Judicious Murder

by Val Bruech

  Why hadn’t I told Al everything? Why hadn’t I bought a gun?

  “Take off your left shoe and sock. I’ll inject you between your toes so they won’t find a puncture mark in the autopsy.”

  I envisioned myself writhing on the ground in unspeakable torment, a victim of some exotic drug.

  “Why in the world do you want to kill me?”

  His eyebrows rose in the unspoken comment that I was a complete moron.

  “You’re convinced that I killed your loathsome Judge Kendall, in spite of no proof. You blab to Brenda, you plant ideas with the police. You are indestructible, or perhaps just lucky, and you won’t quit. So, Ms. Marshfield, you have to be excised.”

  His indifference was paralyzing.

  “Like you ‘excised’ Gordon Haskins?”

  In the silence that followed I pulled myself up into a sitting position on the bench. In that moment, he reached over to the light switch and plunged the room into darkness.

  I felt for my fanny pack. What the hell had I put in there? The puny flashlight had long since disappeared, dropped somewhere in the garage.

  A blade of light stabbed through the darkness. His torch was one of those high-tech instruments that singed my eyeballs.

  “Why would I kill Gordon Haskins?” Benton snickered.

  Somewhere there was a creak. He probably bumped against a car.

  “You and Brenda were having an affair,” I prompted. “My guess is she wouldn’t leave Gordon, and that made you crazy. Maybe Brenda was in on it with you; I don’t know. She’s a hell of an actress.” I struggled to keep my thoughts straight and the words coming.

  “Killing doesn’t bother you. You see it as ridding yourself of a problem. Gordon stood in the way of what you wanted: Brenda. So you offed him.”

  “Very good. Exactly what I expected from you. Have you told the authorities your suspicions?”

  “No! I don’t have proof. And they’re hot to trot on Sam’s case, not a years-old murder where someone’s doing time.”

  He laughed. “Liar’s poker doesn’t become you, Ms. Marshfield. Did I mention that I made out a police report about the incident when you followed me and harassed me at the country club? I told them I wanted a stalking order against you,” he added pleasantly.

  “So you see, your showing up here in the dead of night solves my problem. It confirms your obsession about Judge Kendall, tragically misdirected at yours truly. It gives me a…what do they call it— justifiable homicide?—when you shoot a burglar in your home. And if the police do get nasty, I’m ready. When Sam Kendall started focusing on me after he represented the Righetti woman, I began liquidating my assets. I now have an extremely large and very untraceable account. If the police don’t buy my story about what happens here tonight, I’m on a plane for parts unknown. I’d lose this house, but it’s mortgaged to the hilt. No equity, big loan. I have your good friend the judge to thank for that bit of foresight.”

  “Can you please turn that damn thing off?”

  The room went black, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  A car door opened, the interior light flashed on, and for a moment Benton wasn’t focused on me. I fumbled in my fanny pack, located the puny pocketknife and silently opened it, then slipped it behind my back.

  “How did you kill Gordon?”

  His light came on again, knife-bright and directed right into my eyes.

  I shut them tightly.

  “All right, Ms. Marshfield, here’s how we’re going to play this. Open your eyes and I’ll keep the light below your neck.”

  I followed his direction and the beam settled on my midsection.

  “You want to hear about Gordon, and I find myself quite willing to tell you. However,” he added, “there’s a quid pro quo here. You are going to tell me everything you know and who else knows it. If you choose not to do that, or to lie, well, I’ve got a little cocktail here.” He aimed the flashlight at the syringe in his left hand and pushed the plunger so a sprinkle shot straight up. “When I inject it you’ll be able to speak and have normal brain function but you’ll be completely paralyzed, unable to wiggle even your little finger. If you persist in failing to cooperate I’ll prepare a main course that will cause every joint in your body to feel like it’s on fire. The pain can only be endured for a very short time. The long term effects are horrendous, but you won’t have to worry about those.”

  His words terrified me but I couldn’t let him see that. I had to keep him talking, buy time, figure something out.

  “I’m dying to know about Gordon, no pun intended.”

  He cleared his throat professorially and swung the light back at me. I felt like an escapee from some prison, skewered by a brilliant searchlight emanating from the guard tower.

  “My plan started to jell when the Righetti child died on the operating table. Gordon and I played golf at the country club every Thursday. We talked business, sorted things out. The next time we golfed I took a wax impression of Gordon’s house key when he was in the shower. A locksmith friend duplicated it for me—I told him I was planning a practical joke. Brenda wouldn’t give me a key to their home,” he added wistfully.

  “I knew from visiting the Haskins that they had keys to several of their neighbors’ homes, all neatly tagged on a board in the pantry. Of course, I was well aware of the Righetti family because of the son’s death, and I knew they were neighbors. The next time I was at Gordon and Brenda’s, I simply took the Righetti key from its hook and replaced it with another harmless key so no one would notice an empty hook. I duplicated the Righetti key and replaced the original at the Haskins’ the day of Gordon’s funeral. I was there often, comforting Brenda.”

  “So far you’re pretty lucky.”

  “Luck is for ball games,” he said scornfully. “Every detail was meticulously planned.”

  The atmosphere in the room suddenly became unsettled, charged with emotion. Was my psyche playing tricks on me?

  “I’m fascinated. Go on.”

  “I had to have an alibi. I knew Gordon slept late on Saturdays. I arranged for a friend to call me long distance at the office on a Friday, and I told everyone the call was a family emergency, and I had to go to Wisconsin for the weekend.”

  I shifted my weight. The light stung my eyes like a hundred needles.

  “Stay still,” he commanded. I complied meekly and the beam dipped again.

  “As you see, I’m a bit of a bicycle nut,” he resumed, weirdly pleasant again. “That Saturday, before dawn, I biked to the Haskins’ house. No one recognizes a bicyclist: helmet, spandex, wrap-around sunglasses. It’s a great disguise.

  “I locked the bike to a tree a block away and waited. Their paper was delivered, and Brenda got it. It was still too early for most people to be out, so I circled to the back of their house. Brenda was reading the paper in the kitchen. I opened the front door with the key I had copied and crept upstairs to the bedroom. That was the chancy part. Gordon never woke up. One shot with the twenty-two, silencer of course, checked his pulse, and left. I wasn’t in the house more than two minutes. I rode home and immediately took off for Wisconsin and let myself be seen up there, just in case. Of course, I was shocked to hear the news.”

  “Brenda wasn’t in on it?”

  “Absolutely not,” he declared. “She couldn’t be tainted with anything like that. It was up to me to make our destiny.”

  I thanked my fairy godmother that I never had a maniac like Benton hit on me. Then I remembered my current predicament.

  “What about a mother who’s wasting away in the pen? What about her kids? How many lives do you have to ruin before you see what you’re doing?”

  “My dear Ms. Marshfield,” he chuckled. “You don’t get it. You play by the rules. You even help enforce the rules, after a fashion, because as a defense attorney, you encourage the belief that everybody gets a fair shake.”

  There was a rasping sound, and the light source moved again but the beam remained trained on me like a s
potlight. “Rules are made for people who can’t think for themselves.”

  “After you offed Brenda’s husband, you used the Righetti key you copied to plant the murder weapon in Ellen’s drawer.”

  “Yes. I knew she worked, and the kids wouldn’t be home alone in the middle of the day. It was easy. In and out.”

  “Dr. Haskins was killed years ago. You’re in the clear. Why do you and Brenda keep your relationship so low key?”

  “Brenda.” He echoed the name with an ethereal reverence. “Gordon introduced us shortly after I came to town. She was a sculpture, delicate, and polished to perfection. I had never known real love.” Benton sighed and the beam wandered slightly. “Merely being in the same room with her was exhilarating. I coveted her, secretly of course. I couldn’t throw myself at her; she’d only be contemptuous. I knew enough about women to know that.”

  “Gordon didn’t suspect?”

  “Gordon asked me to be his business partner: that’s how much he knew,” Benton’s tone was sneering.

  “And Brenda, did she know?”

  “I fooled her too, for a long time. But one night I made a mistake. We were at a medical association party and, quite by accident, I found myself alone with her on a balcony at the country club. It was a warm summer night…I lost control and told her how beautiful she was…” His voice trailed off.

  “Did she respond?”

  “Somewhat,” he said crisply. “We developed a…relationship. But she wouldn’t leave Gordon. Whenever I brought up the subject of our future, she’d change the topic. I could see she was afraid to leave him.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “She never understood it was our destiny to be together, that it was bigger than both of us.”

  This guy watched too many soap operas.

  “So Gordon became ‘excisable’?”

  “Without him Brenda would be free to give me all her affection,” he explained simply.

  “She still doesn’t know what you did?”

  “Of course not. I had planned to make an anonymous phone call to the police about the gun after I planted it in Righetti’s house. But when the babysitter found it, Brenda and the police were convinced your client did it. I never had to make the phone call.” He coughed depreciatingly.

  I wanted answers, and I needed to keep him confessing.

  “You paid those guys to tag me in the forest preserve,” I said.

  “I was sending you a message, dear. Not my fault you ignored it.”

  “How did you get into the Y tonight? And how did you know I’d be there?”

  “You told Brenda you’re a swimmer, so I’ve been keeping a swim bag in the car. Once in a while I follow you. Tonight that buffoon desk clerk went to the bathroom after you arrived. I reached inside his little glass box and buzzed myself in, changed and hid my clothes. If it wasn’t for that fat old man in the pool, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  I shivered involuntarily.

  “The police will figure it out. The Y reported the attack.”

  “That’s enough,” he said curtly. “I hope you finally understand that I’ve committed the perfect crime. And to give you something to ponder as you lose the ability to control your muscles, I’ll tell you one last time: I did not kill Sam Kendall.”

  His light loomed ever closer and more intense. I clutched the pocketknife, hoping I could do some damage before he emptied the syringe into me.

  “Don’t do this,” I begged. Without warning, he extinguished the torch. A cold band closed around my ankle and I was jerked off the workbench so quickly my head bounced off the concrete floor and the knife spun out of reach. In a flash, Benton wrestled me into a helpless, face down position and tore off my shoe and sock.

  “It’s been fun, Ms. Marshfield.”

  BOOM! The sound sucked the air out of the garage and I was suddenly deaf. An awkward weight collapsed on top of me; I was stunned. What just happened? Was some crazy drug coursing through my body? I lay paralyzed, wondering if I should be alarmed or thankful. The reverberations faded and oxygen rushed back in.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  A woman’s voice, dripping with venom.

  I tried to swallow. It felt like Benton’s .357 was stuck in my throat.

  “I won’t hurt you, Miss Marshfield.” The same voice, without the hate.

  I scrambled out from under the suffocating weight and grabbed the workbench like it was a lifeboat. Brenda Haskins stood at the door, a gleaming gun in her right hand. An invisible rod connected it to an object on the floor.

  I didn’t want to look.

  I had to see.

  Eric Benton lay awkwardly on his left side, facing away from me. Red liquid drained like sap from his head into a puddle on the concrete floor.

  “Is he dead?” she whispered.

  My eyes swung from Benton to Brenda and back again, all in slow motion. Sometimes what the brain knows to be true the conscious can’t fully absorb.

  “Is he?” Her voice was an octave higher. She was losing control, and I didn’t have any extra to loan her. I willed myself to reach out and touch Benton’s neck where the carotid artery should be pumping life.

  “Yes.”

  “Bastard. Fucking bastard.”

  “I won’t argue the point.”

  This was not the glamorous woman who had attended Sam’s wake. Flesh sagged from her cheekbones. Lines previously concealed with makeup ran deep patterns around her eyes and mouth.

  “Give me the gun, Brenda.”

  She looked at me like I had asked her to leave me everything in her will. I nodded with feigned confidence and held out my hand.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “From when you said that he and I had an affair.”

  She closed her eyes and sagged against the Lincoln, her hands falling to her sides. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Let’s get you outside.” I staggered over to her, pried the gun from her hand and placed it on a shelf just inside the door.

  “Sit,” she breathed, and sank to the garage floor, bracing against the Lincoln. I slumped next to her, so close our knees touched. My brain sloshed like pancake batter, unable to collect itself.

  “What an ass I’ve been.”

  “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool.” Connie Francis, 1960.

  “You were manipulated by a highly intelligent, extremely psychotic individual,” I said thickly.

  “I should have suspected,” she groaned. “No other woman in his life; we were a constant threesome.”

  I bit my lip till it hurt. “When did the affair end?”

  “It wasn’t an affair,” she shook her head vehemently. “It was barely a flirtation. He misread all the signals. I was flabbergasted when he asked me to leave Gordon.”

  Oh, brother.

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him I couldn’t lose Gordon.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him to take a hike?”

  “I…I was afraid he’d walk away from the business, and Gordon would blame it all on me.”

  “Brenda!”

  Her eyes sought sympathy, or maybe understanding. I wasn’t coming up with either. That was a shame, considering she had just saved my life.

  “What happened after that?”

  “Nothing, really. Things went back to normal. Eric lost interest, or seemed to, and I thought we had put it behind us.”

  I had enough proof now to help Ellen Righetti, possibly get her a new trial, maybe an outright release on the grounds of newly discovered evidence, especially since Brenda heard Benton admit he killed Gordon Haskins. I doubted the police would even charge Brenda for Benton’s death, given that she’d shot him just as he was about to inflict great bodily harm upon yours truly. It was a perfect “justifiable homicide.” She’d walk with any jury.

  Was Benton’s final cruel joke to leave me wondering who killed Sam?

  “I just can’t believe he did that to Gordon and he was sti
ll…after me.” Brenda’s body started shaking uncontrollably.

  “Brenda, how did you happen to be here tonight?”

  “Mmmm…” She rubbed her temples like she was trying to bring events into focus. “Yeah, I remember. Eric and I had planned to go to Chicago for dinner. He called this afternoon and said he had a terrible flu and couldn’t make it. That was odd: he had never broken a date, so I was concerned. I called and came over earlier, but the house was empty. I looked in the garage window and one of the cars was gone.” She frowned. “I figured he was lying to me. I came back just now and saw light in here. That was strange, so I came closer and heard voices. The door wasn’t locked, so I came in and listened.”

  “Why the gun?”

  She looked surprised, as if she had already forgotten it. “Eric talked me into it. After Gordon died, he said I needed protection. We picked it out together, and I took some shooting lessons. It’s been in the car and I just brought it in.” She stiffened. “I wasn’t going to kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was the first time he lied to me and…I thought he might be in some trouble.”

  The first time he’d lied to her? Was this woman delusional?

  “You cared about him.”

  She stared at Benton’s corpse for an uncomfortably long time, oblivious to her surroundings. “I suppose I did,” she sighed. “After Gordon died, Eric was solicitous, concerned. A gentleman. He never pushed himself on me, we never talked about the earlier thing. He was always there if I needed advice or help. At first, I was afraid he’d go back to…”

  “Adoring you,” I supplied.

  Her eyes found mine but they were empty.

  “He never did. He was quite distant, emotionally. After a while, I started to feel real affection for him. He’d respond to my affection, but he’d never initiate it.” Her chin sagged to her collarbone. “It was comfortable, so I kept the relationship going.”

  I watched Brenda Haskins contemplate her husband’s killer. When I grew tired of playing voyeur, I gave the crime scene a once-over, careful not to touch anything.

  Benton’s gun rested on the front seat of the Lincoln where he must have left it when he retrieved the syringe. I found that little item under the workbench where it probably dropped after he collapsed. I pulled out my cell phone, dialed 911, and reported a homicide on Sunset Lane.