by Cathy Ace
“An excellent motive for killing her,” observed Bud, somewhat wickedly I thought.
Almost imperceptibly, people edged away from Carl as the smile died on his face. “I didn’t mean . . . oh, what the heck . . . everyone knew it anyway. If I don’t tell you, then someone else will.”
“Exactly,” replied Bud quietly. His one word spoke volumes, and I could see concern, panic, uncertainty, and vulnerability on the faces of those who were realizing that others in the room might be planning to tell everything they knew about their companions, in an effort to deflect a cop’s interest away from themselves. Bud’s body language told me he’d made a decision. “Look, I know that my aim should be to stop us all talking about this evening’s events”—his tone was conciliatory—“but my concern is that we might all stew on things, be unable to hold our tongues, and begin to shoot accusations at each other.”
“Yeah, you right,” crackled Clemence. “Every man for himself.” He sucked his teeth, loudly. “Or woman,” he added.
“Sadly, yes,” replied Bud. “Cait knows all about the psychology of suspicion, don’t you? For those of you who weren’t introduced to her earlier this evening, this is Professor Cait Morgan. Happily for us, ladies and gentlemen, she is a psychologist who specializes in victim profiling theory at the University of Vancouver. I’ve had the honor of working with her on many occasions. I believe that her skills will be valuable to us under these worrying circumstances.”
“She’s also the only person in the room, as far as I know, who’s ever been arrested for murdering someone.” Julie Pool’s unnecessary comment made all heads turn in my direction. I’m pretty sure that Tom and Tanya looked the most shocked, which was understandable. One up to Julie.
Julie had taken me by surprise—Bud, too, judging by his expression. Needless to say I was annoyed, but I knew I had to give her comment some context.
“Hello, folks,” I said, probably a little too brightly. I took a breath and calmed myself. “As Bud said, I’ve done quite a bit of work on the psychological dimensions of suspicion. Which is just as well, given the introduction I just received from Julie.” I shot a glance in the woman’s direction that I hoped would communicate at least a fraction of the irritation I felt. “She’s quite right,” I continued. “I was once arrested on suspicion of murder. But please understand that I was never charged.”
“Who you kill?” asked Svetlana apprehensively.
“I didn’t kill anyone.” I knew that I sounded defensive, so I took another deep breath before I continued. Stick to the facts, Cait, just stick to the facts. “I was suspected of killing an ex-boyfriend of mine. We’d had a pretty nasty split, and I should have known better than to allow him back into my home. He was in need of somewhere to stay. I awoke to discover that he had died during the night. His body was sprawled across my bathroom floor. I didn’t kill him, and I was completely cleared of any suspicion when the autopsy revealed he’d died from internal bleeding, a result of his spleen having been ruptured. It turned out that he’d been involved in a fight in a bar a few days before, and he’d sustained the injury at that time. No one was ever charged, though there would have been a case for manslaughter, I’m sure. So, as Julie said, I was arrested, but in the UK that doesn’t mean anything other than that you’re suspected of a crime. His body was found inside my home, and no one else had entered it. So, of course the police suspected me.”
“How did you get over it?” asked Art, sounding more interested than alarmed. “I bet those small English villages can be tough on a murder suspect. That is an English accent, right? Or are you Australian?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s a Welsh accent actually, thanks for asking. And I was living in Cambridge at the time of Angus’s death, so a big enough place that I might have been able to go about my business unnoticed. Unfortunately, the newspapers had made rather a meal of my arrest, given that I was a criminologist, so it was more difficult to put it behind me than I had hoped. I was very fortunate to have had the opportunity to move to British Columbia to complete my doctoral work there. If any good can be said to have come out of the situation, it would be that I shifted the focus of my work from criminals to victims.”
“Why the change?” asked Julie.
It was immediately clear to me that I wouldn’t be able to avoid answering her very direct question, so I decided to answer as briefly as I could. “Angus was a very angry man. During our time together I’d become painfully aware of the fact that he found it impossible to share space with other people without asserting himself, usually by challenging the apparently dominant male. ‘Who do you think you are looking at?’ would be his opening gambit, and the situation usually deteriorated from there. Because Angus eventually died as the result of a fight in a bar, in other words he became a victim of his own lifestyle, I gravitated toward researching how the life-patterns of victims of crime might have contributed to them becoming a victim in the first place.”
“You say is Miss Shirley’s fault she dies?” Svetlana was puzzled.
I tried to sigh only inwardly as I replied to what is the most common criticism of my discipline. “My research has shown that while some people lead a life that puts them at higher risk of meeting an unnaturally early death, as Angus did, most victims are not at all to blame for having become one. Unfortunately for them, they become victims despite living their normal, everyday lives. So I spend a fair bit of time using my psychology training to analyze what a person’s ‘normal’ life has been. I don’t know what Miss Shirley’s ‘normal’ was. I don’t know her life story, or how she came to be who she was. But, in a case like this, there is usually a link between the victim and the killer. Often a close one. Which is why my role as a victimologist means I often work with those who have been close to the victim.”
I hoped I’d managed to steer the minds of my audience away from me and back toward the matter in hand. I was pleased when Clemence asked a question that showed he at least was more interested in what I might be able to do to help in this case, than in dwelling on what had happened to me more than a decade ago.
“You reckon you can help us get through this?” he asked. His deep voice was mournful, rather than hopeful.
“I can certainly try. I won’t bore you with a big lecture, but I’m sure you can appreciate that anyone whose work involves understanding how a victim might have come to be one will also come into contact with those who cared about the victim. These are the people who are desperate to understand what has happened, and they cannot help but want to lay blame at someone’s door. In the search for the truth, the full story, sometimes suspicion might fall upon those they also love, or certainly know, and at a time when their ability to apply a sense of perspective is at its weakest. A look, a hastily hurled insult, even an unspoken one, and grudges can be formed that are likely to last, damaging future relationships. Profiling victims, and working with those who can help to do that, is delicate but important work. We all know that someone here has killed Miss Shirley, so it’s natural that we all look at each other with suspicion. In this situation it would be easy for any one of us to succumb to making wild accusations, which none of us would ever forget or be able to easily put aside.”
I could tell by people’s expressions and shifting body language that I was connecting with some of them. I pressed on. I wanted them to be able to identify with me, to begin to trust me. “Bud and I are like millions of other people—we’ve come to Las Vegas for a short vacation in a place that’s designed for pleasure. In the days since we arrived, we’ve done what tourists here do—we’ve been awestruck by the scale and scope of the place, by the attention to detail, the wonderful sights, sounds, and smells of the place. We’ve giggled at Elvis impersonators strolling along The Strip deep in conversation with a guy in a Transformer getup, or at a girl carrying her giant Hello Kitty costume head under her arm. We’ve learned, to our cost, that what we visitors might think is a short stroll from one casino to another is, in fact, a conside
rable hike in heat we’re not used to . . . even if it is a ‘dry heat.’”
I noticed that Ian and Jimmy smiled as I said that, which was what I needed. “We’ve really enjoyed our time at the Tsar! Last night’s midnight Cossack Parade was quite something. It’s a clever idea to pull in the crowds at that time of night for one last hurrah. The troika gliding through the casino carrying that giant piece of amber and all the security guards lined up, dressed in Cossack outfits, were an excellent form of entertainment. Giving out discount coupons for the vodka bar where everything is frozen solid is a clever idea, and fun. But you know what? Bud and I can only see the place as outsiders. You? You all live here. You’re the insiders. You know what’s behind the rhinestones and the neon. Behind the costumes and the makeup. You know the real life of the place. You probably know people who are teachers, bank tellers, dentists, doctors, and those who work in grocery stores and gas stations. We don’t. We’ve only met people whose job it is to provide service and entertainment. Not that they haven’t all been fabulous people, but our relationship with them is preset. It’s essentially false. Some of you have been here a few months”—I looked at Tom—“and some have always been here”—I nodded at Tanya. “Bud’s right when he says that we can’t possibly be locked in this room for hours and hours and not be expected to think about what’s happened, to try to make sense of it somehow. And I know that if he were able to prevent us from discussing what might well become evidence and testimony, he would. So, given his needs, and using my knowledge, what I propose is that, rather than become anxious and angry, we maybe take some time to talk about how we came to be here. Possibly some of you would even like to talk about how you came to know Miss Shirley, to remember her as she was. It might be a more constructive way of passing the time until we’re able to address this terrible thing head on.”
I watched the faces around me intently, hoping my suggestion would be acted upon. If I could steer the conversation in the right direction, I could at least take note of, and interpret, how people reacted to the idea of the woman as a person, rather than as a corpse. They might well reveal a glimmer of their true feelings toward her. By inviting them to build a picture of the victim for me, I would try to discern her killer.
Having followed Bud’s lead, he now followed mine. He knew enough about my methods to be able to support my cause. “That’s a good idea, Cait,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re right. You and I didn’t know Miss Shirley, of course, but I’m guessing she meant something special to every other person in this room. Talking about her would be a respectful way to remember her while we wait.” I judged that between us Bud and I had managed to win over the mood of the room. I wondered how each individual would react.
“I have no secrets. My life is open book. I speak,” announced Svetlana Kharlamova. “But first, you cover body. Is not good to see Miss Shirley like this. Is not . . . pretty.”
We all turned to look again at the body.
“I have some spare tablecloths. They’re under the bar, for emergencies, which, I guess, this is,” offered Ian. “They’re big. We could just, you know, place one, or two, over . . . um . . . Miss Shirley and the chair. We wouldn’t need to move her . . .” The more he spoke, the more embarrassed he sounded.
“Like a tent? Right there?” asked Tanya Willis, making the idea sound ridiculous.
The barman blushed. “Well, I guess . . .” he stammered.
I looked at Bud, who was clearly thinking through Ian’s idea. He shook his head. “I have to advise against that,” he said. “This is a crime scene, and we can’t compromise any possible evidence.”
“If four or five of us place the cloth right over the whole . . . thing . . . it might actually preserve the scene,” I said to Bud quietly. “The entire room’s a crime scene really, and we’ll have to move about within it—we have already—but we could at least secure the immediate surroundings.”
Everyone looked at Bud while he gave the matter further consideration. “We’ll have to give the seat a wide berth, especially behind it,” he said to me, under his breath. “That must be where the killer stood to push in the blade, so there might be something the crime-scene guys could find on the carpet . . .”
Finally, Bud nodded and addressed the room. “Okay, Ian. Let’s get those cloths out and see how big they are. Maybe you, Tom, and Carl can give me a hand—you okay with that?” All three men nodded, though Carl Petrosian rolled his eyes as he did so.
Art Sauber caught the look and said, “If Carl doesn’t want to do it, I’ll help. I owe Miss Shirley a lot more than doing what I can to allow her some privacy at this time.”
“Of course I’ll help,” snapped Carl, rising to his feet. “It’s true we didn’t always get on, but she was a decent woman, and she made my father happy when he was alive. I guess she wasn’t going to warm to a ‘stepson’ who was just ten years younger than she was. And I certainly didn’t need another mom.”
The decision made, Clemence Foy pushed himself wearily to his feet and the men moved the chairs from around the table where Miss Shirley “sat,” then removed the table itself, placing it near the glass wall. An amount of shuffling around and careful footwork followed, until Bud was finally happy with the outcome. One large tablecloth was all that was needed. Eventually, it rested upon the poor woman’s head, the arms of her chair, and, rather alarmingly, the point of the saber.
When they had finished, the men stepped back, and a hush fell over the room. We all took a moment to come to terms with the ghoulish sight. It seemed almost as though this was the first time we’d all acknowledged that Miss Shirley was, in fact, dead.
“So, now is my time to speak?” boomed the Diva Kharlamova, making Tanya Willis jump.
Even Carl Petrosian looked sad as he trudged back toward his seat, but he rallied quickly and said, to no one in particular, “I tell you what, if we’re really going to do this . . . this talking thing, I want some of that white chocolate bread pudding, another glass of champagne, and, Ian, bring my cognac to my table, will you? I might not be allowed to smoke, but I sure as heck plan on having everything else I want. Miss Shirley’s gone—and if ever there was a woman who loved to party . . .” He paused and even looked wistful for a moment. “I say, if we’re going to remember her, let’s rearrange these tables, get ourselves as comfortable as we can, take what we want by way of dessert, and settle down.”
Unbelievably, as Carl uttered the words “white chocolate bread pudding” I felt my saliva glands kick in. Who’d have thought it?
“I’m guessing you’ll be having some dessert, then,” said Bud as though he’d read my mind. Apparently he knows me quite well.
“Maybe just a bit, but I’ll help reorganize the room first,” I offered.
He smiled indulgently. “It’s going to be a long, long night, Cait. Leave the heavy lifting to us strong menfolk”—he winked—“and you grab yourself some of that pudding . . . and some for me too. It looks, and smells, amazing.”
He was right, it did—and it would have been a terrible shame to let all the accompanying ice cream melt to nothing, so I followed my nature and hit the dessert table. I wasn’t alone, thank goodness.
The Diva Takes Center Stage
WHITE CHOCOLATE ISN’T MY FAVORITE, but any chocolate is better than none, and it’s even tastier when it’s served with something salty. I allowed myself a few moments to enjoy the contrast between the sticky caramel sauce and the rich, light white chocolate bread pudding studded with golden raisins and topped with excellent handmade vanilla ice cream. Had it not been for the body in the room, it would have been the perfect dessert experience. I worked hard to stop focusing on the exquisite flavors and textures to give my attention to the Diva Svetlana Kharlamova, who was being attended to by Jimmy Green as though he were dressing her for a performance.
She stood at the table where she, Jimmy, Carl, and Art were now placed. Ian, Julie, Jack, and Clemence sat around the second table, while Bud, Tanya, Tom, and I surrounded th
e final one. We’d pulled the three tables away from the partitions, closer to the central elevator shaft and the dessert table, so the gathering felt snugger.
The Diva eventually appeared to be happy with how Jimmy had rewrapped the highly decorated iridescent blue-green shawl in which she’d been swathed all evening. Finally, she shoved the man away as though he were a mere serf, drew herself up to her full five-four, and regarded us with her imperious look. It was as if she were waiting for her cue, thinking herself into her role, as she prepared to grace us with her legendary voice. The raven-black bun atop her head glistened beneath the starry spotlights, and her gold satin sheath dress was very tight, giving her a cylindrical appearance. As someone whose bathroom scales regularly accuse her of weighing one hundred and eighty pounds, I’m familiar with pretty much every euphemism for “overweight,” so I chose to think of her as “Rubenesque,” pegging her at two hundred and fifty pounds, or thereabouts. With her shawl now appropriately draped about her torso, she began to speak, her multiple chins quivering as she did so.
“You know me,” she said. “I am famous for many years. I am from humble Russian village in south, but I have great gift . . . my voice.” She was being dramatic, but I didn’t get the impression that she was boasting. Rather, I felt we were seeing her give a performance with which she was comfortable and familiar. “As small child I have big voice. Mama send me to city to sing in street, make money, bring home. I have ten years of age when big man in fur coat say to me, ‘You have good voice child, take me to Mama.’ We go. Mama and Papa kiss me, man in fur coat take me to school for singers. I sing. They like me. I sing every day. I work hard. I learn Italian, German, and French so I can sing in all languages, but mainly I sing in Russian. I do not play outside, every day I sing. I am very good. I go to Moscow. I sing more. At fifteen, I give recital at Hotel Ukraina to important Communist Party men. I have voice like Adelina Patti, says very old, very important man who sees her in Saint Petersburg when she is there, many years before. Before it is Leningrad, even. I have ‘silver’ voice, he say. Light, like bells. I work hard to have ‘golden’ voice, strong like USSR. I sing all best soprano roles in Moscow, in every state. My country loves me. I am Diva Kharlamova!”