younger than her husband. It was his second marriage. She’d been a masseuse at his health club.

  The family cook, Cordelia Winters, told police Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch had quarreled that evening over the death of Mrs. Murdoch’s parakeet.

  Candace Murdoch was arrested and charged with first-degree murder three weeks after her husband’s death. She pleaded not guilty, claiming that at the time the shots were fired she was on the telephone. Murdoch claimed that a representative of a local charity had called, requesting that she place donated items on the front porch for pickup the next week. Murdoch said she couldn’t remember the woman’s name or the name of the charity because of all the excitement and turmoil attendant upon the murder of her husband. Murdoch issued an emotional plea for the caller to come forward and confirm the conversation.

  The trial began in February of 1983. The prosecution contended that Murdoch had broken the neck of his wife’s pet and placed it on her dinner plate that evening, and that they had quarreled bitterly. The prosecution claimed that Candace Murdoch took her husband’s pistol from a drawer of his desk in the study and followed him to the garden, where

  she shot him. Her fingerprints were found on the gun,

  and the white dress she wore that evening was snagged

  and grass-stained. The lead story on February 10, 1983, had a three-

  column headline:

  MYSTERY WITNESS COMES FORWARD, ALIBIS WIFE ACCUSED OF MURDER

  Testimony from an unexpected witness shocked the prosecution in the Candace Murdoch murder trial today, confirming the accused woman’s statement that she was on the telephone at the time her wealthy husband, Curt, was shot to death last summer.

  Angela Chavez took the stand at two-thirty and swore that she was talking with Murdoch at five minutes after 10 P.M. on the night of Curt Murdoch’s murder. Chavez further testified that Murdoch suddenly interrupted and said, “I hear shots! Someone’s shooting outside. I’ll have to get my husband,” and then hung up.

  When the prosecution asked why Chavez waited until now to come forward, she testified she had left Derry Hills shortly after the murder of Curt Murdoch and had only returned a few weeks ago. Chavez said she had been unaware that her conversation with Murdoch was of such importance until she read the stories in this week’s paper.

  Prosecutor Wayne Hemblee attacked Chavez’s credibility, but, through a blistering cross-examination, the soft-spoken witness maintained her composure. She denied friend

  ship with Murdoch, and, in fact, said, “I’ve never

  met Mrs. Murdoch.”

  The prosecution faced further troubles when Candace Murdoch took the stand, said she recognized Chavez’s voice, and, with tears streaming down her face, thanked Chavez for telling the truth. “I will always be grateful to you for coming forward.”

  Murdoch dried her tears and spoke up strongly as her attorney led her through the events of the evening. She testified that when she heard the shots from the terrace, she broke off the conversation and ran out from the study and darted through the shrubs to see what had happened. “That’s why my dress was mussed. And when I saw Curt—oh, God, I couldn’t believe it!”

  Murdoch admitted she and her husband had quarreled that night, but said her husband had not killed her pet bird, but that he hadn’t liked the bird and had put it in the dining room when he found it dead in its cage. “Curt thought he was being funny.” The witness’s voice shook. “It’s so awful now to think I was mad the last time I saw him.”

  The headline in next day’s Clarion said it all:

  CANDACE MURDOCH ACQUITTED

  I only wrote one query on my pad: Angel Chavez? It was half past six and I was tired. I don’t work

  twelve-hour days anymore. I stood, stretched, glanced at the bound volume of The Clarion for March

  1976.

  No, I had to finish tonight.

  And that’s when I heard shouts.

  My response was instinctive, automatic. Over the years, covering wars, trials, and riots, I’ve heard every level of human expression, from deep anguish to desperate fear to demonic anger. I know emotion when I hear it.

  As I hurried up the hall, a woman’s voice rose to a screech. “Where’s Dennis? Where the hell is he? Are they in his office?”

  I reached the newsroom doorway.

  Rita Duffy, the city editor’s wife, stood in the center of the newsroom. Her appearance shocked me. Rita glories in the latest fashions, whatever they may be. But tonight she looked slovenly in a wrinkled red silk blouse and tight green slacks. And she wore no makeup, leaving her puffy face naked and splotchy. She shoved Duffy’s empty chair hard against his desk. The sound caromed across the room.

  Startled faces turned toward her. Only a handful of students remained in the newsroom. It was close to the final deadline and most of the stories were in. Only late-breaking news would be used now.

  Eric March, the student deputy city editor, stopped chewing a mouthful of Cheetos. “Wait a minute, Mrs. Duffy,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “Take it easy. Okay? Duffy took the evening off. I’m putting the paper to bed.” Eric had a broken nose from intramural touch football, a smear of Cheetos orange on his chin, and a look of exquisite embarrassment. The young editor’s job description didn’t include handling hysterical wives. He shoved

  back his chair and stood, still holding the bag of cheese puffs.

  Rita darted across the newsroom, flung open the door to Duffy’s dark office. “Dennis, you bastard—” She turned on the light, stared into the office, then swung around. “Okay, where the hell are they?”

  Eric looked bewildered. “Where’s who?”

  “Dennis and that Winslow bitch.”

  The quality of the strained silence in the newsroom abruptly changed.

  The sports editor shot a swift look at Eric.

  A reporter swung to face her monitor, carefully not looking toward Eric.

  Another student—I scrambled for his name, Buddy, yes, Buddy Neville—began to smile. His thin lips curved in a malicious grin.
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  Eric looked as if somebody’d kicked him in the gut. “No way, lady. You’re crazy. Maggie’s—Maggie and I—You got it all wrong. I don’t know where Duffy is, but he’s not with Maggie. He’s not!” Eric shouted it.

  I wished his voice sounded more confident. And I wished there hadn’t been a sudden flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

  Rita Duffy laughed, and the sound was harsh and ugly. “Oh, you’ve got a lot to learn, kid. I can tell you about women like Maggie Winslow. They’ll do anything—anything—to get ahead. And bastards like Dennis will screw them every time. But this time”—her voice broke—“this time he’s not going to get away with it. When I find them, he’s going to wish he’d never been born.” Rita whirled around. She brushed past me. I don’t think she even saw me. Her face was mottled, her eyes glazed.

  Eric March watched her leave, then, scowling, he yelled at the sports editor. “You got that story done? Let’s get this show on the road.” Eric stared down at the desk. An ugly flush surged up his neck, turned his face and ears red. He flung down his pencil. “Buddy—hey, Buddy, put it to bed for me, man.” And he plunged toward the hall.

  I heard the downstairs door wheeze shut. A moment later, the sound of Eric’s clattering steps ended, and the door wheezed a second time.

  If I hurried I could catch Rita, perhaps calm her down, encourage her to go home.

  I didn’t think there was a thing I could say to Eric March.

  But protecting Dennis Duffy from the mess he’d made of his personal life wasn’t in my job description either.

  Besides, I was irritated.

  I wanted Maggie Winslow to produce first-rate copy, a new, fresh, important investigation of three unsolved crimes. I wanted her series to be exactly what I’d promised Dr. Tucker it would be: painstaking, in-depth investigative reporting.

  I wished the stories were mine to do. But they weren’t. I was a bystander, a coach, a cheerleader. I had to depend upon a young reporter to do the work. So I wanted Maggie functioning at her best.