Perfect

by Harry Kraus

  “Jesse was trying to injure me, kill me perhaps. When he learned his plan had failed, he got even more desperate and killed Yolanda Pate in my bed, thinking it was me. He even left Henry a calling card, a bottle of narcotics that Henry had prescribed.”

  “How is that a calling card?”

  “Henry must have been helping Anders get narcotics for personal use and distribution. I think Anders was blackmailing Henry, making him cooperate.”

  “So where does Cindy Swanson come in?”

  “Eventually, Jesse realizes his mistake and gets even more desperate to show Henry that he means business, that he can control the lives of those Henry apparently loved. He shows up at Swanson’s apartment, kills her, and forces Henry to cover it up.”

  “Why would Henry do that?”

  I shrugged. “Blackmail? Perhaps Henry was convinced it was the only way to protect me from this madman. I heard Jesse tell his wife that he promised Henry that he wouldn’t hurt me when he was at Henry’s girlfriend’s place.” I paused, letting my theory hang in the air. It all made sense. In fact, it was the simple solution that Ockham’s razor demanded. All the crazy events of the week could be explained by Jesse’s desire to get back at Henry and control him.

  I watched as Ed and Chris exchanged looks. After a minute, Chris wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up from his desk. “Why don’t you go home, Wendi? We’ll find you if we have any other questions. Or a need for any more of your crazy theories.”

  I stayed quiet, but let my eyes search the face of the chief of police. Maybe, just maybe, I’d found another ally in the department.

  Ed Mosby nodded. “You need to stay at home by the phone. We’ll keep looking for Henry. Let us know if he shows up or calls.”

  “Sure,” I mumbled. “Sure.”

  As I was leaving, Ed called out, “Wendi, how did you ever come up with that theory?”

  I smiled. “It’s what I do.”

  Days passed. Evidence trickled in. A search of Henry’s office turned up a definite link with Jesse Anders. State pharmacy records revealed hundreds of extra narcotics prescriptions turned in at dozens of different drugstores across the state. Early interviews supported the idea that Henry wrote the prescriptions for real people, who then turned the drugs over to Anders for a small percentage of the profit. Anders, in turn, provided narcotics to the University of Virginia campus and fattened his wallet.

  A forensics team spent hours in Cindy Swanson’s apartment, discovering evidence of Cindy’s blood on the floor in the front room close to the door. It was likely that Cindy died right there, possibly from a violent kick or punch that fractured her cervical spine, ending her ability to breathe. The autopsy reports on Linda and Jesse Anders confirmed they died of a narcotics overdose, but another substance had also been found: succinylcholine, a powerful neuromuscular blocker used to paralyze patients for surgery. Examination of the remaining vials of Fentanyl that Henry delivered to the Anderses revealed that each one was tainted with the paralyzing drug. My suspicion was that Henry acted outside of the law out of fear for my life. Perhaps he knew that the Anderses couldn’t resist using the drug on themselves before they distributed it to the university students.

  Day by day I waited for word on Henry, paced, and drank too much Ethiopian java. By Sunday afternoon, knowing I’d find my parents together at the nursing home, I whispered a prayer and decided it was time for transparency. I was ready to show my parents my real self and accept their judgment.

  I found Mom in her wheelchair and Dad reading to her from the book of Galatians.

  “Knock, knock,” I said, gently rapping on the door.

  They looked up together, their faces bright. “Wendi.”

  I sat on Mom’s bed and sniffed. My eyes were brimming with tears before I got out the first words of my confession. “I’ve been such a phony. I’ve been nothing but a fake since I was a teenager. I’ve acted like a Christian, but that’s all I was: an actress.”

  I brushed away a tear and looked at my mom. “I have to tell Daddy, Mom.” I looked at my father and then at the floor. “I’m the reason Mom is in this chair. I was pregnant and Mom was taking me to get an abortion when we had the accident. We would have never been in the car that day if it weren’t for me. It’s all my fault,” I sobbed.

  I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “I know all about it, Wendi.”

  I jerked upright. “You knew?”

  He nodded his head. “Wendi, you were young. We share your guilt, honey. Your mother was involved in covering your affair and I was guilty of not being there for my family. I paraded you around in front of the church, my perfect little girls.” My dad’s shoulders were pitched forward in defeat. I looked at the lines in his face, pain etched in each one. “I failed you. You missed out on the gospel of grace. You tried to be perfect without the cross.”

  My mom’s hand joined my father’s on my back as I leaned forward, letting his words wash over my soul. “I was so wrong, Wendi,” she said. “But you’re not responsible for putting me in this chair. This chair has taught me so much. It was God’s toughest grace to me, a way for me to understand that he loves me regardless of my abilities.” She patted my back. “Do you understand? Here in this chair, there is little I can do but receive. Undeservedly. Without merit. That’s grace,” she whispered, now crying with me.

  After a minute, I collected myself, gathering my runaway emotions beneath a pseudocalm. “Something’s happened to me. Last week, I was convinced the answer to the disconnect between my skin and my heart was to change the part of me that the world couldn’t see: I was determined to escape my hypocrisy by acting out the careless passions that I felt inside.” I took my father’s hand. “Now I know the real answer to my discontent was to find the reality of what my lips were confessing, instead of following my heart.”

  My mother prompted. “And?”

  “I discovered faith.”

  My father smiled. “Tell us.”

  “When I was facing death, locked up in the Anderses’ bedroom, I marveled over how naturally I cried to God for help. It was as if suddenly I just knew he was there, waiting for me to believe in him.” I halted, feeling my voice threatening to close. “Suddenly I just knew everything I’d heard was true. I believed he loved me.”

  I listened to my mother’s quiet sobs and watched as my father embraced her. After another minute, I realized they were both staring off through the window. I stood and followed their gaze. They seemed to be looking down the hill at the little chapel. The light was falling, illuminating the cross.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” I said, placing my hands on my parents’ shoulders. “The cross. That’s what I missed all along.”

  My mother’s voice was just above a whisper. “It changes everything.”

  I smiled. A real smile. It was something that bubbled out of me as natural as rain and sun causing tulips to bloom. I was forgiven. I’d looked at the cross and seen something other than condemnation for the first time: Grace!

  I touched my cheeks, feeling the muscles that scrunched up the corners of my mouth into a wide grin, and marveled at the reality of it all. This was the real deal. Out with condemnation. In with things too wonderful to understand. Down with artificial sweeteners and plastic expressions. In with chocolate and forgiveness.

  CHAPTER 30

  Trevor Anderson had been on the Appalachian Trail for eighteen days. He was running low on Snickers bars and in need of a shower. He unfolded his map and took out his compass. He knew there was a lodge at Big Meadows, but that was more than a day’s walk. He sighed and looked at his compass. “There,” he muttered to his black Labrador Retriever, “Skyline Drive should be just over that rise. Let’s hitchhike down to the lodge, grab some grub and a shower, and catch another ride back.” He scratched the dog behind the ears and smiled. It was a good plan.

  He folded the trail map and stuffed it in the outer zip pocket of his backpack, lifted the pack, and started off the path towards the road
. After a half mile, he heard the sounds of traffic drifting down what appeared to be a series of rugged cliffs. Crud, he thought, I’m going to have to find another way up. The approach here is too steep. He looked up at the light as it came through the canopy of pines far above his head and sighed. “Come on, Sicily, let’s try a bit further down.”

  But Sicily, his black Lab, had other plans. Up the embankment towards the base of the cliffs she ran, ignoring his pleas for her to return.

  That’s odd. It’s like she’s on the scent of something.

  Trevor hiked on behind her, stepping from boulder to boulder. That’s when he saw a glint of light. There was something shiny at the base of a tree. He picked up what looked like a twisted piece of chrome, a broken mirror of some sort.

  As he puzzled over the mirror, Sicily barked incessantly, as a hound bays at a coon up a tree. Trevor jumped up onto a nearby boulder to see what the commotion was about. And that’s when he saw the crumpled red motorcycle.

  He rushed forward. And knelt by the cycle, a massive metal rhinoceros of red and chrome. Trevor looked up. Sicily was on point, her gaze away from him, in a thicket of blackberry bramble.

  Trevor gasped. There was a body in the woods.

  When I arrived home, a Charlottesville PD patrol car was in the driveway. Inside, I found a young officer talking with Rene. Their expressions told me more than I wanted to know. I felt my gut tighten.

  “Wendi,” Rene began timidly. “They’ve found Henry.”

  I didn’t want to ask. But I needed to ask. I put my hand on the back of Henry’s leather easy chair. “Is he — well, is he — ” the words clumped in my throat — “dead?”

  I watched as Rene traded glances with the officer. I knew from the look they gave me.

  The officer nodded. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am.”

  I felt weak. Seven days ago, I wanted nothing but escape from my marriage, my husband, and my perfect life. Now, I just wanted a chance to tell Henry everything. “No,” I whispered, finding my way into the leather chair. “No.”

  Rene moved to my side, but I wanted none of her comfort. I shook my head. “Where? Where did they find him?”

  “Skyline Drive. Apparently, a car crossed the midline into his path. His cycle struck a guardrail. He and his bike were found seventy-five feet down the side of a steep drop-off.” His voice was steady. “There was no way to see him from the road. A hiker saw his red motorcycle this afternoon and investigated.”

  “Henry,” I said, trying not to cry. I looked at Rene. “He loved that motorcycle. I guess he just wanted some space. He used to ride up there after demanding cases to clear his mind.”

  I cried, not caring that the officer was watching. After a minute, I blew my nose and stood up. “I want to know exactly where they found him.”

  The next day, I spent two and a half hours examining and photographing the site of Henry’s accident.

  Rene stood by me patiently, occasionally asking questions about my findings, items I preferred not to share with her.

  From the position of the bike and the location where they’d found Henry’s body, I could calculate his speed.

  I studied the skid marks on the road. A set of car tire marks indeed crossed the midline. In fact, the car skid ran all the way across the road and dug up the patch of clover off the shoulder on Henry’s side of the road. A second set of skid marks, apparently made by the Triumph, ran right up to and stopped at the guardrail. The guardrail was dented, and a bit of red paint documented the impact.

  Apparently, and according to the police report, Henry had made an evasive action to avoid collision with the driver of an unnamed car, slammed his brakes, struck the guardrail and launched himself and the Triumph off the road, down the embankment.

  Apparently. But by the time I finished my site investigation, I was convinced that Henry was again talking to me.

  I thought back to the way he’d set up Cindy Swanson’s “accident.” He knew I’d pick up the subtle clues there, even if his efforts were sophomoric and simple. Here, after looking around, I realized Henry was after a deception at a whole new level. This was premeditated, pure and simple, and way out of the league of the on-the-spot thinking Henry had done on the night of Cindy Swanson’s death.

  The motorcycle skid marks leading to the guardrail were heaviest just in front of the railing, evidence that this too was an acceleration skid, made with the cycle throttling away from the guardrail, not a braking skid heading into the railing.

  I confirmed my suspicions later that day, when I went to the impound lot where they’d put Henry’s Mercedes after retrieving it from the reservoir up above Rebert’s Dam. I took out a large flathead screwdriver and ran it between the wheel and the edge of the tire. As I suspected, there were fragments of clover, evidence of a significant lateral torque applied to the wheels, just as one might see if the car was forced into a sideways skid through a clover patch. The lateral torque opens up the space between the wheel and the tire, allowing the trapping of grass or other material in the gap. I measured the distance between the wheels. It matched the skid marks left in the road by the car that had supposedly run dear Henry off into the guardrail. My husband had committed suicide and set it up to look like an accident.

  What I didn’t understand completely was why. I suspected that Henry had gotten roped into a deception by the Anderses, and when Jesse went off and tried to kill me, Henry took the law into his own hands. I suspected he was protecting me when he laced the Anderses’ narcotics with a paralyzing agent. I supposed Henry didn’t feel like he could turn in the Anderses to the law without implicating himself. And Henry was way too proud for that.

  But I wouldn’t share my findings with anyone. I owed my silence to Henry. He deserved to be remembered as the fine surgeon he was, a man who was killed by the carelessness of another driver. But I knew better.

  It wasn’t until a week later that I understood a bit more about the complexity of the man I called my husband, and had to swallow another clue that Henry intended one way for the world and another entirely for me. It was a clue that told the world that all was happy between us. This was his final goodbye. To the world, he died a hero, a man with one love, his precious bride. To me, well, Henry was a wonderful guy. I owed him so much more than I gave him, and I bear responsibility for sending him over the edge.

  I was reading the mail on a Saturday afternoon when the doorbell rang. It had become a routine. Coffee, a mountain of Kleenex, and a date with Henry’s fan mail. “He saved my life.” “He gave us back our daughter.” “I was never so grateful to anyone as to your husband for the compassion he showed.”

  I brushed a tear from my cheek and set aside a letter, cradling it gently for a moment because of the treasure it was to me. I walked to the foyer and opened the door to an old friend, Sig Eichmann.

  He tipped his hat. In spite of his lifelong analysis of some of humanity’s most gruesome horrors, Sig remained a consummate gentleman. “Good afternoon, Wendi.”

  I smiled, happy to see my old mentor. “What brings you here?”

  A soberness came to his face, bumping his smile away. “I’m so sorry about Henry.”

  I nodded. It had been a week. I still didn’t know how to respond.

  “I thought you’d be curious about my findings.”

  “You know me.”

  He opened his briefcase, a worn leather satchel that documented evil and injury. “I’ve made you a copy of my report. Read it if you like. Burn it if you need to. It’s all routine, nothing surprising really.”

  I set the report on the kitchen table. Sig followed me in. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks,” he said. “I really can’t stay. I’ve left Carol at the international grocery store.”

  “Sure.”

  He cleared his throat and reached into his pocket. “I’ve brought you something else.” He held up something that glinted in the light. A pocket watch. Etched with a heart. “Henry was carrying this when he died. I thought you
should have it.”

  My hand trembled as I received it. Oh, Henry. I turned it over in my hand and pressed a little release button on the side, popping the lid and looking inside. A small photograph of my face had been pressed into the little chamber. I recognized it immediately. It was the pocket watch I’d given Jack.

  “Where did you get this?” My voice carried an accusatory tone I wished to disguise.

  He looked confused. “Henry,” he said. “I examined his body and his clothing. This was in his pocket.”

  I swallowed hard. I couldn’t process this in front of Sig. “Th-thanks,” I stammered.

  We stood quietly for a moment as my fingers whitened around the metal object in my hand.

  The moment was awkward for me, but Sig seemed to let it pass as evidence of my grief. He stepped back to the front door, excusing himself.

  “Sig,” I called to him. “Thank you for this.”

  “Sure,” he said, letting himself out the front door.

  I paced the house, wondering how I’d forgotten the silly little watch. I’d given it to Jack. I’d seen him put it carefully away and promise it would be our secret.

  So what happened to it?

  I knew what happened to you when you hit the emergency room after a trauma. I had been on the receiving end of the work-up. Most people know the ABC’s, the Airway, Breathing, and Circulation of resuscitation, but few people know about D and E, Disability and Exposure. Henry must have found it during the exam. Perhaps he took it off and was going to give it to Jack when he recovered. But then he must have looked inside and seen me. I felt a rush of shame. Henry knew all along. He knew about my relationship with Jack, and yet he went on caring for both of us just the same.

  Was it my unfaithfulness that drove him to seek solace in the arms of his resident?

  “Henry,” I whispered, clutching the watch. “Forgive me.”

  The revelation hit me hard. I may have thought I was fooling everyone, but Henry had read me like an open book. My plastic smiles may have satisfied the curiosity of others, but my husband knew the truth.