Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  So much for music appreciation. “Tell you about who?” That Carly. She needed a mouthectomy.

  “Let’s talk about the man who hurt you and your baby. This time I won’t let you out of it.” He stretched out his legs again.

  I opened my mouth to say something glib, but levity wouldn’t come.

  My baby.

  “I’ll tell you about Adam. The baby is a closed subject.”

  “I’ll take what I can get. For now.”

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  I INSISTED WE LEAVE the festival. Nothing destroys the experience of jazz—don’t miss my double meaning—faster than thinking about something awful.

  We were in the Crown Vic, riding in uncomfortable silence, on our way to Jonathan Vogel’s father’s house. In spite of my protests, Jazz didn’t think Vogel Senior was beyond suspicion. I kept my gaze out the passenger’s side window and felt grateful to Jazz for not forcing any conversation. Minutes passed. Surely we were nearly there. I didn’t want us to get out of the car before I’d had a chance to tell him about Adam. With a sigh I broke our silence and finally said something about those dark years.

  “I never had the boyfriends that Carly had, and I didn’t have her focus either. She’d almost finished medical school while my head stayed in the clouds, and I did a whole lot of nothing. I didn’t know a thing about men and not much more about life. But Adam seemed to know so much. I thought he would teach me.” I kept looking out the window.

  “What were you trying to learn?” I could hear the tenderness in his voice.

  “The love of God. I mean, I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s what I wanted.”

  “You didn’t learn that in church?”

  “I went to a predominately white megachurch. I felt so alienated in that sea of white faces. The thought that they loved me seemed to be more a mental assent than anything else. I felt like an outsider, the lone black woman. But nobody, including me, dealt with that. It’s hard to deal with a problem you refuse to acknowledge exists.”

  “I know what you mean. My father and mother got together before people sang ‘We Shall Overcome’ at sit-ins. You know that verse about black and white together? Well, not in their world. Even when they moved to Detroit, they weren’t accepted in white neighborhoods, so I grew up in a black one. My dad was at work more than he was at home.” Jazz took a breath, flicked on the turn signal. He completed the turn before continuing. “I grew up black—but looked white—in a sea of black faces. They saw this pale skin and picked sides for me. And they picked the wrong side. Every day I had to run from or fight somebody who called me ‘white boy.’ Like there’s something wrong with being white. Crazy, huh? My dad, whom I love, is white, but at school the kids treated me like a leper. I hated the way I looked.”

  I turned to look at Jazz. He seemed not angry but resigned.

  “Maybe you still feel that way, Jazz, and you wouldn’t be alone. I internalized ‘I look wrong’ because society said I did. The movie stars and models with all the praise were white, with very few exceptions. But I kept going to church, trying to be accepted, learning the right phrases and movements. After a while, I couldn’t see God loving me for me. I was ‘the other.’ God loved me generally, not personally. I couldn’t find my own face in the heart of God.”

  “Why didn’t you go to a black church?”

  I laughed cynically. “I wanted to be a part of a body of believers where it didn’t matter what your skin color was. I set out to integrate that church.”

  Jazz laughed. “You’re ambitious.”

  “You have no idea. To this day I have urges to be a hero.” I laughed with Jazz. But thinking of Adam sobered me. “And then I met him.”

  “Did you think he could give you what you were looking for?”

  “His God looked like me. To Adam, I was one of God’s chosen people.”

  “A Jew?”

  “That’s what he believed, and, because I wanted to, for a while I believed it. Adam spoke four languages, including Hebrew. He’d mastered mathematics and geography. I’d never met a man that brilliant. At first he treated me like a queen—a black queen. I thought he could see right into my heart.”

  “How do you explain that?”

  “He was a skilled manipulator.”

  “He must have been.”

  “He didn’t have to work too hard to impress me—a grown woman who felt like a little girl. Who felt like she lived in the shadow of her gorgeous, brilliant older sister. I’d never, ever felt lovely or special, but he made me feel that way. The next thing I knew, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. He would always say, ‘You belong to me.’ Before Adam, I hadn’t felt like I belonged to anyone, including God. I loved that feeling of belonging to someone. And then I got pregnant.”

  “And you weren’t in black Jew paradise either?”

  “Not at all. During that time I managed to ignore everything I knew about Christianity and to treat Christ like a religion instead of God incarnate. I opened myself up to all of Adam’s pathology.”

  “When did the beatings start?”

  “After we started sleeping together. He owned me then.”

  “Owned you.”

  “That whole ‘you belong to me’ thing turned ugly, fast. You don’t play God’s mysteries without suffering the consequences.”

  “Are you speaking of sex?”

  I stared ahead, out the windshield. “I am. I opened up to him like a flower, and he was my sun. After that, I couldn’t see him clearly. I made excuses for his abhorrent behavior. I lied to the people who loved me about the way he treated me. What’s worse is that I felt like the baby I was carrying proved that God wanted me to be with Adam. All of my beliefs were skewed.”

  “I know what you mean,” Jazz said, his voice tinged with sadness. “I got together with Kate one lonely night. We cops didn’t take her seriously. The guys called her a cop groupie and treated her as such. To my shame, I decided I’d have a turn with her. Then things got complicated, and I ended up marrying her. Like you, I thought God wanted me to.”

  Jazz stopped at a traffic light. We waited in silence for the light to turn green. He spoke first. “Carly told me it took you seven years to recover.”

  “If you call what I’ve done recovering.”

  He glanced over at me. “Why are you still beating yourself up? Didn’t he do enough of that for both of you?” Thankfully, he turned his gaze back to the road.

  “He beat me up enough for a whole tribe of people. I didn’t tell my family he abused me until after I left him, but they knew.”

  “Of course they did,” he said. “You got a daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “He should have kicked his—”

  “I made him promise not to.”

  “Be glad I’m not your daddy.”

  I thought wryly, You can be my “daddy,” all right.

  Okay, Lord, forgive me.

  “What’s Adam’s last name?” he asked.

  “His real last name is Allen, but he said it was Ben Israel, and he pronounced his first name like it sounds in Hebrew, Awdawm.”

  Jazz laughed. “Wait. Let me get this straight. He pronounced Adam, Awdawm?”

  “All day long.”

  “Let me find him. When I’m done, he’ll have to change his name again.”

  “To what?” I asked, knowing full well that I shouldn’t.

  His speech turned hood rat again. “Folks gonna call him awww da—”

  “Don’t you dare say that, Jazz.” I giggled thinking of the expletive that sounded so close to “dawm.”

  He laughed. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  “Because you’re wicked, and I’ve thought the same thing a million times.”

  “That’s what people would say when they saw what I’d done to his face.”

  I cracked up—couldn’t help myself. I had no sympathy for the man who’d christened me “Dog.”

  Our laughter settled, and we grew s
ilent again.

  “Where is the jerk now?” Jazz asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t want to know. Maybe still somewhere in D.C. Hopefully cracked out and gone. Maybe one of his wives got smarter than me and prosecuted.”

  “Don’t you want to be sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else?”

  I looked at him. “Why do you think I’m doing what I do now?”

  He nodded once. Went silent.

  I looked out the window. How could I tell him that I could fight the battle for others but not for myself?

  Jazz finally spoke after a long time had passed. “He’ll never hurt you again. I promise you that, Bell.”

  I didn’t ask him not to call me Bell.

  We arrived in the driveway of Vogel Senior’s brownstone in the heart of Detroit’s New Center area. The restored house had been sandblasted to a high gloss. It had all the trimmings, was landscaped to perfection, and reeked of money.

  We hadn’t gotten out of the car before I gave Jazz a hard time. “Didn’t you already talk to Vogel Senior?” I asked with an annoyed edge I didn’t bother to hide.

  “Yeah, and I still haven’t ruled him out. Think of me as Columbo. I keep coming back until I don’t have to anymore.”

  “Hasn’t the man suffered enough? I can’t imagine finding my own child dead.”

  “He’s not you, and Jonathan isn’t your kid, Bell. You know full well that it’s not unusual for the person who finds the body to be the perp, not to mention it’s standard protocol to check out the family first.”

  “It’s Dr. Brown, and yes, I’m aware of that. However, this man is a Christian who hired specialists to try to help him get his son back.”

  “Everybody is a suspect until I rule them out, including you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve been to the house. You knew one of the victims and his father. You were even at the crime scene. For all I know you could be a short, fine hit woman trying to throw me off the trail.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Nuts? Is that a clinical term, Dr. Brown?”

  I gave him a light shove. “Jazz Brown, if you think I’m a murder suspect, why on earth would you want to work with me?”

  “No touching, woman! I’m working with you because you’re a smart, cute murder suspect, and you smell good, though you don’t dress the same as you did that first night.”

  “I did not kill those men. For your information, the Mob is not in the habit of hiring black women as hit persons. And what’s wrong with how I dress?”

  “You don’t have to respond without a lawyer present. You have the right to remain silent…you know the rest.”

  “Are you arresting me for murder or for bad taste in clothing?”

  “I don’t think you have bad taste—those pajamas being the exception, but I’m hoping they were an anomaly. Take what you’re wearing right now for instance. Basic black pantsuit, conservatively cut, with a little bit of spice that lets a brother know you can let loose when you need to; perfectly acceptable attire for a psychologist. It ain’t that red dress, though.” Then he laughed. “You should see your face, Bell. You are so easy to frustrate.”

  My shoulders were touching my ears.

  Okay, relax. Do not kill him, thereby proving his point.

  A few deep breaths and a little more self-talk later, and my shoulders returned to their rightful place. “I don’t think I like you, Jazz.”

  “I beg to differ, but we’ll discuss that when we’re not working.”

  Mr. Vogel must have grown suspicious of the unmarked cop car lurking in his driveway with two arguing people in it. He walked toward us.

  He was taller than I remembered. It had been seven years, but he seemed to have aged considerably. He probably wasn’t much older than Jazz’s father, but he sure looked like he was. Sorrow had etched deep grooves in his face.

  Before Vogel reached the car, Jazz said, “I want you to give me your impression of the guy.”

  Before I could respond, Vogel had reached the driver’s side window. Jazz lowered it and greeted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vogel. I was wondering if we could have a word with you.” He gestured my way. “This is Dr. Brown.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Miss Brown,” I said.

  “Oh, my apologies. When I saw your picture on Lieutenant Brown’s desk I assumed…” Vogel said.

  “My picture?” I turned a burning glare in Jazz’s direction.

  “We get that all the time, Mr. Vogel. Right, Amanda?” He grinned as if that would make everything all right.

  I wondered where he got a picture of me. I had to hold my hands together to restrain my violent impulses. Who gave him a picture of me, and more important, which picture of me is it?

  When I didn’t respond to him, Jazz turned his attention back to Mr. Vogel. “Sir, we’d like to ask you a few—”

  “Amanda Brown,” Mr. Vogel cut in. “That’s it. I knew you looked familiar. You worked for Mason May.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please come inside. There’s a lot of family in the house, but I’ll find us a quiet place to talk.”

  We got out of the Crown Vic and followed Vogel into the brownstone. His house had the familiar bustle of activity that accompanies loss—grief and family togetherness making a bittersweet blend of action and emotion. My professional opinion so far: Jonathan Vogel Junior was loved. His choices may have been disappointing to his family, but it was clear to me that he came from a strong, supportive clan.

  Vogel Senior ushered us to a small alcove toward the back of the house where there was a bistro table and two chairs. He offered the seats to Jazz and me and went to find an extra chair.

  Jazz, a gentleman once again, pulled the seat out for me and made sure I was properly settled at the table before he seated himself.

  Neither of us spoke until Vogel returned, dragging a metal folding chair. He looked self-conscious. “I’m sorry to drag it. I’m afraid I’m not as strong as I use to be. Parkinson’s, you see.”

  Jazz stood. “Let me help you with that, sir.” He took the chair from Vogel, unfolded it, and seated the man just as he had seated me.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Vogel said. “Now, what can I do for the two of you?”

  Jazz charged right in. “I hope you’ll clarify some things you told Officer Daniels in your initial report. You said you hadn’t seen your son in several months.”

  “That’s true,” he said with a weary sigh. His eyes were redrimmed and swollen. The man looked devastated by his loss.

  Jazz continued his interrogation. “What made you seek him out on Thursday?”

  “I wanted to talk to him. Haven’t we been over this?”

  “I want to make sure I have my facts straight. Can you describe your relationship with Jonathan Junior?”

  “Strained. Ever since Michael Wright came into his life.”

  “What do you know about Wright, Mr. Vogel?”

  “Not much. He was very secretive.”

  “Was?”

  “Was. Is. The man is out of my life now. As far as I’m concerned, it’s him who should be dead. Not my son.”

  “Did you ever meet Michael Wright?” Jazz asked.

  Vogel’s eyes went dark. His chest moved with shortened breaths. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “What did you think of him?”

  “What do you think I thought of him?” The tone of Vogel’s voice heightened, blown deeper and louder with anger. “What would any father think? I hated him. He stole my son.” Vogel took a deep breath and looked toward the floor as he let it out. He looked back at Jazz, then at me. “I’m sorry. I’m just so…so…” He wiped an eye with the back of his hand. “I just wanted my boy back. I would have done almost anything to get my boy back. Can you understand that?”

  I nodded, but I couldn’t tell if Mr. Vogel even saw me. His eyes burned past us with anger, hatred, and maybe…

  Jazz persisted, unrel
enting. “Then for you to go see Jonathan Junior must have been difficult. What you wanted to talk to him about must have been important.”

  “Not really. I just wanted to see him. He is…was…my boy.”

  “And you got into the house using the key when you got no answer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you in the habit of going into your son’s house when he wasn’t home?”

  Mr. Vogel seemed to grow more uncomfortable with each question. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Mr. Vogel, it must have been hard for you to see your son so devoted to another man. I knew a man in a similar situation. He ended up writing his son off, as if he were dead.”

  “I can understand that,” Mr. Vogel said. He looked visibly shaken. In fact, he was shaking.

  Jazz probed on. “That man once told me that there were times he wished his kid was dead. Terrible thing to feel that kind of loss, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Vogel reddened at this. “Am I a suspect, Lieutenant Brown?” His hand shook so violently that he placed the other on top of it on the table to steady it.

  Jazz smiled at him, a disarming dazzler of teeth, but he did not answer the question. “I hope I haven’t given you that impression, Mr. Vogel. I’m just thinking of how hard this must be for you. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. I’d like to find the people responsible. They should be punished. At least that’s what I think.”

  Vogel nodded.

  “We didn’t find any fresh prints for you at the scene, sir. Can you explain that?”

  “I wear driving gloves when I drive. I didn’t think to take them off.”

  Jazz nodded, and his eyes looked sympathetic. “I have a guy on my team like that. He wears those leather gloves every time he gets into a car. Me, I can’t be bothered with that.”

  Jazz turned his attention to me. “Any questions for Mr. Vogel, Dr. Brown?”

  I made sure my voice was soft and kind. “Mr. Vogel, I know you said you don’t know much about Michael Wright, but do you have any idea if he changed his name to Gabriel?”

  “I don’t know what he called himself. In the last four years, my son referred to him as Father.” At that, Mr. Vogel dissolved into sobs, wailing, “I can’t take it. I can’t take it.”