Radhauser leaped to his feet, grabbed the newspaper, and scanned the article.
Severed Hand Found in Ashland’s Lithia Park
A human hand was found near the Lithia Park Playground on Saturday morning. Homer Sullivan, a long-time resident of Sunset Lake, was walking his pet raccoon, Rodney, when the animal picked up the scent and led seventy-one-year-old Sullivan to a gruesome sight. "I never seen anything like it," he reported. "At first, I thought it was some kid playing a joke."
Thinking fast, and hoping the victim was still alive, Mr. Sullivan took the hand to the nearby Ashland Police Station. Detectives Winston Radhauser and Maxine McBride quickly identified the victim from a ring she was wearing and rushed to her house on Vista. Marsha Parsons, age thirty-two, was pronounced dead at the scene. She is survived by her husband, Sherman L. Parsons, who is employed as a butcher at the Medford Costco, and their two children Sherman Junior, age five, and Jillian, age fourteen months.
According to Police Chief Felix Murphy, an unnamed suspect is in custody at the Ashland Holding Jail pending further questioning.
Sully took a seat in front of Radhauser’s desk.
Radhauser returned the newspaper, groaned and dropped back onto his chair, shoulders tense. “I wish you hadn’t called them, Sully. I was hoping to keep the hand detail out of the newspapers. The last thing we need is a copycat.”
Sully cocked his head and gave Radhauser a quizzical look. “I didn’t call no newspaper. You must think I’m plumb stupid. And deaf too. I heard you when you said we didn’t want to start a panic and make people afraid to go to the park. That reporter called me. We got phone service out at the lake now. They put up one of them cell towers.”
“You didn’t say a word to anyone except me?”
“Nope. And I didn’t even tell that Captain Murphy fella either. Even though he’s your boss, ain’t he? Just for your information, I didn’t tell that reporter anything he didn’t already know. I said nothin’ about that drawin’ on the hand. I figured that was a detail we’d want to keep quiet so we could eliminate all them crazies who call in and confess to crap they didn’t do.”
Radhauser leaned back in his chair. His shoulders relaxed. Murphy was probably the one who’d talked to the reporter. “That’s very good, Sully.”
The old man squinted in the sun, shading his eyes with his hand. “So where do we go from here?”
Radhauser turned his chair and readjusted the window blinds.
Sully thanked him. “Now tell me about that suspect you got in custody. Do you reckon he did it?”
“At this point, I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“You want me to have a go at `im?”
Radhauser suppressed a laugh. “He’s under arrest and waiting for his arraignment. I’m going to let him simmer a bit. Now, I’m headed home. I promised my daughter I’d pitch some balls to her this afternoon.”
Knowing the old man would offer his assistance, he didn’t tell Sully he planned to interview the Parsons’ neighbor first.
“Okay, I’ll check in with you next week. I need to get a move on, too. I got Rodney out in the jeep and when I leave him alone too long, he gets bored and starts clawing up my seats.”
“Try to avoid the paparazzi, Sully. I don’t want to see a photo of you and Rodney in the grocery-store tabloids.”
Sully gave a dismissive wave. “You got my phone number. Call if anything new surfaces.”
* * *
Radhauser pulled into the driveway of Sylvia Saunders’ house on Vista. It was one of the well-kept Craftsman bungalows and occupied the lot next door to the Parsons family. Her house was painted sage green and had burgundy shutters and a big porch with stone pillars across the front. The yard was neatly cut, edged and sculpted with mulched and weeded gardens overflowing with flowers as bright as Easter candy. On the west side, an azalea hedge, with hot pink blossoms, separated her property from the less manicured Parsons’.
Radhauser knocked and waited, then knocked again.
A moment later, an attractive woman, perhaps in her mid-sixties, answered. She was out of breath. “I’m sorry. I was out back in the garden when I heard your car pull into the driveway.” In her yellow, flowered housedress and flat ballerina slippers, she looked like a woman from the fifties—the wife of an aging banker or a local doctor. Her hair was streaked with gray and tied back from her face with a yellow scarf. She wore a pair of cloth gardening gloves with rubber tips on the fingers.
“Are you Sylvia Saunders?”
“Yes.”
He introduced himself and showed his badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Parsons family.”
She nodded like a bobble-head doll, slipped off the gloves and set them on a table in the entry, then turned and looked at Radhauser. “I saw the police cars and knew something bad had happened. Such a shame. I mean, I hate to say this, but I saw it coming.”
“May I come inside?” He took off his cowboy hat.
She stepped to the right so he could enter.
Most of the non-weight-bearing walls in the house had been removed, opening the space to a massive great room with a stone fireplace rising from the wide-oak floor to the beamed ceiling. Bookcases flanked the fireplace sides, all of them filled. He scanned the titles. You could learn a lot about someone from the books they read. Sylvia had everything from Thoreau and Emerson to Ginsberg and James Dickey's poetry, a shelf of Steven King and Dennis Lehane. An eclectic reader.
Sylvia motioned for him to sit in a comfortable-looking chair in front of the big window looking out on the street. The top panes were stained glass. It was early afternoon and the sun hit them, casting warm squares of green, red and yellow on the hardwood floor. He sat, placed his Stetson on the coffee table and removed his notebook and pen from his blazer pocket.
She took the loveseat across from him and must have caught him looking around. "My late husband did all the renovations. He was such a stickler for detail. He studied plans for older Craftsman houses and even ordered the stained glass from a factory in Germany to make it more authentic. He wanted the glass rippled and flawed. Like the original."
The house fascinated Radhauser. It was one of his dreams that someday he and Gracie might renovate a classic like this one. “It’s a beautiful job. Your husband was quite the craftsman. I’m sorry for your loss. It must be hard to stay here without him.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “In a way, it’s comforting. But you’re not here to talk about my Harry. How can I be of help, Detective Radhauser?”
“I’m sure you know Marsha Parsons was murdered on Friday night.”
“Isn’t it horrid? Nothing like that has ever happened in this neighborhood before. I always felt safe here. Harry and I raised four kids in this house.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe how things had changed. “But I heard on the news this morning you have a suspect in custody.”
A suspect who may very well be innocent. “I understand you called Services to Children and Families to report possible abuse of the Parsons children.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I thought those calls were confidential.”
"They are. But exceptions are made for law enforcement. I'm not questioning your judgment, Mrs. Saunders. Far better to report in error than to ignore your suspicions and let child abuse go unchecked. Was it Sherman you suspected?"
"No. It was Marsha. I don't think she was cut out to be a mother—at least not of two children. She screamed at them a lot, but things seemed to settle down in the last couple of months. I wondered if it had anything to do with her new-found religion. She didn't confide in me, but from what I could gather, she was in the process of converting to Islam. Sometimes I'd see her take the kids to the park with a Muslim woman who covered her head and face—only her eyes were visible."
“Let’s go back to Friday night. The medical examiner estimates she died between ten and midnight. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary that nigh
t?”
“I can’t say that I did. My bedroom is in the back of the house and I’m usually asleep by ten. I watch a little television in bed. I know they tell you not to—that bedrooms should be for sleeping, but it helps me settle down.”
“So, you heard nothing?”
“The Parsons argued a lot. And they were far from discreet. They had a whopper on Friday afternoon, but then Mr. Parsons slammed out of the house and started walking toward town. It got real quiet after that. I didn’t hear a peep until the kids started crying yesterday morning.”
Radhauser opened his notebook and jotted down things he needed to follow up on. “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”
“It had something to do with her faith. Marsha had one of those call to prayer reminders. When the windows are open, I can hear it, too. It’s not an unpleasant sound, just strange—not anything like our church bells. It goes off five times every day—starting at sunrise. I heard it right before they started to argue. The sound must have gotten Sherman riled up. He threatened to leave her if she didn't turn it off. And then he said, ‘Or maybe I should just strap a bomb to your waist and you can go live with your precious Allah.'"
“Those were his exact words?” When she nodded, Radhauser copied them in his notebook. “What happened next?”
“The door slammed. I should have gone inside and locked the door. But it was getting dark and I wanted to finish weeding the front flowerbed.”
“What else did you see or hear, Mrs. Saunders?”
“When I saw Sherman marching away, he looked fit to be tied, as my late husband would say. Marsha stood in the doorway with a butcher knife in her hands. She told him not to bother coming home if he was drunk.” Sylvia paused, seemed reluctant to go on.
“What happened next?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “It’s just that…I hate to get him in trouble.”
“He’s done a pretty good job of that all by himself.”
“He turned, glared at Marsha, and said, ‘Guess what, bitch? Suicide bombs aren’t that difficult to make.’”
Chapter Thirteen
When Radhauser pulled into his driveway, a lawnmower droned in the backyard. Had Gracie given up on him and decided to cut the grass herself? He parked the Crown Vic under the barn overhang. Their barn doors were open and he walked through the center aisle, greeted by the smell of cedar. He took a deep breath. It was a smell he’d come to love. All the stalls were shoveled out and re-bedded with fresh shavings—the evening feed and alfalfa flakes already placed in each stall. His wife had put in a full day and now she was doing his job, mowing the grass. A wave of guilt washed over him as he grabbed a handful of carrots from the barn refrigerator and headed toward the house.
Halfway up the driveway, he stopped and whistled for Ameer who was grazing in the east pasture. The stallion tossed his head, his lush black mane blowing in the wind. He answered Radhauser and began trotting toward the fence. Ameer always answered him—a deep, satisfying nicker, throaty and rumbly. Next to his wife's and children’s laughter, it was one of the best sounds Radhauser knew. He gave Ameer a carrot and then scratched under his neck. "Good boy. You're such a good boy, Ameer."
When Radhauser reached their house at the top of the drive, Gracie was swinging a giggling Jonathan in the hammock they’d stretched between two huge Douglas firs in their front yard.
“I’m rocking him to sleep before his nap,” she said.
“I can tell it’s having a calming effect on him.” Radhauser picked up the still-laughing toddler and tossed him into the air. The sound of the lawnmower drummed on. “Did you give up on me and hire someone to cut the lawn?”
Gracie laughed. “Not exactly. Cooper cleaned the barn, noticed the grass needed cutting and before I knew it, he got the mower out of the garage and dug in.” She motioned toward the back yard. “Lizzie is helping him. Following him around with her little wheelbarrow like a puppy.”
It was impossible not to be impressed by Cooper’s dedication. Maybe this arrangement was going to work out, after all. “He must have been desperate to leave his mother’s house. He sure didn’t waste any time getting here.” Radhauser lifted Jonathan onto his shoulders. “Come on, big boy, it’s nap time. I’ve got a Sunday afternoon date to throw baseballs to your sister.”
* * *
Daria Azami was far from her home in the desert of southwest Afghanistan, a home that had changed so much it no longer felt as if it had ever belonged to her. Though she’d lived in this apartment in Oregon for over seven years, she was slipping between worlds again, falling through the cracks. And now, Marsha Parsons, the only friend who’d ever reached out to pull Daria back into the American world, was dead.
Marsha had gotten Daria out of the house and introduced her to Lithia Park, the Shakespeare Festival, lunch on the Plaza, and chocolate candy from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Without her, Daria was lost and fearful of leaving their apartment, especially with all the hatred focused on them since 9-11. No matter where they ventured, Daria had felt safe when accompanied by Marsha. How many times had her friend helped her repaint their front door, always apologizing for the angry graffiti that had been painted there?
She didn’t know how she’d tell her son that Junior Parsons was in foster care and didn’t live in Ashland now. Kareem’s only friend would no longer be his companion on outings to the playground.
When the phone rang on Monday afternoon, Daria was hesitant to answer. Thinking it might be Ahmed calling from work, she picked up the receiver.
“Mrs. Azami, this is Principal Collins at the Mountain View Elementary School. There has been an incident on the playground that involves your son and another boy. I need you to come to my office. Please bring a change of clothing for Kareem.”
“I do not understand. Kareem wear clean clothes when he ride bus zis morning.”
“Please, Mrs. Azami. I’ll explain everything once you get here.”
“Where is my son now?”
“He’s in the nurse’s office.”
Her heart rate increased. Worry spread through her body like a swarm of locusts. “Has he been injured?”
“He’s okay,” Principal Collins said.
“I will come.”
Daria slipped on her niqab and abaya, a long, lightweight tailored coat, grabbed some clean clothes for Kareem, then hurried out of the apartment. When she arrived at the elementary school, she stopped at the front desk to sign in and state the nature of her visit. She was guided into the principal’s office.
Behind the desk, a short man, with a bald head and a stomach that hung over his belt, stood. “I’m Principal Collins, Mrs. Azami. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe I met your husband on parents’ night for our first-graders.” Principal Collins wore metal-rimmed glasses that made him look like a studious man. And Daria hoped a kind one.
He started to close the door.
“Please, kindly leave open. Muslim women are not permitted to be in room alone with man who is not husband, brother, father or son.”
“No problem.” Principal Collins left the door open between his office and the school secretary. He stuck out his right hand, then, as if suspecting this too was forbidden, quickly withdrew it.
Daria, prohibited by her faith from looking directly into a man's eyes who was not her husband, lowered her gaze to the floor. She was too warm from her walk and yet cold at the same time. It was like the temperature in Principal Collins' office had fallen ten degrees since she entered. Even so, her insides burned like a fever. Where was Kareem? Was he all right?
“I wish see my son now.”
“I’d like to talk with you first. Don’t worry, Kareem is fine. Please be seated.” He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Daria pulled it out and sat.
“I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate incident on the playground involving Kareem and another boy.” Principal Collins returned to his seat behind his desk.
<
br /> “But Kareem, you are sure he is okay?”
“His injuries are not severe. A bloody nose and a couple bruises. The nurse has taken a look at him and believes he is fine.” He shrugged. “Boys will be boys, but I want you to understand we have a no-tolerance policy for bullying. As you can imagine, it has become more difficult to enforce since 9-11.”
“Kareem, he is American boy. He was born here in Ashland Hospital. He love this country.”
“I don’t doubt that, Mrs. Azami. But when adults are afraid, the fear carries over to their children.”
“Please…tell me what happened.”
“According to the other children who witnessed the incident, Landon Baker called Kareem an ugly name. You know how children can be, Mrs. Azami. They can be cruel.”
“No. We teach Kareem to be respectful of everyone. To be always kind. I want you tell me what this cruel boy say.”
Principal Collins leaned back in his chair. “He called him a terrorist, praying pig.”
She flinched. “Why he say that?”
“I don’t know why. But when he did, Kareem spit on him.”
“He will receive punishment for this spitting.” The incident in the market flashed through her mind. Daria understood how it felt to have another person spit on you. Kareem must have been very upset to do such a thing.
"Landon turned to his friends and said Kareem's father killed the people in the Twin Towers. And that Kareem had a bomb hidden under his American flag shirt. This incited the other boys and they attacked Kareem, knocking him to the ground and ripping off his shirt before the playground monitor could get to him."
Daria swallowed back tears. If only Marsha were still alive. She would have come with Daria to the meeting and known what to say. “My son wear American flag shirt to show he love his country. This is wrong, Principal Collins. Every day he come home in tears. He say other boys call him towel head and camel jockey. They say he is terrorist and will blow up school. Kareem only want learn so he can be good American.”
Red Hatchet Falls Page 10