by Rick Homan
I was trying to think of a way to break the deadlock when I heard a knock at my door.
Lionel’s arrival at my place for a snack and a chat at five o’clock on Wednesday was a mirror-image replay of my arrival at his place on Monday afternoon. We had the social hug at the door, I took his coat and told him to get comfortable. As I got the cheese plate and a bottle of wine out of my tiny fridge, I said, “You were right about that book on Fourier. It was just what I needed.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“It’s amazing to think of people in Europe crossing an ocean to build utopian communities based on a plan proposed by a French philosopher.”
Lionel nodded. “I think the real incentive was the availability of land, which at that time was the source of all wealth. The philosophers and preachers just gave them a road map.”
I set the snack and the drinks on the little table between the beach chairs and sat opposite him. “Fourier’s phalanx system has a lot in common with the other communes when it comes to women’s equality, social welfare, and so on.”
Lionel sipped some wine. “They were carrying out the philosophy articulated in the previous century by Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot and others—the Age of Enlightenment.”
“That makes sense, but on one point Fourier doesn’t seem too enlightened. He says that since self-sustaining phalanxes won’t need to trade, Jews would be useful only as manual laborers on the farms.”
Lionel winced. “He wasn’t right about everything. Was any of this helpful with that image you found in the mural? Something about a child?”
“No, but there has been a development on that. I was able to look at the mural under stronger light, and I discovered the spots on the child are actually stab wounds.”
Lionel leaned forward in his chair, as if by getting closer to me he could examine more closely what I was saying. “Stab wounds? Are you sure?”
“There are nine slits on the child’s torso, arms and legs. Each has blood running from it.”
“That’s bizarre. How old is this child?”
“It’s hard to tell. Maybe around two. Have you ever seen anything like that? Or can you think of any place in literature where the idea of a wounded child symbolizes something?”
He shook his head. “This does not ring any bells.”
“I haven’t been able to find a reference to such an image, but there must be a precedent, because my student sent me an email right before she died saying she had found something that suggests what it means.”
“But she didn’t say what?”
“No.”
Lionel set his glass on the side table and leaned back in his chair. “Very mysterious. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“Perhaps you can help me with something else. How was your trip to Chicago?”
I had never in fact seen a deer in headlights, but Lionel must have been doing a good imitation of one as he sat staring at me. I didn’t enjoy watching him suffer, so I said, “Your itinerary was on the cabinet by your door in plain sight when I was leaving your place Monday afternoon.”
He closed his eyes for moment and exhaled. “I was trying to decide when to tell you about that. I was short-listed for a position at Northwestern. I went there for a job interview.”
“Good for you, but why lie about it?”
He bowed his head and spoke softly. “I didn’t say anything before I went for the interview because I didn’t want to make an issue out of something that might not happen.”
“When were you going to mention it?”
“I wanted to see how the interview went and try to figure out if I was still in the running for the job.”
“Are you?”
He sighed. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“I still don’t see why you wanted to keep it secret.”
“I was afraid you might lose interest if you thought I’d be leaving next summer, and I didn’t want to miss my chance with you.”
That was awfully sweet. Still, he lied to me. “I can’t decide which is worse, you using the sick-parent excuse or me falling for it.”
“I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about it before I went for the interview. And I definitely should not have lied about it and said I was going to New York. Believe it or not, I do know that the foundation of any relationship is honesty. If you give me another chance, I promise I will never again hold anything back.”
After taking a moment to think about it, I asked, “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“It’s probably okay, but there’s been so much going on I don’t know what to think right now.”
“And, don’t forget, you are in your first semester in a new job in an unfamiliar part of the country.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’d better go.”
I followed him to the door and pulled him in for a real hug. He didn’t resist.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
He replied, “I look forward to it,” and left.
So, all this time he really was thinking about getting serious with me, but he didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish. Along with his other fine qualities, he was considerate. Maybe I’d been overthinking this. It was possible we both would spend the next few years here, and beyond that, who knew? I needed a good night’s sleep before I could think about this anymore.
Later that evening, Sheriff Adams called. “Good evening, Dr. Noonan. I have an update for you on the situation we discussed this morning. We have reason to believe that Huey Littleton had contact with Kate Conrad at Buddy's Bar on the evening before she died.”
Chapter 30
“Are you saying Huey Littleton murdered Kate Conrad?” I asked. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“We’re going to bring him in for questioning, but we have to find him first. I’m calling to ask for your cooperation.”
I wondered for a moment if he was being sarcastic, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “All right. How can I cooperate?”
“Are you at home right now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have plans to go out this evening?”
“No.”
“Then I would ask you please to stay home and make sure your doors and windows are locked. I have asked the campus police to contact my department if they see Littleton. I would ask you to do the same. If you see him or his truck, or if you have any reason to think he is nearby, please call me. If you notice anything unusual in your neighborhood, call the campus police immediately. I have already asked them to increase patrols in your area of the campus. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes. Entirely clear, Sheriff.”
“Thank you.”
“Sheriff? One other thing: Will you call me when you have talked to him?”
He took so long to answer that I thought we might have been disconnected. “Yes. I’ll give you a call.”
I hung up, checked the locks on my doors and windows, and pulled all the shades down. There wasn’t much daylight left anyway. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I forced myself to stir-fry some vegetables and tofu. I knew I couldn’t concentrate on anything demanding, so, after I ate, I poked around in my closet and found the thriller I had bought at the airport when I flew out here in August. I had read only half of it on the plane. I was still awake when I finished it after midnight. I fell asleep sometime after that.
I was in better shape than I had expected as I went off to teach art appreciation on Thursday morning, and I enjoyed the class. We seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement. They would volunteer comments in class so long as I kept my expectations low and told them what would be on the exam and how to get an A.
I was in a reasonably good mood when I got to my office after class and took a call from Sheriff Adams. “Good morning, Dr. Noonan. I need to meet with you.”
“Of course. What time?”
“I’m on campus now, if you’re
available.”
“Yes. I’m in my office.”
“I’ll be right over.”
In the few minutes before he arrived, I felt more and more energetic. He wouldn’t make a trip to campus if there weren’t some development in the case. He probably had caught Huey Littleton and questioned him. Maybe Huey had confessed. I was standing at my window, looking out over the treetops, which now reflected the morning sun in shades of orange, yellow and red, when I heard a tap at my door.
Sheriff Adams kept his eyes down as he greeted me and took a seat. Maybe the news was not so good after all.
“Thank you for seeing me right away, Dr. Noonan. I thought you would like to know we have Huey Littleton in custody.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. That’s a relief. Has he confessed to the murder?”
Adams looked surprised at that. “Why would you think that?”
“I thought you said you arrested him.”
He sat back in his chair. “We arrested him because he tried to take down two of my deputies.”
The sheriff’s words hit me like a cold hand between my shoulder blades. I should never have approached Littleton directly. “Were they injured?”
“Just a little roughed up. They’ll be fine. Anyway, we were up half the night getting a statement from him. I’m letting you know personally because when all this becomes public . . . well, it could have an impact.”
I started to ask what impact, but decided he would get to it more quickly if I just waited.
“Based on Littleton’s statement, and statements from others who were at Buddy's Bar that Friday evening, we have a clear sequence of events. Littleton arrived around eleven thirty and parked his truck in the lot behind the bar. As he approached the rear entrance, he heard voices and walked over to see who was there. Between two cars parked close to the wall of the building he found Kate Conrad and another young woman—her name is being withheld for the time being—and they were engaged in an unnatural act.” He looked me in the eye for the first time since he walked into my office.
It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. “They were having sex?”
A look of disgust flickered across Adams’ face. “The two women ran into the bar. . . .”
“What? Why would they go in there?”
“I imagine it seemed safer than having Littleton chasing them down a dark alley.”
“Of course. Excuse me. Please, go ahead.”
“Littleton followed them in and yelled for the other young woman to go home. When he tried to lay hands on Ms. Conrad, several men in the bar restrained him and yelled for her to get out. Ms. Conrad left by the rear entrance. Littleton left the bar a short time later.” Adams ended his story with his eyes focused on the floor, away from me.
“So, it would seem you have a new suspect.”
He was obviously fatigued from the long hours he had put in. “Oh, there’s no shortage of suspects.”
“What I mean is, Littleton was angry with her—angry enough that he had to be restrained—so he had a motive, or thought he did. He could have guessed she would use that path across the field as a shortcut back to campus, and he could have been waiting for her when she got to Route 212.”
He shook his head. “If he wanted to kill her, why wouldn’t he just catch up with her on the path? He’d have a more secluded place to do it.”
The sheriff had a point, but following his logic I saw another possibility. “Maybe he did follow her up the path, and she ran, and he caught up with her where the path meets the road.”
“Unless Ms. Conrad was an athlete, I have to think he would have caught her long before they got to the road.”
I couldn’t recall Kate saying anything about sports, but I hadn’t known her that long. “You can clear Devon now, can’t you? It has to be Littleton, doesn’t it?”
“You seem to be overlooking something, Doctor. The young lady that Ms. Conrad was . . . uh . . . involved with behind the bar has a family here in town. We’re still trying to determine whether her father or either of her brothers was at the bar that night. Any or all of them might have gone after your student. Around here, people don’t like that sort of thing.”
I had to catch my breath. “What sort of thing? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your student wasn’t entirely innocent in this series of events.”
I felt my heart pumping. “She certainly was innocent.”
“If somebody comes into a town like this, and has that kind of influence on the young people, there’s going to be trouble.”
I had to grip the arms of my desk chair to keep myself from standing up and yelling at him. “‘That kind of influence?’ Are you saying she deserved to be killed?”
“No, I am not, and when I have enough evidence I will make an arrest and send the case to the prosecutor. Meanwhile, I am giving you the courtesy of letting you know what your student did before it becomes public. I promise you, once it does come out, there will be outrage.”
“There is already outrage over the murder of a fine, young woman.”
“All right then,” said Adams, as he stood up. “Don’t bother to thank me,” he said, and he was gone.
My mind was racing, but no matter how many times I asked myself, “What just happened here?” the answer came back the same. Adams was blaming Kate for bringing violence upon herself. Would he have said a young man was less-than-innocent because he engaged in a “natural act” with a young woman behind a bar? Well, maybe he would. Fathers, brothers, and neighbors can be protective of young women. But in that instance, he wouldn’t say “that sort of thing” and “that kind of influence,” and he would not anticipate outrage from the community.
Since there were no students waiting to talk to me, and I had no afternoon class, I cancelled the rest of my office hour and headed home. All the way back, my mind was whirling. So, Kate was gay. Did she understand that or was that evening’s encounter something done on impulse, to see what it felt like, perhaps after a few beers?
The idea that she may have been killed in a hate crime made all this worse. I swore to myself I would make sure the subhuman who took her life was charged with everything possible. If Adams was too squeamish to protect the rights of a gay woman, I would organize protesters and lead a parade down the main street of Blanton carrying signs that said “Justice for Kate Conrad.”
By the time I got back to my Hutch, I felt ready to explode. Though I hadn’t planned to run that day, I put on my running gear and headed out to the athletic fields, determined not to come back until I was ready to drop from exhaustion.
Chapter 31
After a shower, I put on pajamas and decided to call Lionel before I settled in for the remainder of the afternoon and the evening. My mind and my heart were no more settled than when we talked the day before, but I had promised to call. He answered on the second ring.
“Nicole, how are you?”
“Exhausted, confused, and sad.”
“Would you like me to come over? I could run into Blanton for some take-out food. ”
“I’ll have to say no thanks for this evening,” I said, “although I think we should have dinner together soon. The investigation into Kate Conrad’s death has taken some strange turns this week, and that’s been upsetting for me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. Please don’t think this is because of our misunderstanding about you going away last weekend. I should not have jumped to the conclusion you had someone else in your life.”
“It was my fault, really.”
“Not entirely. I could have saved us both a lot of grief if I had asked you why you went to Chicago as soon as I saw that itinerary. But we’ll get over that. Let’s have dinner someplace Friday evening. Or maybe we could just drive up to Columbus on Saturday.”
“That sounds like fun. We can finalize plans tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I hope I’ll be able to think clearly then.”
We said goodnigh
t and I hung up and switched off the ringer of my phone. For the rest of the evening, whatever happened could wait until tomorrow unless it involved fire engines pulling up in front of my Hutch. I put on some music, heated up some soup, and buttered a slice of bread, but my mind kept going over that conversation I’d had with Sheriff Adams.
To give myself something else to think about, I grabbed the books I had borrowed from the library and brought them to the table. Pagan Celtic Britain: Studies in Iconography and Tradition had caught my eye because Dad is always calling things Celtic, including music and dance. I try to tell him the Celts were a prehistoric people, and very little is known about them, certainly nothing about their music. He just rolls his eyes, and says I need to learn more about my heritage.
The other book, Dark Mirror: The Medieval Origins of Anti-Jewish Iconography, caught my eye because its title made me recognize that we art historians spend almost no time on works of art that are hateful. We label them as “propaganda” and try to forget about them. Growing up in San Francisco, I was taught about the Chinese Exclusion Act, a federal law which restricted immigration by Chinese people from 1880 to 1943, but I could not recall learning about art created during that time such as cartoons and posters that would have encouraged the bias written into that law.
With such thoughts whirling in my head, I scanned the table of contents, and read the introduction. The author’s thesis, suggested in the title, was that the distorted and cruel depictions of Jews in the Middle Ages reflected anxieties within the Christian community over its own identity. I flipped through the pages, reading a paragraph here and there, especially at the beginnings of chapters, and stopping to look at pictures.
As I did so, by accident I found what I had been seeking the past two days. There, at the top of page 227, was a drawing of a child perhaps two or three years old, lying dead, covered with stab wounds. I couldn’t sit still so I got up and paced around my two rooms while holding the book in front of me and reading about the history of this revolting image. It was an example of blood libel, a recurring theme in the history of European anti-Semitism. This lie made Christians believe that Jews would kidnap their children, and then torture and kill them. In some versions, Jews supposedly did this to re-enact the crucifixion of Christ; in others, they supposedly did it to obtain blood for rituals.