The Traveler

by John Katzenbach

  “I don’t know any way of telling you this to make it easier, so I’ll just tell you. Susan is dead. She was killed last night. Murdered. I’m sorry.”

  Detective Barren suddenly saw her sister, some eighteen years earlier, immense with pregnancy, a week from delivery, moving uncomfortably through the oppressive July heat that hung unforgiving in the dry Delaware Valley summer to sit at her side. Detective Barren had tenaciously clutched the flag the honor guard captain had bestowed on her, her own mind black, empty, reverberating with the chaplain’s words, blending with the crisp sound of the rifle volley fired over the grave. She’d had no words for any of the family or friends who’d sidled up self-consciously, wordless at the incongruity of someone as vigorous and young as John Barren dying, even in battle. Annie had settled herself onto the couch next to Detective Barren and when no one was watching, or at least when she thought no one was watching, had taken her sister’s hand and placed it on her great stomach and said with heartbreaking simplicity, “God took him unfairly, but here’s new life and you shouldn’t leave your love in the grave with him, but give it to this child instead.”

  The child had been Susan.

  For a moment, Detective Barren smiled at the memory, thinking: The baby saved my life.

  And then, suddenly, swirling back into reality, she heard her sister’s first sob of broken mother’s anguish.

  Ben had wanted to take the first flight to Miami, but she was able to dissuade him from that course. It would be simpler, she told them, if she made the arrangements with a funeral home to ship the body when the medical examiner finished the autopsy. She would accompany Susan’s body back on the airplane. Ben had said he would call a local funeral home to coordinate plans. Detective Barren told them that they would probably hear from the newspapers, perhaps even the television. She recommended that they cooperate; it was much easier, she said, and the reporters would be less likely to get in the way. She explained that preliminary indications were that Susan was the victim of a killer who had prowled the campuses of Miami’s various colleges the past year and that there was a task force of detectives assigned to the cases. Those detectives, she said, would be in touch. Ben had asked if she were sure about that killer, and she said nothing was certain but that it appeared to be the same. Ben had started to bluster, angry, but after spitting out a few words of rage, he’d stopped, lapsing into a continual stunned acquiescence. Annie said nothing. Detective Barren guessed that they were in different rooms, and that it would not be until they hung up and turned to face each other that full despair would hit them.

  “That’s all I can tell you for now,” Detective Barren said. “I’ll call later when I know more.”

  “Merce?” It was her sister.

  “Yes, Annie.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, Annie . . .”

  “I mean, you checked, didn’t you? You’re certain?”

  “Annie. I saw her. I looked. It’s Susan.”

  “Thank you. I just needed to know for sure.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. We’ll talk later.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes, Merce. I’m still here. We’ll talk later.”

  “All right.”

  “Oh, God, Merce . . .”

  “Annie?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Annie, be strong. You’ll have to be strong.”

  “Merce, please help me. I feel like if I hang up the telephone with you now, it will be like killing her. Oh, God. What is going on? Please. I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand either, Annie.”

  “Oh, Merce, Merce, Merce . . .”

  Detective Barren heard her name fading. She knew that her sister had let the telephone slip from her hand to the bed. She could hear tears and it was like listening to a heart break. She remembered in high school watching a football practice; as she stood on the sidelines, one of the players had been struck awkwardly. The sound of the leg snapping had risen above the noise of bodies thumping together. She’d seen one of the other players get sick as the coaches and trainer rushed to the stricken boy. For an instant she expected to hear the same cracking sound. She held the telephone in her hand momentarily, then, gently, as if trying not to disturb a sleeping child, replaced the receiver on the hook. She stood still, listening to her own heart. She swallowed deeply, then flexed her arm muscles once, twice. Then her legs. She could feel the skin, muscle, and tendons stretch and contract. I’m strong, she thought. Be stronger still.

  2. It was midmorning before Susan’s body was finally removed.

  Detective Barren had remained on the fringe of the crime scene, watching the orderly collection of evidence. Uniformed policemen kept a steadily growing crowd of the curious far back, for which she was grateful. The Miami news media had arrived early, ubiquitously insinuating themselves into the scene. The television cameramen had photographed the activity while the reporters had busied themselves questioning Lieutenant Burns and some of the other detectives. She knew it was inevitable that one of the reporters would eventually hear of her connection to the body, and that it would become prominent in the retelling. She decided to simply wait for the questions.

  She had turned away when two medical examiner’s office technicians had gingerly slipped Susan’s body into a black bag. She walked over to where Lieutenant Burns was standing, speaking with a pair of nattily dressed detectives in three-piece suits who seemed oblivious to the gathering muggy day’s heat. When he saw her approach, he turned and performed the introductions.

  “Merce. Detective Barren. I don’t know if you know detectives Moore and Perry from county homicide. They head up this Campus Killer investigation.”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “Likewise,” said Detective Perry.

  They all shook hands and stood awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances,” Detective Perry said. “I’ve been a fan of your work. Especially on that multiple-rape case.”

  “Thank you,” said Detective Barren. She had a brief vision of a pockmarked face and misshapen nose. She remembered poring over some two dozen case files again and again until coming up with the link that had led to the arrest. The heavily muscled rapist always wore a stocking mask. Almost every victim said she was aware he suffered from severe acne on his back. A dermatologist had told her that people with acne on their back are generally scarred on the face as well. But she had thought the mask was to hide something else. She’d begun hanging out at the local gymnasiums and health clubs. More a hunch than a probable cause. At the 5th Street Gym on Miami Beach, a place where aspiring boxers’ dreams mingled freely with the sound of speed bags thumping, she’d spotted a short, powerfully built lightweight, heavily pockmarked on the back and face, with a badly broken nose and a distinctive red scar that twisted down his cheek.

  “Never underestimate intuition,” said Detective Perry.

  “Except it doesn’t do much with a judge when you need a search warrant.”

  They all smiled hesitantly.

  “So how can we help you?” Detective Perry said.

  “Was there anything discovered underneath the body?”

  “Nothing of obvious value. There was one odd piece of paper.”

  “What was it?”

  “Actually a fragment. It looks like the top part of the type of tag they put on your luggage handle when you check your bags at the airport, only considerably larger. Some kind of tag, anyway.” He held up his hand. “No, there were no markings on it. It was just the top quarter, the rest was torn away. Also, there was no way of telling how long it was there. She could have been put on top of it. Just a piece of trash, I think.”

  She thought of her niece lying amidst the refuse. She shook her head, trying to clear the thought.
/>
  “What are you going to do now?” Detective Barren asked.

  “We’re going to work the nightclub, see if we can find anyone who noticed someone talking with her, following her . . .” The detective looked at Detective Barren. “It’ll take some time.”

  “Time is not relevant.”

  “I understand.”

  He paused.

  “Look, detective. This must be impossible for you. I know that if it was one of my sisters I’d be going crazy. I’d want to blow the guy away myself. So, as far as I’m concerned, you can know whatever you want about the investigation, as long as you don’t try to get in the way or do our job for us. Is that fair?”

  Detective Barren nodded.

  “One other thing,” Detective Perry added. “If you get ideas, bring them to me directly.”

  “No problem,” Detective Barren said. She wondered if she were lying. She thought for a moment. “One question. This is the fifth, right? What’s the status of the others? Can you make somebody on an earlier case?”

  The detectives hesitated, looking at each other.

  “Good question. We got some leads. A couple of good ones. You come in in a couple of days, we’ll talk, okay? After you get a little settled, huh?”

  Condescending bastard, she thought.

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  She left the men still conversing and walked back to the evidence trucks. A thin, ascetic-looking man was checking the numbers written in black Magic Marker on plastic bags against a master list on a clipboard in his hand. “Hello, Teddy,” she said.

  The man turned to her. He had large bony hands that seemed to flap about. “Oh, Merce. I thought you’d gone. You don’t have to be here, you know.”

  “I know. Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, no one really knows how to react. I guess you make everyone nervous. We’re not accustomed to being affected by death, you know, and this, well, seeing you, makes it less a job, more a reality. Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him.

  “Merce, I can’t tell you how badly everyone feels for you. Everyone has worked real hard on the scene. I just hope there’s something here that will lead us to the creep.”

  “Thanks, Teddy. What have you collected?”

  “There’s not too much. Here’s the list.”

  He handed her the clipboard and her eyes scanned the page:

  1. Blood sample area of v’s head

  2. Blood sample area of v’s crotch (see diagram)

  3. Saliva sample v’s shoulder

  4. Swabs v’s genitals

  5. Swabs v’s shoulder (bite mark see diagram)

  6. Dirt sample A (see diagram)

  7. Dirt sample B (see diagram)

  8. Dirt sample C (see diagram)

  9. Fingernail sample v right hand (see diagram)

  10. Same, left hand (see diagram)

  11. Unknown substance/leaf

  12. Possible clothing sample

  13. Trace blood on leaf

  14. Cigarette butt (see diagram)

  15. Cigarette butt (see diagram)

  16. Used condom

  17. Used condom

  18. Unused condom in foil (Ramses brand)

  19. Beer can (Budweiser)

  20. Coca-Cola can

  21. Perrier bottle (6 oz.)

  22. Unknown substance in tin foil wrapping

  23. Unknown substance in plastic bag

  24. Film box Kodacolor Instamatic film

  25. Film box Kodacolor Instamatic film

  26. Box end Kodak 400 black/white film for negatives

  27. Used Cutter Lotion 5½ oz.

  28. Sea and Ski lotion 12 oz.

  29. Crushed package (empty) Marlboro cigarettes

  30. Woman’s handbag (contents listed separately)

  31. Woman’s wallet (victim)

  32. Woman’s earring

  33. Tag end paper color yellow origin unknown (under body)

  “What about the condoms?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Merce, look at this stuff. It’s the kind of stuff you find in any picnic area. The unknown stuff appears to be like tuna fish. And the condoms seem old, probably several days, just guessing. And look at the diagrams. Except for the skin and blood samples, all this junk was collected at least a couple of feet away. It’s the kind of stuff you might bring along for a little time in the sun—not a killing in the middle of the night.”

  She nodded.

  “Is this painful? Do you want to . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I figured. Anyway, until we really get the stuff into the lab we won’t know, but it seems to me and just about everyone else that she was dropped here. Probably the creep pulled his car up and just dumped her a little ways away. When we get the guy’s car, that’s where we’ll put him away. There’s got to be blood, skin, the works inside it. Can’t hide that stuff. But workable evidence from this scene? We can hope, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  She nodded again.

  “I’m not saying anything you don’t know.”

  “That’s right.”

  She handed the list back to him and stared at the rows of plastic bags, carefully lined up in the back of the wagon. She didn’t really know what she was looking for.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at one bag.

  “That’s the last item on the list. Some kind of yellow tag. It was found under the body.”

  He handed it to her. She searched through the clear plastic, turning the frayed piece of paper back and forth beneath her scrutiny. What are you? she wondered. What do you mean? What are you trying to tell me? Who put you there? She had the sudden urge to shake the small piece of paper viciously, as if she could force it to talk back to her. I will remember you, she said to the paper. She looked up at all the collected items. I will remember all of you.

  She was overcome with how crazy she was. She put the plastic bag into the back of the wagon.

  She thought she seemed silly. She knew that it would take some time to process the scene, knew the likelihood of some relevant piece of evidence was minimal. She flushed suddenly, turning around. She saw the detectives getting into an unmarked car. A police photographer was in the distance, taking long shots. The medical examiner’s truck was pulling out of the rear of the lot; she saw the television cameramen lined up, getting a picture of the exit. She was overcome with a sense of helplessness, as if the carefully constructed police-veneer that had guarded her throughout the long morning was slipping away, as the crowd of technicians, detectives, and curious began to dissipate. She felt a sudden vulnerability, as if all she would be left with was her emotions. She caught a gasp forming in her chest, working its way up her throat. Breathing hard, she turned away and walked back to her own car, feeling the blast of built-up heat flood out as she opened the door. She quickly slid behind the wheel and closed the door. She sat in the broiling interior, letting the warmth penetrate her resolve. She thought of Susan. She thought of her dream. She wanted to scream to herself, as she had in the last moments of sleep, Wake up! Save yourself!

  But she could not.

  The lady in the flower store had eyed Detective Barren oddly and finally asked, “Is there some special occasion or event that these would be for?” Detective Barren had hesitated before replying, and the lady had continued, blithely, “I mean, if these are for a co-worker or secretary, then I might recommend one of these floral arrangements. Are they for a shut-in or an invalid? A bouquet like this would look nice. Someone in the hospital perhaps? We find that hospital patients love to receive small plants—you see, they enjoy watching the plants root and grow . . .”
>
  “They’re for my lover,” said Detective Barren.

  “Oh,” said the woman, slightly taken aback.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just unusual. Usually, you see, it’s the men who come in for flowers, roses generally, for their, uh, companions. This is a change.” She laughed. “Some things never change in the world no matter how modern we get. Men buy flowers for their women friends and wives. Not the other way around. They come into the store and stand rather self-consciously in front of the refrigerated display, staring for all the world at the flowers as if hoping there would be a sign, a something, that said: Buy me for your wife. Or girlfriend. And not young men, either. Young men today don’t seem to understand the value of proper flowers. Sometimes I think we have grown too—I don’t know—­scientific. I mean, I expect they’ll want to send computer-­written Valentine’s cards soon enough. But it’s always men, dear, not women. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a woman come in and . . .”

  Detective Barren looked at the woman, who stopped speaking in mid-sentence, hesitated, then continued.

  “Oh, dear,” said the woman. “I’m making rather a fool of myself, aren’t I?”

  “A little,” Detective Barren replied.

  “Oh, dear,” the woman said again.

  “It’s all right,” Detective Barren said.

  “You’re kind,” said the woman. The detective watched as she brushed a strand of gray hair off her forehead and composed herself. “I’ll try again,” said the woman. “How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to buy some flowers,” said Detective Barren.

  “For someone special?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ah, let me suggest roses. They are perhaps the least original selection, but the most trustworthy. And always loved, which, of course, is what we are buying flowers for.”

  “I think that would be nice,” said Detective Barren.

  “A dozen?”

  “Excellent.”

  “I have red, white, and pink?” This was a question. The detective thought for a moment.