by Robyn Carr
Tom had called earlier in the week. He asked me how I was, whether I had been busy. I told him I was fine, busy, and informed him about Harry and Roberta. Tom expressed his shock and sadness; he talked about how much he admired the Musettas, how great a loss Harry would be for everyone. Through the week I had developed a deep sense of peace regarding Harry’s illness and his decisions about how he would live his last days.
Then Tom asked if I’d like to join him at the fair and I said, “No. Thanks anyway.” I told him I might wander around the fair later, at my leisure, and then again I might not. I hadn’t decided. His surprise came in the form of silence.
“Oh,” he finally said, then paused again. “Well, I could drive into town and take you.”
“Town is only a few blocks away.” I laughed. “My driveway is probably the best parking there is. No thanks. If you’re worried about a place to park, go ahead and use my driveway. I’ve had a hard week; I want to have a quiet, lazy weekend and make no plans. That way if the music drifts up this way and I decide to stroll downtown, I can. I might just read a book, clean house, something. I appreciate the offer.”
“Saturday? Or Sunday?”
“I don’t think so, Tom. Thanks anyway.”
“Well, okay then. Want me to call next week?”
“Call anytime,” I said, and then, after a moment more of chitchat, said good-bye.
How simple. I didn’t want to worry about him. I didn’t want to “interview” him, as Mike suggested. I didn’t want to date any more than I wanted a serious relationship. For a while a relationship had appeared an agreeable option; I can remember thinking it was what was missing from my life. Then the thing that was missing reappeared, and not in the persona of Tom or sex, but rather in Sue and Bodge, Roberta and Harry, the guys, even Sweeny. It was a connection with people that I longed for. I wanted to mean something to someone. When I did, I felt less alone, I felt less in need.
My association with Tom had been brief and complicated. Even if through no one’s fault, it had been spasmodic with disquiet, with problems. My worries, uncertainty, suspicions. The best way to end that part was to end that part.
A car pulled up in front of my house and I observed it with only passing interest. A white Mustang. The driver parked, opened the door, stood in the street, and looked at me — grinned at me. I nearly dropped my pop can. I slowly stood and squinted. He leaned on the roof of the car with that bad-boy grin on his stupid face. “Jack!” he said.
“Oh, shit,” I said. “Mike.”
He closed the door and walked up the steps toward me. He skipped, actually. He is loose and goosey; he has a swagger. He can move through a room and look like he’s jigging around, cutting up in a goofy dance step.
“You say ‘hello,’ Jack. Not ‘oh, shit.’ That’s not a proper greeting.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Mike?”
“I came for a visit.”
“Without calling? Without asking?”
“Aw, Jack, you would have said no. This was Chelsea’s idea; she wanted me to check on you.”
“Chelsea is demented. Doesn’t she remember you’re my ex-husband? Doesn’t she worry that I was once in love with you? What is she thinking of?”
“Who knows,” he said, smirking a little. ‘You figure out Chelsea; she knew I was getting some stuff together for you and said I should fly out, rent a car, make sure you’re okay here.”
“You’re planning to stay here?”
“Come on, Jack. You think I’m out here to get in your pants or something? Gimme a break. You want me to find a hotel when you got spooks in your house? I’m a cop; I’m good with this stuff.”
“You’re a confident son of a gun, aren’t you? What if I have plans? What if I have someone else coming for the weekend?”
“The sex maniac? I’d like to meet this champ.”
“You are the most infuriating man I have ever known,” I said, turning around to go in the house.
“I’ll go get my stuff,” he said, not discouraged at all. A minute later he was in the front door with a suitcase, hangup bag, briefcase, and grocery sack. “Hey, Jack, I brought a treat. Looks like I got here just in time for the party.”
Inside, hidden deeply inside, I was thrilled to see him. For that split second I remembered what had originally drawn me to him and hooked me in until I couldn’t take him anymore. His playfulness, his irreverence, his attractiveness. Not a big man at five nine and three-quarters, he was slender and lithe. He always seemed so comfortable in his body; he was overconfident and found it difficult to be serious. He always looked like he needed a shave; the hair on his head was coarse, light brown, curly, and uncontrolled. Both those traits had somehow come into vogue — the day-and-a-half beard, the nonconforming hair.
On the outside, I remembered a lesson hard learned with this man: Don’t let him get away with anything. I put an unpleasant expression on my face and took his sack. “You’ve got nerve, that hasn’t changed.”
“It’s my charisma, Jack. Admit it, you’re glad to see me. Come on, you’ve been lonesome, huh?”
“I have not been lonesome,” I insisted.
“Let’s have a beer and reminisce,” he suggested, dropping his luggage inside the door.
“I don’t like beer. You have a beer.”
“You still don’t like beer? When are you going to loosen up, Jack? I brought you stuff on your carpenter-pretend-psychologist... or is that psychologist-pretend-carpenter? I can never get it straight.”
I put his six-pack in the fridge and poured myself a glass of wine. I handed him a beer and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. “Get it,” I said. “What do you think of it?”
“Nice enough,” he said, looking around.
“No, dummy. What do you think of the stuff on the carpenter that you brought me?”
“Oh, that,” he said, going back to the front hall to gather up his briefcase. “I’m not supposed to have this stuff, you know. I had to register the copies I made and it’s not supposed to go any further, so just remember that. If it wasn’t you, I wouldn’t take a chance like —”
“Tell me about him,” I said.
“I think the guy could be fucked up, which doesn’t make him a whole lot different from all the other bad guys. It’s just that fucked-up guys can’t be much fun, huh? You get anything new from him?”
“No,” I said. “I decided this week that I’m taking your original advice; I don’t need this. I’m not going to see him — date him, play friends with him, or get in the sack with him. He gets under my skin in a way I can’t put my finger on. I’m cutting him loose. If he doesn’t like it, he can lump it.”
“Ooooo-weee, she’s on the road again.” He opened his briefcase and took out a file folder, pushing it toward me. He took his beer and popped the top and drank too much of it too fast. That was another thing that had sucked me in — his recklessness. In the simplest action, combing his hair, blowing his nose, eating a cracker, he could affect a sense of breakneck confidence. Even if you didn’t trust it or enjoy it, you could be drawn to it. Bottom line, sometimes Mike was fun and funny. Dangerous, but not lethal.
I watched him while he gulped ten or so swallows of beer. When he lowered the can, I called his bluff. “I am glad you’re here,” I said.
“Go on,” he rebuffed. “But you’ll put up with me to keep Chelsea off my back.”
The old softy; he had a hard time being sentimental or serious. He could expend enormous energy trying to get you to say you wanted him... until you did say it. Then he’d become embarrassed, shy.
“Yeah,” I said, pretending to admit it. “We wouldn’t want you abused by mean old Chelsea.”
“You know, I thought I was pigheaded till I married that woman. She’s something else. You can’t believe what she’s like when she gets an idea of something she wants.” I flipped open the folder and began to glance at the Xeroxes and photos. “Like when she was in labor with Tiffany — she wanted this certa
in doctor who had been called and was on his way to the delivery, and she said she wouldn’t have the baby without him and she by-God would not have that baby. When he shows up and smiles at her and says okay, let ‘er go, old Chels dilates and z-z-zip” — he made a slide with his hand —”she gives it to him like that.” He finished with a snap of his fingers. “And I said, ‘Chels, how’d you do that?’ and she says, ‘You can do anything you put your mind to, Michael, and you should remember that.’”
Every page was stamped confidential police record. “How big a no-no is it to show a civilian like me records like this?” I asked him.
“Felony,” he said. “There’d have to be some kind of reason, though. You gonna take it to the press or something?”
“Of course not, I just want to know.”
“Then I’ll take it all back with me and no one’s the wiser. Except you — maybe you’re the wiser.”
“Gee, he’s changed in twelve... is it twelve years?” I had an old newspaper photo in my hand — not clear, but good enough for a general likeness. He had been photographed coming out of the courthouse.
“Seventy-nine. Close. What’s changed?”
“He’s put on weight. He has a beard now, so that might be it. His face was rounder then, but he’s thicker in the torso now. Interesting. His eyes look better now; maybe he’d been crying or not sleeping then. Plus, his hair isn’t as light. I wonder if he used to dye his hair or something? It’s darker now.”
“Don’t be a boob, Jack. He dyes it now. Gray.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure.” I held the page away. “He looks healthier now; he told me that although no one knew it at the time, he was into cocaine back when all this happened.”
“That figures... if it’s true. See,” he said, reaching into the papers, “he entered a treatment center, but it could have been to avoid indictment. At least that’s what the detective on this thought at the time. ‘Course, it coulda been drugs, I guess. That would fit the scenario better than anything. This guy had a motive, a bigger motive if he was medicated, and it all came tumbling down. He was in deep shit with the cops, the state of California — his employer — the prosecutor, and a couple of ethics boards. So he did the sensible thing; he checked into a fancy-dancy diy-out facility.”
I continued to scan the copies of reports. “What motive? Why didn’t they indict him if they had a motive?”
“Motive: His wife was heavily insured and he was screwing around and building debt. He had a mistress... He might’ve had an expensive habit. That debt...” he said thoughtfully. “I guess that goes with drugs. Wonder why Ramsey thought it was just an excuse. Hmm.”
“That wasn’t a mistress, that was a patient.”
“No, Jack,” he said. He fanned the papers a little and pulled one out. He pointed to the second paragraph. “That was a patient.” He pointed to the first paragraph. “That was a mistress. He had at least those and probably a couple of other women, too. Now that you told me about his perpetual hard-on, I guess I can understand it. See, the shrink was a real shit and ran out of character witnesses. Somewhere in here there’s a statement from his parents that they weren’t sure what he was into. They were worried, didn’t trust him, and had loaned him money.”
“Why didn’t he get indicted?”
“Not because he was squeaky clean, babe. He was dirty as mud, but there wasn’t any hard evidence. That case is still open. I talked to the detective who handled it; he’s gonna retire in a couple more years. Anyhow, the detective thinks there’s a good shake he did do it.”
I was stunned. I was holding a bunch of papers in both fists, reading, my elbows on the table, and I dropped my forearms flat with a huff. “His daughter?” I asked, incredulous.
“Might’ve happened that way, Jack. Might’ve been he was telling you almost the truth — that he was in trouble, drugged up, and maybe he was out to kill his wife and had to do his little girl, too. Maybe she saw him or something. Wife and daughter were both in the wife’s bed. Or it even might’ve been that he did ‘em both in a state of drug psychosis. It might have been he was smoking coke, or doing a bunch of stuff together. Many possibilities here, one of which is he might’ve done it. I told you — it’s pretty much established that he was one fucked-up cowboy.”
I looked at the photo again. He didn’t look crazy; he looked pitiful. His eyes were hanging, deep and dark circles around them; his mouth was slack and his complexion smudgy. Pocked? His cheeks appeared to be manned with acne scars. That wouldn’t change... unless he’d had a facial peel. I hadn’t seen him clean-shaven in a while; I would have remembered a pocked complexion. I read the description: brown eyes, brown hair, five ten and a half, 145 pounds... he’d gained a good twenty pounds since then. That broken nose. A bum scar on his left scapula. I had not seen his left scapula and wondered how that had happened. No mention of the pocked cheeks; maybe it was just a bad news photo.
“What about his contention that it was the patient, what’s his name?”
“Oh, now that is good stuff,” Mike said, pulling out the chair and sitting down as if he was getting down to business. “Devil something.”
“Devalian. That’s it.”
“Now this is a badass. They lost this guy in the system at first. He turned up again somewhere else, can’t remember where, and he’s done about every crime there is plus he made a few up. He’s been sought on kidnapping, manslaughter, fraud and mail fraud, extortion, rape, murder... He is something else. They locked him up on an arson charge, if you can believe it. They’d have taken him on littering at that point because he is slippery as an eel. He changes his appearance sometimes; got a wallet full of ID, moves fast and invisible. Nothing sticks to this guy.”
“So maybe he did the woman and child?”
“Except, not probably, because even though he did slip out of the hospital to start a fire somewhere, the circumstances were all different. At the time of the Lawler murders, Devalian was in a lockup facility undergoing the thirty-day court-ordered intake and he was shot full of enough tranquilizers to drop a cow. Later, before he did slip out, he had been moved to a minimum-security section of the same hospital, had done his intake and had been evaluated and was tagged manic or psychopathic or something, and was in group therapy. They’d dropped back his meds, so he was functional. He was noticed missing that time and somebody on the outside identified him in a lineup. The first time, when they checked the possibility of his doing the Lawlers, the hospital was doing hourly checks and giving him IM medication — it’s not like he could hide his pills to stay alert.
“Your shrink buddy went after Devalian as a suspect because he had proof that Devalian had threatened him and his family.”
“Phone tapes.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“So what happened to him? Devalian?”
“Dake Ramsey, the detective, he kept up with Devalian for a while. After he got out on good behavior for the arson gig, he broke parole, left the state — and there was even some suspicion that he attempted to go after Lawler because he’d tried to nail him — then he slipped away. Ramsey turned him over to a federal agency. Not him, you know, because he got out of Dodge. His file, his stats. The file on Devalian after his two years in Los Angeles prior to the Lawler murders and two years in prison in California for the arson gig is about this thick.” Mike showed a three- or four-inch measurement with his thumb and forefinger. “And your shrink buddy couldn’t take the heat, left California with permission, and headed for someplace up north.”
“Oregon.”
“Something like that. And Ramsey said he heard from Lawler that Devalian actually followed him there or something. I don’t know if that was ever proved; Ramsey said that’s when he discovered Devalian had broken parole and left town. You should have seen this guy... This guy was like a Charles Manson. He had thick shoulder-length hair, a strange thin mustache, these icy, evil light-blue eyes...”
“Did he get the insurance money on his wife?�
�� I asked, more concerned with the first case than the others.
“Not for a long time; not until the police officially dropped him as a suspect. They wouldn’t press any charges and wouldn’t let him leave the area; wouldn’t let him off the hook and couldn’t reel him in, either. Made for some high-stress times for Lawler; he was a tenacious little devil, which is why there was this much stuff to get for you. He was determined to find the killer, which Ramsey thinks is all phony. Finally, after a couple of years, they told Lawler he could go if he stayed in touch.”
I closed the file. I took a sip of wine, crossed my arms. “Mike. Tell me what he is.”
“He’s a man with an ugly past, whether he did it or not.”
“From what you found here, is this a crazy, coldblooded killer?”
“Jack, Jack, don’t you watch ‘60 Minutes,’ babe? There are crazy cold-blooded murderers who teach Sunday school. You’ve been missing too many movies of the week; successful, handsome, professional men kill beautiful wives; beautiful, perfect, happy wives knock off their husbands. Now, what this shrink is not, is a chronic criminal; this is his one brush with the law. He never did anything wrong even when Ramsey was on him like stink on shit, watching everything he did. He isn’t, like, waiting in the bushes for teenage girls, I don’t guess. He probably had it in him to do his wife and daughter, and after this many years I don’t think we’re going to know for sure. He knows.
“So how much in love with him are you?”
I took a drink. “None in love.”
“You went to bed with a man you didn’t love?” he asked in mock-incredulity.
I thought about telling him that that had happened once or twice in my life and I had divorced the first one. That would have been untrue, though fun. And... I didn’t feel like playing all the time even if he did. This was serious.