The widow greeted Nauman in a husky voice, but her eyes were for the woman behind him. Even in her grief she could be curious about this police officer whom Oscar had described as a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Wonder Woman. She half remembered that when Riley Quinn was poisoned at Vanderlyn College back in the spring, John had come home amused that Oscar seemed smitten by a police lieutenant. Knowingt he caliber of women the artist was usually attracted to, Val expected someone not only intelligent, but physically striking as well.
What she saw was a woman in her early thirties, almost as tall as Oscar, with a spinsterish angularity beneath nondescript clothes, a long neck, and a mouth too generous for her thin face. On the other hand, her wide eyes were an interesting smoky gray and they held a quiet watchfulness which made Val think that perhaps Oscar hadn't exaggerated after all.
"Come sit by the fire," she invited. "I know it's too early in the season, but I just can't seem to get warm tonight."
Nauman pulled a third chair closer for himself and, with the familiarity of an old friend, concentrated on lighting an intricately carved meerschaum pipe.
"Oscar told me you were injured last night, too," Val Sutton said. "Does it bother you much?"
The husky voice suited her. Nauman had said she was musical and Sigrid could imagine how effective a ballad might be in that timbre.
"The sling makes it look worse than it feels, thanks," she replied.
Interviewing a murder victim's next-of-kin usually meant an awkward beginning, but here in this bookish lamplit room, with a fire on the hearth and the comforting aroma of Nauman's mellow pipe, it seemed quite natural to lean forward in the brown leather chair and say, "I'm very sorry about your husband's death."
"Oscar says you don't know if John was the intended victim."
Sigrid looked at the catlike face closely. "Do you?"
"He'd damn well better be!" There was passionate intensity in Val Sutton's low voice and her dark eyes flamed.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it can't have been for nothing! I couldn't stand that. I'd rather it be someone who hated him, who felt threatened by him, who wanted something he had-a reason. I don't care how insane and stupid the reason is, but I don't think I can bear it if John is dead just because he happened to be there at that damn table."
Tears glittered in the firelight and she brushed them away impatiently. "If it's John they were after, there will be something we can do."
"Did someone hate him?" asked Sigrid.
"John was the kindest, funniest, most thoughtful-" The vibrant voice broke, then steadied. "Before last night, I would have said he didn't have an enemy in this world. But he's dead now, isn't he? So there must have been at least one enemy. And you'll find him for me."
"Mrs. Sutton-":
"Please. Call me Val and let me call you Sigrid. Oscar's talked so much about you last night and today, I feel we're already friends."
"Val then. I don't know what Nauman's told you, but the New York Police Department's not the Northwest Mounted Police. We don't always get our man."
"You will this time," Val Sutton predicted firmly. "We'll take John's life apart-his friends, his students, his parents-everyone who ever knew him will help. Somewhere, somebody will remember something."
"Let's begin with you then," said
Sigrid. "Nauman and your husband were at the Maintenon on Wednesday. Did he tell you about it?"
Val shook her head and her lustrous hair swung like heavy silk. "No, he didn't really have a chance. I was at a conference up in Boston. Left Tuesday and didn't get back until yesterday morning. We talked on the phone Thursday night, but that was mostly about the children and what time my train was due in."
"Nauman says your husband briefly met Ted Flythe on Wednesday. He had the impression that Professor Sutton kept glancing at Flythe as if he might have known him."
"Or was at least reminded of someone," Nauman clarified.
Again Val shook her head. "That's what you said this afternoon, Oscar, and I keep thinking about Mr. Flythe and how he looked last night and he's no one I ever remember seeing. I'll ask around tomorrow, though." her voice was steely. "Most of John's old friends from our McClellan days will be at the funeral."
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Whaty ou just said, Oscar-that Flythe might have reminded John of someone. There was a guy in SDS. Not at McClellan, but from Syracuse or Cornell. He had a pointed beard like Flythe's. Maybe that's what Sam meant?"
She jumped to her feet and crossed swiftly to the large oak desk.
"Sam?" Nauman was puzzled.
"Sam Naismith. When I phoned him this afternoon to ask if he'd be one of the pallbearers, he was so shocked; he said he'd just been talking to John one night this week; that they were mulling over the old days."
She had seated herself behind the desk and pulled the phone close while flipping rapidly through a roller-card index.
"I wasn't paying attention," she muttered, "Sam? This is Val again. Hang on a minute, will you?"
She placed the receiver in an amplifying device that acted like a two-way speaker and allowed Sigrid and Nauman to follow the conversation.
"Sam, a police officer is here looking into John's death. We need to ask you some questions."
"Sure, honey," rumbled a solicitous male voice. "Fire away."
"You said you and John talked this week. When?"
"Wednesday night."
Sigrid stood and approached the speaker. "Mr. Naismith, this is Lieutenant Harald of the New York Police Department. Did you call Professor Sutton or-"
"He called me. Lieutenant. Said he was getting together some lectures about the protest movement and wanted to refresh his memory. We were in SDS at McClellan together a million years ago."
"Sam," said Val Sutton, "do you remember a guy who used to visit on campus from one of the upstate New York schools- Syracuse or Cornell? He had long hair and a beard."
"Who didn't?" chuckled Naismith.
"No, but his beard was cut to a sharp point. And his hair was always in a pony tail. I think his name was Chris or Crist-"
"Tris," Naismith said flatly. "Tristan Yorke."
"That's the name! Tristan Yorke. Did John ask about him?"
"Not really. I was the one who brought him up, Val, not John."
"In what connection, Mr. Naismith?" asked Sigrid.
"John said he'd gotten up to the point in his research where the Weathermen splintered off of SDS and went underground. We knew some who went that route. I don't know if you've ever heard of a group called Red Snow?"
"I've heard."
"Well, you probably know that their leader, Fred Hamilton, was from McClellan. They blew themselves up in a camp on Lake Cayuga the summer of 1970, but rumor had it that a couple of them got out alive. Some people said Fred was the one who got away, along with his girlfriend. Others said Fred was blown into a zillion bits of fish food and it was a pair of converts from California. John asked me who I thought might know for sure and we hit on Tris Yorke. He was in the Cayuga area and he used to help some of the conscientious objectors who wanted to go to Canada to evade the draft, you know, put 'em up for a night or two and then drive themo ver the border. If anybody knew who really survived the Red Snow blast, it'd probably be Tris."
"Could any former Red Snow members have a grudge against Professor Sutton?" asked Sigrid. She was watching Val Sutton's grim face.
"There were some hard feelings at the time," Naismith said reluctantly. "They got ticked off because SDS wasn't as confrontational as they thought it ought to be, but I never heard of them killing each other because of it. Besides, there can't be more than two former Red Snow members, remember? Frankly, I've always believed that those other two who're supposed to have jumped from a balcony probably drowned just like the Xavier girl did. Otherwise we'd have heard something by now. Like I told John, nobody stays underground this long."
"Did he agree with you?"
"Oh, you know John-well,
no," Naismith caught himself abruptly, "I guess you didn't. Anyhow, he'd yes you to death and then go merrily on his own damn way. Nobody's mentioned Tris iny ears, but John made me promise I'd throw out a few lines and see if I could locate him."
"You'll keep trying, won't you?" Val's voice rasped.
"If you want me to, honey."
"I do."
They went back over the conversation the two men had exchanged Wednesday night, but nothing else suggested itself. John Sutton had not mentioned cribbage, the Maintenon, or Ted Flythe. So far as Naismith knew, Sutton's call had been motivated purely by his desire to nail down all elements of the Red Snow episode for his lectures. Naismith promised to keep trying.
"See you tomorrow," he told Val.
"Tomorrow," Val said huskily.
She lifted the telephone receiver from the amplifier and had just replaced it on the cradle when the door opened and her thin, pale-skinned friend said, "Can you come for a few minutes, Val? They want you to tuck them in."
"I'll be right there." She paused in the doorway of the study. "John's last notes are there on the tape recorder, Lieuten
– Sigrid. You might want to listen to them. Feel free to poke around in his desk, too. Maybe you'll see something I've missed. Oscar, don't you want something to eat or drink? People brought so much food. And wine. I won't have to buy any rosé or Chablis for a year," she said wanly. "Or there's coffee."
"Go kiss your kids goodnight," ordered Nauman gently. "We can fend for ourselves."
When she had gone, he asked Sigrid if she wanted anything. "Coffee would be good," she said and circled the desk to push the tape recorder's play button.
John Sutton had possessed a pleasant baritone voice and an easy style of delivery that helped explain why he'd been such a popular teacher. On this tape he'd been enthusiastic, factual, and confidential all at once, with touches of humor or self-deprecation to lighten the heavy spots. Although older and presumably wiser, he didn't belittle the idealism of the late sixties and early seventies. He could acknowledge its weaknesses, but he had also been superb at communicating the excitemento f the times, the almost tribal closeness and heady optimism of kids who believed they could change things for the better, could make a difference, could replace guns with flowers and politicians with statesmen.
As the tape unwound, Sigrid studied the collage behind John Sutton's desk. It was like a multilayered scrapbook. Among the things that caught her eye were several old Doonesbury cartoons, a copy of the famous Kent State photograph, a banner headline NIXON RESIGNS!, and, over on the edge, a simple white button inscribed Imagine… 1940 – 1980.
Sigrid turned from the collage feeling depressed. Her arm hurt, she was tired, and she wished that the year wasn't heading into winter. Just then Nauman came through the door bearing a tray with cups of steaming coffee and wedges of warm apple pie beneath melted cheddar. "Room service," he smiled at her.
On the tape, John Sutton orally reminded himself, 'Check with Sam and Letty. Find out if anybody ever really saw Fred Hamilton or the Farr girl after Red Snow blew themselves up.'
15
FRED HAMILTON and the Farr girl?" Sigrid asked. "Brooks Ann Farr," said Val Sutton, who had returned from settling her children for the night and now nursed a hot cup of milky tea. Sigrid sat with her note pad balanced on the arm of the deep leather chair across from Val's.
"Her family was supposed to be quite wealthy," said Val. "I remember hearing that Brooks Ann went to a prep school in Switzerland and that she'd been accepted at Vassar and Wellesley both, but she'd fought with her parents and decided to go to McClellan to spite them."
"What was she like?"
"A nebbish." Val shrugged. "Bright enough, I suppose, but mostly average: average height, a little on the heavy side, mousy brown hair, round face that usually had a sour look on it. She was always finding fault with everything and everybody.
"Except Fred. Fred Hamilton walked on water. She was an absolute doormat for that man. Half the things Fred got credit for. Brooks Ann did. He'd be mouthing off, throwing out all these theories about what SDS should be doing, and the next day she'd have mimeographed a stack of position papers based on what he'd spouted the night before.
"I doubt Fred gave a damn about her, but he was a user and he certainly used her. John said she used to cash the monthly allowance check her parents sent and give it all to Fred. I was in a drugstore once and saw her steal a box of tampons because she didn't have enough money to buy them. John used to spend time with her. I think he felt sorry for her because she was so crazy about Fred and Fred was always quoting Ben Franklin behind her back."
"Reasons for Preferring an Elderly Mistress?" asked Oscar.
"Only John said that Fred changed it to homely mistress or doggy mistress."
"'Eighth and lastly, they are sog rateful,'" Nauman quoted for Sigrid's enlightenment.
There was a pensive silence. A lump of coal slipped through the grate and fell upon the hearth in a shower of glowing sparks.
"Poor Brooks Ann," Val sighed. "She probably was grateful. Fred was a leader. He could stir kids up, make them ready to storm the barricades. And he certainly was sexy."
She watched Sigrid jot a few words on her pad. "Most of this is second hand," she warned. "I barely knew either of them except for what John told me over the years. I never went to any SDS meetings and I'd only been seeing John a month or two before Fred went underground. Brooks Ann was just one of several girls hanging around him. The others were prettier, more verbal-Brooks Ann sort of faded into the woodwork."
She spoke with the unconscious condescension of one who had never faded into any background. Anne Harald would probably enjoy photographing the dramatic angles of her catlike face, Sigridt hought, or those eyes, deepened into dark pools by the skillful application of mascara. Val's beauty lay in the way she held her head, in the way she moved, in the innate knowledge of her sexuality. As a child she must have been odd-looking as I was, Sigrid thought despairingly, so how did she end up with so much assurance?
She drew a heavy line across the width of her note pad and carefully printed Fred Hamilton's name beneath.
"I got the impression that Hamilton was a little older?"
"He was," Val nodded, her heavy dark hair swinging forward. "Older than most of us anyhow. He was a senior, but more like twenty-four or twenty-five because he'd dropped out years before to join the Peace Corps. I think his father was an executive in chemicals or defense contracts and Fred couldn't get along with him, so he wouldn't ask his parents for money when he came back."
"He took his girlfriend's money instead," Sigrid observed.
"Put like that, it does sound hypocritical," Val admitted, "but nobodyt wisted Brooks Ann's arm. And remember, it seemed like poetic justice back then to let the Establishment support the protesters, too."
She stood and moved to the tray on the desk to pour herself another cup of tea. Her slender body was stooped with fatigue.
"It all gets so confused," she said, adding milk and sugar to the blue porcelain cup. "Sometimes I think I must be getting old. They say the older you get, the more conservative you become. I remember when the first bombs went off in a Brooklyn draft board. I wasn't particularly radical, but I thought, Hey, right on! Let them get a taste of warfare. But today, when abortion clinics get bombed, I'm outraged."
"Because you condone abortion and you didn't condone the draft?" Sigrid suggested.
"Or because they're on the Right and we were on the Left?" Val mused, turning to face her. "I don't think so. We were trying to stop the killing."
"Pro-lifers say the same," Oscar observed mildly.
"Oh God, Oscar, you're not going to equate abortion with the draft? Young men were forced to go to Vietnam. Women aren't forced to have abortions. It's not the same."
"I didn't say it was," he protested. "I happen to think women have a right to their bodies."
"So do I," Sigrid said slowly. "Even so, I can't quite reconcile some par
ts of it. I don't believe abortion's murder; yet if someone assaults a pregnant woman and kills her unborn child, I do think that's manslaughter. I guess I don't have a good definition of when life begins. Not like the right-to-lifers."
"I hate that term!" Val said passionately. "When villages full of babies were carpet-bombed in Vietnam, where were the right-to-lifers? When babies starve all over Africa, when babies go hungry right here in our own rat-infested slums, where are these so-called life-lovers? They care nothing about the quality of life once a baby's born, just that it gets born. They're so sure God's on their side!"
"Val-" said Nauman.
"No, Oscar, don't. I have to workt his out, because that's what bothers me. We.were just as positive our views were moral, that we were working for something good even if the way we worked…" She looked at them, her face ravaged. "Did we set precedents?"
"You're afraid you created an atmosphere that made violence an acceptable part of civil disobedience?" Sigrid asked.
"Yes!" Val said gratefully. "And not just public protest, but private, too. Has it gone full circle?"
Her dark eyes filled with tears again. "Is that what killed John?" she asked hoarsely.
"Of course not," said Oscar. He crossed the Peruvian rug to put his arms around Val and hold her tightly while she wept softly against his chest.
Sigrid picked up the poker and punched at the fire. Carefully she raked the fiery chunks into a neat pile, then leveled them again into a glowing bed. Only the week before, she had flown down to North Carolina for the funeral of a close cousin and Val's grief rekindled her own so abruptly that she could not turn around and watch.
Presently the sobs behind her subsided. Val blew her nose and came back to the chair by the hearth.
The Right Jack Page 12
