Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  Labrys settled at his feet, and Anne popped the video in. I tried to imagine her pregnant, the skin on her belly stretched taut, her breasts swollen.

  Neale placed a hand on my shoulder, and I leaned back into her as Orchid fast-forwarded through the early parts of the local nightly news: announcers with too much hairspray and makeup, explosions in the Mideast, a commercial for Cascade.

  “There we are,” Vince said.

  The camera panned the sea of signs, lingering on one that said NO MEANS NO. You could hear our chanting, but you couldn’t tell what we were saying. Anne hunched over a microphone held by a guy much younger, blonder, and shorter than herself. “We believe that the university’s decision to allow Dave DeVoster to redshirt sends the wrong message.” She glanced nervously at the camera. “It shows no consideration for women or for the victim in this case.”

  “Brava,” Vince said.

  The camera cut to Lexie. Instead of stooping toward the announcer, she gestured to the crowd. “All of us here tonight want to see Dave DeVoster brought to justice.”

  “She’s making it sound like we’re all one group,” Anne moaned.

  The camera lavished its attention on Lexie’s castration banner, and Anne buried her head in her hands.

  Then the announcer interviewed a seventyish man with a gravelly voice. “These feminists are always protesting something. They don’t know what went on between Dave and that woman.”

  “She was bruised and bleeding when she went to the hospital,” Orchid fumed.

  “They’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” the man continued.

  The camera zoomed out and showed him holding the hand of his grandson, a pudgy-cheeked lad with a winsome smile. Then it cut to a group of high school girls with pom-poms in their hair, saying that they just wanted to enjoy the game. The announcer grimly noted that enjoyment was far from the minds of the protestors, and the camera swept over us again. The segment ended with another shot of Lexie’s banner.

  Orchid heaved a sigh and stopped the tape.

  An ad for Pampers blared from the TV.

  Anne’s fists were clenched and her lips were pressed tightly together. Labrys abandoned Vince and plopped her chin on the armrest of Anne’s chair.

  “You did a good job,” I said.

  Neale yawned and stretched her arms above her head.

  “KCRG-TV Channel 9 returns to its special coverage of a breaking story,” the TV squawked.

  “No footage of my darling Hawkeye boa!” Vince said. “I can’t believe—”

  “Sssh.” The rest of us hushed him.

  An announcer, a woman with big teeth and big hair, said, “The body of UI basketball star, Dave DeVoster, was discovered early this morning near the Duane Banks Baseball Stadium.” The TV showed the scoreboard. Zero to zero.

  None of us moved.

  “His body was found at the base of the statue known as Marilyn MonHerky, one of the Herkys on Parade.” The screen showed old footage of two football players standing next to another (more masculine) Herky. Then there was a photo of Marilyn’s head. Six-inch long eyelashes sprouted out of blue glitter eye shadow, and bright red lipstick outlined the bottom of the hooked beak (which, of course, shone Hawkeye-gold in the sun).

  “Omygod,” Vince said, “Dave DeVoster died at the feet of Drag Queen Herky. A masterpiece of aviary artwork has been sullied.”

  Orchid turned to Anne. “Isn’t that the bird I took your picture with? You and your nieces?”

  Anne barely nodded.

  Neale perched on the edge of the futon, energized.

  “Blood and hair was found on the bird’s beak,” the announcer said. “Police also found significant blood on the bird’s elbow and on the concrete slab beneath the sculpture.” She paused dramatically. “Blood was also spattered on the bird’s dress.”

  As the camera showed Marilyn’s white gown, I imagined blood-red polka dots.

  “DeVoster’s neck was broken,” the announcer continued. “His skull was badly damaged, and his back was bruised.”

  “I told you the Herkys promoted violence,” Orchid said to no one in particular.

  “Authorities report that his face was inflamed.”

  “Pepper spray,” Neale said. “Or mace.”

  “He had it coming.” Vince sang a few bars from Chicago.

  “This has to be a homicide,” Neale said.

  When she and I first met two summers ago, we’d both been investigating the murder of my aunt’s beloved partner. Like this basketball player, she too had suffered a blow to the head. My throat tightened, and I felt queasy.

  “Are you OK, Mara?” Anne asked.

  I nodded and tried to tell myself that DeVoster had gotten what he deserved. But that wasn’t true, not really. He deserved to be in prison, not dead. Not murdered.

  The camera cut to the Chief of Police, a square-faced man in his fifties with a wart-type thing beneath one of his eyes. “A jogger found the body around 6:00 this morning.”

  “Are you treating the death as a murder?” a baby-faced reporter asked.

  “He suspects fowl play,” Vince tossed his head back and laughed maniacally. “Get it?” He bent his arms and flapped them like a chicken. “Fowl play.”

  Labrys barked.

  “As of this time, we haven’t determined the cause of death,” said the Chief.

  “But wouldn’t you say that the death looks like a murder?” the reporter asked.

  “There are some suspicious circumstances,” the Chief admitted.

  “What next?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the investigation.”

  “So there’s an investigation?” The reporter was practically salivating. He barraged the Police Chief with more questions that the cop was not at liberty to answer.

  Finally the officer said, “If it is a homicide, we’ll work around the clock to bring the killer to justice.”

  “Nobody worked hard to help the woman he raped,” Orchid said.

  The announcer back in the studio noted that DeVoster was attired in running gear. “Our sources reveal that he enjoyed running in the middle of the night—especially after his legal troubles. The cement path that runs past Marilyn MonHerky and the Duane Banks Field is reportedly his favorite route.”

  DeVoster’s lawyer, Bernardo Church, appeared on the screen.

  “There’s the sleaze that got DeVoster his plea bargain,” Orchid said.

  “Shakespeare had it right,” Vince chimed in. “Kill all the lawyers.”

  I glanced at Neale—she’d been a lawyer, an up-and-comer in the Chicago District Attorney’s office, before she decided to become a cop—but she focused on the TV, oblivious to the slight against her former profession.

  A reporter held a mic in front of Bernardo Church’s red necktie. “This is a terrible tragedy,” the lawyer said, “the death of a talented young man with a long and stellar career ahead of him in the NBA.” Church had a luxurious baritone and an obvious fondness for hair gel, his dark hair slicked straight back from his high forehead. “There were lots of people who were jealous of my client,” the lawyer said. “He had several enemies.”

  Then the TV flashed on Lexie’s castration banner and on Anne speaking to the reporter at last night’s protest. “We need to do all we can to stop violence against women,” she said. There was also footage of her at the women’s game as she stood and called DeVoster a rapist. The camera had captured me and Orchid too.

  “I didn’t know I was being taped there,” Anne exclaimed. “They’re making it look like I might have shoved him into that stupid bird.”

  None of us could argue with that. We knew Anne wouldn’t hurt a fly—literally, it was a reincarnation thing—but Channel 9 was painting her as a homicidal feminist.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Anne. “Nobody is going to think you had anything to do with it.”

  “Yeah,” Orchid said, “because she was with me all night long.”

  I turned my attention
back to the TV. There was a headshot of Dave DeVoster. It was strikingly white: his crisp dress shirt, his Pepsodent-perfect grin, his rakishly spiked hair. “Dave DeVoster was more than a star basketball player,” said a saccharine voice-over. Music swelled. “He was a teammate, a friend, a hero.”

  Next there was a photo of the child DeVoster, holding a basketball that covered his entire torso. Channel 9 had obviously been hard at work since learning about his death. There was footage of him playing in grade school, high school, college—stealing the ball, dunking, shooting the three—taller and more proficient in every image. We saw him named Big Ten player of the year for the third time in a row before the music turned funky and he sat with his defense attorney, his arms draped across two chairs, his blue eyes mocking the camera. Finally, he waved to cheering fans after his plea bargain.

  “I don’t know if I can watch much more,” I said, but no one made a move to turn off the TV.

  We were treated to a close-up of Coach Eldon Bly: black-framed glasses perched atop a crooked, thrice-broken nose, and wavy silver hair. “D was one of the best forwards we’ve had,” Bly said, “and despite recent allegations, he was also a very decent young man.”

  “Allegations…” Anne’s voice trailed off.

  “Now that he’s dead,” Orchid said, “the Athletic Department can get him canonized.”

  “I sincerely hope,” Bly continued, “that university officials and the police will do everything in their power to bring Dave DeVoster’s killer to justice. Whoever killed him dealt a huge blow not just to his family and our team, but to the entire community.”

  BS that thick drew no commentary from the living room—not even from Orchid.

  Vince headed to the kitchen. When he returned with the leftover muffins, Bly had moved on to more important matters. “We’re going to miss D, but everybody will step up. Ty Bennet was great in his first start last night. 13 points and ten boards.”

  The screen showed a gangly, red-haired Hawkeye dunking the ball.

  “His chance to shine,” Neale mused.

  “Most guys don’t carry pepper spray.” Vince broke a muffin in half, and Labrys wagged her tail expectantly.

  “Maybe he wanted to make it look like the killer was a woman,” Neale said.

  My stomach churned. If she didn’t stop obsessing about DeVoster’s death, there was no way we could have our Serious Talk before she left.

  “I like that.” Vince slipped a piece of muffin to the dog. “The killer would have to be big to manhandle a guy the size of DeVoster.”

  “There are big women,” Orchid said.

  Anything men can do, women can do better. Even murder. That’s Orchid’s feminism in a nutshell.

  The reporters went to work on DeVoster’s teammates. One scratched his shaved head. “D’s death was like real surprising. We gotta regroup.” Another said, “Somebody had it in for our man D. Our hearts go out to his family.” A sinewy guy with big ears observed, “After all D’s been through, this brutal murder is the icing on the cake.”

  “After all he’s been through!” Orchid shrieked. “What about the woman he raped?”

  The red-haired player said, “This is a tough situation for our team.”

  “He doesn’t sound very sorry,” Neale said.

  Apparently done with the team, the reporters hounded other people for their reactions to the death. DeVoster’s marketing professor called him a “scholar-athlete” and touted his 3.8 GPA. A cheerleader said he was a “real All-American guy.” A woman walking her dog said that she was an Iowa State fan and had no opinion. The artist who had created Marilyn MonHerky—and who looked like she just rolled out of bed—agreed that she never expected her bird to be involved in anybody’s death.

  “This is going to be on all day,” Vince said.

  But the worst was yet to come: Dave DeVoster’s family. His father stood erect at a podium that said “DeVoster Farms,” reminding viewers that he, Darren DeVoster, was one of Iowa’s wealthiest men, one of the university’s biggest donors. He had one arm around his wife, and the other around his daughter. A tall, blond threesome clad in black. Designer mourning, no doubt. Darren and his wife, like their deceased son, were ultra-photogenic, but their daughter had tiny eyes and a chin with zero definition. I felt sorry for her, an ugly duckling who would probably never feel like a swan. Her lip trembled slightly as her father began to speak.

  “Today Joyce and I have lost our only son. Darlene has lost her big brother.”

  Darlene gazed at the floor, her hair hiding her face.

  “A killer has stolen him from our midst,” Darren DeVoster said, “our golden boy who gave his all to the Hawkeyes, who helped his little sister with her homework, who raised thousands of dollars for firefighters after 9/11.”

  “Now he’s the victim we’re supposed to feel sorry for.” Orchid shook her head in disgust.

  “I beg all of you to be alert for clues that could lead to the capture of my son’s murderer,” Darren DeVoster said. “Anyone who calls the police with a tip that helps them apprehend the killer will receive my family’s undying gratitude and $50,000.”

  “The police are going to get a lot of phone calls,” Neale said.

  When Darren DeVoster opened the floor for questions, he unleashed a journalistic feeding frenzy. “Sir, have the police officially declared your son’s death a murder?”

  Darren DeVoster stared straight at the camera. “I don’t know about official declarations, but I know that Iowa City’s fine police force will work expeditiously to achieve justice. No one wants to see a killer on the loose.”

  “Do you think that your son’s death had anything to do with the recent charges against him?”

  “It’s likely,” he said. “My son was the victim of a vicious smear campaign, and the people who spread the lies about him may well have killed him.”

  “This guy has more spin than a Laundromat,” Vince said.

  “What people?” called a reporter.

  “Feminists and activists.” DeVoster looked like he’d just sucked a lemon. “Whatever they call themselves.”

  “Sir,” said a woman reporter, “are you suggesting that your son’s accuser lied?”

  “I don’t believe she intended to.” DeVoster forced a smile. “But young women can exaggerate when they don’t get their way.”

  Neither Darlene nor her mother looked at the camera.

  “When was the last time you saw your son?” asked a reporter.

  Mrs. DeVoster’s lip trembled as her husband began answering the question. Before he finished, she was sobbing, her face in her hands.

  Labrys went to the TV and started pawing the screen.

  “She gets really agitated when people cry,” Vince said. “She wants to comfort them.”

  As if to prove his point, Labrys butted her head against the screen and started whining.

  Orchid turned it off, and Labrys fell silent. She cocked her head and put a single paw on the screen.

  Vince knelt next to the befuddled dog and scratched her head. Then he turned to the rest of us. “DeVoster’s demise,” he said. “Can we say just deserts?”

  If only it had been that simple.

  Chapter Four

  I should’ve been happy, sitting on my couch, the sun streaming through the window, my girlfriend slowly sliding her tongue around the edge of my ear. But I felt restless. “Do you think the police will question Anne?”

  Neale paused and exhaled gently on my ear. “Sure,” she said. “As a formality.” She took the bottom of my ear lobe between her teeth.

  “Will she have to go to the station?”

  “Hey,” Neale whispered, “Anne will be fine.” She started nibbling.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Neale released my ear. “They’ll ask her a couple questions, and then she can return to her floor samples.”

  I pulled away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Mara.” Neale sighed and rested
her hand on my thigh. A patch of sunlight covered her long fingers and her legs. Neale’s wool socks were covered with pine shavings from Vince’s guinea pig cages. I moved my eyes up her leg, past the contours of her knee, past the snap on her Levi’s, past the cashmere sweater with tiny buttons that dotted the center of her chest. Then I gazed into her indescribably green eyes. Sometimes they reminded me of a summer lake, reflecting acres of trees in its shimmers and shadows. But now they made me think of the pine tree I lugged home last December, hoping we could spend our first Christmas together. “At least they have a life together,” I said.

  Neale removed her hand from my leg.

  “They have friends over for brunch,” I said. “They spend holidays together.” My stomach clenched, and I thought about leaving well enough alone. Neale was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met, and she treated me like a queen when I visited her in St. Louis—the best restaurants, the theatre, and dancing into the wee hours of the morning. But I suspected that dancing was yet another form of aerobic exercise for Neale, another way of staying in shape so she’d be ready for “high- speed” cases when they came her way.

  “Don’t you wish that we could just read the Sunday paper in bed?” I asked.

  The radiator wheezed, and Neale’s brow furrowed. “We could get a paper.”

  I wanted to scream that it wasn’t about the paper, but I kept my voice calm. “Whenever I’m with you, I feel like we need to make love or cuddle—or at least talk—because it won’t be long before one of us has to leave. I’m tired of making every moment count.”

  I was also tired of driving to St. Louis. When Neale moved there a little over a year ago, we agreed to spend one weekend a month at her place and one at mine. It had been four months since she’d last made it to Iowa City.

  “I could come here more often,” Neale said.

  “When you’re not working extra shifts or risking your life?”

  Neale moved to the far side of the couch. “I thought you were proud of me.”