by Dana Killion
My cell rang as I was settling into my office.
“Andrea, are you okay?” Victor said the minute I picked up. “I just found out what Marcus did to you. The police were here first thing this morning asking questions. I can’t believe he would do this.”
“I’ll be fine. Just a bump on the head, no concussion. But Bennett is facing assault charges.” I added Bennett’s name to my pin board as we spoke. “It’s hard to predict who’s going to react badly to being fired. I’m certain you didn’t anticipate this.”
“What a stupid thing to do. I always saw him as having dated views of the world, but I never imagined he would ever hurt anyone.”
The memory of how Bennett had spoken to his wife, the tone he’d used, the hatred in his voice, all flashed back into my mind. I sat back on the edge of my desk and looked at the board. Was I off-base to consider Bennett as a suspect?
“Victor, have you ever known Bennett to raise his voice or to lose his temper?”
“The police asked me the same thing. I know him to be a pretty quiet, mild-mannered guy. I think he’s got wonky views of marital roles, but the arrangement he has with his wife is certainly none of my business.”
“What do you mean by that? What are his positions on marriage?”
“He has that decades-old viewpoint that a man is the king of his castle and that a woman’s role is home and children. I was aware of it only because some of the female staff overheard him make comments to his wife on the phone. They were concerned that he might say something derogatory in front of a client. Anyway, I spoke to him and made it clear that that language was not to enter the workplace. I knew it wouldn’t change his point of view, and his relationship with his wife is certainly not my problem, but sharing it in the office wasn’t something I could tolerate. I thought we understood each other. That is, until you told me what you had overheard.”
“Does he have a religious affiliation that you’re aware of?” I asked, remembering the exchange I’d witnessed outside Victor’s office. “I saw his wife the other day, and her dress and demeanor made me wonder if they might be following some modesty protocol for religious reasons.”
“Frankly, their religion hasn’t come up. He simply described her as a quote-unquote traditional wife. Whatever the hell that means.”
Where had I heard that expression before?
“Thanks, Victor. I’m sure CPD will be in touch if they have any additional questions.”
The phrase stuck with me. Traditional wife. I’d heard it used somewhere before. I opened a browser window and typed the phrase into the search field. A slew of results filled my screen. Yes, there it was, a New York Times article.
I scanned through the text, refreshing my memory. Apparently, the phrase was code, actually an alt-right movement in its own right, complete with a Twitter hashtag, #tradwife. The belief centered around the idea that by embodying traditional feminine and wifely qualities, such as meekness and chastity and submission to their husbands, women would live the perfect life. That the difficulties of modern society would be avoided.
My stomach knotted at the thought. And what did men get out of it?
The more I read, the uglier it got. The theme underlying the movement seemed to be largely one of white male supremacy. Followers also believed that corruption of the white race was responsible for all of society’s ills and the only way around it was racial and gender role purity. Feeling nauseous, I moved to Twitter, scrolling through endless posts pleading for women to submit to their husbands and extolling the virtues of motherhood and homeschooling, but only because then children could not be corrupted through exposure to alternative thinking.
Men need to feel admired by their women. Women were created to do what men can’t. Smart women who want to increase their options adapt. The Twitter posts were an endless barrage of brainwashing.
How could this exist? It was a cult of hate and all-in racism wrapped up in false packaging. Images of smiling white women and children, in their Betty Crocker kitchens and Leave It to Beaver homes, waiting for Daddy to come home and take care of them, filled the internet. It was as if they wanted to live their lives with the emotional blindness of cartoon figures. A house, a husband who took care of everything, and a baby were all that was required for happiness. How could this exist in this day and age? How could women tolerate it? And what kind of man advocated this lifestyle?
I got up from the desk, my skin crawling. I had never come across such toxic misogyny or such poorly disguised racism. What I found most revolting was the willing participation of the women who seemed content and even grateful to have no expectation of equality.
Is this what defined the Bennetts’ relationship? And if it did, so what? His marriage was not the issue. But was hate of women a factor? Neither Elyse nor Skylar had had much personal contact with Bennett, although he worked on their cases in a supporting role. Both were strong, opinionated women with higher incomes than their spouses, but that applied to many women. Why single out these two? Had they insulted him in some way?
The extreme viewpoint was certainly disturbing but, in and of itself, not much of a motive. There was something personal in these killings, the close proximity, murdered in their homes, the slashing of their mouths. He wanted both a literal and figurative silencing. Yes, it was personal.
33
The house was a yellow-ocher seventies split-level showing its age. Rangy junipers framed the door, and rotted asphalt shingles threatened water damage. I guess the #tradmarriage only applied to women, because Marcus Bennett was woefully inadequate at home maintenance. I sat in my car outside their home, watching for signs of life.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing here, or what I intended to do if I saw Bennett, but curiosity had gotten the better of me. I grabbed my phone.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said when Michael answered.
“What a surprise. I expected you to sleep until noon. I would have called, but I didn’t want to wake you. Did you make it through the night?”
“More or less, it wasn’t the most restful night, but I’m doing fine. Taking it easy.” I knew he was assuming I was still at home in my jammies, and I had no intention of correcting him. Why invite argument about my fitness for duty? Or my involvement in the case?
“Do you need anything? I’m pretty deep in a case today, but I can bring dinner over again tonight, if you want.” I heard caution in his voice, as if he thought I might reject him. Or maybe he was wondering about Ryan. Although he had calmed down quickly after the moment of jealousy, I suspected that he had gone all cop last night and spent the evening digging into the guy’s background. Maybe we could compare files?
“Why don’t we touch base later, see how your case is going, see how I feel? Is that okay?” I wasn’t avoiding, just buying time until I figured out why I was here.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, but I could hear the disappointment.
“Have you been able to find Bennett?” I asked, looking at the house again for signs of life.
“Not yet. And his family isn’t cooperating. I think he’s hiding out, and the wife knows it.”
“Think about it. You’ve embarrassed him. You were the one to tell her and her dad-in-law, that Marcus lost his job before he could come up with his own version, one that exonerates him. He’s off trying to get his story straight.”
“Or maybe they know where he is and are helping him avoid us. That’s the more logical scenario. The perp makes up a doozy of a story, and the family falls for it hook, line, and sinker and starts protecting him. Guy says the cops are the ones lying. The dummies never understand that it just makes everything worse. Hard to claim you’re innocent when you hide.”
I caught a flash as sunlight glinted off the front door. Someone was leaving the Bennett house.
“Let me know if you find him,” I said to Michael. “I’ll give you a call later.”
The front door of the Bennett home had opened. Mrs. Bennett appeared to be leaving, and she was
alone. She pulled her knit hat down lower on her ears and adjusted the matching scarf around her neck, then began walking toward the street. I watched the door and the curtains in the windows to see if she was traveling alone or if anyone was watching her movements from inside. No sign of anyone. When she got to the sidewalk, she made a right turn. Now what?
I hesitated only a moment, then followed her. She didn’t seem hurried as she walked, nor was there any signal that she thought she might have company.
The neighborhood had a distinctly suburban feel, moderate homes on small parcels. There was evidence of children everywhere, snow-covered swing sets or snowmen in the front yards. Edison Park was a neighborhood near O’Hare along the I-90 corridor and just inside the Chicago city limits. It provided safety, decent schools, and an easy commute into downtown. It also meant pedestrians were few and far between on the sidewalk in February, and I was feeling as if I had a big red sign that said “stalker” on my head.
I kept my pace slow and plodding, matching Mrs. Bennett’s stride, staying about half a block behind her. She wore a long navy puffer coat and tall fleece-lined boots, so she was far more prepared for the weather than I was, but I didn’t have the impression she was out for a hike. With little ones at home, and with what I had learned of the traditional-wife concept, this was likely a short trip.
I trailed her for another three blocks, wondering why I hadn’t just stayed in the car and driven like the rest of suburbia. I had at least brought gloves, but this kind of surveillance required thermal long johns and hand warmers. At the next corner, she turned again. By the time I reached the intersection, I could no longer see her. Glancing from side to side, I looked for fresh footprints or signs of a door closing. Nothing. However, the street was lined with cars, and two women were heading into a square brick building mid-block. I assessed my options.
Was this a community center? A colorful handwritten sign planted in the snow bank said Women’s Group Open House. I looked more closely at the building. A discreet plaque on the door said New World Congregation with a small cross underneath. Apparently, this was a church but indistinct. Purposefully? Or simply an adapted use of the building? Regardless, this had to be Mrs. Bennett’s destination.
Seeing no downside, I followed a woman with a plate of cookies through the door into a large reception area. The room was set up with about two dozen folding chairs arranged in rows in an alcove. A card table covered with a gingham tablecloth was loaded with trays of pastries and sweets while a second held liquid refreshments. I stopped for a moment, scanning the room for Mrs. Bennett.
“Welcome.” A woman approached me with an enthusiastic smile. “You can hang your coat right here.” She pointed. “Then get yourself a name tag and help yourself to refreshments. We’ll be starting the meeting in about fifteen minutes.” I smiled shyly and thanked her, trying to blend in. Thankfully, she moved on to assist others. What the hell, I was here.
I put my coat on a hook, scribbled my first name on a sticker with a Sharpie, placed it on my chest, then filled a Styrofoam cup with weak, tepid tea. The homemade cookie plates overflowed with choices. I guess these women had to do something with their suppressed frustrations.
I winced as I took a sip of the lukewarm liquid, reminding myself to stop the tea snobbery. This didn’t seem like a crowd that would appreciate the distinction between an Earl Grey with a strong bergamot finish and a first-flush Darjeeling. Besides, I wasn’t here for the refreshments.
Standing against the wall, I pretended to sip and watched the women as they mingled. Most seemed to know each other, gathering in small groups. The assembled women were largely in their twenties and thirties, which made sense—prime childbearing decades. Only one woman wasn’t as pale as the snow outside, and she, too, seemed to have wandered in not fully aware of what she was walking into.
And skin color wasn’t the only common denominator. Whatever fashion gods had dictated that shirt dresses, mid-calf skirts, and sweater sets were dead hadn’t spent any time in this crowd. Where did they buy this stuff? Dressed in skinny jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a chunky fisherman’s sweater, my garb alone told the group I wasn’t one of them. At least I wasn’t showing skin; it was as close to their version of modest as I got.
“Hi, I’m Martha.” A woman approached me, a printed flyer in her hand. “Thank you for coming. Are you new in the neighborhood?”
“Yes, just a couple weeks,” I lied, smiling politely. As expected, I’d been pegged as a newbie.
“That’s great. We’re always excited to meet new women of quality.” She handed me the printout. “We meet here every second Wednesday at eleven thirty.”
I glanced at the flyer. Handmade by one of the women, no doubt, extolling the virtues of family and tradition. Martha prattled on about timing the meetings so as not to conflict with getting kids to school or supper on the table, while I pretended to agree, catching sight of Mrs. Bennett as she spoke.
“How many children do you have?” Martha asked.
“Can you excuse me for a moment? I need to find the ladies’ room.” The trick to this type of recon work was to fake engagement while avoiding answering any personal questions. And Martha had just gotten personal.
“Of course, get that in before the meeting starts. Just down that back hall.” She smiled and flicked her hand toward the far wall.
I nodded and tucked her flyer into my bag, then moved to find a more neutral territory. My plan, such that it was, was to get as close to Mrs. Bennett as I could, chat her up, and see what I could learn about her husband.
I had my opportunity a few minutes later when Mrs. Bennett’s companion stepped away.
“Hi, I’m Andrea,” I said, extending a hand. She took it, looking at me long enough to catch that I wasn’t one of the converted.
“Jill. Are you new?” She looked at me expectantly, fingering the pearls resting against her jewel neck sweater.
Gone was the downturned head I’d seen outside of Victor’s office. Here she seemed relaxed, comfortable in her skin.
I nodded. The less detail given the better. “Have you been part of these meetings for a long time?” I asked.
The question seemed to warm her up. I was gathering that the purpose of the meeting was an intro to the lifestyle and that established members were here to recruit, whitewashing reality, of course. Maybe conversion was the better word. Suddenly the Scientology TV network came to mind, although this was a substantially lower-budget operation.
“I’ve been coming since before my babies were born. Marcus, that’s my husband, likes that I socialize with like-minded women. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my other duties, of course.”
“Of course. How many children do you have?”
“Three, all under five. Hopefully God will bless me with at least a few more.”
I cringed inwardly, guessing her to be only in her late twenties. She’d likely never known a life alone as a single woman or supported herself, and if she was going the baby-machine route, that was unlikely to change. I was conscious of my own bias, my own fears of dependence, as I thought about what her life must be like. I was making judgments about these women and the life that they had chosen, but the traditional-wife lifestyle wasn’t the reason I was here.
“Does your husband share your desire to have more children?”
She gave me a confused look. “Of course. If it’s God’s will, who are we to challenge?”
“I only asked because it must be hard, financially. Chicago is not an inexpensive place to live on one income.”
“My husband has an excellent job. We manage nicely.” Her face pinked up as she spoke, and her eyes suddenly would not meet mine. The woman was a terrible liar. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I should get to my seat,” she said. “Nice meeting you.”
Conversation over. I watched her join two women she clearly knew who were already seated. As the group was called to assemble, I took a chair in the back where I could observe Jill Bennett.
The speaker began by welcoming new and prospective members, then droned on about family values, the importance of motherly love, and the endless threats modern society placed on women’s roles as caregivers. I had to clench the sides of my chair to keep from screaming about how insulting I found these antiquated concepts. Was my face betraying me? I looked around, concluding I was safe. All attention was on the speaker.
I shot my eyes back over to Jill. She appeared unruffled. Her reaction told me they hadn’t yet settled on a story about her husband’s dismissal so had chosen denial. I wondered what they would say to the neighbors after he was charged with assault?
Thankfully, I managed to keep my cool through the balance of the recruiting speech. The Hispanic woman I’d noticed earlier caught my eye and smiled. She hadn’t taken the bait either. The official presentation ending, I gathered my bag, watching Jill Bennett out of the corner of my eye. She was heading for the door, fast. I followed.
She was already out the door as I slipped on my coat. As I exited the building, I found myself cornered by Martha, the woman who had greeted me initially. Taking her recruiting role to heart, she peppered me with questions about my impressions of the meeting. I answered noncommittally, excusing myself to intercept Jill before she left.
“Jill?”
She turned at the sound of her name.
“I wanted to catch you before you left. I was wondering if I could talk to you some more about the group?”
“Well, I really should get home. The little ones need their mommy. I’m sure Martha can answer any questions.”
She was edging toward the street as she spoke.
“Jill.”
Marcus Bennett waited at the end of the walk, and she scurried to meet him.
Now what? He hadn’t noticed me yet, but would momentarily. And after yesterday’s incident, I had no idea how he’d react. Would he feel emboldened and attack me again in front of this group? Should I text Michael that I had found the guy? No, then I’d have to explain what the hell I was doing here.