My mouth hung open. I had trouble speaking. I told my parents I’d call them back. After debating for a few minutes, I called Janice’s parents and asked for her. Even when she came to the phone, Janice sounded remote so I got down to the reason for my call.
“Have you heard from the cops?”
“Yes.”
“When’s the trial?”
“No trial,” Janice said. “Carmen has diplomatic immunity. We can’t even sue them. Carmen’s father offered Dad $20,000 to cover Hadley’s funeral expenses. Dad hung up on him.” I heard a catch in her throat and an involuntary whimper come across the line. “I can’t talk about it. I’ll see you next semester, I guess.”
She disconnected. I stood at the windows and stared at the parking lot.
* * * *
Janice returned to school at the end of January 1979, our last semester. She had changed again; turned taciturn. She hated the world, me included. We barely spoke, although I knew she overheard my call when I told my parents that I’d been accepted to law school. I sensed her disapproval, but she said nothing.
By mid-February, Janice’s morose mood drove me insane. I sympathized, but living with her was hard. On the morning of Presidents’ Day, the sky bore down in a gray mass. I felt claustrophobic in the dorm room.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said to Janice. “We could catch a holiday sale.”
Janice shrugged as if she couldn’t care less.
“Maybe later,” she said. “I have to go to the library.”
“If you’re not up for shopping, let’s go to Hamburger Hamlet for dinner, then catch a concert at the Cellar Door. We have to get out of here for a while before I scream.”
Janice returned by four p.m. We piled on our winter coats and escaped outside. Snow had started falling so we took her car, which was outfitted with snow tires.
Having lived in Washington, D.C., for four years, I’d discovered the town’s southern roots appeared during snowstorms. The residents raided grocery stores upon the mere threat of snow, maybe due to the city’s haphazard snow-removal services. Seemingly intelligent residents drove in a brainless panic when it snowed. We found no line at Hamburger Hamlet.
By seven p.m., we parked below M Street on 33rd and made our way to the Cellar Door. There were a few inches of snow on the ground as we trudged uphill. I knew Janice was making an effort to act normally. We made small talk as we crossed over M Street and walked to the club. I wondered if we’d get in, but we’d arrived early, and the snow kept kids away. The doorman led us to a table at street level overlooking the stage below. Before we sat down, he warned us that they were recording that night, a live performance of George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers with a D.C. band called the Nighthawks.
We were starting to relax when I saw Carmen sitting at a table downstairs on the stage level. Janice spotted her, too. Her entire body stiffened as if she’d developed rigor mortis.
Janice clenched her fist around a napkin and squeezed. “It looks as if she’s having the time of her life.”
“I can’t believe it,” I said.
“Can’t believe what?”
“I still can’t get my head around her immunity—that she’ll never go on trial—that she doesn’t have to pay for—”
“Killing my sister?”
“Yeah.” I looked down at the table. “Had it been either one of us, we’d be in the slammer right now, and our folks would be broke from losing a civil lawsuit.”
“Yes. Our lives and our family’s lives would be ruined,” Janice said. “As they are now, but we’re the victims—not the perpetrators.” Her eyes spoke of hurt, anger, but there was more inside her.
I understood and looked away, impotent from the injustice of it all. “Do you want to go?”
“No, I have to deal with this, but I need to take a walk alone. Do you mind?”
“No. I understand. You’ll be back?”
“Yeah,” Janice said. She got up and walked out the door.
I waited in the bar listening to the music, ordered another drink, and watched Carmen and her friends enjoying themselves. I spent the evening clenching my teeth. When the concert ended, it was late. Janice still hadn’t returned to the bar. I figured she’d walked back to the car and was waiting for me.
As I stood up and put on my coat, Carmen and her group slithered out the door. I followed, intent on studying an inhuman curiosity or perhaps a subhuman creature. Was she acting or had she no conscience?
Several inches of snow covered the streets and sidewalks. Few cars were on the road. Carmen and her friends jaywalked across M Street, turning toward 34th. Their gaiety sickened me. I followed, ducking into a storefront when they paused at a car. Carmen refused a ride and bid the others good night.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll sleep at my parents’ house,” I overheard her telling them.
As the car left, Carmen continued down 34th Street, walking very slowly—almost staggering. Since it was on my way too, I continued to follow her about a half block behind. When she took a left on the C&O Canal path, I was surprised since most women kept on the street for safety, but a few overhead lights lit the path well enough to see the falling snow. I understood then why Carmen chose the path. It was bucolic and serenely quiet in the snowfall. The sound of our muffled steps hovered above silence. My ears still rang from the loud music in the bar. I was sure Carmen had no idea that I was following her.
In the middle of the block, a recessed building’s remote lights obscured visibility. Farther along the path, the lights resumed. As Carmen walked through the dim area, a figure jumped out from the recessed building and hit her over the head with what looked like a metal bar. I stopped, shocked, and stood monument-still.
Carmen screamed as she fell face-first onto the snowy path. The attacker was quickly upon her, pressing her face into the snow and silencing her scream. Carmen struggled. I watched and recognized the attacker. Janice put her boot on the back of Carmen’s neck and whacked her head again with the metal bar. Carmen no longer moved, but Janice hit her again and again, and then she pushed Carmen off the path and down the canal’s bank.
Janice must have sensed my presence because she walked toward me into the light. She looked me in the eyes and said, “You say a word and I’ll ruin you.”
She turned and ran toward 33rd Street, where we’d parked her car. I started to follow and realized that I’d have to pass by Carmen’s body. My boots’ prints would be pressed into the snow. I retreated the way I’d come and went the long way around. When I returned to where we’d parked, Janice’s car was gone.
I saw Carmen’s BMW parked a few cars up the street. Janice must have returned to her car, noticed Carmen’s car nearby, and decided to lie in wait for her. The opportunity must have been too tempting. The metal bar she had struck Carmen with could have been the tire iron from her trunk.
I walked back up to M Street, telephoned my friend at Georgetown U from a bar, and stayed the night with her. It snowed through the next day, accumulating to over eighteen inches. Classes were canceled.
I never saw Janice again. When I returned to the dorm, the resident assistant asked me to pack Janice’s stuff. She told me that Janice had decided to withdraw from school, go home, and get grief counseling. I packed her stuff. One day, it disappeared.
No one discovered Carmen’s body until the snow melted a week later. The police never contacted me. I figured by the time they realized the path was a crime scene our boot prints were trampled or melted. Janice probably threw the tire iron into some Pennsylvania backwoods.
* * * *
Thirty years later I was nearing retirement and Carmen’s murder case was still open on the D.C. police books. I’d always been curious about Janice and eventually placed her name on my Google Alert list. I still wondered why Janice felt she had to threaten me back then. After what Carmen had done, I would have kept her secret.
The alert, when it came, took me to an article describing how she�
��d recently established a scholarship fund for crime victims. I wondered why now, after all these years. Then I realized her parents, like mine, must have died and left her money.
I packed up my laptop and felt the hollowness of the empty office that I’d inherited from my parents and grandfather. Between these walls I’d built cases, defending every kind of lowlife. Memories echoed back at me from empty rooms.
Since Janice still went by her maiden name, I wondered if she, too, hadn’t married. My long-time romantic partner had retired to Virginia, and I planned to join him. Retiring my shingle and starting again without my parents’ expectations made me feel released from a prison sentence. I hoped Janice’s generosity redeemed her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder presented E. B. Davis’s short story “Lucky in Death.” In the He Had It Coming anthology, a kidnapped dental hygienist wins in “The Acidic Solution.” A young thug proves no match for a chemo patient/mother in “No Hair Day,” contained in A Shaker of Margaritas: Bad-Hair Day. On the cusp of adulthood, runaway Shannon finds that if you care, leaving isn’t an option in Fish Nets’ “The Runaway.” Look for “The Ice Cream Allure” a romantic mystery spoof contained in Carolina Crimes: Tales of Lust, Love, and Longing. She blogs at http://writerswhokill.blogspot.com.
ST. PATRICK’S DAY
I WILL SURVIVE, by Shaun Taylor Bevins
“I’m gonna kill him, Shauna.”
“Personally, I’ve always felt that the punishment should fit the crime. So I vote for castration. Now that would send a clear message.”
Emily stared down at the size-six, hot-pink, satin thong she’d found under the seat of her Camry a week after lending it to Jeff, her boyfriend of two years. Her cheeks burned as she imagined him slipping them off some tattooed buxom bimbo with a nose ring and a bad dye job, sprawled across her four-month-old leather seats.
“Bastards, Shauna. All men are two-timing bastards.”
“No, Em, not all men, just the ones you date.”
Emily tossed the panties on her kitchen counter with a sigh. Though she knew Shauna had always disliked Jeff and couldn’t be objective about this newest development in their relationship, her best friend was right.
“Em, when it comes to choosing men, you have a permanent handicap,” Shauna was saying. “A severe case of bad taste, with a definite touch of no self-control. Even back in junior high with—what was his name—Stephen? The one with eyeliner and more jewelry than both of us put together.”
Emily said nothing, hoping Shauna would run out of steam.
“And then Brad, the football player.” Shauna was counting on her fingers. “Just the kind of boy mothers adore and fathers invite over to watch the game. Did your parents ever figure out what he was doing to you after they shuffled off to bed? And then when you got to college, Alan ‘the porn king’ Pinkerton, and Amit ‘oops, I forgot my wallet again’ Rajav?”
Emily thought Shauna was being unfair, bringing up mistakes she’d made due to youth and inexperience. Though she didn’t have that excuse now. Damn it, things were supposed to be different with Jeff. Emily was an adult now, a successful, twenty-six-year-old personal trainer who’d recently opened her own small studio in Annapolis, Maryland. And he was a third-year Emergency Room resident doctor with a promising future at Baltimore’s Mount Sinai Hospital. Everything had looked golden.
Then she’d discovered the thong. She was still in shock.
“Can we skip all that?” she said. “And I’m not sure I’m up for drinks at O’Malley’s. I know tonight was supposed to be a girls’ night, but I need time to think. Figure out what to do next. You understand.”
“Yeah, I understand. You’re actually considering giving that creep a chance to explain.”
“That’s not fair, Shauna.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not fair: borrowing you girlfriend’s car to pick up some bimbo, doing her in the backseat, and then lacking the decency or the brains to make sure she takes her dirty panties with her.”
“You know, Shauna, sometimes I really hate you.”
“Because you know I love you and I always tell the truth. Now it’s Friday night and St. Paddy’s Day to boot, and I’m not going out without my best friend.”
Emily tapped her slender fingers on the counter, glaring at the panties. “Fine, but not O’Malley’s. Nine o’clock at Barkley’s; it won’t be as crowded. And just a few drinks and no one else. I’m not in the mood for socializing.”
“That’s my girl.”
“At least I’m still somebody’s girl.”
“Em, you do realize he doesn’t deserve you?”
* * * *
Only a quarter ’til nine and Barkley’s was already jammed. The lead singer of a local band belted out the chorus of Def Leopard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” as tightly packed, glistening bodies gyrated in unison on the tiny parquet dance floor. The place smelled like a cocktail of stale beer, fresh sweat, and tonight’s special, corned beef and cabbage. Emily nudged her way through the dense crowd to the bar, hoping to find Shauna already there and waiting with a drink.
“Over here, Em. Over here.”
Emily spied Shauna standing beside a corner booth. She sidled past a constellation of boisterous college boys who barely looked old enough to vote, let alone drink.
On the other side, Shauna greeted her with a Corona. She was all dolled up in a rust-colored camisole and a thigh-length tan suede skirt that showcased her generous curves and the toned slender legs of a dedicated runner. She looked dressed to kill, with nearly every eligible red-blooded guy and perhaps even a few bi-curious women in the joint her potential victims.
“I thought we agreed, only a few drinks. Alone.” Emily gestured toward her friend’s sexy outfit.
“What? So just because Jeff-the-jerk finally lived up to your low expectations, you want to take it out on me and my choice of fashion?”
Emily shook her head. “Sorry, you’re right. Plus, with that body, you’d look hot in sweats, so what’s the difference. Clearly, I’m jealous.” She gestured at her own petite five-foot-three frame, clad in a simple white T-shirt and slender-cut blue jeans. Though her olive complexion, full lips, and big chestnut-brown eyes had their own allure, her curves were subtle and not even a padded, push-up bra could boost her bosom into Shauna’s league.
Shauna tilted her head and extended her arms. “Now come here, sweetie. That sleaze you call a boyfriend is scum and ain’t nothing that a hug from your best bud Shauna and a few more of these can’t fix.” She held out the Corona.
Two beers later, Emily had cried and laughed, but she still couldn’t help dwelling on Jeff’s infidelity.
“So who do you think the thong belonged to?” she asked.
Shauna shrugged.
“A nurse from work, right?” Emily suggested. “You know the cast of characters better than I do, now that you’re working in the hospital’s drug dispensary. What do you think?”
Shauna shrugged again.
The band took a break, and Shauna finished off her drink. Emily looked around for their waitress but instead caught an unexpected glimpse of his profile. Her stomach did a complete somersault.
“Oh, my God. Don’t look now but—”
Before Emily could finish, Shauna had followed her eyes to a trio of males that included her friend’s soon-to-be ex.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Shauna said. “Jeff? Here? What are the chances…” Without finishing, she glared at Emily. “Please, tell me you didn’t know, Em.”
“I have just as much right to be here,” Emily protested. “Plus, I didn’t know. Not really. Just because he hangs out here on occasion doesn’t mean he’d be here tonight. I thought he’d be at the hospital.”
“Emily!” Shauna’s voice resonated through the bar. Jeff and several nearby patrons glanced in their direction. Shauna raised her hand to hide her face.
“Shit, girl. I’m so sorry.”
Emily simp
ly shrugged. The confrontation had to happen. Might as well take place while she still had a couple of beers and Shauna’s pep talk to get her courage up.
“Hey, babe,” Jeff said, leaning over to kiss Emily’s cheek. A whiff of his aftershave sparked memories of an intimate nature, memories that made her cringe now that she knew the truth. “Happy St. Paddy’s Day.”
Emily forced her lips into a smile.
“Thought you guys were hanging out at O’Malley’s tonight,” he added.
Emily felt sick.
“Is everything okay, babe? You don’t look so well.”
Shauna mumbled something under her breath while rolling her eyes, and Emily shot her a warning look.
Turning back, she stared up at Jeff. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t look so well. The start of a bristly shadow covered his usually clean-shaven face. Add to that his tousled hair and wrinkled shirt and Jeff appeared tired, exhausted even. “Listen, Jeff, we need to talk,” she said, placing her trembling hand over his.
His brows pinched together in a serious expression. “Sure, babe. We can talk.”
He glanced over at his friends, Todd and another guy she didn’t recognize, a tall, broad-shouldered stranger with a scraggly goatee and wisps of sandy-blond hair sticking out from under his faded Orioles cap. Todd’s eyebrows lifted as if to say, “What’s up, bro?” and the dude with the goatee pointed to his watch.
Jeff glanced over at Shauna, who was still staring down at her drink with her usual air of contempt. “Let’s talk,” he said. “But not here.”
By the time they stepped onto Baynard Street, Emily’s nerve was fading. Why did Jeff have to be so damned GQ? Even unkempt as he was tonight, he exuded pure, physical sex appeal. Maybe he did deserve a second chance. She hadn’t heard his side of the story. There could be a logical explanation for the panties.
Yet when Jeff reached over and tried to hold her hand, she flinched.
“I know all about her,” she blurted, ripping her hand away.
“Know all about who?”
Emily’s shaking hand plunged into her purse and emerged gripping the pink undergarment as well as a tube of Coffee and Crimson lipstick that tumbled to the pavement and rolled into the street. She wasn’t sure why she had brought the panties along. Maybe it had been an accident. Or maybe subconsciously she had anticipated running into Jeff. Either way, with the accused acting as if nothing had happened, she was glad she had the evidence ready.
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