Defiled

by Margaret Buffano

  Helen waits nervously, pacing the floor. She played her hand and laid down all her high cards. She questions herself over and over if she did the right thing.

  A few minutes later, Joyce steps out of the bedroom.

  “Well, she’s going to be all right for now, no thanks to you,” says Joyce. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “I’m just trying to get at the truth. That woman knows more than she lets on.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” says Joyce. “Of course she knew! But what good is it to rub her nose in it now?”

  “I just thought…”

  “Well, you thought wrong! I think it would be best if you just leave.”

  Helen opens her mouth, but before she says a word, Joyce insists once more.

  “I said…I think it would be best if you just leave.”

  Helen starts for the front door. She hears Joyce’s last remarks.

  “And I wouldn’t come back, if I were you!”

  CHAPER SIXTEEN

  Music Lover

  Kyle spends most of the day cleaning his house and stocking the fridge with treats. He buys two bottles of the best champagne his budget can handle. He has a roast slowly cooking in the oven – all in preparation for Helen’s visit.

  He starts setting the table, when the phone rings.

  “Kyle, it’s me,” Helen sounds nearly close to tears.

  “Helen, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Kyle, I think I’ve done something horribly wrong. I know you weren’t expecting me till later, but would you mind if I came over now?”

  “Mind…? Of course not! Helen, are you all right? Do you want me to come and get you?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll be fine. See you in a few minutes.”

  When Helen pulls up in front of Kyle’s house, she finds him standing on the front porch, waiting for her. She flies up the stairs and into his arms.

  “Helen, what’s the matter?” He holds her close.

  “I…I…” Helen is unable to speak.

  “Come inside.” He guides her through the front door and sets her down on the couch. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

  He returns a minute later with a small box of tissues and a snifter of warm brandy.

  “Here, take a sip of this; it’ll calm you down.” He hands her the glass and rests the tissue box down on the coffee table.

  Helen alternates – first the glass, then the tissues, then back again. A minute later, she begins to calm down.

  “So, tell me,” Kyle says, “why are you so upset?”

  Helen takes her time and slowly tells him what happened between her aunt and her – omitting nothing.

  “When I left, your mother said she was all right. But I’m not sure now if I’ve done the right thing.”

  For a moment Kyle seems lost for words.

  “Wow, that’s pretty heavy! What made you do it?”

  “I thought I could get my aunt to talk. I think she’s hiding something.”

  “Hiding something? What can an old woman hide?”

  Helen places the brandy snifter down on the coffee table and looks into Kyle’s eyes.

  “Kyle, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I believe it’s possible either my cousin Nicholas or my Uncle Jerry…or both…may still be alive.”

  “Gee, Helen, I don’t know. Are you sure? I mean, what makes you think so?”

  “It’s a long, strange story.”

  “And I want to hear every word of it, but I’ve got a roast that needs taking out of the oven. Help me finish setting the table, and you can tell me everything over dinner.”

  Throughout the three-course meal, Helen relays her story to Kyle. He listens to every word intently, without making a comment. When she finishes, he speaks.

  “What did your aunt mean…‘I hope he kills you’? He who?”

  “That’s just the point; that leads me to believe there’s still a possibility my cousin and or my uncle is still alive…and my aunt knows it!”

  Kyle shakes his head in disbelieve, “I just don’t see how it could be true or why anyone would try to pull off such a…a hoax?”

  They sit silently for a moment. The sun has long since set. Moving shadows fill the room, cast by the light from candles on the table. Kyle notes the smoothness of Helen’s skin under the glow of the candlelight. The reflections of the flames dance in her eyes.

  “It would be best if I start for home now,” Helen says, not sounding too thrilled at the proposition.

  “I thought you were going to stay the night.”

  “That was before my confrontation with my aunt. There’s nothing left for me to do now.”

  “Nothing…?” Kyle pours the last of the wine evenly into their glasses. “You know, I have a confession to make,” he says.

  Helen remains silent and listens.

  “There’s a woman here in town…I was having a relationship with. …I should have called it off a long time ago. We didn’t love each other. …We were just lonely together.

  “I called it off today because you were coming. I wanted a clean slate. I don’t want anything to come in the way of any possibilities there may be for you and me.”

  He goes silent, waiting for her response.

  “I’m glad you told me,” Helen says. “Is there a you and me?”

  “There can be.” He takes her hand. “Oh, Helen, there can be!”

  He stands up, lifts her from her chair, takes her in his arms, and kisses her.

  “I need to get back to my job,” she whispers, silently wanting deep inside for him to say something that will stop her from leaving.

  “You can leave with the morning light; you’ll be home in time for lunch.”

  That is all she needs to hear. She rests her head against his chest. Still holding her, he leans across the table and blows out the candles – the room goes dark.

  ***

  “Knock, knock,” Goebel says as he and Benson stand in the doorway of Captain Vega’s office.

  “Come in boys; take a seat,” says Captain Vega. His tone of voice sounds excessively syrupy and sweet – something is up.

  Goebel and Benson sit down. It is impossible not to notice the large reel-to-reel tape recorder on the Captain’s desk.

  “You know, fellas,” says Vega, “I like going to the movies. You guys like to go to the movies?”

  Goebel and Benson look at each other, confused.

  “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” Benson asks.

  “Just let me finish,” says Vega. “My wife likes girly romance pictures, and so that’s mostly what we see. Now, me…I like a good action flick, and not just any kind of action flick, I like police action movies. …Man, I love ‘em.”

  The strange smile that adorns Vega’s face disappears.

  “But there is one thing I hate about police shows. Whenever the hero or heroes get into trouble they wind up being called to the Captain’s office. He’s usually some old fart…balding head…drinks and smokes too much, and has high blood pressure. He’s always screaming at the top of his lungs about how if the hero doesn’t fly straight he’s going to put them on suspension.

  “Now me…I’m not an old fat or bald, am I? I don’t smoke…except for a good cigar now and then. I keep my drinking down to a minimum and only on weekends…and my blood pressure couldn’t be better.

  “That’s why I’m not going to scream and threaten you with suspension. I’m calmly going to tell you if you pull another stunt like this one, I’m going to have your badges. You can kiss my butt goodbye and go home and dream about retirement.”

  “What stunt?” Goebel asks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This is what the hell I’m talking about,” Vega says, turning on the tape recorder. It is a conversation between Victor Russell and Dr. Carver – the psychiatrist assigned by Victor’s lawyer to examine him.

  Goebel and Benson listen carefully to the electrical voices. Dr.
Carver is asking Victor a series of typical questions used in psychoanalysis – when suddenly Victor interrupts him.

  “Say, Doc, you’ve been asking all the questions. Mind if I ask you one or two?”

  “Well, it’s highly irregular, but I suppose it would be all right. What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me, Doc, do you play piano?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you play guitar?”

  “No, I don’t play guitar.”

  “And, what about trumpet, do you play a trumpet?”

  “No, Victor, I don’t play trumpet. In fact, I’m sorry to say, I don’t play any musical instrument.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad! And are you planning to take up a musical instrument sometime in your life?”

  “No, Victor, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

  “I see…” Victor says.

  The next sound coming from the small speaker of the tape recorder is loud and over modulated. There is the smashing sound of chairs hitting the floor, followed by a piercing scream from Dr. Carver.

  The next sound is of two police officers rushing into the room and subduing Victor to the floor – all the while, horrific screams continue from Dr. Carver.

  At that point, Captain Vega reaches over and shuts the machine off, and looks at Goebel and Benson for an explanation.

  “Son of a bitch jumped over the table at Dr. Carver, grabbed hold of his hand and chewed his little finger clear off!”

  “Damn, that’s got to hurt!” Goebel exclaims.

  “This isn’t funny!” Vega shouts, slamming his fist down on the desk.

  “Nowadays…can’t they stitch a finger back on?” Benson asks.

  “They can if you have the finger to stitch back on! Crazy bastard swallowed the damn thing. Later, when we were questioning Victor, he said he bit the small finger off so the doctor could still hold a pen and write. He said he wouldn’t bite off a finger if the doctor played a musical instrument, because he likes music. When we asked him what he would have done if the doctor did play a musical instrument, he said he would have chewed off his nose!”

  “So how’s any of this our fault?” Goebel asks.

  “Because you authorized the doctor’s second interview and you knew what state of mind Victor was in. He even admitted he would go so far as to kill someone to insure he would not be released. I’m holding you two responsible. I want this case solved and closed soon or you’re off it…you understand?”

  Goebel and Benson walk sheepishly out of the Captain’s office.

  “Looks like Victor Russell got his wish,” Benson says to Goebel as they stand in the hall outside the Captain’s office.

  “Yeah,” Goebel replies. “He may never see the outside world again. If he plays his cards right, they’ll lock him up forever.”

  “Safe from Daddy,” Benson adds.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bingo

  Rita looks at the clock on the nightstand – it is ten thirty at night.

  “This better be important,” Rita says as she walks into the kitchen to answer the phone.

  “Sheriff Gibson’s residence. May I help you?” she says, sounding almost mechanical.

  “Rita, this is Eleanor Russell. May I speak with the Sheriff, please?”

  “The Sheriff is getting ready for bed right now. He’ll be in the office at seven in the morning. I’ll have him call first thing.”

  “I’m sorry to be calling so late,” says Eleanor, “but it is important…so may I please speak with the sheriff?”

  “Like I said, he’s getting ready for bed. …He’s in the bathroom just now. I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets out.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind holding,” Eleanor insists.

  “Okay, just hold on.” Rita puts the phone down on its side and walks off in search of her husband. She knocks on the bathroom door.

  “Yeah?” her husband responds from within.

  “Eleanor Russell’s on the phone. …She wants to talk to you.”

  “Tell her to call the office in the morning.”

  “I told her that, but she says it’s important.”

  “Tell her I’ll call her back in a minute!”

  “She says she can’t wait. …It’s too important!”

  After thirty-five years of marriage, Rita knows her husband’s moods and ways. She backs away from the closed bathroom door. She knows all too well he’ll come storming out any second, angry as a wet hen and wild as a bull in a China closet – cussing everything and everyone that gets in his way.

  The door swings open; he is tying the sash of his robe as he stomps toward the kitchen. He grumbles obscenities under his breath so his wife can’t hear. But after thirty-five years, she has heard it all before and is not easily shocked.

  In the kitchen, the Sheriff takes a moment to calm down before putting the receiver to his ear. People are always calling him at home for the most minuscule of reasons – a neighbor’s barking dog, a loud party across the street. They all think calling the sheriff direct yields more immediate results. This is the curse of being a paid city official. He knows this, accepts this, but doesn’t like it.

  “Sheriff Gibson here…”

  “Sheriff, this is Eleanor Russell. I’m sorry to be calling you so late, but I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t speak with you.”

  Sheriff Gibson has heard it all, but he tries to remain polite.

  “How can I help you, Eleanor?”

  “I have some important information I need to share with you…something that’s been bothering my conscience all day since my niece came to visit me today. She was right. …I did know about it all. …I never wanted to admit it. I need to clear my conscience. …I need to confess.”

  “Eleanor, what are you talking about? Confess what? What important information?”

  “About Victor…about his brother…and about my Jerry. …Could you come to my home tomorrow morning?”

  Eleanor’s plea befuddles the sheriff but leaves him with questions.

  “Why wait till morning? Tell me now.”

  “I couldn’t…not over the phone. Besides, it would take too long.”

  “Okay, I’ll come over in morning on my way to the office. Seven o’clock all right?”

  “No, that’s when Joyce serves me my breakfast. Could you perhaps come later? Could you make it eight?”

  “Eight o’clock will be just fine.” Sheriff Gibson rolls his eyes. “Now, is there anything else, Mrs. Russell?”

  “No, not at the moment.”

  “Well, then, I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Mrs. Russell.” He hangs up before she can respond.

  “What was that all about?” Rita asks, standing at the kitchen doorway, listening in.

  “Crazy old goat!” he says, making his way back to their bedroom – Rita close behind. “She wants me to go to her house early tomorrow morning…something important to confess to me about her boys and Jerry…something she wants to get off her chest.”

  “A confession…?” Rita asks as she gets into bed next to her husband. “Maybe she killed Jerry, and years of guilt have been torturing her, and now she wants to confess it all?”

  “You need to stop reading those silly crime novels,” he says. “She probably wants to tell how innocent her son Victor is and if there’s anything I can do on his behalf. Only she didn’t have to call me in the middle of the night!”

  He turns out the light. He feels around in the dark till he finds his wife’s lips and kisses her goodnight. He turns on his side grumbling, “Crazy old goat!”

  ***

  Sheriff Gibson pulls up in the driveway of the Russell house. He shoots a glance at the dashboard clock; the digital numbers reads seven thirty-five.

  “Dang, if she thinks I’m going to wait out here in the car for another twenty-five minutes while she eats her breakfast, she’s got another thing coming.”

  Standing on the porch, he raps his knuckles hard three times on the s
creen door. There is no response from inside. He hammers his fist a few more times, a little bit harder – still no response.

  He presses his face against the screen door, but the house is dark and he is unable to see anything.

  “Joyce!” he cries into the house. “It’s Sheriff Gibson!”

  There is no sound coming from inside the house. He tries the door – it is open. He slowly walks in. Everything seems as it should be. He walks passed the living room, the dining room, and toward the kitchen. He sees Joyce standing at the kitchen sink.

  “Joyce…it’s me…Sheriff Gibson,” he says gently enough not to frighten her, but loud enough to be heard over the sound of water running in the sink. She shows no response. Then, he notices she isn’t bending over the sink, but in fact bending down into the sink.

  “Joyce?” he says once more as he enters the kitchen.

  It does not take the eye of a criminal expert to see what is wrong. As he approaches Joyce, he sees the top portion of her back. It is bloody from multiple stab wounds.

  Her eyes are wide open and lifeless. Her face presses against pots and pans – the same ones she used to prepare breakfast only a few minutes ago. There is blood all over the utensils, save for the ones under the stream of running water.

  There is no question in Sheriff Gibson’s mind she is dead, but he wants to be fully sure. He reaches out and places the first two fingers of his right hand on the side of her throat – there is no pulse. The body still holds warmth to it, meaning the murder has taken place recently – perhaps only moments ago. That means it is likely the killer is still on the premises. The Sheriff takes his gun from his holster and carefully and slowly searches the house. There is no sight or sound of anyone.

  When he approaches the bedroom behind the stairs, the door is slightly ajar. He looks in and then pushes the door open and steps inside.

  There on the bed is the dead body of Eleanor Russell. She is sitting up with two large pillows propped behind her. None of the food is touched on the breakfast tray on her lap. He reaches over and places the back of his hands against the scrambled eggs in the plate – they are still warm.