“I’ll call him,” I said as I sailed out of Ham’s office before he thought of another errand I could run. Once outside, I hesitated. I think I’ll walk over to Michael’s office and save time, I decided, remembering that as temporary prosecutor, he had moved down the street to the police and city office complex two blocks away.
When I entered, Uncle Garland’s former secretary Melissa was leaning over Michael’s shoulder discussing some papers in a file on his desk. Are they touching? I can’t tell, but from their reactions, I thought, I may have interrupted a private meeting. Melissa seemed embarrassed and left quickly, saying, “It’s good to see you, Holly. It’s been a while.” We had spoken briefly at Garland’s funeral.
“Ham told me you were meeting with Roy Anderson today. Did you get any new information, perhaps from a female perspective?” Michael grinned up at me.
Still disconcerted, irritated with myself for the jealousy I was feeling and affronted by his chauvinistic remark, I attempted to establish a cool and formal persona for my interview. “I hope we can locate the ex-husband, find out if he’s still in jail,” I answered, choosing to remain focused.
“Do you know where he was or if he still is incarcerated?”
No twenty questions in the prosecutor’s office. These two are stuck on this one, and I’m getting plenty tired of the damn question. “Ray didn’t seem to know,” I lied.
“I’ll get the police to follow up. What’s his name?”
Oh, shit. I’m tripped up again. I hesitated.
“Did he not know that either? Oh, never mind, Holly. That’s pretty easy information to obtain. What did you learn?”
Nothing substantive, I didn’t say, prattling on about the obvious, the things nobody was asking me. Finally, I babbled. “Maybe he was out of jail and needed money for drugs. Maybe he was blackmailing Avon and she stopped paying.”
“And what whole cloth is this theory falling out of?”
I could tell that Michael was losing patience. How could I have congratulated myself on the success of my interview with Ray and Gladys and come away with nothing to show for it? What should I do? Keep talking nonsense to fill the silence before Michael starts yelling at me. I feel like I’m in high school and caught cheating on an exam. “Maybe her husband wanted to get back with her and she would have none of it. Perhaps,” I continued, “if he felt rejected by her, perhaps, he might have attempted to possess her by destroying her. Did you ever read William Faulkner’s short story ‘A Rose for Emily?’”
“No, Holly. If you remember, I was an accounting major.” The implication in his response of previously shared information, even about something as impersonal as an accounting degree, embarrassed me. What else does he assume I remembered about our relationship? My tack of late had been to treat our association as having begun in the law firm. That I could handle. But any allusion to a mutual prior history, I knew, would throw me off balance.
“Then I don’t guess you read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment or his Notes from Underground either?” My question was geared to return Michael to our professional relationship and to cause him to take me seriously as an intelligent adult.
“I’m afraid not. Were the victims in those books stabbed 145 times?”
“No, but there are other correspondences. Perhaps our killer committed the murder in a very brutal and sadistic manner because the psychic pain and alienation he felt, he wished to inflict on others. The old domino theory of ‘you kick me, I hurt. I kick someone else and I feel better.’ Or I kick you back.” I thought: How superior he feels to me and how insecure I feel when I’m with him. His clean, polished good looks don’t help me keep my mind on the case.
After spending thirty minutes recounting my visit with Roy Anderson, I realized that I was talking too much. My feminist perception of myself, in Michael’s presence, always seemed to conflict with some inborn notion of proper Southern female passivity. Or maybe I merely lacked good manners. Perhaps admitting to one oversight might calm me.
“I did forget to ask Roy Anderson what he knew about Avon’s husband’s prison time,” I conceded, thinking Michael had been treating me differently ever since Ham said that I would run for district attorney. “Miss Prosecutor,” he had called me in one meeting. That’s when I realized that if I won the race, I would be Michael’s boss.
“Are you sure that he was in prison?” Michael was like Ham. When I was tired, he never let up.
“Well, no. Hell, no.” I struck back. “Roy actually said Avon’s ex-husband was in jail.”
“We’ll check on it. Now about the FBI report. What did you think of the conclusion that the crime scene was staged?”
Good Lord. This is like the bar examination. I can’t think. Staged? The report is long, and I’m tired. Evidently I hadn’t read it as well as I thought I had. I had to scramble. “Michael, I’ve talked too much. Why don’t you give me your analysis?” I said, yielding the floor.
He seemed pleased. “Well, Holly, let’s assume that your profile of the murderer is correct. We have an assailant who didn’t plan to commit a murder. He wanted to persuade Avon to provide him with drugs. She, of course, could lose her medical license over that. Or let’s say he had been blackmailing her, threatening to come back to Delta Ridge as her ex-convict ex-husband. That would cause all her affluent doctor boyfriends to scurry and cause her to lose what little respectability she had in Delta Ridge. She must have cared a bit about that since she shunned her own brother and his family. So, say she had been paying her ex to stay away, but he became greedier. They got into a fight. He accidentally killed his cash cow. Then he was so furious that he stabbed her in malice and frustration—in a blind rage. Or, third scenario: he wanted to come to Delta Ridge, move in with her, live in luxury, maybe remarry. She couldn’t afford any of that. Besides, from her perspective, having him back would probably be as appealing as having King Kong move in with her if what you say about his rages and abuse are true. So he snaps, grabs a kitchen knife, or takes it away from her if she were trying to defend herself. He stabs and stabs and stabs. After he’s worn himself out, he takes a shower. He has to deal with his own feelings: fear, horror, euphoria, disgust.
“We may never know what his emotions were that night, but his main concern would be that he not be considered a logical suspect. First, he must destroy any evidence connecting him to the house or the crime. Then, he must wash his clothes, clean himself up, redress. He realizes that he is bound by time constraints. As soon as possible, he wants to get the hell out of there. But he tells himself that he has a few hours. As long as he leaves before daylight, he’s unlikely to be detected.
“And what’s his schedule like? Most people have to go to work on a Tuesday morning. He assumes she does, as well. He may. One escape from the work constraint is to do what Sam Oliver did, go check himself into a rehabilitation clinic. Probably the next best thing is to buy a plane ticket to the Bahamas. If he thinks he may be a suspect, then he needs to remove himself from the scene quickly to create an alibi. He needs time to construct his story and examine it for holes. I think we can assume we’re dealing with an intelligent man.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with staging,” I waved my hand. I was getting too tired to be agreeable. Listening may be more exhausting than talking.
“I’m getting to that. I asked you why a knife and not a gun. You gave a good answer: the lust to see blood. But assuming the murderer is Dr. Oliver, a gynecologist who also does surgery. Would he not prefer the tool with which he’s most skilled? The knife he handles every day? And a surgeon is meticulous. No room for sloppy work. And we must remember that he probably didn’t go there to kill her, so why would he carry a gun with him. Something she said or did set him off.”
Cut to the chase: the staging, I wanted to say, no longer as fascinated with his discourse as he seemed to be.
Michael read my look. “I’m getting to it, Holly. Habits of a lifetime are hard to break. The murderer cleans every surface. He
wears rubber gloves every day. So he takes hers from beneath the sink, puts them on, and cleans every room in frenzy. He probably doesn’t know about Luminol testing. It’s too new—this notion that blood can be found on any surface where it’s ever been for a thousand years.”
“The Shroud of Turin,” I brightened momentarily. “Wouldn’t a doctor know about Luminol testing?”
“Not necessarily. He’s an OBGYN not a forensic pathologist. And remember the pressure he’s under, the panic. So, he disconnects all the telephones, cleans the knife, and replaces it in the rack on the kitchen counter. After he showers, he even washes his towel and places it in the bottom of the bathroom clothes hamper. He pulls the victim’s body from the bed to the floor. Perhaps he tries to lift her off the floor wrapped in the zebra rug. He can’t. He’s waited too long. Rigor mortis has set in. Or perhaps he had covered her with the rug to hide her from his own view. If he once loved her, maybe he feels revulsion at what he has done. His bloodlust had now passed. Anyway, he removes the rug over her body, and then he ‘displays’ her by placing pillows at her feet. His mind races. If he is as arrogant and cunning as you say, his arrangement of the body as a display is a way of flaunting the murder and showing the police and society that he has won the game. Did you know, Holly, that sometimes these psychopathic types that you have described so well come forward to assist the police in their investigations? The motive is to win the game, to further their desire for power, to be in control.”
“I didn’t know that.” I conceded all knowledge so he would finally shut up. I looked at my watch. It was after five.
“Well, what do you think?” Michael looked pleased with himself.
I think if I can ever get the hell out of here, I’m going home. But instead I said, “Well, I think I understand what you mean by ‘staging.’ That’s a very astute assessment. I’ve learned a lot.” I rose from my chair.
“You’re not leaving....” he stood up.
“I must get back to the office,” I lied. Then I remembered my regular five o’clock mission. Oh, no. Forgive me, Daddy. I’m too tired, and my brain is too drained to search your records tonight. I turned toward the door.
“Oh, by the way,” Michael stepped from his chair and blocked my exit. “Your mother called this morning and invited Robert to spend his spring break week at the farm.”
“That’s nice,” I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Does he want to do that?”
“Oh yes, he plans to go back with them Friday.”
“This Friday?” I was confused.
“Oh no, I’m sorry. Next Friday. Your mother and your grandmother plan to stay in town for a week.”
I tried not to look surprised. “Good. I knew they were coming this weekend for the reading of Uncle Garland’s will.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been invited.”
“Oh, I see. Ham’s carnival,” I smiled dryly.
“I’m looking forward to it. What happens at your grandfather’s house is always interesting.”
“Understatement. It’s never predictable either.” Michael was still blocking the door: “I’m glad Robert’s going to the farm. He and Victoria seem to hit it off.”
“He likes you too. He looks forward to spending the afternoons at your house.”
“You haven’t joined us for dinner.”
“I plan to as soon as I can find the time.”
“Well, I do need to go.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. There is one other thing.”
Please, please, be careful with my heart. “Yes?” I said.
“I wondered if you might want to go to Hot Springs next weekend,” Michael hesitated.
“Hot Springs?” I must have looked puzzled.
“To the horse races. I mean with Robert at the farm, it would be a good time to get away. I need a break from all this. You look like you do too.”
I was too surprised to respond.
“We could make a rule not to talk about the case at all,” he said.
“That would be wonderful!” I smiled my reborn, hatched-right-out-of-the-cocoon, butterfly smile.
“Oh, and in the meantime, one other thing: don’t read too hard.”
Why couldn’t Michael shut up in time? Just press the stop button on sweet. That’s all.
15 Holly’s Investigation
I SLEPT WELL despite Michael’s attempt, conscious or otherwise, to scramble my head and serve it up on a platter: brains and eggs, a nice Southern dish. And I was a nice Southern dish. I needed to work on that mantra, that self-affirmation. Avon was intruding more into my nightmares and daydreams than Michael. I couldn’t quit comparing myself to her.
Both of us were trying to make it in what was still a bastion of male dominance and male ego. Both of us threatened men and women. I tried to assume a role that I thought would be pleasing to my family. She ditched her family out of shame for her humble beginnings. I tried to be a Southern lady or what I thought a Southern lady was supposed to be. Avon thumbed her nose at that and became every man’s fantasy and every woman’s nightmare: the alien in the danger zone, the one who slept with other women’s husbands. She was more seductive than the nurses.
Why couldn’t I just be myself, a grown- up, professional woman, a lawyer? Yes, and maybe a prosecutor. And what was feminine about that exactly? I remembered Aunt Elizabeth’s words: “If you have to choose between looking matronly or trashy, pick trashy every time. Trust me, Oedipus notwithstanding, any man who wants to go to bed with his mother, you don’t want to sleep with.” Yes, and every woman fears another woman’s siren call. History has forgotten Cleopatra’s brilliance, but not her seductive power over Caesar. Finally, I remembered I had to get up and go to work. I was tired of all my theories about Avon and her coterie of men playing over and over again in my head while I was trying to crowd out all the head games including my own as well as all the horses racing there.
Why had Michael invited me to Hot Springs? I tried not to guess what his game was. I was way too tired to play it. I was too tired for love in any of its forms. A few murders can do that to you. I was so tired of living in the moldy attic that was my own head, all the second-guessing that comes with a commitment phobic man. Maybe he’s grateful for my looking after Robert. Maybe he plans a friendship and separate rooms weekend. Maybe he loves… Bullshit!
I was also tired of Avon and my repeated assessment of her, but it was safer to think of her. Maybe all the simple men were right about complicated women. Maybe Avon and I both had read too many books. They got me into trouble and may have cost her her life. Our drive to rise up, to succeed in what traditionally had been male bastions: medicine and law. I was so confused. I had tried to assume a role I thought would be pleasing to my family, to be a Southern lady. Shut up! Don’t say Southern lady again. It’s nonsense. You wanted to please your family, that’s all.
Avon had probably done the same, at least in the beginning, but no matter how high she rises in her career, a professional woman always carries around her past, her trash. A man can dump his at the curb, but the crazy woman in the attic, or the world’s whore, or even the book whore is branded forever. All the colleges and books and degrees in the world won’t wipe away the stain from Lady Macbeth’s fine hands. Wait a minute, the blood guilt doesn’t belong here, not on Avon nor on me. Our common ground is bad picking. Picking bad men. I’m so tired of impersonating a proper Southern lady. If I don’t get to be myself soon, a grown-up professional woman, a lawyer, not a gofer, a someday prosecutor, I may snap and run naked through the streets of Delta Ridge, yelling “My kingdom for a horse!”
Work, and thinking only about work, that was my advice to myself as I grabbed my robe and headed for the shower.
I SPENT THE morning at the Carter County Hospital talking to the administrator and several doctors about Avon Wallace. But I learned only what was already known. The hospital ranks were closed, and the consensus was—he may have slept with her, but he didn’t kill her, not good old Dr. Sam, everybody’s buddy
, savior of women and new babies. Before my conversations with the hospital administrator, two surgeons, a fellow OBGYN Jack Walker, the new radiologist, and three nurses, I had thought Sam Oliver a rake and reprobate. But what I heard described was Dr. God if God were a wit and a rake. My God, of course, he is the cosmic jokester.
At lunchtime I drove back to the office just as Aunt Elizabeth was leaving. I let down my car window. “Today I’d like to take time for lunch. How about it?”
“Let’s talk about family,” I said from a back booth at Angelique’s. I needed my mind deposited in a safe place. “Why are mother and grandmother staying here a week? What’s with that? Are they planning to move back?”
“Which question should I answer first?”
I ignored the question and followed it with another: “Do you think Charlotte would ever go back to Ham if he needed her to?” I had to talk to Aunt Elizabeth, whom I could trust, about some of the things that wouldn’t leave my head. Ham had seemed grayer, weaker since I had come home this time. He tired far more quickly than I had remembered.
“She was married to him longer than you’ve been your mother’s daughter. If you love your mother forever because you were with her for your first eighteen years, how can you not love a man you lived with for thirty-five years?”
“Your question sounds like a math reading problem. You’re measuring quantity. What about the quality of her life with him? Doesn’t that count for more?”
“Look at your own life. Were those first eighteen years with Victoria that great?”
“Yeah, about ten of them. Before she started drinking. I see your point. But don’t you think blood ties are stronger than marriage ties?”
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