by Gary Braver
His wife.
“—of whomever. But something about her set off a bomb.”
Steve nodded and his eyes fell to his hands, and for a split instant he tried to detect any recall, a dark muscle memory, the feeling of the stocking cutting into his palms. Thankfully, nothing. But he could also not recall purchasing champagne last week and he had a signed receipt in his wallet. “We’re working on the theory that he brought the stockings with the intent to kill. What we’re having trouble with is that there are no signs of sexual contact.”
“That is unusual. The stocking, of course, is an intimate item and part of her stripper’s wardrobe.”
“Sometimes her entire wardrobe,” Steve said.
“Yes, which makes the stocking a coda for her sexuality.”
“So, it might be some kind of bad fetish that sets off the rage.”
Got one you didn’t know about? One curled deep in your R-complex?
“Possibly.” She glanced at a photo of the strangled Terry Farina. “No semen or mutilation, yet she had secreted sexual fluid. So there must have been some kind of foreplay before it turned deadly. Also, since there were no signs of her voiding on the dress, she was probably naked before she died. It’s possible her sexuality represented something he desires yet fears at once—something alluring yet forbidden.”
Alluring yet forbidden.
“You mean he covets what he can’t have.”
“Yes, and possibly the stocking represents a female from his past against whom he’s conflicted and feeling hostile.”
“Which he resolves by killing.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re saying the killer may recognize something in the victim—maybe his mother, girlfriend, whatever, who possibly abused and abandoned him.”
“Yes, and here’s the Freudian in me. Let’s say the victim’s sexuality reminds him of dear old Mom. In killing her he resolves oedipal conflicts and incest taboos.”
“If it’s Pendergast, what about the lack of violence in his other offenses?”
Jackie looked at the photograph. “Maybe this is the first one who comes close to Mom or whoever the love original is.”
Steve’s mouth felt full of sawdust, and he guzzled the rest of his coffee. “The suspect was on antianxiety meds. There’s also evidence that he drank alcohol when he visited the vic.” He was startled by his own disingenuous use of the depersonalizing shorthand. “Could the combination have triggered the rage?”
“What were the meds?”
“Ativan.”
“Brand name of Lorazepam. If he’s susceptible to it, absolutely. And if he’s a bad drunk, the alcohol alone could have triggered an explosive fit.”
Steve nodded. “He claims he was at home the night of the murder. Is it possible the combination with booze could also have blotted out his memory of the murder?”
“Absolutely. In fact, Lorazepam is the drug of choice of the CIA for use on suspected terrorists. It destroys their memory of interrogation techniques—what we mere mortals call torture. If a high-enough dosage of Ativan and alcohol doesn’t kill you, it can make you forget your killing someone else.”
41
She could barely believe it. Dr. Monks had called her that Sunday morning to see how she was doing. Perhaps it was standard patient care with him, but she could not help but feel flattered.
Just last week he was interviewed in Newsweek about breakthroughs in face transplants—how he and a team of other surgeons had used MRI imaging to distinguish bone from muscle so that computer programs could assist surgeons in eliminating a major technical and psychological concern—patients looking different from the way they did before disfigurement. The new techniques allowed them to determine the precise amount of underlying fat and muscle to remove from donor cadavers to transplant with blood vessels and skin. So far three overseas patients had undergone successful facial transplants. Likewise, new strategies to combat immunosuppression were proving successful enough to outweigh the risks.
The media had cited him as a world expert, yet on the phone he was the modest friendly man she had come to know. He was pleased to hear that the discomfort was less than she had anticipated. He reminded her to sit up and use a cold compress for the bruising. She said that she was doing all that, and he approved to her delight. “Good for you. I wish all my patients were like you.”
Then he told her to take Vicodin for discomfort. Also no heavy activities for a week, no driving, no exercises, and no sexual activities. The last words hummed in the open telephone line for an awkward moment, which she quickly filled with, “Of course not.” And she wondered at the force of her promise, hoping that he was hearing the pledge of a good patient and not the assurance that she was in complete estrangement from Steve yet available at a later date.
He went on to remind her that if she went out she should wear sunglasses to protect her skin and to hide the bruises that would peak in two days. Before he hung up, he said he would like to see her on Wednesday to remove the stitches.
She said, “Fine,” thinking how she could barely wait.
42
When Steve left Jackie’s office, he headed to Carleton to give Dana his last paycheck to help cover her cosmetic procedures. As it was the weekend, she had asked if he could drop it off instead of mailing it. By the time he pulled onto their street, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t call ahead. He wasn’t sure why he did or didn’t do a lot of things of late. It was as if he had become a stranger to himself.
He had counted on Dana being at home. Yet he had not counted on her having company. Sitting in the driveway was a gold Lexus SUV that he did not recognize.
He turned off the headlights and sat behind the wheel, wondering what to do. A year ago, it would have been unthinkable that he’d feel like an intruder in his own home, in his own marriage. Yet tonight he was pretend-married and Dana was pretend-divorced and entertaining another guy. And here he was dropping off a check to help grease her success. Hey, pal, you familiar with the term sap?
Steve knew in his heart of hearts that he should just leave. Put the check in the mailbox and head home. Or drop it off tomorrow morning so she could deposit it. If Dana had male company, she’d be rightfully upset at his appearance.
Worse, he really couldn’t predict how he’d react. They were estranged, and in their separation Dana had a right to date. But the thought of her desirous of another man was like an ice pick in his chest.
As he put the car in reverse, the front door opened and Dana’s silhouette filled the frame. She recognized his car and stood watching him. If she wanted him to leave, she would have closed the door. Instead, she opened the screen door and waved him up.
He pulled behind the Lexus, thinking that maybe this was the official turning point: that she would introduce him to the guy she was dating—get it out in the open as the next step toward divorce.
As he gathered the check from his briefcase, all he could think was that he didn’t want to lay eyes on the guy. Didn’t want to know who he was. Didn’t know if he could maintain civility. Before he got out, he removed his service weapon and locked it in the glove compartment.
When he reached the door she let him in. “Jesus!” he said as he stepped into the foyer.
“It looks worse than it is.”
Dana’s eyes were swollen and bruised red and purple. And for an instant all he saw was the dead cyanotic head of Terry Farina. “What the hell happened?”
“I had an upper lid lift.”
“Did he do it with a hammer?”
She smiled. “The bruising’s natural and will be gone in a few days.”
“You going to go to school like that?”
“I’ll cover it with makeup. Besides, there are only two days left of classes. Want to come in?”
“Only if I’m interrupting something.” He handed her the check.
She led him into the kitchen and toward the family room. He followed her, sensing another’s presence and steeling himself for a fa
ce-off with some guy he’d prefer to kick in the groin than shake hands with. But sitting on the couch was Lanie Walker, and he felt a cool rush. “Good to see you, Lanie.” Which was never so true. Lanie was a close friend of Dana’s, supportive and amusing at times. But she was also nosy and officious.
“Good to see you, too. How you doin’?” She was drinking a glass of white wine.
She knew perfectly well how he was doing. “Just dandy.”
“Would you like something—Coke or juice?” Dana asked.
“I’m fine.” Dana returned to the couch. “I thought you were only going for the Botox.”
“We talked it over and agreed that it was a good idea to get the lids done.”
“You mean his next Mercedes payment is due.”
She gave him a dismissive look, but Lanie snickered. “No,” Dana said. “It was my decision. And if it makes you happy, he did the procedure at half the usual fee.”
“Caught the weekly special.”
Lanie cut in. “In another week you’ll never know she had it done. And she’ll look great.”
Except for the swelling and discoloration, Dana’s eyes did look more open. The flesh on her upper lids was tight and smooth but not stretched to perpetual shock like half the TV anchors. The crease above her nose was gone. “Looks like you got the Botox, too.”
“You don’t approve of that either?”
He knew he sounded sour. He felt sour. And it was totally irrational. He resented her not telling him. He resented being out of the loop. He also resented Lanie because they looked so together on the couch—her new closest confidante and coconspirator in reinventing Dana’s looks and the rest of her life.
“You have to admit the guy’s a real artist,” Lanie said. “Did you know he’s famous for pioneering all sorts of procedures including face transplants? Like that Canadian guy who got burned. They used cadaver tissue and he’s like new again. I mean, she got the best in the business.”
Steve nodded, thinking Lanie also probably gave Dana the name of a good divorce lawyer. They chatted some more, then he got up to leave.
“So you think that professor guy killed that stripper?” Lanie asked.
“The investigation is ongoing.” He checked his watch. “Bye.” And he left the room.
Dana followed him to the front door. She whispered, “I think you were rather rude to her.”
“Not even close.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” The flesh around the sutures was discolored and swollen, but her eyes were definitely more open. He looked into them and wanted to lose himself. “Is this the last of it?”
“As soon as he can schedule me, I’m going to get my nose fixed.”
He nodded.
“You don’t approve.”
“No.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m paying with my own money.”
“It’s not the money. I like your face the way it is.”
“It’s something I’ve wanted to do forever, so I’m getting it done.”
He nodded.
She studied his face. “What’s your problem?”
“The more you get done, the less you look like yourself.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this. This is not about you.” She opened the door.
“Are you still going to look for another job?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t turned in my resignation. I think I might miss the kids. Maybe I’ll wait another year.” There was a moment’s silence.
“I miss you.”
She nodded.
“Are you dating anyone?”
She sighed. “No. Are you?”
“No. Want to go out? Maybe dinner or a movie?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Thanks for the check.”
He headed back to his car, thinking about the gun in the glove compartment.
43
On Monday morning Earl Pendergast was brought to Boston Municipal Court on New Chardon Street near Government Center. The presiding judge read the charge—one count of murder in the death of Terry Farina. He asked Pendergast if he understood the charge and Pendergast said that he did and that he was innocent. The judge said that it was not a trial and he could not make a statement.
At that point, the Assistant District Attorney Mark Roderick argued that bail be denied because of the seriousness of the crime and the fact that Earl Pendergast posed a severe risk of flight. He was, in fact, scheduled to leave Boston for London in two days.
The judge then asked Pendergast to enter a plea, and his attorney, Alden Goodfellow, said, “Not guilty.” The judge then ruled that bail was denied. For the second time, Attorney Goodfellow argued that since the Commonwealth did not have a strong case Pendergast should not be denied bail, in fact, a nominal bail should be set. He explained that Professor Pendergast had never been arrested before, that he had no criminal record, that he had worked in the community, and was a popular educator and beloved professor at Hawthorne State, and that evidence in the case was at best circumstantial. Nothing had been presented to connect Pendergast to the actual crime scene, nor was there an established motive, nor did he have a history of violence, nor had he ever posed a threat to Ms. Farina or others.
The judge dutifully listened to Attorney Goodfellow then agreed to set bail at one million dollars surety. He then asked the attorneys to check their schedules for a probable cause date, which was agreed to be in three weeks. With the slap of the gavel, the arraignment was adjourned, and Earl Pendergast was returned to the Nashua Street jail to wait to see if friends, family members, and neighbors could raise the $100,000 cash bail so that he could be released on personal recognizance.
By the evening, the story was all over the local news channels about the arrest and arraignment of the English professor held for the murder of an exotic dancer. Interviews were held with colleagues, neighbors, and Pendergast’s brother, who said it was a travesty of justice to hold an innocent man. Pendergast’s attorney said that he may have made some mistakes in the past but he had paid dearly for them and was innocent of any wrongdoing and that whatever evidence prosecutors had was, at best, circumstantial.
Meanwhile, Captain Reardon asked Steve to continue with the investigation of Professor Earl Pendergast while pursuing other leads.
Like Mr. Hyde.
44
SPRING 1975
It was the best and worst night of his fourteenth year. It was the night he got a standing ovation for his Romeo and the night he wished he had died for real.
He had known Becky Tolland since third grade. She had gone to middle school with him; she was in his catechism class at Holy Name Church. She was currently in his homeroom at Franklin High, where they had joined the drama club. But it wasn’t until they got the leads in Romeo and Juliet that they became more than childhood friends.
Of course, Lila was proud he had gotten the role, boasting to friends and neighbors about his delivery when he practiced the script with her, saying that he had a natural gift of dissociating himself from his own being to become somebody else. Yet her bragging made him uncomfortable, not just because of the attention but because he could detect a note of sadness in her voice. She had been praised in high school and college for her own acting skills, but her adult life was a string of go-nowhere performances.
On opening night she and his father sat in the tenth row. Every so often he’d glance their way and see her flash him the thumbs-up sign and a wide grin. He had delivered his lines with such credibility that following the famous “But, soft!” soliloquy in the Capulet orchard scene, the crowd burst into applause. When the final curtain came down, the audience gave a standing ovation that continued for two curtain calls. Each time he looked, Lila was applauding, her face wet with tears. And his dad made victory punches in the air.
Looking back, he knew it was the happiest moment of his life—onstage before a cheering crowd and proud parents, holding the hand of his fi
rst real girlfriend. A moment he would remember forever.
Later that evening, the whole cast and crew—some two dozen kids—piled into the function room of the Casa Loma, a local Italian restaurant where they celebrated with pizzas and Cokes and filled the place with youthful exuberance. His mom would pick up him and Becky at eleven.
At around ten, when the crowd began to thin, he and Becky receded to a booth in the rear, and like some of the other kids, they began making out. He had kissed her before, mostly theatrical air kissing—the equivalent of shaking hands for thespians. Because she was still wearing makeup, his mouth and lower face was smudged red, as was his shirt collar.
At eleven o’clock the manager flicked the lights that it was time to go. The handful of kids made their way outside.
It was a cool April night with a million stars blazing overhead. He had never felt more alive and sucked in the night air as if to drain the atmosphere, thinking how he could not wait until tomorrow evening’s performance. Across the parking lot his mother waited for them in her car. In the light he could see her beaming from the driver’s seat.
He took Becky’s hand and followed the headlights. But as they drew near, Lila’s face looked like the film of a smile played backwards. They got into the backseat, and he could feel her eyes glare at him in the rearview mirror. “Hi,” he said, feeling a little charge in his chest.
Becky said hello, calling her Mrs. as she always did, but Lila did not respond. She looked back at them both, then rammed the car into gear and pulled away.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
Still she said nothing, just jerked her head around to check for oncoming cars as she pulled into the street. He looked at Becky, who raised her eyebrows as if to ask what the problem was. After a minute of crackling silence, he asked again, “Is something wrong?”
Lila flashed him a look. “Yes, something is wrong. What the hell have you been doing?”
“What do you mean? We were just having pizza.”
