by Mary Miley
‘I rush off stage and got by the door when the audience let out. I follow the man. He went to Italian restaurant near the theater, but not to eat. The kitchen was his place of work. I sat at a table and ordered food, even though to think of eating made me taste vomit. I asked the waiter, was the cook Italian? No, he said to me, the cook is Serbian. I asked did he have a wife and children, for it made me uneasy to think to kill a man who would leave a wife and children to starve. He said no. That was the moment I knew I would kill him.’
She looked at the ceiling, as if gathering strength from something on the plaster. She swallowed hard several times, and her mouth opened and closed as her lips struggled to form words. When she continued, she spoke to the ceiling, almost as if she was watching the events take place up there, almost as if she had forgotten I was beside her in the room.
‘I go again to this restaurant to look and plan my revenge. I plan it as I would plan my act on stage – entrance male, action, exit female. I brought a gun. I went in the kitchen, I pointed my gun and told him who I was. The fear in his eyes warmed me. He knew he would now pay for his sins. I shot three bullets, one for my mother, one for my father, and one for my brother. Then I transformed into a woman and screamed the killer ran out the back door.
‘I was so happy with my success. For the first time since the farm, my life had purpose. I thought of the other four soldiers. Were they in America too? How to find them? I knew their names but nothing more.’
‘How did you know their names?’ I asked.
‘My uncle, he search pockets of the two dead officers to maybe find money. He found a paper with five names. The deserters’ names. I did not know if the other four had died in the war or come to America like the cook, but now I think it possible they could be in New York. They cannot stay in their own country, even if our murders were never known. Deserters can never go home. So I go to this man Ilitch’s funeral and pretend to be a friend of Ilitch. I went as a woman, because people talk more to women. I learned there was a friend of Ilitch who lived in St. Louis.’
‘So you quit your vaudeville act and went to St. Louis,’ I continued for her, to let her rest. ‘You found the small Serbian immigrant community there and a man named Jovanovitch. When you learned he worked at a motorcar factory, you got a job at that factory.’
She gave a thin smile. ‘Yes. I clean floors and water closets, I watch and listen, until I knew which man was Jovanovitch. While I clean, I plan his death and my escape, just as before. Then I had revenge with three bullets for my family. You know this. You were there. I heard you tell Barbara Petrovitch.’
‘You were the man who paid for his funeral, pretending to be a distant cousin, weren’t you?’
‘I paid his funeral with his own money what I took from his apartment. I search his papers until I found one with the address of two men, one in Los Angeles, one in Detroit. I also find his hidden money – two hundred dollars. This was good, because cleaning women earn little wages. I went to Detroit, but he was not there. There was another at his address who said he left several years before. So I went to Los Angeles and found the man who showed films. I found him at his home and followed him to his work. I go two times to the theater to learn how to come and go quick. His face when I shot him made my soul rejoice. I went to his funeral. I was sad for his wife, but people say he beat her, so it was good to spare her more beating.’
‘Barbara,’ I said. ‘She’s a good person.’
‘I bring her cake one day and learn you are helping find her husband’s killer. She told me about the letter from St. Louis – she told me everything. I knew you would soon understand the connection between the killings. So I watch and listen to Barbara tell me of your progress. I hoped you would lead me to the two men I wanted to kill. You did. One, anyway. Now he is dead too. So, you see, I do not need a priest. I have nothing to confess. I did not murder anyone. I avenge my family and honor them. My father will be proud. I am only sorry to leave one alive.’
Only a stone could fail to be moved by her story, and I was no stone. But I was torn. On the one hand, what she did was clearly wrong. On the other, how else was justice to be served? American police could not arrest men for murders and rapes committed thirteen years ago in a far-off land. American courts could not prosecute foreign men for foreign crimes. If the men returned to Serbia, they would be shot for desertion and the murder of the two officers, which is, of course, why they fled that country in the first place. Were they to be excused with an ‘Oh well, never mind?’. Murder was wrong, but this seemed to be something other than murder. I sympathized with Vesa Leka. Hers was a rough, Old West sort of justice, but it was the only justice available.
‘You don’t know about another Serb, do you?’ she asked hopefully.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘The last one’s name is Stefan Markovitch. He lived in Detroit but moved someplace else.’
‘There were no letters or telegrams that mentioned such a name. He must not have kept in touch with the others. Would you like me to get you more – Oh!’ In my excitement, I leaped to my feet.
‘What?’
My mind raced. ‘Did you point a gun at the cop who shot you?’
‘No, the gun I dropped when I fell with my leg bleeding. I didn’t have any gun.’
‘That cop who shot you in the chest. His name is Steve Marks.’
She understood instantly. ‘Stefan Markovitch? You think he is Stefan Markovitch?’
‘No wonder he tried to kill you when it wasn’t necessary! He must have left Detroit and come to Los Angeles years ago with Joe Petrovitch!’
Stunned at the implications, I sat back down and dragged my thoughts through the past few weeks, collecting the bits and pieces that involved Officer Marks. ‘He heard about Joe’s death and volunteered to translate letters. One time, I remember, he didn’t translate the entire message until I pressed him. He denied being Serbian; he claimed to be from Macedonia. He knew all about the investigation. Oh my god, I left word with Carl where I was going, and Marks must have volunteered to come to San Francisco with him so he could have a chance at killing the killer before his turn came.’
‘He tried to kill me once, on our farm, but I lived then. He tried again tonight. When I die, will he not go to prison for shooting me?’
‘I doubt it. He’s a policeman.’
‘Ah, but this is America. In America, policemen cannot kill who they please, no?’
‘He was chasing the person who had just shot and killed a man. He should have tried to capture you alive, but he can always say you pointed your gun at him so he had no choice but to shoot in self defense.’
‘I had no gun then.’
‘He can say that anyway. They will find your gun nearby and believe him.’
She thought this through before sighing. ‘So this time he will succeed in killing me.’
She must have seen the stricken look on my face, for she gave a weak smile. ‘Do not be sad. I have revenge on four of them. It is no small thing. I honor my family.’
‘I – I’m just …’
The nurse made another brief appearance. She checked on her patient, then turned to me. ‘Two men are waiting for you in the admitting lobby, dearie. And we have another patient coming in here shortly. I’m sorry – the police wanted you to have a private room, but all the other beds on this hall are full.’
‘Thank you. What time is it?’
‘Quarter past two.’
After she had left the room, I turned to Vesa Leka, ‘That will be my friend, Detective Carl Delaney, who came here with Officer Steve Marks. They will want to know what happened and how you are. I don’t know how I can face him.’
‘You were in vaudeville, like me, no? You will know how to act.’ We fell silent for a time, until she spoke again, her voice soft with hesitation. ‘This detective, is he a bad man?’
‘He’s probably the only honest cop in Hollywood.’
‘You are honest person too. You are vaudeville,
like me. I cannot kill Markovitch. I will die soon. But if you help me, I can avenge my family. If you help me. Will you help?’
‘Me? No!’ But then, to my dismay, curiosity trumped good sense. ‘Help how?’
THIRTY-THREE
‘To start with,’ I said, sitting across from Carl and Officer Marks, ‘he’s a she.’
Carl nearly spat out his coffee. Marks’s eyes widened. Clearly neither man had any idea they were dealing with a woman.
‘Are you sure?’ Carl asked.
A smile tugged at my lips. ‘I think the surgeon would not mistake that detail. She is Vesa Leka, a vaudeville transfigurator until a few months ago.’
I watched Marks’s expression closely when I said her name. It meant nothing to him. I began to think Vesa Leka might be wrong … just possibly, Marks really was what he claimed to be – a Macedonian who happened to read Serbian. The similarity of the two names could be coincidence. Yet if that was the case, would he have shot the unarmed person? He knew the person on the ground was responsible for killing his comrades. But did he make the connection to the Albanian farm family? Did he know who she was? I didn’t think so.
‘Vesa is a girl’s name,’ observed Marks without emotion.
I nodded, wishing I’d known that tidbit earlier. ‘I told them I was her cousin, so I could stay close.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Carl. ‘The locals aren’t too happy with Marks and me right now. Did you learn anything?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I sure did. Vesa Leka is out to avenge her Albanian family who was murdered back in 1912 during the war over there. That was the war that came before the Great War. Five men, all Serbian army deserters, came to their farm, raped her and her mother, and killed her whole family. She alone survived.’ I watched Marks’s face as I spoke and saw recognition flush his face. His eyes widened and he gave a soft cry. Carl mistook it for horror. I knew better. He was Stefan Markovitch. No doubts remained. I wanted to spit on him.
‘Sometimes I think war is worse hell for civilians than it is for soldiers,’ Carl said with a shake of his head. ‘Law and order is the first victim. When that disappears, the strongest man with the biggest gun gets away with doing whatever he wants to because there’s no police, no jails, no courts, no consequences.’ And his own army experience in France during the Great War was, I knew, the reason he had decided not to return to the farm but to become a cop.
I went on. ‘The five men also murdered two officers who had come looking for them. Vesa Leka learned the names of the deserters from papers one of the officers was carrying. She hadn’t come to America to search for the deserters; it just happened that she recognized one in a vaudeville audience while she was performing in New York City one day and followed him to his restaurant and shot him. His funeral led her to find the others, one by one. Her training allowed her to shoot and change her appearance so quickly that she was never caught.’
‘How did you know she was coming to San Francisco?’ Carl asked.
‘I didn’t know. I found out from Barbara Petrovitch that one of the five soldiers was living here – Paul Pavlovitch – and I came to see what I could learn from him. And to warn him, of course. Vesa Leka wormed her way into Barbara’s confidence and has been tracking our investigation all along. I had no idea she was following me. I led her straight to him. I feel like a chump.’
Carl reached over and squeezed my shoulder for reassurance. ‘So we know about four of the men she killed. Did she get the fifth too?’
‘No. She doesn’t know where he is, only his name. And she knows she won’t be able to track him down now.’
‘We heard she was going to die.’
I stole a glance at Marks. He was staring at his hands like someone who wasn’t paying attention, but I could almost see his ears stretch toward our conversation.
‘Well, that’s old news. She looked to be in pretty bad shape when she came in, but luckily, Marks’s bullets missed the main organs, and the doctor was able to repair the critical damage. She’s stronger already. I don’t pretend to understand the medical details … but now it looks like she’ll go to trial after all.’
‘And hang for four murders. Or spend the rest of her life in prison.’ Clearly, he believed the former outcome more likely.
I nodded. ‘But her testimony will come out at the trial, of course, and while she won’t be able to track down the fifth deserter, all that publicity will shine a spotlight on him. You know the newspapers in New York, St. Louis, Los Angeles, and here will play up the story like mad – she’ll become a national sensation. After all, she has a very sympathetic tale to tell. And she plans to start telling it now. The public will eat it up raw. She wants me to arrange for a reporter from the Chronicle and the Examiner to come to the hospital as soon as the sun’s up. Someone, somewhere is bound to know him.’
Carl gave this some thought before adding, ‘He may not be in this country. Hell, he may not be alive.’ I noted with some satisfaction that the man-who-might-not-be-alive was wringing his hands.
‘If he is alive, could he be tried for those murders?’ I asked, hoping to pour salt in the wound.
‘Not in America,’ said Carl. ‘There’s always a possibility that he could be arrested and shipped back to Serbia for justice there. Slim, I grant you, but a possibility. They’d probably shoot him for desertion before they bothered about any civilian deaths, though. That’s the way war works, I’m afraid.’ He sighed and checked the clock on the wall. ‘I guess there’s nothing more we can do here.’
‘You’re right. Vesa Leka isn’t going anywhere. There’s a policeman built like an icebox guarding the door to Room 7 and a night nurse keeping watch on the hall. The doctor has gone home. All the other third-floor patients seem to be asleep. Me, I’m going to faint from hunger. The nurse told me there was an all-night diner around the corner. What say we head there for some early breakfast?’
Carl considered my proposal. ‘It’ll be daylight in a few hours, and the southbound express leaves at eight. We could eat, and then go straight to the station. Marks, you and I could be home this evening.’
Marks spoke up. ‘What about our guns?’
‘The San Francisco police confiscated them,’ he said in response to my questioning look. Then he turned back to Marks. ‘They’re not going to give them back to us today, that’s for sure. They’ll probably ship them back to headquarters when they’re good and ready. We don’t need them now.’ Carl stood, stretched, and yawned. ‘You coming with us, Jessie?’
‘To the diner, but not on the train. As long as I’m in San Francisco, I think I’ll spend some time with my grandmother and come home in a day or two.’
I stood. Officer Marks remained in his wooden chair, a vacant stare in his eyes. He was, I knew, ruined. He knew it too. The thought gave me a thrill of satisfaction. His best hope now was to vanish, but would he? As soon as the newspapers got hold of Vesa Leka’s story and the additions to it that I intended to make, his respectable job with the Los Angeles police would be over. He’d have to change his name and move to another state. Maybe another country. Canada or Mexico, perhaps. Or somewhere in South America. In one sense, he’d escape justice, but he’d never land safely anywhere. He would be forever isolated, looking over his shoulder, unable to mingle with the decent Serb immigrant communities where he would be despised for having deserted their army and for killing his officers. Living alone, without family or friends or familiar surroundings, would be its own kind of verdict. And that was his best hope. There was always the chance that he could be shipped back to Serbia for trial. But I was pulling for a third ending to this sordid drama.
‘I’m more tired than hungry,’ said Marks, his eyes fixed on his shoes. ‘I’m going to the station and sleep on a bench until the train comes.’
Carl nodded. I smiled, and we left the hospital.
The all-night diner served a limited menu after midnight, but the breakfast special appealed to us both. A waitress poured us strong coffee and
jotted down our order for the cook. Too tired to chatter, I cradled my coffee cup and tested various bits of opening dialogue in my head. Carl wasn’t going to like this – he was the sort of man who put a high price on honesty. I realized how much I valued his good opinion, now that I was about to lose it. He deserved the truth at the first possible moment, but I stalled, thinking it prudent to wait until our food came, and then convincing myself to get a few bites into my stomach in case the meal was interrupted. When I swallowed the last mouthful of potatoes, I knew I’d run out of excuses.
‘So, Carl,’ I said, fixing my gaze on the knot in his tie. ‘Something happened that you should know about.’ I paused for him to make a comment, but he was a man of no unnecessary words. I could feel him tense.
‘Well, okay, here it is. Everything I said about Vesa Leka wasn’t exactly true. Most things were, but not every single thing.’
Still no comment from Carl. It was time to rip the adhesive tape off with one quick motion.
‘For one thing, she knows who the fifth deserter is. He’s here in San Francisco. He followed us. His name was Stefan Markovitch. Now it’s Steve Marks.’
As I watched, Carl turned his thoughts inward. His brown eyes stared through me, unseeing, as if he’d been sitting alone at the table. He was, I knew, sifting through what I’d said, analyzing it piece by piece, the way he did everything. I knew he’d fitted enough of the puzzle pieces into place when he gave a low cry and leapt to his feet, his eyes snapped into focus.
‘He’s going to kill her. Before she has the chance to talk to the reporters. It’s the only way he can save himself. You knew who he was! What he was capable of! Why in hell did you tell him that?’
He fumbled in his wallet for money and threw two dollars on the Formica table.