“Okay,” I said, “the repression is brought on by a series of events that the child’s mind can’t handle. As protection, the memory shuts down. What makes it come back?”
“Sometimes when the grown individual’s ego structure is strong enough to handle them, the memories just filter to the surface in response to mild stimuli. As in your client’s case, where her mother had come back into her everyday life. Or it can be more dramatic. You remember that murder trial down the Peninsula a few years ago? The Susan Nason case?”
“Yes.” Eight-year-old Susan Nasons’ 1969 murder had gone unsolved until 1989, when her best friend came forward, saying that she had seen her own father kill her playmate. The long-repressed memory was triggered by the friend seeing the same expression in her young daughter’s eyes as she’d seen in Susan’s immediately before she died: psychologists for the prosecution had so well documented the phenomenon that the jury returned a first-degree verdict.
“That was a terrible example of spontaneous unblocking,” Mary said. “As for the accuracy of the memories, they’re often clearer and far more detailed than ordinary memory, as if they’ve been frozen or preserved. Sometimes they may have been distorted by shock or fear—in which case it takes some interpretation to get at the facts—but most of the time a true memory is easily distinguished because of the richness of detail.”
I consulted the scribbled notes I’d been making. “You say the memory becomes unblocked when the individual’s ego structure can withstand it. What if a person receives a strong stimulus before she’s ready to deal with the memory? Will it come anyway?”
“It might, and that can cause further trauma. What are you trying to get at, Sharon?”
I explained about Judy’s insistence on visiting the Seacliff property. “I’m afraid it might push her over the edge.”
Mary hesitated. “Well, I don’t know her, and there’s no way to predict reactions except on a case-by-case basis. But I’d say that if she wants to recall that badly, she’s probably ready. Is she seeing anyone about this?”
“No. I tried to broach the subject, but she closed off entirely.”
“Why, do you think?”
“She strikes me as someone who wants to handle her problems on her own.”
“Maybe she can.”
“Maybe, but I can’t form any opinion of how stable she is, particularly now that her mother’s been murdered. And I’m in a bind, because if I don’t take her along, she’ll probably go on her own.”
“And that could do her more harm than if she went with someone.”
“So what should I do?”
Again Mary hesitated. “You know I can’t advise you without evaluating her, but . . . in a case such as the one you describe, it would be better if she saw the property in the company of someone she cares for and trusts.”
Jack. Of course—I’d take both of them. “Thanks for the non-advice, Mary.”
“Any time. And my advice to you is to do better about keeping in touch.”
I promised I would. Then I dialed my real estate broker, Cathy Potter, and left a message on her answering machine. By this time I was starving, so I went into the kitchen and put a frozen lasagna in the microwave. While the oven whirred and the food whirled, I considered calling Hy later on, then remembered he’d gone to San Diego. Maybe it was just as well I didn’t have a number for him; I wasn’t really in a talkative mood.
The microwave beeped. I dumped the lasagna onto a plate and wolfed it down while paging through an L.L. Bean catalog. The Benedict trail transcript lay on the table beneath the morning’s unread newspaper; my fingers inched toward it, and I pulled them back as if it were too hot to the touch.
Not tonight, I cautioned myself. No bad dream for one night, at least.
I got up, tidied the kitchen. My gaze kept creeping toward the transcript. I went into the sitting room, considered a couple of novels waiting to be read, consulted the TV Guide. I could still feel the pull from the kitchen. Finally I surrendered, got the transcript, and paged through it—looking once again for the reasons why.
The anonymous phone call came at five minutes after three that morning. The voice was male, heavily accented.
It said, “You don’t want to die, you lay off the Benedict thing.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At eight-ten the next morning I opened my front door and found garbage strewn all over my walk. Slick, slimy garbage—and not mine, either—that looked and smelled as if it had been rotting for weeks.
A choking mixture of nausea and rage rose in my throat; I went back inside, slamming the door and leaning against it. Maybe it won’t be there when I go out again, I told myself. Maybe some Good Samaritan who likes handling garbage and hosing down walks will happen along.
Yeah—and maybe pigs would fly and I’d win the lottery.
I returned to the kitchen and poured my second cup of coffee. The cordless phone receiver sat amid a welter of grocery coupons and junk mail on the table; I picked it up and punched out the number for the SFPD Homicide. Joslyn was already in, and unconscionably cheerful.
“Hey, Sharon, what’ve you got for me?” she asked.
“What I’ve got is about a ton of garbage all over my front walk.”
“Kids or dogs get into it?”
“No. It appears to have been trucked here especially for me.”
“Jesus, I know they’ve got mail-order catalogs for everything, but couldn’t you have stuck with the Sharper Image?” Then she added more seriously, “You figure this to be a variation on the graffiti?”
“Uh-huh. Along with the death threat that came by phone in the middle of the night.”
“Getting creative, isn’t he? What’ve you been doing to bring this down?”
Briefly I reported my activities since I’d last seen her.
When I finished, she said, “Look, I thought you realized you were to keep out of our case. You should have left Nueva to us.”
“You’ve admitted the two cases could be connected. If you aren’t sure by now, you’re suffering from linkage blindness. What you’re asking—for me to investigate the past but drop everything pertaining to the present—isn’t feasible or productive.”
She was silent.
“I’ve reported everything to you. I’m saving you legwork. What more do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be careful you don’t jeopardize our investigation—or our jobs. From now on don’t call me here; you’ve got my home number.”
“You and Bart really are paranoid.”
“We’ve got every reason to be, given who we’re going up against.” She hung up, leaving me open-mouthed and more than a bit irritated.
For a moment I considered calling her back. After all, I was doing her a favor, and what I’d gotten so far for my pains was a sleepless night and some garbage. But then I reconsidered. Police powers over private investigators are wide and discretionary when there’s a homicide involved; I didn’t want Joslyn ordering me not to investigate at all. So instead of venting my annoyance on her, I put on old jeans and a T-shirt and went outside to tend to the mess. As I shoveled and hosed down the walk, I was interrupted several times by neighbors, either wanting to know what had happened or expressing disapproval because I was wasting water. Afterward I took a long-hot shower—wasting water again, but behind closed doors.
The stench of the garbage cans along James Alley didn’t faze me after my earlier task, and as I rang Melissa Cardinal’s bell, I felt in no mood to put up with nonsense from anyone. Cardinal peered around the door to her building, then tried to close it when she saw me. I put my shoulder to it and pushed my way inside. Her mouth dropped open and she backed away, eyes clouded in fear.
I took her arm, gently but firmly, and guided her toward he stairway. “We have to talk, Melissa.”
“I told you before—”
“I know what you told me, but look at yourself: you’re so frightened you came all the way down here rather than buzz me i
n. And it’s not me you’re afraid of, is it?”
She’d offered resistance to starting up the stairs, but now she sagged, putting weight on my hand.
“Come on,” I said. “Maybe I can help you.”
“Nobody can help me.” But she grasped the railing and climbed laboriously.
Inside the apartment, Cardinal retreated to her recliner, looking around anxiously for her cat. I spotted it cowering under the glass-fronted cabinet, picked it up, and set it in her lap. The gesture reassured her. She cradled the animal, fingers drawing comfort from its fur.
“Now,” I said as I sat on the sofa, “we are going to discuss why you’re afraid to talk about Cordy McKittridge. First, who was the man you met at the Haven?”
“I told you, just a man.”
“Does this man have a name?”
“I don’t know his name. He just bought me a drink at the bar, that’s all.”
“Come on, Melissa—you’ve already told me you never go out in the daytime. You weren’t at the Haven because you had a sudden urge for a drink, and that particular man wasn’t just a casual pickup.”
“Is that what you think—that I’m so ugly nobody would offer to buy me a drink?”
“Melissa, the man knew you; he called you by name. That’s what attracted Frank Fabrizio’s attention. And you were arguing with him; Frank noticed that, too.”
“Frank’s an old man. His hearing’s probably going. For all I know, he could be senile.”
“He’s not senile, and his hearing’s perfectly good. Melissa, why didn’t you let the man come here to your apartment?”
Her eyes drifted around, glittering in a stray shaft of sunlight.
I said, “Because you’re afraid of him, right?”
Silence.
I tried another tack. “Melissa, what you know about Cordy’s murder has become dangerous to you.”
“I don’t know anything about that murder! I wasn’t even in the city that day. I was working a Rome flight that left that morning.”
“But you knew Cordy—knew her well.”
“Those girls were just people I got together to share the rent.”
“You mean Cordy got them together. You and she were friends from before, and then she enlisted some of her other friends. Louise Wingfield told me so.”
A knowing light came into her eyes, and malice twisted her lips into a hideous smile. “Louise Wingfield?” she asked. “Is that who this is about? You think I’m in danger because I know about her and Vincent Benedict?”
“Louise and . . . Benedict?”
“Sure. I don’t suppose she bothered to tell you about that. Louise was in love with him before he started seeing Cordy. Cordy was going with Leonard Eyestone and introduced the two of them. They carried on a hot affair for almost a year. I know, because where they carried it on was one of the bedrooms of that flat in North Beach.”
“And then?”
“Then Cordy had her abortion and broke it off with Eyestone. And she went after Benedict, never mind that Louise was in love with him. Took him right away from her, never mind that Louise was her best friend. After that, Vincent wouldn’t come to the flat—he couldn’t face Louise—but we all knew what was going on. And we all knew how much Louise hated Cordy. She tried to cover it up, but her eyes . . . they watched Cordy, full of hate, like she was waiting for something bad to happen to her.”
I considered Louise Wingfield. She’d been forthcoming with me, I thought, but only up to a point. Perhaps she’d hoped her candor would disarm me, discourage me from digging further and unearthing this particularly damning fact. And when I’d kept on investigating—well, Wingfield did have a close connection with the Mission district Hispanic community.
I asked, “Exactly when did Cordy start seeing Benedict?”
“Right after she and Louise got back from Mexico.”
They’d gone to the abortion clinic in August of the year before the murder. That would have given Wingfield’s resentment of her friend nine months to smolder.
“Melissa,” I asked, “have you told anyone else about Louise and Benedict?”
She shook her head.
“Then don’t. From now on I want you to be very careful. Do you still have that card with my home number on it?”
She motioned toward the table beside her, where the card was anchored under the base of the lamp.
“Good. If anyone attempts to harm or threaten you, call me immediately. Day or night, at home or at my office.”
For a moment she looked hesitant, as if she wanted to tell me something. Her eyes flicked to the glass-fronted cabinet, and she shook her head. “Louise isn’t going to hurt me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You never know.”
“I know.”
“Then who are you afraid of?”
She closed her eyes, shook her head again.
“All right,” I said. “You have my card. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
“Are you going to tell Louise what I told you?”
“Yes. The best way to deal with this is to ask her about it.”
“I didn’t hide my relationship with Vincent Benedict from you,” Louise Wingfield said.
“You were candid about everything else. Why conceal that?”
Wingfield ground out her cigarette in the ashtray on the desk between us. “Hide! Conceal! Don’t you have any concept of a person’s right to privacy?”
“I do. But the concept that seems more pertinent here is a person’s desire not to incriminate herself.”
“Incriminate myself? Have you lost your mind?” Wingfield’s expression was both outraged and horrified. “You can’t suspect that I killed Cordy?”
“I can quote Melissa Cardinal almost verbatim: ‘Her eyes watched Cordy, full of hate, like she was waiting for something bad to happen to her.’”
“What would Melissa know? She was never there.”
“Apparently she was there enough to observe what was really going on.”
“Really going on?” Wingfield laughed bitterly. “At this point, who knows the reality of the situation? Anyway, how can you take the word of an angry old recluse over mine?”
The way she described Melissa gave me pause. Before, when the subject of her former roommate came up, Wingfield had at first claimed not to know her last name—a bird, she’d said, a wren or a finch—and not to know here whereabouts. I hadn’t mentioned anything about Melissa’s present circumstances when I’d come here and confronted her.
“Why do you think she’s angry?” I asked.
“Who wouldn’t be? She’s disfigured and living in two shabby little rooms on Social Security and disability.”
I didn’t reply. Let the silence lengthen until Wingfield looked down, groping for her cigarette pack. She found it, shook one out, and lit it before I asked, “How long have you known where Melissa is?”
“Since last Tuesday. Didn’t I tell you? No, it was Monday night when we went to North Beach and Seacliff. Melissa called me the next morning. It was a surprise, seeing as we’d just been talking about her with Frank Fabrizio the night before.”
“What did she want?”
“To see me. I went over to her apartment, heard her out.”
So that was who Melissa had been waiting for when I’d arrived last Tuesday. She’d said, “Formal, aren’t you?” —expecting Louise—then had been confused at seeing a stranger on the stairs.
“What did she want?” I asked.
“Money.”
“Money not to tell about you and Vincent Benedict?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I may as well admit to the affair; I’m not a good liar.”
“Did you give her any?”
“I did not. I offered to help her, because she’s so obviously in need, but I told her she would also have to help herself. There’s an excellent seniors center in her area, one with a counseling program, but Melissa wasn’t interested. So I told her to do what she wished with her inform
ation about Vincent and me, and left.”
“You weren’t afraid of what use she’d put it to?”
“Naturally I didn’t want her to tell anyone. I hoped she’d just forget it, as she probably would have if you hadn’t gone to talk with her today. I can see it’s lowered your opinion of me considerably, but that’s about the maximum damage I expect to bear. I didn’t kill Cordy; my alibi for that night, as they say on the TV cop shows, is ironclad, still alive, and probably still willing to back me up. My old friends might be titillated if the story came out, but I stopped caring what society thought of me when I left my husband and created a scandal by battling in court for my fair share of our community property. My life is different now, and nothing that happened in the bad old days can hurt me.”
I had to admire her forthrightness—unless it was calculated to misdirect me. “For your sake, I hope you’re right about that,” I said. “May I ask you a few more questions?”
“If they won’t take too much time.”
“You met Vincent Benedict through Cordy?”
“Yes, at a party at the Institute in August of ‘fifty-four.”
“And this was when she was seeing Leonard?”
“Yes again.”
“Have you remembered anything about where or when Cordy met Melissa?”
“No. I assume it must have been in the fall of ‘fifty-three, when she got the idea about going in on the apartment. But I was at Stanford and pretty much out of touch. I honestly don’t know what she was doing then, or who her friends were.”
“Would she have been seeing Leonard as early as then?”
“Perhaps. She wasn’t seeing anyone else, at least not anyone in our circle; her escort for the cotillion was the son of her father’s business partner.”
“Why wasn’t she escorted by Leonard?”
Wingfield smiled. “I can see you’re not a disciple of Emily Post—thank God. Cotillion escorts are usually college boys, not men over thirty.”
“So Cordy ran with an older crowd?”
“Even in high school. If you want to know how long she was seeing Leonard, why don’t you ask him?”
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